High Plains Passion

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  Lydia twisted her lips. “Unlikely, but I'll keep it in mind. Besides, we're on a public street. How much actual trouble can we get into?”

  “Good point,” Dylan conceded.

  “We are, however, alone on that street,” Lydia continued, taking the opportunity to step close to Dylan and rest her head on his shoulder. He conceded with an amused grin, despite the heat, to cuddle his woman. His hands traced lines up and down her back, feeling the muscles developed by years of whisking, lifting heavy objects and pumping water. I know men who are weaker. Her strength reassured him. This woman has made her place in a world that isn't keen to accept her. She can handle whatever comes her way. Even as the thought rolled across his mind, his eyes fell once again on the cemetery, on the fresh grave of Wade Charles.

  “What?” Lydia demanded, lifting her head and following his gaze to the gravestone. “No, Dylan. Not this again.”

  “What?” he asked, pretending not to have been caught ruminating.

  “At least be honest,” she urged. “Listen, I know his death upsets you, and it's no surprise, but, Dylan, you are not responsible. You have to let go of feeling guilty about it.”

  “I should have kept him, safe,” he muttered.

  Lydia's warm hands connected solidly with his face, not in a slap, but a grab, turning his head away from the visceral reminder of untimely death and back to her warm brown eyes. She looked exasperated. “You can't,” she told him. “It's not possible. Dylan, you have to release the idea that you somehow failed him. He died doing what he loved. He died a hero protecting the town.”

  “He died leaving a wife and four sons,” Dylan reminded her.

  “I know,” Lydia replied, “and it's terribly sad for them. But they're going to be all right, Dylan. Miranda is young and strong. Her family will take care of her until she gets back on her feet. She's not going to starve. She's not going to wither up and die. Women are not fragile flowers, you know. We have a core of steel. I know Miranda does. Think of the women you know. I realize you'd rather lock us all up in towers to keep us safe, but life isn't like that. We survive. No matter the odds, no matter the pain, we go on, and one day, the sun comes out from behind the clouds and we smile again. Miranda will too.”

  “Not good enough.” Dylan scowled. “His safety was my responsibility.”

  “You're wrong,” Lydia retorted. She sounded angry. “Completely wrong. His safely is the Lord's responsibility. I don't know why his time on this earth was so short, but if you take away God's responsibility and try to put it on yourself, you'll be miserable, and you won't accomplish anything either.”

  Dylan's eyelids drooped. “What good am I then?” he demanded.

  “You help people,” she replied. “How many people do you influence to make better choices? How often are you the hand of God to keep the peace and administer justice? It doesn't make you responsible for the whole world.”

  “I don't think I know how to let go,” he muttered.

  Lydia's hand left his cheek to slide behind the back of his neck. She pulled him down and claimed his lips.

  “We have to stop sparking in public,” he commented against her mouth. Then in opposition to his words, he deepened the kiss, teasing her lips with the tip of his tongue. She sucked in her breath.

  “Come with me,” Lydia urged. Dropping her hold on his neck, she grasped his hand and led him back down the street toward her café, dragging them inside.

  “Privacy?” he asked.

  She nodded, but he noticed an unusual color staining her round cheeks. Instead of urging him to a seat in one of the café tables, she brought him through the double doors into the kitchen, and then, for the first time, up the stairs to her private apartment above her place of business.

  “What are we doing up here?” Dylan demanded, regarding the shabby, cozy furniture. “This is probably not a good idea, Lydia.”

  “Oh, I think it is,” she disagreed. She drew in a deep breath, and her uncorseted chest swelled, drawing his attention to the fullness of her breasts.

  A strange hum sounded in his ears. “Lydia?”

  “I'm inviting you to my bed, Dylan.” She gulped, drawing his attention to her throat, where her pulse throbbed visibly.

  “Why?” he demanded. “We're marrying soon. Why jump the gun?”

  Lydia grasped Dylan's hand and led him into her bedroom, where she urged him to a seat beside her on the edge of the red crazy quilt that covered her bed. “For a lot of reasons,” she said, answering his question. “Because I'm tired of being afraid of my feelings for you, and waiting another two months won't help. Also, I think you need to feel more certain of my commitment to you.”

