COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  He knew with his first thrust that he would have to surrender any thought of taking her with him this time. He was too close to the edge already; it had been too long, and he wanted her too much. He tried to go easy, afraid of hurting her, but she rose to meet him on the next thrust, and he had to abandon that thought, as well.

  He cast off all thought. He was a mass of sizzling, crackling nerves, centered on the incredible sensations she was causing in him, a mindless, driven thing whose field of vision had narrowed to the soft, loving woman who was holding him, taking him into herself in fierce, hot welcome.

  He had left all his experience far behind the moment he had slipped into that scorching heat. At the first sliding caress of her body he had surpassed anything he'd ever felt, and he knew this was what he'd really been fighting; he'd known it would be like this. And he'd known what it would mean, having tasted the extraordinary sweetness of this, to go back to the cold, dim world he lived in.

  Then he felt her move again, those long, golden legs lifting with his thrust, the taut, silken thighs sliding over his skin from waist to hips and back. A choking cry ripped from him, and he drove forward, hard and deep, unable to hold back another second. And at the depth of that long, piercing stroke he exploded into her, pulse after surging, boiling pulse, each with a force that left him shaken, drained, weak.

  "Shy," he whispered as he collapsed atop her, every muscle quivering. "Oh, Shy."

  He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, aware that he was still shaking but unable to stop. Nor could he move to relieve her of his weight, although her arms were still wrapped tightly around him, holding him close, as if she liked the feel of him on her.

  And in her, he thought, vividly aware that he was still embedded deep inside her sleek, supple body. Little echoes of that eruption of pleasure skated along nerves he would have thought too scorched to carry them.

  At last, when his breathing began to slow, and his hammering heart eased back toward its normal rhythm, he managed to get his elbows under him and raise himself up. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't wait."

  Shiloh lifted one long, slender finger and pressed it to his lips, hushing him. She didn't speak, just shook her head, letting the look of awe and tenderness that was shining in her face be her answer. He ducked his head, pressing his lips gently to her neck, hugging her slender shoulders fiercely.

  In truth, she couldn't speak. She couldn't find words to say what she was feeling. She couldn't begin to tell him how he had made her feel, what it meant to her to know that he had felt the same. She had never thought herself capable of such an incredible, soaring flight, yet he had sent her spiraling upward until her world had exploded into heat and light and pleasure.

  And she knew she could never tell him how she had felt looking up at him in those final seconds, seeing his face so tightly drawn with passion and pleasure, his blue eyes free at last of that haunted, shadowed look, and knowing that she had given him that.

  And most of all for the cry that had burst from him even as he burst inside her, her name in that ragged, fevered voice, telling her that he had never forgotten who it was he held. And the sound of her name, that nickname that was suddenly, unexpectedly precious, the name he had whispered once in the grips of a fever of a different kind, that still echoed in her ears with a honeyed sweetness that warmed her to her soul.

  She slid one hand down his back, over the long, hard ridges of muscle, loving the incredible feel of sleek skin beneath her fingers. The other hand crept to the back of his head to press him to her as she twined her fingers in his damp, thick hair.

  He shivered as her fingers brushed the back of his neck, and his hands tightened where he gripped her shoulders. She felt the hot, feathery caress of his breath as he pressed his lips to her skin. As if of its own volition, her other hand went to the small of his back, pressing downward, as if to hold him there, cradled against her hips.

  That slight, tentative pressure sent white-hot fire surging along nerves that, instead of being charred by that violent eruption, seemed now to have multiplied, to have expanded until the slightest brush of her skin against his made his whole body sizzle.

  He lifted his head a fraction, trailing his lips along the side of her neck, aware that he was surging to life inside her once more. He knew it was more than just the long months of celibacy, that even if he'd been carousing around for months before, she would still have this effect on him.

  Shiloh felt the change, felt him begin to harden, to expand, to offer her that glorious fullness once again, and she drew an eager little breath. He raised his head then, his eyes full of desire tinged with amusement. She saw the glint of humor and blushed.

