Kane

by Jennifer Blake

  He allowed it, encouraged it with slow refinement by opening no farther than she required. She was enthralled by the freedom of being the instigator, the explorer. That he was deliberately placing that power in her hands brought a surge of some emotion that she didn’t quite recognize, but thought might be gratitude.

  Her heart jarred her ribs. The blood that raced in her veins felt hot. She wanted more of him, needed more in a way she had never felt before. Languor welled inside her so she melted bonelessly against him, allowing the rounded contour of her breast to mold to the hard plane of his chest. She felt like a seductress, more wanton than she’d ever dreamed. There was a purpose to this, she knew, but the compulsion that had driven her in the beginning seemed distant and unimportant compared to the things she was discovering. About Kane, yes, but also about herself.

  His tongue was a swirl of warm velvet, a satiny enticement. His taste was fresh and wholesome yet heady, like the rum made from the sugarcane for which he was named. She set the pace, but was pushed to stay ahead of him, to sweep the edges of his teeth without letting her tongue be captured, to flick the quilted lining of his lower lip and not be caught by his forays past her own defenses.

  She lifted her head. Breathlessly, she said, “You aren’t supposed to join in.”

  “I don’t remember that being mentioned,” he returned, his voice sleepily sensual, his eyelids half-closed. “I only promised not to touch you. Besides, isn’t it better when you have help?”

  “How should I know? You’ve been helping at least a little all along.”

  “Try it and see.”

  Confidence and challenge were plain in his voice. It was annoying enough to make her disregard her instinctive distrust. Placing her free hand in the middle of his chest to brace herself, she leaned over him once more.

  This time, he let his lips remain lax and still. There was no response when she laved the grainy surface of his tongue with hers or flicked across the clean edges of his teeth. Regardless, she could feel his heart throbbing under his sternum with hard power that shuddered up her arm. She drew back.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” he asked, his voice slumberous.

  “You were right,” she said quietly.

  “The rest of it works the same way.”

  “The rest? Oh, you mean—”

  “I mean making love,” he agreed, and waited.

  She shook back her hair. “I’m supposed to trust you on that after what you tried to do before?”

  “That’s your choice,” he said. “I’m only making a point.”

  It was one she wasn’t ready to face. The best way to avoid it, she thought, might be to kiss him.

  This time, his cooperation was total, a concentration so complete that her senses were flooded with the force of it, with the infinite variety of tastes, textures and incitements. She made a soft sound deep in her throat as she abandoned reason to follow where instinct led, let down her guard and accepted his tender invasion.

  The duck blind and its hard floor ceased to exist. She was lost in the slow expansion of her senses, in the magic of touch and heat, scent and flavor, and the burgeoning wonder of merging bodies.

  Abruptly, he broke away. He brought his hand up to clamp her wrist and lift it away from his chest. In a voice like a rake dragging through gravel, he demanded, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  The hand he was holding had been pressed against bare skin and a soft mat of chest hair. Somehow she had pushed her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, pulling them loose. What she regretted most, however, was the loss of warm, human contact, the feel of taut muscle under her palm.

  She moistened her lips. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, “but I do now.”

  He was still for the space of a heartbeat. The night air swirled between them. Then with infinite care, he placed her hand back where it had been before. “As long as you know who’s responsible,” he said. Releasing her, he relaxed once more.

  She could stop or she could go on. It was her choice.

  Or was it? Was it, really, when love and loyalty pushed at her from all directions, or when her own needs and fears clamored in her mind? The love of her son and loyalty to her cousin, the need to feel the ultimate closeness to another person, and the fear that if she drew back now this chance might never come again. Yet how much easier it would have been if she had only controlled her automatic rejection earlier and let Kane force the decision.

  But would he have carried through with it? She didn’t think so. He had stopped when he realized exactly what he was doing to her, had let her go because he didn’t like the method he was using to gain what he wanted.

  Had he abandoned that desire now, or was his consideration and momentary quiescence only another way of getting to her? Exactly who was seducing whom here?

  She was thinking too much, which was a good way to lose her courage. What did motives matter anyway, when she was alone with Kane in the damp stillness of the night? What need was there for justification when there was no one to see, no one to know or care, except the two of them?

  Her palm against his bare chest felt hot. She smoothed it in small circles, opening his shirt wider as she enjoyed the friction and also the contrast between his firm skin and the springing softness of the hair that grew in a ragged V from his breastbone to his waist. Discovering the nub of a nipple in the crisp growth, she concentrated her attention on it. That it reacted much like her own was amazing. She lowered her head and wet the tight bud with her tongue, tasting the salt seasoning of it, and was secretly gratified at his swift-drawn breath of reaction.

  The hollow of his throat, the strong turn of his neck where his jugular pulsed, the angle of his jaw—each caught her attention in turn. Her exploration was thorough, unhurried. Nor did he seem inclined to rush her. There were times, she conceded in silent appreciation, when the Southern penchant for taking one’s own sweet time could have advantages.

