by Denise Eagan
It ended. He turned to speak. And she stole his words with a kiss.
He hesitated for a couple of heartbeats. Then he shifted his body and took her face in his calloused hands. Holding her steady, he swept his tongue through her mouth transferring the sweet, mellow taste of port. She closed her eyes and sank into the sensation as sparkling thrills coursed along her nerves and downward. Dizzy, she grasped his shoulders and leaned in, grazing his chest with her breasts.
He pulled back, sucking in his breath. “Star. . .” The word came out in one desperate syllable as he scanned her face. “No corset?”
“No,” she whispered. She’d chosen the gown for the light ribbing that allowed her to go without support.
“Damn. . .” He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, as if attempting to summon up restraint. She reached up to caress his face, that dear, dear face, even now so intent upon honor and sacrifice.
He leaned into her palm for a second; that restraint broke. He kissed her again, a feather light touch of his lips at first, followed by gradually increasing pressure as his mouth moved over hers, tantalizingly, sending delicious little shivers down her spine. As he balanced on one hand, his other skimmed held her waist, branding her with its heat. She tentatively sucked on his lower lip, then licked it. He swept inside for a leisurely exploration, until she lifted her tongue to meet his. A little growl vibrated in his throat and their tongues danced, which, pulses racing, she took as encouragement. She pressed her breasts against his powerful chest. Her nipples tightened in expectation and she closed her eyes, rejoicing in the touch. He turned his head to blow in her ear, nibble on the lobe, and then his lips coasted along her neck toward her breasts.
Finally, oh finally.
She opened her eyes and, holding on to one of his arms to steady herself, she yanked at the knot of his necktie.
“No,” he whispered in her ear. “Honey, no.” He grabbed her wrist.
No, Nicholas, not this time. You won’t leave me wanting again.
She caught his mouth in a kiss, swallowing his protests. After coaxing her way into those, hot, porty recesses, she circled his tongue with hers in playful little swipes, followed by slow, sensuous stroking, fanning the flames of lust, before inviting him inside. Lost in kissing, he set her wrist free. His hand rested on her waist again, then drifted up to her breast, as she pulled lightly on the buttons of his shirt. She slid one hand inside, under fabric and braces. Running her fingers through the silky hair of his chest, she reveled in the feel of those hard planes and shallow valleys. When her palm skimmed his nipples, he broke off the kiss in another low growl, more oxygen to the pleasing glow deep in her belly. She blazed a trail along his throat, over his Adam’s apple and lower.
“Jesus,” he breathed. He caressed her breast, his thumb playing with the peak through the fabric of gown and chemise, creating tingling anticipation at the soft juncture between her thighs. She kissed his neck, licked it, enjoying the salty taste of his skin. Her hand inched toward the band of his pants, and then below, rubbing against his arousal, hidden in the cloth. It jumped, and her heart followed suit. She palmed it.
“No,” he gasped, his muscles contracting under her lips as he went for her wrist again. “Star, no.”
She was trembling, and the tingling between her thighs became a wet tickle, yearning for attention. Twisting her wrist, she easily escaped his grasp. “Yes,” she whispered and palmed him again, then trailed her hands along the inside of his hard thigh, before creeping back up to find the tip of his erection through the cloth. He gasped and shuddered, ratcheting up the lust now pounding in her veins. She shifted her head to find his ear with her mouth, to caress it with her tongue, while she plucked at the buttons of his fly, then the tapes of his drawers. They fell open and with a deep sigh, she slipped inside to touch him, stiff and hot in her hands. “Nicholas,” she breathed. “Oh it’s remarkable. . .”
He gasped in reply, and she fondled and kneaded it, as his breathing went from heavy to ragged. After pulling him clear of the fabric, she sought the tip, where a thick liquid seeped out. She ran her thumb through it, spreading it over the head, along the sides, marveling at the way it jerked in her hand. “Star . . . damn . . . no. . .” His words came out somewhere between a groan and a growl as he made a half-hearted attempt to pull away. His excitement spurred hers, rushing through her blood.