  “Lydia…”

  She laid her fingers over his mouth, and the sweet scent of cinnamon and cream wafted over him. My woman always smells like something good to eat. The image of what her suggestion would entail floated up before his eyes; Lydia sprawled naked on the bed, her glorious curves bared to his perusal, to his touch. He would cover her body and… He shook off the image, but not before his sex could react to it. He grasped her hand and laid it on his knee.

  “Our town is under siege, Dylan,” she reminded him. “We might pretend everything is okay, but it isn't. Violence has arisen against us, and you're the most likely target. You remind me of that over and over. Wade Charles is dead, and those robbers will be coming after you next. There's no way to avoid the knowledge.” Her eyes had turned sorrowful. “I would survive without you, Dylan, but I don't want any regrets. I hope you survive. I hope we marry and live happily ever after as the strangest couple in town. I hope all those things, but my life has been harder than you know, and I don't have the luxury of self-delusion. If Deputy Charles' death teaches us anything, it's that we don't know when the next breath will be our last. When his wife kissed him goodbye that morning, she didn't know he would never come home.”

  Ah, that reason. Put that way, what she suggested made perfect sense. Or am I letting… my other head do the thinking? I want my woman – of course I do – and she's offering herself to me. Do I fight to be noble or do I go along with her request? He wasn't sure what the correct course of action would be, so he remained still, holding Lydia's hand on his knee, and listened.

  She bit her lip and he could see the color rising in her cheeks, as well as the unusual shininess of her dark brown eyes. She's crying over me and I'm alive and well. He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. The sunlight shining through the window cast rays of gold across her, turning her into a curvy, dark-haired angel.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I've been thinking about this for a while, but our conversation today clinched it. I don't want to wait anymore.”

  “If anyone found out…”

  “Everyone is at the festival. Did you see the deserted street? No one will know, and in two months it won't matter anyway.”

  “You're seriously damaging my nobility,” he told her, his cheek curving into a half grin.

  “Let me destroy it completely.” She leaned forward and claimed his lips, teasing him with the tip of her tongue. “See,” she said. “Every time we kiss, it's easier. It would seem to me that, if we want to have a beautiful wedding night, we get some practice in ahead of time.”

  “Practice?” Muddled by her kiss and his steadily-growing arousal, he fought to understand. “Do you mean you want to take some liberties, touch and kiss, so we're ready?”

  She shook her head. “The whole thing, Dylan.” Now her cheeks had turned to vibrant red.

  “Do you understand what 'the whole thing' entails?” he demanded, aware of how sheltered virgins could be.

  “I know, Dylan. I know it all.”

  Somehow, he doubted it.

  He took stock of the situation. Lydia, the woman I love, my future wife, wants me to make love to her right now. She understands the risks and implications and she has asked for this. Some part of him still felt arguing would be wiser, and yet… his libido agreed w
ith his woman.

  “What's wrong, Dylan? Do you not want to?” Lydia's face had compressed into lines of worry.

  “I do,” he replied quickly. “I'm aching for you, darling. I just want to do what's best for you.”

  “Are we really going to get married?” she demanded.

  “Of course,” Dylan replied. “But we're not married yet.”

  “Yes we are,” Lydia replied. “Cody can say some words over us, but will those words really change our commitment to each other?”

  “No,” Dylan agreed, wondering where she was headed with this.

  “Have you known anyone who married but their hearts weren't in it, and it was a disaster?”

  “Allison and Wes,” Dylan replied promptly.

  Lydia made a face. “I think they love each other; they've just lost their way. Hopefully when Allison is less grumpy, Wes will respond in kind.”

  “Pregnant ladies get grumpy,” Dylan reminded his beloved. “It's uncomfortable and heavy. Usually hot, too. It's up to the man to show forbearance, not his own sour disposition. That never helps.”

  A tender smile creased Lydia's lips. “I guess you'd know. But we're a bit off topic. The point is, marriage is made in the heart, not in the church.”

  “Now that I do agree with,” Dylan replied, tugging a loose curl from Lydia's hair, and wrapping the soft strands around his fingertip.

