Chapter Nine
They stopped in Ben’s room to check on him.
And they ended up standing there by the crib, watching him sleep. The room was in shadow, light slanting in softly from the hallway. When he slid Belle a glance, Pres could see the soft upward curve of her mouth as she gazed at his sleeping son.
He completely understood her fascination with the boy. Ben was a miracle, plain and simple.
It was a gift beyond price, to have a child to raise, a son who would grow up and, God willing, have children of his own. It felt right, felt...solid and true.
And now, for a little while, for this bright and glowing holiday season, not only was there Ben, but there was Belle, too, standing here by the crib beside him. Showing him how to be a father to his son. Showing him goodness. Beauty. And grace. Showing him everything he’d always imagined a woman might be.
And more.
She turned to him, put a hand against his chest, her head tipped down. “Preston,” she whispered. Just that. His name.
He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to him.
And he kissed her, there in the dark beside his son’s crib. It was a light kiss. Gentle. She sighed against his lips.
And then he took her hand and led her out of there to the master bedroom, where he turned on the lamp and shut the door.
She set the monitor on the table next to the lamp. He took her arm, loving the feel of her silky robe, of her warm, firm flesh beneath. He pulled her close.
“Preston...” She said his name again, as though she liked saying it, as though she found pleasure at the feel of it on her tongue.
He lowered his mouth and took her lips in a deeper kiss than in the other room, a hungrier kiss. He got a little carried away with it, crushing her to him, loving the feel of her soft breasts against his chest. When they pulled apart that time she gazed up at him wearing a slightly stunned expression, her tempting mouth red and swollen from the kiss.
“I think...” She hesitated. She was looking down again.
He tipped her chin up once more. “Tell me. What?”
She pressed her lips together, sighed. “Well, you know, this is the time when we should speak of contraception, of...protection. You must know that I’m not on the pill. Or anything else.” A nervous chuckle escaped her. “I should have planned ahead, shouldn’t I? I’m afraid I’m not all that good at this.”
“You are doing fine.” He meant that. “Better than fine.”
“You’re kind.”
“No.” He bent his head, kissed the tip of her delicate nose. “Not kind. Not in the least.” Everything about her tempted him. He caught a lock of her hair, rubbed it between his fingers. Warm silk. And then he bent and kissed her again. More slowly, more tenderly. When he lifted his mouth he said, “Don’t worry. I have what we need.”
“Good.” She kissed the side of his throat. The touch of her lips there seemed to burn like a brand.
He took her hand again, led her to the bed. “Stay right there,” he instructed, because he still couldn’t quite believe she was here in his room with him—that she wouldn’t be leaving any second now.
She looked at him so tenderly. “Oh, Preston. Where would I go? I only want to be right here. With you.”
“Hold that thought.” He turned to the bedside drawer, took out the box of condoms, opened it, set a couple of the little pouches on the table. Then he put the box away. He started to reach for her again.
And then he thought of the bed, that it wasn’t ready. That seemed all wrong somehow.
Because he wanted it all to be perfect. Just right. For her...
He cleared his throat, put up a finger. “Just a minute...”
She gave him a trembling smile.
He bent and turned down the bed, smoothing the covers back, revealing the whiteness of pillows and sheets. His damn hands were shaking.
And she saw that they were. She touched his shoulder, whispered his name again. Never in his life had he felt so exposed. “Please...” She said it so gently. He straightened. And she took his arm and turned him to face her. She captured his two hands in her smaller, softer ones and turned them palms up, revealing the worst of the calluses, the scars, the rope burns....
His hands. Her hands. The comparison brought it sharply home again that their lives were worlds apart. “What is it?” She tipped her head up to him, searched his face. “What’s wrong?”
He’d already made a fool of himself, shaking like a newly branded calf right there in front of her. He might as well go ahead and tell her the truth. “My dad was always ready with advice. He taught me that a man should be prepared. So every four years, I buy a fresh box of condoms and throw the old one out.”
She gazed up at him, golden-brown eyes full of light and acceptance. “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s being responsible.”
He put it right out there. “The point is I throw the old condoms away because I’ve had no occasion to use them.”
“Ah,” she said, a blush stealing over her cheeks.
“I’m not all that experienced at this, Belle. There was Lucy. And a girl at college. And your friend. And that time, with Anne, well, I told you, I don’t even remember it. All we know for sure about that time is that I must have failed to take the old man’s advice.”
“Oh, Preston.” She caught her lower lip between her even white teeth. “You’re not going to change your mind about this, are you?”
A low, animal sound escaped him. He pulled his fingers free of hers and caught her face between his rough palms. Her skin was velvet. Perfect. Like the rest of her. “Not on your life.”
She breathed a long sigh. “Oh, good.”
“It’s only...I’m not so smooth. You should know that.”
She looked at him trustingly. “I don’t care about that. I only want you.”
A scary thought occurred to him. “You’re not...” He swallowed. Hard. “Belle, is this your first time?”