“Yes.”
She released him long enough to lie back, then grasped his shoulders and neck to pull him down on top of her, lifting her head to meet his lips for another kiss. He tensed, and for a minute, she thought he might fight her. Instead, he rolled to her side and, still kissing her, let his hand roam over breasts, stroking, teasing them through the cloth of her gown. She gasped, squirming as the tickle became an ache. Creeping downward, his hand pulled at the fabric of her dress, her chemise, bunching it over her belly until she was entirely uncovered, and his bare hand was cupping the mound just below her belly. “Nicholas,” she cried out.
His hand froze. “Sonuvabitch,” he rasped, “you aren’t wearing any drawers.”
“No,” she whispered.
A shudder ran through his body, sparking a corresponding one in hers. “I want you to touch me,” she blurted out, both shocked and titillated by her own audacity.
Another shudder coursed through him and he slipped his hand downward. His fingers glided through the folds to the wet, aching emptiness hidden there. He entered, and her body convulsed around his fingers.
He tensed and withdrew his hand. His face hardened in sudden determination. “No,” he said. “No. Damn it, Star, this is wrong.”
“I don’t care,” she protested through gritted teeth, for she was now more desperate for release than she’d ever been in her life. And she was going to get it, here and now, and he would not leave her this way!
She reached for his erection. As he tried to pull away, she stroked it with one hand, while using the other to rub more of that marvelous fluid over the head. He groaned and stopped struggling, eyes closed, face creased in tortured ecstasy. The pulsating center between her legs, just inches from where his fingers were, swelled in wonder while she watched his jaw tighten and felt his thighs shake.
“Enough,” he breathed. He knelt between her legs and pushed her hands away. Touching her with one hand, he guided himself to her entrance. Her body stretched as he breached that aching, liquid need. Leaning forward, he placed his free hand beside her head and shoved in a bit deeper. Her eyes widened. The stretching became discomfort, mixing with that wicked craving. Bemusement marking his face, he hovered over her, balancing on both hands now, and then gave a mighty shove, driving home.
Stinging, rending pain shot through her, tearing a yell from her throat.
“What the hell?” he exclaimed, even as he pulled out and thrust back in, bringing renewed agony. Oh good God, he was tearing her apart. He withdrew again, and her body tensed before the next terrible thrust, pulling another tiny scream from her. Oh, it was wrong. It had to be wrong . . . how could he . . . how could it. . .
He withdrew again. She gripped the blanket, squeezing her eyes shut as she awaited the onslaught. This time, however, he pulled all the way out.
“Sonuvabitch!”
Relief, sweet relief!
Her body still begged for release.
But not that. Oh not that.
Yes, for that.
She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, his face creased in alarm. “You’re a virgin?”
He was angry, she was hurting, and neither one of them had found the culmination of love and passion she so dearly longed for. Oh but this was not the way she’d imagined it at all!
“Why,” she said licking her lips and forcing back tears of disappointment and frustration. She must try for mirth, laughter, anything. “Why no, not anymore, I suppose.”
He stared at her, still propped in what now seemed like a ridiculous position. With a graceful twist, he moved so that he was sitting next to her, leaving
her suddenly cold. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, running his hands through his hair distractedly. “What the hell have I done?”
Star stared up at the sky, at the stars bright and winking, as she tried to reason it out. She’d known about the pain, naturally, from secreted books and magazines, and from what Mother had told her. She’d expected it to be minor, however, and end quickly, followed by the pleasure that years of petting had promised.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said.
She looked at him. He’d re-fastened his pants and was staring at her, his face creased, his eyes hidden in shadow. The simplicity in the tone of his voice, though, told her what she couldn’t read in those beautiful eyes. “You’ve no reason to feel guilt,” she replied. Pushing her skirt down over her legs, she sat up. “I started it, and we both know full well that this is what I’ve wished for since our first meeting.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I doubt that’s what you wanted. I expect you were hoping for something a whole lot more enjoyable.”