  "I … didn't know … so soon … I thought it took longer." She flushed as she floundered in unfamiliar territory.

  He grinned. "I'd like to say I'm that good, but I'm afraid it's just abstinence." His voice became softer, and his grin faded. "And you."

  Shiloh felt a swelling tightness in her chest that made it hard to breathe for a moment. She felt a stinging behind her eyelids and lowered them quickly, afraid that if she looked any longer into the warmth of his eyes she would be lost to tears. And that he would read in her eyes what she couldn't tell him, not yet. She knew that the last thing he would want to hear right now was that the naive young woman whose virginity he had just taken was in love with him.

  But she was, she thought as he lowered his head to trail his mouth over her skin. She loved him, all of him, the dark shadows and the too rare brightness, loved him with a power that frightened her, because it was so strong, so soon.

  And she was, she thought with a last, rueful flash of sanity as his mouth reached her breast, most definitely naive. She had scoffed, albeit in tactful silence, at her friends' tales of woe about their current passions, consigning such things to the realm of make-believe. Proud of her self-control, she had told herself they were in love with the idea of love, not the pale reality. She had been smug, condescending—and utterly, completely wrong.

  Then his mouth found her nipple, taut and ready, and any rational thought fled. She knew only the feel of his mouth on her tight, swollen flesh, the feel of him hard and deep inside her. Yes, she had been wrong, so wrong, and she'd never been more glad about being so mistaken.

  Con was determined to go slowly this time, knowing this was new to her. But the very tightness that reminded him of that was also driving him to the brink of madness; how could she be so small and yet take him so deep? She surrounded him, caressed him, seared him with her inner flame, until he was so hard and aching that he groaned aloud against her breast.

  As if fired by that involuntary sound, Shiloh began to move, to shift her hips under him, wanting all of him so deeply inside her that he would never be gone from her. The groan came again, harsher, huskier, and he began to move.

  With long, slow thrusts that made her shudder he stroked the very core of her, each time pushing her higher, building the heat inside her until she was writhing beneath him. Any pain her body was feeling at the unaccustomed invasion was lost in the smoke of the inferno he was feeding. Again and again he thrust, until she was a writhing, undulating mass of sheer sensation, uttering soft little cries. She had turned to quivering, molten liquid in his arms, aware only that if it wasn't for those arms she would lose the boundary of her body and go flying away.

  And then she did go flying, his last fierce thrust sending her spiraling out into whirling, brilliant space, aware only of an odd, gasping cry that coalesced into his name, not even knowing that the cry came from her.

  Con felt her nails digging into his back and reveled in it. He felt the first ripple of her muscles, the shudder that came as her body tightened, gripping his.

  "Yes," he gasped, barely aware of saying it aloud, "oh, yes, Green-eyes, that's it."

  And then he was with her, drawn by the incredible stroking of her hot, rippling flesh, his head thrown back as her name came bursting from him as he met her heat with his own.
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  Shiloh didn't think she would ever come back to earth, and she didn't care. Her body, her senses, her very soul, were soaring, singing out her joy. Her entire world had narrowed to this time and this man, and she knew she would be content to stay here forever.

  He shifted as if to leave her, and she made a little sound of protest, hugging him close. His head came up, and he looked at her, his eyes troubled.

  "I'm too heavy for you." She shook her head fiercely. He let out a long breath, then swallowed heavily. "Did I hurt you a lot?" He knew he had; he remembered that moment when he had first entered her and she had held back a cry of pain.

  "Only for a moment." She looked up at him through the thick fringe of her lashes, the corners of her mouth twitching oddly. "I barely noticed."

  "I wish—" he began penitently, then stopped when she smiled. It was a teasing, sassy smile, a Cheshire cat smile that lit up her green eyes joyously. Then she giggled. He had never heard her giggle, never expected to. Taken aback, he gaped at her.