  “So while we need to stand up in front of Cody and do it properly, for legality and to observe the rituals and all, I don't think I could feel more committed you to than I do now.”

  “Make your vow then,” Dylan urged. “Let me hear the words.”

  She looked into his eyes. The slanting sunlight illuminating her face highlighted her luscious skin but also called attention to the tracery of crow's feet in the corners of her eyes. She's not a kid. She's a mature woman who knows what she wants. We're both old enough not to worry so much about silly rules, and no one is taking advantage. Still, the idea of speaking their promises to each other first made sense to him.

  “I take you, Dylan Brody, to be my husband until death do us part.” Her voice caught on the word death.

  “I take you, Lydia Carré, to be my wife as long as we both shall live.”

  She smiled. “I like that one better.”

  “Should we seal it with a kiss?” Dylan suggested.

  She nodded. “Oh, I think so, for starters.”

  They leaned together. For all their vows afforded them no legal status, Dylan could feel their gravity settle around him, as though the world really had changed, and brought him with it. Tenderly he claimed Lydia's lips, his hand cupping her cheek to hold her in place. Not that she needed any persuasion. Her arms around his neck provided another layer of connection between them. We love each other. We belong to each other, but we're not one yet. He realized, more strongly than ever, how wrong that felt. Lying with Lydia won't be wrong. It will be perfect, he realized. It's what they both needed, for their security, for their relationship. Cody can legalize it soon, but she's right. He won't make us more married than we already are.

  Dylan eased Lydia back onto the bed and stretched out beside her, leaning up on one elbow before following her down. He claimed her lips again, still gently. I want you, sweet lady, but I'm going to do this slow and easy. The idea didn't sit well with his little friend, but he ignored the clamoring ache, intent on giving Lydia an experience she wouldn't soon forget.

  Her fingers fluttered in the vicinity of her bosom and she began to release her buttons, one by one. Dylan gently parted the thin white fabric, even as she set to work on his own shirt. Soon the garments hung open, revealing them to each other. Dylan leaned down and lined the straight edge of Lydia's chemise with burning kisses. Her strong, capable fingers slid under his shirt, caressing his shoulders and upper back.

  Heat flared between them, blending with their potent tenderness and powerful love to create the perfect sensation. Dylan nudged Lydia's chemise lower with his chin, eager to see the voluptuous breasts he'd been imagining. They more than matched his expectations, full and plump, like tawny pillows, crowned with thick brown peaks that tightened even as he watched, reaching for him as though requesting his touch.

  He kissed one, enjoying her startled gasp. You like that, darling? So much is still to come. He opened his mouth over the tip of her breast. He shifted to cover her, leaning on his other arm to free his hand to cup and toy with the breast he wasn't devouring.

  Lydia sucked in air and released it in a whimper.

  “Feel good?” he asked her.

  “Hnnnnng,” she whimpered.

  “That's right,” he informed her. “Men and women make love because it feels good. Sure this is still what you want, darlin'?”

  Lydia arched her back, thrusting the tempting mounds toward him. He chuckled. I know you like to be touched, sweet Lydia. I bet it's only nerves that hold you back. Her intrepidness struck him. Nervous as any virgin, and yet she wants me to show her, to touch her. She doesn't want to be afraid, and she trusts me to help her past it. He lifted her breasts and pressed them together, so he could nibble and suck her nipples easily. She moaned. “Good, Lydia. That's good. I'm so glad you like this.”

  “More,” she urged, her hips squirming beneath him. “More, Dylan, please. I… I need… I want…”

  “I know, darlin'. It burns, doesn't it? But the flame won't hurt you. Passion is meant to be shared, to be enjoyed, with someone who loves you.”

  He shrugged out of his open shirt and untied the tapes that held her skirt in place, rising to his knees to tug the garment away. Then Dylan stood and regarded his Lydia – his beloved – in her underwear. Only a pair of knee-length bloomers and a thin chemise, lowered to reveal what it was meant to conceal, remained between them. He unbuckled his belt, opened his jeans, and then sat down on the bed to remove his boots. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on Lydia. She opened her eyes and sat up, releasing her shiny black hair from its hairpins and letting it fall to her shoulders and around her back.