She shook her head, kissing the pad of his thumb when it briefly touched her mouth. “There was a man. During my first year at Duke. It didn’t last.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, closed his eyes. “I just need to know that you’re certain about this.”
She lifted her mouth to him. “I am.” She murmured the two words against his lips.
The temptation was too great. He kissed her again, still holding her sweet face between his hands.
When she opened her eyes and looked at him, he saw no pretense. And no hesitation in her.
She wanted this.
They could have everything. Together. For a little while.
It wouldn’t be easy when she left him.
But he would think about that later, deal with that later, when the time came.
Her hands were on his chest again, as if she sought his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his wool shirt. And then her fingers got busy, undoing the buttons, top to bottom.
He helped her, pulling the shirttails free of his Wranglers as she skimmed the heavy shirt off his shoulders and tossed it to a nearby chair. Underneath, he wore a white T-shirt. She kissed him, through the T-shirt, in the center of his chest. And then she eased the T-shirt out from under his belt and up over his belly.
“Lift your arms,” she commanded.
He obeyed. She tossed the T-shirt on the chair, too.Laughing a little, she kicked off those pretty little red slippers of hers. Oh, she was something, so eager and so sweet.
“Strong...” Her voice was husky, low. A seduction in itself. She did it again, laid her hands flat against his chest, which was bare, now. “So hot...” She stroked him, traced the trail of hair down the center of him to where it disappeared under his belt. He got even harder.
If that was possible.
She undid the belt, took it away.
He let her do all the work. He should have been more forceful, he supposed. Should have taken the lead.
But she seemed so pleased with herself, unsnapping and unzipping and whippin
g all his clothes away, pushing him down to take off his boots, then pulling him up to his feet again. He let her do it. All of it.
And when he didn’t have a stitch left, she cuddled up nice and close to him. She kissed him. For a long, slow time. She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back, those naughty soft fingers trailing downward, to the base of his spine, lower....
She even eased her hand between them and wrapped her fingers around him. He groaned when she did that. And then she tried a slow stroke. He groaned again, deeper and harder than the first time.
That smooth hand sliding over him, gripping him nice and tight...it was almost more than he could bear. He was getting mighty close to finishing before they even really got started. He needed to step up a little, claim some control, or he would lose it completely before they even made it down to the bed, lose it just from the sweet encircling pressure of her tender hand.
He caught her wrist, squeezed it a little. She took his signal and let him go. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers one by one. And then he guided that hand around behind her and hauled her up so close and tight, she let out a tiny gasp, a sweet little breathless sound.
Another kiss. He couldn’t get enough of those kisses of hers. Sweet as honey. Hot as flame.
And so they kissed. And kissed some more.
She still had that robe on. And whatever skimpy little lacy things were under it.
He really wanted to see that, the lace and the satin under there. To see what she had against her skin. But he wanted to stretch out the anticipation, too. He was aching to have her, but he wanted to make it last.
Her robe came together in that tempting vee between the soft swells of her breasts. He traced it with his finger. She gazed up at him, her eyes so wide open to him he could have fallen inside them, inside her, could have been melted down to nothing in amber fire.
He meant to go lower, get the tie end of the satin belt and give it a pull. The belt would drop away—and the robe would fall open. That was the plan.
But her breasts were too tempting. They distracted him. He guided the robe out of the way—on one side and then the other, the fabric giving, pulling up out of the belt to expose her breasts to his hungry gaze.
She had a little bit of silk and lace over them—not a bra, but a very short little sliplike thing that came to her waist and was pulling out of the belt a little. He could see her nipples underneath that bit of silk, see the exact puckered shape of them, so sweet and tight. The sight sent more heat burning through his groin. He was so hard it hurt now. A glorious kind of pain.
“What’s this?” he asked, brushing a thumb over the lace, slipping a finger down the tiny satin strap that held it up.
“Camisole,” she replied.
He repeated the word, gruffly, “Camisole...” He probably should have known that.
She was probably thinking he really needed to get out more.
And why shouldn’t she think that?
After all, it was true.
And how could he help himself? He bent, put his mouth over the tip of one breast, right over the silky fabric of the camisole. He stuck out his tongue, used his teeth to tease her through the silk, to make that nipple harder still.
She let out a soft cry and reached for him, threading her fingers up into his hair, bringing his head down even closer, pushing her breasts up to him. An offering.
One he gladly accepted. He moved to the other breast, gave it the same treatment as he had the first.
And after that, he forgot all about how he wanted to undress her slowly, to peel away the layers, to take his sweet time.
He had the tie end of the belt in his fingers and he pulled. It fell away. He eased the silky robe off her shoulders. It collapsed with a soft little whoosh to the rug. And then he was grabbing the hem of the camisole. She raised her arms and he took it up and off her.
Heaven. Heaven under there, soft and pink and perfect. He had never seen such beauty. Her skin had that wonderful luster to it. The scent of her drove him wild.
He swept his hands down the slim curve of her back, over her perfect, round bottom, scooping her up, lifting her—and then laying her gently down, sideways, on the turned-back bed. He eased her thighs apart and moved between them, still standing, his feet planted on the bedside rug.