  "Oh, Con!"

  She lifted a hand to cup his face. She doubted if he would understand all that he had done for her, all the doubts he had erased as if they'd never been, the certainty he had given her of her own capacity to love and give, the knowledge that her drive for control had not destroyed the woman inside her.

  "You look so serious, so worried, and I feel so wonderful!"

  Something warm and visceral expanded inside him, something he'd never felt before. Convulsively he hugged her, and before he could put a name to the oddly unsettling emotion, he almost blurted it out.

  "Shiloh, I—"

  He broke off, realizing in shock that he had been about to tell her that he loved her. My God, he thought numbly, burying his face once more in the smooth curve at the base of her neck. He had thought her beautiful from the first moment he'd seen her, had quickly come to respect and admire her courage and intelligence, had wanted her with an urgent, unceasing need that he'd never experienced in his life, but until now he hadn't added it all up to the incontrovertible total.

  This revelation, attacking emotions already raw from the incredible pleasure she had given him, was more than he could deal with right now. It couldn't be. What the hell did he know about love, anyway?

  He slid off her, rolling over onto his back. Of its own volition, his arm tightened around her, bringing her with him to nestle close to his side. She lay quietly for a long time; then, slowly, her hand slid across his chest.

  She traced the faint, white line that he'd told her was from a knife. Her fingers paused at the point where the scar ended over his breastbone, trembling slightly with the sudden, unexpected urge that had swept her; she wanted to kill whoever had done this to him. It was the fierce, protective instinct of a tigress, primitive and basic, and it made her eyes glow with its intensity.

  "Did he pay for this?" she asked softly.

  Startled, Con stared at her. He searched her face for censure, for distaste, and found only that urgent glow that called out to some primal element in him, an element that was closer to the surface in him than in most men.

  "Yes," he said finally, his voice oddly soft as he watched her.

  "Good."

  He let out a long, quiet breath. Even this, he thought. Even this she accepted, not with the peculiar, almost perverted fascination some women had with men who lived the kind of life he did, but with the quiet acknowledgment of a debt paid, of a balance kept. In some hidden part of his mind that he wouldn't even admit was there, a check mark went up, the latest in a long row as she once more surprised him, once more failed to act as he'd come to expect all women to act.

  Shiloh gave the thin scar a last, gentle touch, still a little astonished at her own reaction. She had for so long fought what she thought was overprotectiveness from first her father, then her brother, and now she suddenly understood a little better how they had felt. And why. It was just further proof of how deeply she had fallen in love with this dark, solitary man.

  Con shivered under her feather-light touch. He might not know anything about love, but he'd learned a hell of a lot about wanting in the last five days.

  He couldn't afford to want, he thought sharply. Not this, not her, not when he never knew if he would see the sun rise tomorrow. And just when the hell did you ever get what you want, anyway, McQuade? he asked himself bitterly. Acid rose in him, stinging, blistering. It was not a familiar feeling; he rarely indulged in feeling sorry for himself.

  You should be worried about her, not yourself, he lectured himself severely. But she would be all right. She was strong, tough, and she knew how things were in his work. She knew that as soon as this was over, he would be gone. She knew it, had known it all along, and still had made her choice. She would be all right. He had to believe that. He couldn't live with knowing that he had hurt the person who had given him the only patch of true sunlight he'd ever had in his life.

  Then she stirred in his arms, her heavily lashed eyes lifting dreamily to his, a warm glow kindling in their depths while a small smile curved her soft mouth. His heart turned over in his chest, and his arms tightened around her involuntarily.

  How could he give this up? How could he go on, knowing this was possible and yet waking every day to emptiness instead of the warmth of her? For the first time he regretted what he had done, for no other reason than the hell he had condemned himself to for the rest of his life.