  Kane shifted slightly, and she felt his touch at her waist. He ran his hand lightly up and down her side, then along her back. There was no confinement in the caress, however, no hint of coercion. It might have been meant to encourage or, perhaps, to beguile. It served its purpose, for she did not object as he threaded his fingers through her hair, gently massaged the back of her neck, then guided her mouth to his once more.

  This kiss was deeper, stronger, longer. Somewhere in the midst of it, he took the initiative, though it was done with such care that she could not be certain when she relinquished it to him.

  With heated lips, he nuzzled the tender skin of her cheek, inhaling its fragrance, before making a delicate foray down her throat. She felt his hot breath through the thickness of her knit shirt as it feathered over the curves of her breasts. Her nipples contracted immediately. He brushed his cheek across one, with his beard stubble catching on the cloth covering, a gentle grazing. Yet he encroached no farther, only teasing through her clothing, blowing warm air against her, enjoying her softness while never quite touching the ultrasensitive points of her nipples. She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, clasping and releasing the hard musculature in spasmodic, unfocused yearning.

  Then and only then, he skimmed the peak of one breast and hovered as if waiting for permission. She gave it by offering what he wanted, then shivered with pleasure as he closed his lips on the turgid nipple.

  With iron strength, he caught her waist and rolled with her, carrying her with him so she felt the floor beneath her back. As he rose above her, she sensed the rise of the old terror, the freezing paralysis. She closed her fingers on his shirt between his shoulder blades, squeezing tight.

  She must not succumb to the dark distress, had to fight it, push past it, conquer it. She would; there was no other choice.

  Then he picked up a strand of her hair that spread around her. Releasing it again, he let it drift down, catching the starlight in red-gold shimmers. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, “so beautiful.”

  Beautiful. No
t gorgeous, pretty, cute, or any of the other substitutes for that one perfect word. Beautiful. It might not be true, but suddenly she felt beautiful for once in her life. Beautiful, and desired.

  Like finding and pulling the loose end of a tightly knitted piece of cloth, she felt the knotted skein of her old fears unravel. Bemused wonder took its place. The freedom of it was heady, euphoric. At the same time, she felt daring and seductive. She wanted more—more sensations, more revelations, more tastes and textures and closeness. More of the man who held her.

  Perhaps he saw that need in the dark recesses of her eyes, for he slid his hand under her shirt that had worked its way out of her skirt. Slowly, gently, giving her time to object, he cupped her breast. She only lay still and expectant. He bent his head then, to tend her desire with moist suction, cautious nibbles, and unhurried discovery.

  A quiver of vivid rapture caught her unaware. Pure distraction, it reached her as nothing else could. She welcomed it, absorbed it. Sliding her fingers through the thick silk of his hair, she held him to her.

  Imagination, that was the key to the magic they built between them as the moments passed. Imagination in technique, yes, but also of the mental kind known as empathy, which gave the ability to enter into the reeling senses of the other person, to feel what they felt, then extend further to guess what they longed to experience. The imagination to know that more was required than mere lust and the headlong rush toward completion. To set aside cool calculation and reach for the outer realms of instinct. And, finally, to offer, with open hands, the ultimate expression of generosity, which was to give themselves without reservation.

  How had they come to be so attuned when so much was wrong between them? Regina could not begin to guess. She only accepted it as she accepted the miracle of her vanquished fears. Accepted it and reveled in it.

  She stripped away his shirt and dropped it to one side, the better to feel his power and his heat. He dragged off her shirt, unsnapped her bra, and disposed of both without either of them noticing where they went. Her skirt, his pants, were obstacles to be overcome, and were discarded along with their shoes and the other civilized bits that satisfied modesty or convenience. Body to body, they came together on the blanket, doing their best to merge through their bare skin by osmosis.

  He left a hot, wet path down her abdomen on the way to teach her a new joy. She marveled at the silken length and heft of him in her hand. He pulled her above him, holding the soft mounds of her hips. She suckled his nipple as he had hers, while clasping his tumescent heat between her thighs.

  When they came together, it was a gradual and scrupulous penetration against her tightness. Yet it was also a liquid slide, a benediction and divine disclosure. Tears squeezed from her eyes and tracked down her face. She held him tightly against her, while her heart filled with something so near love that she knew she would never forget this man or the moment, no matter what happened.

  Then the turbulence took them, and the glory. They strove with it while their lungs strained and burned, their skins reflected star shine, their blood raced in hot splendor through their veins, and the world moved far, far away. The night gathered around them, shining in their eyes. They sounded its wonder, searched its last corner for ecstasy. And they finally found, in mutual gratitude and mercy, its brightest promise.