A tiny bubble of amusement climbed up her throat. “I confess, I expected you to at least finish.”
He shook his head. “Not after that scream.”
“Now that’s too much. It wasn’t a scream.”
“It sure wasn’t pleasure,” he said reaching into his pocket.
“No,” she confessed. “It wasn’t that either.”
He handed her a handkerchief. “Here, I reckon you’ll need this.”
“How remarkably thoughtful of you,” she said sardonically, taking it from him. He winced and she added, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Probably not.” He looked toward the ocean as she lifted her skirt. “If I’d known,” he started hesitantly. “If you’d told me—”
“You’d have been gentler?” she asked hopefully.
“I wouldn’t have done it at all.”
Which was why she had not informed him. She looked at the stains on his handkerchief, black in the starlight. Ruined. A glance at her chemise proved that it was stained as well. She’d never thought about how to conceal her lost virginity from prying eyes; she’d been far too occupied with plotting the losing of it. The only loss, she thought miserably, that she’d ever cheerfully anticipated.
“Don’t worry,” he said as if reading her thoughts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife. As she stared in shock, he flipped open the blade and, with scarcely a wince, drew it across his left palm. A line of blood followed.
“And how,” she asked in a high, trembling voice, “how will that help?”
He held out his uninjured hand. “Handkerchief?”
Wide-eyed, she handed it to him. “It’ll explain the blood on my handkerchief.” He wiped the blade, and then, with hard-learned expertise, bandaged his injured hand. “If anybody asks, like your maid, we say I fell and cut myself on a rock.” He closed the knife and stuck it back in his pocket. “You offered the use of your skirt to staunch the flow while I fished out my hanky.”
He’d cut himself for her, and for all that she prided herself on being an independent, highly civilized female, her stomach fluttered as some primitive part of her thrilled to it. “Do you honestly think anyone will believe that?” she asked, shakily watching him rise.
“Nope,” he said, holding out his right hand. “But it’s an explanation and most people won’t question an explanation if the real one is gonna make ’em uncomfortable.”
She took his hand and rose. “You’re a very astute judge of character, Nicholas McGraw.” She leaned over to retrieve the blanket.
“No, ma’am,” he said, buttoning up his shirt. “Just read a slew of books is all.”
“Are we back to ‘ma’am’ again? Considering the situation, don’t you think addressing me by my first name would be more appropriate?”
Nicholas shrugged into his coat. “I think,” he said as he knotted his tie, “considering the situation, ‘ma’am’ is exactly the thing I ought to call you. Maybe it’ll keep us both out of trouble.” When he finished with his tie, he held out his hand. “Come along. We’d best get back to the house. With any luck we can sneak you through the back door and up to your room before anyone returns from the festivities.”
She hesitated. “Shouldn’t we discuss this? I can’t agree that ‘ma’am’ is correct at all.”
“No, ma’am,” he said taking her hand in spite of her hesitation. “You never have.” He grabbed the basket and started them over the sand. “We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Suffer love—a good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Drink today, and drown all sorrow;
You shall perhaps not do ’t tomorrow
John Fletcher, Rollo, Duke of Normandy
Nick’s hands trembled as he straightened his tie in the mirror. Time to face the music: breakfast first, followed by a talk with Star. He’d spent half the night lost in a fog of confusion and unfulfilled desire. He’d taken care of the need in the usual way, but the desire, he thought brushing lint off his shoulders, stuck like flies to flypaper. Nothing he’d done since he’d come East, hell since he’d met Star, had really eased it.
Because he was in love with her.