  Then she turned her head to press a soft, gentle kiss on his shoulder, the touch of her lips sending little tendrils of heat spiraling outward, and he knew it was worth any price. He only hoped he could still believe that when all he had were memories to keep him warm.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

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  Later, when she paused in fixing more hot chocolate to press a slender palm just below her navel, he felt a flood of that old remorse. Had he hurt her? He must have, he thought, getting quickly to his feet. He'd been much too rough with her; he'd driven too hard, too deep, for her tender, innocent body.

  "Shy?" he whispered, going to stand close beside her, trying to find the words to ask how much damage he'd done. She turned to look up at him, her eyes wide with wonder, and her words seared his remorse to ashes.

  "Sometimes … it's like I can still feel you inside me … like you never really left me."

  Groaning low in his throat he pulled her into his arms, marveling at how this guileless woman could send his senses reeling and make his body ache with just a few short, innocently awestruck words.

  Much later, the chocolate cold and forgotten in the mugs on the counter, Shiloh lay in the bunk looking up at him. She lifted one slender finger to run it around the curve of his ear and down the strong line of his jaw. He shivered, and the dark semicircles of his lashes lifted.

  "We shouldn't have done that," he said ruefully. "You're going to be awfully sore."

  "I have a lot of years to make up for," she said cheerfully, ignoring the fact that he was right; she was sore already.

  "You don't have to do it all in one day."

  Don't I? she thought, running her hand over the smooth, hot silk of his chest. Don't I have to take as much as I can now, while I have you, before you turn around and walk out of my life? Because you will, won't you? Even though I love you.

  Shiloh lowered her head quickly, afraid he would see in her eyes what she knew she had to conceal. She could not, would not, tie him to her that way, and she knew him well enough to know that she could. He already felt guilty enough, responsible enough, at having taken, no matter how freely it had been offered, her virginity; if he knew the naive little girl he thought she was had fallen in love with him, she might as well slap a shackle on him. And while she might be naive, she wasn't so naive as to think that would work.

  Nor was she naive enough to think that he loved her just because he had made love to her so passionately, so sweetly. There was a world of difference between desire and love, and she didn't try to fool herself into thinking the one wa
s the other. No matter how much it hurt. No, she told herself firmly, Connor McQuade was a solitary man, and only he could make the decision to change that; she couldn't do it for him. And she held only the slimmest of hopes that he could—or would—do it himself.

  A chill that went beyond the briskness of fall overtook them as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Shiloh shivered as she began to close up the ports before turning on the heater again. Rather than drain the batteries she lit the kerosene lamps, preferring the soft, golden glow, anyway.

  When she was done, she returned to the galley, where Con was chopping the solitary potato they had to add it to the pot of clam chowder on the stove. Her stomach growled unexpectedly, and she couldn't help smiling. Lovemaking, it seemed, worked up quite an appetite.

  She watched him cut the potato with quick, sure strokes, watched his strong, supple hands with an avid pleasure that surprised her. She got as much pleasure, although a different kind, out of watching those long, competent fingers as she did watching the flex of taut muscle in his arms and shoulders, or looking at the flat, muscled ridges of his belly.

  Watching those hands made her think of what they could do when they turned to her, stroking, caressing, firing nerves she knew with certainty had never been there before. Her body began to catch fire at the mere thought; her palms itched and her fingers curled with the need to touch him, to feel those taut muscles ripple beneath her hands, to feel his body surge to pulsing life.

  "Damn." Her eyes shot to his face at his whispered curse. "Stop looking at me like that."

  "Like what?"

  "Like I'm dinner," he grated, "and you're starved."

  She colored, embarrassed that her thoughts had been so obvious. "Oh," she said, blushing. But a tiny smile curved her mouth, and it sent a dart of fire through him.

  He groaned and purposely turned his back to her, stirring the chowder with a much more forceful hand than was necessary. God, he thought. He'd made love to her, and she to him, until they could barely stand up, until her delicate flesh was bruised, and still he was ready to take her again, right here and now, on the damned table if he could get that far. His jaw clenched, and he bit his lip fiercely until he regained some semblance of control.