She had on tiny little red panties. He hooked his fingers under the bits of elastic where they hugged her slim hips, and he pulled. She raised her long legs high so he could slide them off.
Careful. Gentle. The words echoed in his brain. He didn’t want to hurt her or be too rough with her.
But much stronger than the warnings in his head as to how to treat a lady was the hunger, the need for her that pounded in his blood. He tossed the panties over his shoulder and guided her raised legs open again, around him. She sighed.
He bent over her. Her mouth was waiting. He took it, cradling her head, her hair falling over his arm, brushing him with the warmth of living silk. He speared his tongue inside, past her open lips, relearning all those silky surfaces in there, where it was hot and wet and tasted of paradise.
She moaned into his mouth.
He drank the sound, as he drank the sweet, intoxicating taste of her. And as he kissed her, he touched her. From those perfect, round breasts, down over her smooth, flat belly—and lower.
She cried out when he cupped her mound. She cried out and she lifted herself toward him, welcoming him, offering him more.
Everything.
All of her...
He couldn’t wait. He moved his fingers, parting her.
More silk. Hot silk. And so wet. He stroked her and she moved against his hand, pushing her body toward him, driving him crazy with wanting her.
Last, he reminded himself, dizzy with the wonder of her. Make it last...
He groaned and he kept kissing her as he sought and found the heart of her pleasure. She lifted up on her elbows to kiss him more deeply, gasping into his mouth when he moved his thumb around that most sensitive spot. He focused on that, narrowing his attention down to that tiny core.
It didn’t take long. Within a few short, beautiful moments, she was going over. He felt the tiny, rhythmic pulsing of her climax against his hand.
She whispered his name and collapsed back across the bed.
He wasted no time. Grabbing the condom from the bedside table, he tore off the wrapper and rolled it into place. She gazed up at him, her eyes bigger, deeper than ever, her body limp, her beautiful skin dewy, flushed.
Still standing above her, he bent again to lift her, rearranging her, so her head was cradled on the pillows. She moved where he put her, his to command.
His.
It was true. For now, she was his. And now was what mattered. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the next day. The few magical days she would stay with him.
It was enough for him.
Because it would have to be.
She lifted those slender arms to him. “Preston, come here. Closer, here, to me...”
The mattress shifted as he joined her, easing himself between her smooth thighs, lowering his body to hers with great care, trying not to crush her, not to smother her with his greater bulk and weight.
She was braver, wilder, bolder. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him to her. Reaching down between them, she clasped him. He let out a strangled sound as she guided him into place.
His mind spun away. He forgot to be careful. There was only the pleasure, only the feel of her as he sank into her waiting heat.
She...surrounded him, took him, owned him completely. She was so sweet and tight. Dangerous. Wonderful. His very own princess.
For tonight.
For a while.
But he wasn’t going to think about time limits now.
About losing her. About later. About how it would be when this sweet insanity was over.
Right now, he could almost believe that this, the two of them, was forever. That what they’d found together was so s
pecial, so good, so true and real and right that it couldn’t end.
It wouldn’t end.
She pulled him down and he went, gladly. He couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t hold himself back. Not now. Not anymore. He surged into her. She lifted those slender legs higher, tighter around him, hitching them behind him, pulling him closer, deeper still.
Her mouth was under his, her tongue boldly sweeping the surfaces beyond his lips. He was lost in a tossing, stormy sea of sensation. Her skin. His skin. Her mouth, his. He moved within her and she took him, claimed him, branded him.
She gave his own need back to him, her eagerness and willingness somehow amplifying every frantic, hungry thrust.
He tried to slow it down, to take control again. But he had no control. There was only Belle, her body holding his, her arms so close around him, her legs squeezing him tight, drawing him down deeper and deeper into her, into the sweetness, into the heat and the softness of her.
They moved as one, rocking together, spiraling deeper and deeper into a velvet darkness, a darkness that split wide open at the end into blazing-hot, blinding light.
Chapter Ten
Belle woke when the bed shifted. She was smiling as she opened her eyes. The room was dark and Preston’s tall shadow loomed above her.
“What are you doing?” She covered her wide yawn with the back of her hand. “What time is it?”
He was already out of the bed, but he paused and bent close to her again. With those big, gentle hands of his, he tucked the covers closer around her in a way that made her feel cared-for—cherished. “It’s a little before five,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“But where are you going?” She dragged herself up against the pillows and turned on the lamp by her side of the bed.
He was sticking his feet into his jeans. “Morning chores. They don’t wait.” He zipped them up and sent her a glance that held all the wonder of the night before within it. “Not even for a man lucky enough to have you in his bed....”
Oh my, he was one fine figure of a man. Just looking at his broad shoulders, at the hard muscles of his long arms, she felt quivery and warm inside, love struck and very young. It would be so lovely to simply lie here in his bed and wait for his return.
The Rancher's Christmas Princess Page 13