  For a long time, they lay still, limbs intertwined, skin cooling. Regina’s pulse slowed to normal. Kane reached to draw the blanket over their lower bodies. They separated, easing apart, though Kane stopped her when she tried to remove her head from the pillow of his shoulder. Still, they didn’t speak, but lay staring at nothing, lost in the slow surfacing of questions and doubts.

  It was the buzzing of a mosquito that roused them from the trance that held them. Kane let it land on his shoulder, then killed it. But afterward, he searched out their clothes and pushed Regina’s into her hands. Dressing quickly then, he rose and picked up the lantern, found the matches. A moment later, light flared that seemed far too white and glaring. Too revealing.

  Caught with her bra on but her shirt in her hands, she hesitated, then quickly slipped the soft knit over her head. Only then did she feel able to look to where Kane knelt, watching her. His features in the glare of lamplight were stern, his lips compressed. His eyes were darkly blue, and in their depths was stark self-contempt. And also a lingering shadow of desolation.

  13

  “I’d have found you sooner if you’d fired up the damned lantern as soon as it was dark.”

  Kane weighed the words of greeting from his cousin as he held the trapdoor open. His gaze was pensive before he answered briefly, “I know.”

  What else could he say? It was true enough, and he’d known it all along. Besides, he and Regina were both a little too rumpled, their faces a little too pale and lips too puffy, for him to play it any way except straight.

  Luke gave him a sharp look as he stood in his heavy fishing boat that rocked gently against the bottom of the ladder. Then Kane’s cousin lifted a brow and a slow grin spread across his face there in the subdued glow of lantern light shining down on him. When he got no response, his appreciative grin widened while wicked enjoyment danced in his eyes.

  Kane gave him a hard look of warning. Luke’s expression sobered as discretion won out over humor, or possibly he realized anything he said would embarrass Regina more than its target.

  “So what happened?” he asked as he wrapped a line around the bottom rung of the blind’s ladder. “You forget to tie up?”

  Kane told him how the boat had got loose in a single laconic sentence. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d been caught off guard like some randy teenager with his girl.

  “Who? How?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Kane had his suspicions, but didn’t feel like voicing them just now, couldn’t see how it would serve any purpose to let Regina know that he’d been too intent on his business with her to notice they were followed from The Haven.

  “You thought I did it,” Luke said, still grinning.

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “I might have, if I’d seen the chance.”

  “I know. And enjoyed the joke, too, until I caught up with you.”

  Luke didn’t find that quite so funny, which was just as well. Kane thought he might have had his cousin’s head on a platter, or sure tried, if he cracked any more jokes. He definitely wasn’t in the mood.

  All the same, Kane was glad it was Luke who had found them. His cousin might carry him high about the incident for the next month, but Kane knew he could be counted on not to breathe a whisper of it to anyone else.

  The rescue got under way in record time, since none of them was inclined to linger. He and Regina stowed the gear they had used, picked up their trash, and lowered themselves into the rescue boat. Luke took off.

  The ride back toward the house was fast, but damp and cool. It felt good to Kane, but Regina sat huddled in her padded chair with her arms wrapped around her upper body as if cold inside. He would have offered to hold her, to protect and warm her if that was what she needed, but wasn’t sure she’d let him.

  God, what had gotten into him? He couldn’t begin to understand. He’d certainly never meant to take things so far. The last thing he needed was this complication in the middle of everything else.

  But she had been so soft and delicious, and he had thought—Hell, what had he thought? She needed him? That she was trapped by her terrible inhibitions like the damned prehistoric fly was trapped in the amber? That he was the one man to perceive and resolve her fears, the only one who could set her free?

  Saint Kane with his trusty sword. So to speak.

  What an idiot.

  He’d been seduced. The combination of desire and vulnerability, fear and bravado that she had used was lethal and tailor-made for someone like him. He’d been so entranced by the performance that he hadn’t seen what was coming at him until it was too late.

  Of course, he might not have noticed because h
e was too busy concentrating on his own agenda. He had set himself up and had no right to complain. So why did he feel as if he’d been blindsided?

  She’d got to him, she really had. Somehow he had identified with her, had felt her rootless, unattached state when she was left without family, as he had been left in much the same limbo when his own parents were killed. It had seemed, too, that the intimate betrayal she had been through was on a par with the ugly breach of faith Francie had used in her attempt to extort money from him. They had both trusted the wrong people, both been hurt when their intrinsic need for love and connection was used against them.

  Was there really any kind of correlation, or was it all in his head?

  Even if there was one, the questions remained: Why him? Why now? How much of Regina’s lovely surrender was from sincere emotion, and how much due to shivering calculation?

  The answers had begun to haunt him the minute she was out of his arms. They would continue until he had the truth.

  The reluctance she’d shown in the beginning wasn’t counterfeit; he’d stake his life on that. He hadn’t been taken in to that extent. What bothered him most was the thought she might have faked the rest, the need, the pleasure, the release—the whole nine yards. Had any of that been real, or was she only a very good actor, the consummate liar?