It hadn’t take more than ten minutes after returning to his room the previous night to admit it. Truthfully, he’d known it for a long time, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her, no way, no how. Not open his heart to a woman who went through fiancés like water through sand. He’d seen enough to know that a high-society woman like Star, who hobnobbed with the Vanderbilts and Astors, wouldn’t—couldn’t—settle for a rough ’n ready rancher. Not that she’d marry anybody. Star was dead-set against settlin’ at all, proven by six broken engagements. Yup, he’d found real love for the first time in his life and it was hopeless. He should’ve stayed in Colorado.
Sighing, he sat on the bed and rubbed the back of his aching neck, while thoughts of Star pranced through his mind. Of her laughter, her smile. The way she brought out the silliness in him. She made him feel funny and smart and charming, too. When he was with her he felt like he was fun and, oh, hell, reckless. Nah, he shouldn’t have stayed in Colorado. He wouldn’t have missed this for all the world.
Taking her as a lover, though, that was another matter altogether. The heartbreak headed his way when he returned to Colorado was daunting enough. Lying with her would make it a hundred times worse.
And it was wrong. Wrong, wrong wrong. Betrayal of Ward and Morgan, of Lee and Port, and even of his own heart.
He set his jaw. Yeah, he’d do the right thing, the honorable thing, behave like the man his parents had raised him to be, and end it. It’d be hard as hell, and a full night of contemplation hadn’t given him the right words. He wasn’t sure there were right words, but he’d do it anyhow.
He rose and left for the breakfast room.
The entire Montgomery clan and their guests had gathered around the table, talking with the typical Montgomery animation. Seated next to her father, Star lifted her head to catch his gaze as he entered the room. Her face was pale, her eyes sorrowful and rimmed in dark circles. Dressed in yellow and white, with her hair pulled back in a simple knot, she looked as innocent as a newborn kitten. But they both knew she wasn’t. Not anymore.
Because of him.
He swallowed and turned to fill his plate at the sideboard.
“Did you enjoy the fireworks last night, Nicholas?” Morgan asked as he sat down. She looked at ease and a glance at Ward proved that he was the same, oblivious to Nick’s betrayal. Guilt filled Nick’s stomach. It was going to be damned hard to fit food in it, too.
He took a bite of a sticky bun and chewed it as slowly as he figured manners would allow, while fighting down the urge to holler a confession. By and by, he managed to swallow both and answered, “Prettiest thing I ever did see.” His voice came out, miraculously normal.
Because he refused to look at Star. The truth was that she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, which only proved that love had made him loco. He’d seen some spectacular sights these last couple of months, including several incredibly beautiful women. That’s what his eyes told him, but his heart said different. With his heart in control, he could watch Star for hours just to drink in her beauty. Yup, loco for sure. She’d made him as mad as if that rabid cougar had bitten him; he was just shy of foaming at the mouth.
“You could see them from the beach, then?” Lee asked. Glancing Lee’s way, Nick noticed that instead of his unusual carefree demeanor, his face was pale and grim. For the first time he marked Jess’s absence. “Jess and I should have joined you.”
Ward’s eyes flickered over his son. “The doctor said she’s fine, Leland.”
Nick frowned. “Is Jess sick?”
Lee fooled with a sausage and didn’t answer.
“She fainted,” Jane interjected, “halfway through the fireworks. I daresay she caused quite a commotion.”
Lee’s face tightened, and his eyes threw bullets at Jane. He opened his mouth, but Ward interrupted him. “A touch of heat and the excitement, Jane,” he said smoothly. “That is all. Morgan fainted once or twice while she was carrying Port.”
Port’s eyebrows lifted. “Why, Mother, I had no notion that I caused you so much discomfort.”
With that, Lee guffawed. “Indeed? Did you think you were always the perfect child, Port? No doubt you imagined yourself born with stunningly perfect table manners as well!”
Star chuckled, which eased the tightness around Nick’s heart a mite. “Oh no, I recall vividly Port with apricots smeared across his face! And his hands in his dish, as he readied to toss what was left against the wall! Have a care, Meredith! He is not always the urbane man you believe you married, especially should you serve him apricots.”