  “Oh, darlin',” Dylan murmured at the sight of her, “you look like a Greek goddess or some kind of nature sprite, with your hair loose and your breasts bare.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Then she reached for the hem of her chemise and drew it over her head. “And now?” she demanded.

  Slowly, Dylan's eyes traced every curve from her smooth jaw, to her graceful neck, her strong shoulders and thick, muscular arms, developed from years of whipping cream and kneading bread; the muscles covered in a layer of pillowy flesh. Her full breasts swayed as she moved, tempting him back to her arms. Instead he moved to the end of the bed, unlaced her boots, and dropped them to the floor.

  “You look like an angel,” he said fervently. “Like everything a man could desire in a woman. Then he crawled up over her body until he could open the tie of her pantaloons. Inside, the roundness of her lower belly provided another cushion just designed to ease a man after a hard day. I'll make you glad you offered, he vowed silently as he eased the garment over her hips and past her feet, dragging her stockings along. At last, naked together, he stretched out over her body again. She stiffened, but he soothed her with sweet kisses and naughty, enjoyable touches to her breasts, letting his hand sweep low onto her belly, though not quite low enough. Not yet. Let her ask for it.

  Lydia clung to Dylan's lips, trying to drown her nerves in his sweet kisses. His mustache scratched pleasantly on her face. His fingers on her nipples sent jolts of pleasure straight to the secret place he'd just bared. Oh, Lord. I'm naked. I'm actually naked in bed with a man. How can this be real? How can I actually be doing this? It was one thing to talk, even with embarrassing frankness, to her beloved about intimacy. To be stretched out nude in the bed…well that's an entirely different kettle of fish. Her body seemed to understand what it wanted, hips arching of their own accord, trying to grind her aching emptiness to that protruding part of him.

  “That's it,” he encouraged her, his lips moving against hers. �
��You're doing so well. Sure you want to keep going?”

  “If you let me up now, you'll never get this far again,” she told him honestly. “Finish it while I still have the nerve.”

  Dylan made a face. Rolling to the side, he stroked his hand down her body anyway, coming to rest on the nest of springy black curls between her legs. Lydia squeaked.

  “This will only work if you relax and let it. If you fight it, it won't be good for you. I don't want that. I'll stop and we can try another day.”

  Though her overactive mind wanted to leap at the opportunity to postpone, the heat of his hand sinking into her most sensitive places tempted her body beyond resistance. She wiggled.

  “Lydia?”

  “Please don't stop.”

  He chuckled. “Of two minds? Well, let's see which one is stronger.”

  He massaged the sensitive mound of flesh briefly before delving through to the place where she ached for him. His fingertips dipped between the folds, finding a hidden pool of moisture and spreading it. Lydia bit her lip. The contact felt strange, though she couldn't have said unpleasant. Then she shot bolt upright with a screech. “What in God's name was that?”

  She frowned at Dylan, who was laughing softly. “Something good, honey. Something special a woman has to help her enjoy lying with her man. Looks like yours is extra sensitive. Lie back, and I'll show you what heaven is like.”

  He took her hand and eased her back onto the pillow. His free hand remained between her legs. Lydia took several slow, deep breaths, trying to will her heart to stop pounding, but to no avail.

  “Let me kiss you, honey. I know this is intense and strange, but it's how we become as close as two people can be. Remember it's a loving touch. You'll get used to it. Even come to like it, I bet.”

  “I'm sure,” she agreed. Oh, I do hope he's right. Is this what those poor girls let men do to them? How humiliating. It's uncomfortable enough with someone I love. “Um, Dylan, about that kiss?”

  He laid his lips on hers as his fingers probed again, this time approaching that too-sensitive bundle of nerves from a different direction, one that lessened the intensity to something bearable. All her lady parts seemed to heat and swell at his touch, and warm honey pooled and spread. Strangeness and discomfort slowly gave way to pleasure and eventually to eagerness. As before, Lydia's hips seemed to have a mind of their own, moving in response to his touches, once pushing close, the next moment pulling away. She slipped her arms around his neck and distracted herself with kisses as he prepared her.