Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  She undid his belt, ripping open the button fly on his denims. Jack froze. What the—? What was her hurry? She tugged on his britches—then Jack remembered his boots. “Shit.” He jerked around to the bed—all under Angel’s silent, watchful gaze—sat down and pulled them off, then his thick socks. Finally, he stood again, tugging his denims down over his hips, his body still covered by the white neck-to-ankles combination suit he wore underneath. He kicked free of his pants, began unbuttoning his long underwear, looking over at Angel when she gasped. “We can’t do this with our clothes on.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “It’s just that … I never … I—”

  “I know.” Jack stood there, all too aware of his … hardness under the cotton weave of his drawers, all too aware of its insistent throbbing and jutting. Now what? Knowing better than to let her think about it, he took her again in his arms, carrying them both to the bed and stretching out with her.

  Instantly, as their half-naked bodies touched, full length, the passion doubled. Their hands became restless, roving, their mouths questing, seeking, their hips thrusting, rolling. In only seconds, modesty was forgotten … and the remaining small clothes were discarded, thrown free of the bed.

  Exquisite. She was like a pretty song with a melody you could whistle all day. Every part of her, every inch. Beautiful. Silky. Jack wanted to take his time with her, wanted to explore her, get to know her, gentle her to his touch. And allow her to become familiar with the contours of his body, too. But Angel would have none of it. As if fevered, as if time were running out for her, she urged him on top of her. Jack resisted, wanting to understand this new Angel, so full of urgent fire and wanting.

  Lying half on top of her, he smoothed his hands up her arms, urging her to put them above her head. She did and he held her hands there, locking his fingers with hers, and kissing her mouth. Then he moved more fully over her, settling himself into the saddle of her hips and gently pushing against her. Her moan sounded inside his mouth, increasing Jack’s sense of urgency. He released her hands, her mouth, and slid down her until he could capture a nipple, could suckle and lave it, could flick his tongue over its sensitive tip and … make her arch her back and cry out.

  Angel writhed under him, only increasing Jack’s desire, only fueling his lust. With nipping kisses, he worked his way over to her other breast—like its mate, a pinkish globe with a peaked and rosy nipple—and captured it, lavishing the same attention on it. As he did, and ever so slowly, he slid off her, lay at her side … and moved his hand down her belly, smoothing and kneading her velvet-soft, taut skin as he went. God, she tasted great. Like warm honey. His fingers sought the vee of her thighs … found it.

  With feather-soft gentleness he stroked her there, up and down, in and out, each time entering her a little bit more … and withdrawing, entering and withdrawing. Until she was wet and moaning. And crying out his name. Only then did Jack pull himself up and over her. Instantly she wrapped her arms around his neck, clutching him to her warm body, instinctively bending her knees. Jack helped her, telling her, “Wrap your legs around my back, Angel. It’ll make it easier, honey.”

  She complied, not asking what exactly this would make easier. Feeling she was ready, feeling her hips arch and buck against him, Jack positioned himself … and entered her. Slowly … paying attention to the suble changes in her body, to the tightening, the stilling, the stiffening. When he felt any of those things, he stopped, kissed her mouth, her eyelids, her cheeks, swirled his tongue in her ear, nipped at her neck … rubbed himself against her, ever edging inside.

  And then, with one good thrust, he broke through, felt the tearing, refused to allow himself to revel in her slick tightness just yet, despite his muscles all but locking with intense pleasure. Because she’d stiffened, too, and gasped. Then Jack gasped himself when her fingernails dug into his shoulders. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “This is the only time it will hurt. I swear. Let me help you, Angel … let me help you.”

  She relaxed, still trembled, but she did exhale and nod vigorously. Jack took that as his sign and began the timeless dance that found its own rhythm. He rocked and thrust against her, inside her … finally allowing himself, once he knew she joined him, to feel the joy, the incredible pleasure of their mating. She was magnificent, even in her innocence. Ensheathed in her as he was, on fire for her, his every sense honed in on the feel of her body surrounding his, Jack maintained his pace, pushing into her, stroke after stroke that only built in intensity.

  But still, and fighting it with every thrust, he held back, waiting for her, waiting for the subtle tensing signs he knew her body would give to tell him she was reaching her moment. And finally … it happened. She gasped, stilled, clutched at him, raked her fingernails over his back. A guttural sound, from the back of her throat—the sound he’d been waiting for—tore out of Angel. Her cry lifted in the still air of the room. Jack captured her sounds in his kiss—swallowing her desire, breathing her gasps, as he picked up the pace, only adding to their pleasure.

  And then the explosion came, seemed to rip them in two while melting them together. Angel broke her mouth free, cried out again, buried her face in his shoulder as her hips worked rhythmically yet spasmodically against his. Her body now pulsed around him, grasping greedily at him, pulling him in deeper and deeper. The liquid fire of her satiation rent a hoarse and rasping cry from Jack. He could be dying, so intense was the pleasure. He jerked up, held himself rigid over her as he felt his life’s force flow out of him and pulsate into her.

  And then, it was over. Slick with a loving sweat, Jack slumped over her, lying atop her but supporting the brunt of his weight with his elbows. He smoothed her dampened hair out of her face, kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, listened to her breathing, watched her closed eyes, watched her tongue slip out of her mouth to wet her lips.

  Then, she cried … silently. But not so unexpectedly. Jack had seen this before. Reaction was setting in. Her face reddened, her features contorted, and the tears streamed from the outer corners of her eyes, ran across her temples and into her hair. Her shoulders heaved, she turned her face away.

  Jack hurt for her as he roved his gaze over her wonderfully strong yet delicate profile, still smoothing away her hair, still kissing her. Her crying only intensified. Now Jack frowned, suddenly sensing that something else, something other than this irrevocable act between them, was making her cry.

  And then, given what he knew of her, what he’d observed for himself—her sudden, almost frantic urgency—he came up with it, thought he knew what was wrong. A half-grin of sympathy and understanding, of hurting for her, curved his mouth, had him sliding out of the tight envelope of her sheath.

  Rolling off her, lying at her side, and pulling her to him, Jack held her, wrapping his arms around her, draping a leg over both of hers. Angel eased a hand between his arm and his ribs, wrapping her arm around him. Her other one she nestled against his chest, the top of her head all but burrowed under his chin. Jack stroked her side, smoothing his hand from her waist to her hip and back.

  “Angel,” he finally said, hearing the whispery hoarseness of his own voice. “You tried to get through this without feeling anything, didn’t you?”

  Fifteen

  Following the noonday meal that next day, a sunny but dampish one with a light wind, Angel pulled off her apron and wiped her hands on it, intent on escaping the house, and its many quiet rooms that seemed to mock her, to tell her she’d lost, that she didn’t belong here. She needed to get away, away from Jack’s weighted stares, his blue and questioning eyes. Away from Boots’s incessant chatter and Lou’s simple grinning ways.

  Instantly, she regretted that thought. It wasn’t the two old men. It was Jack. His life didn’t appear to have changed any as a result of what they’d done last night. And who was he, anyway, to tell her what she did or didn’t feel? What’d he know about anything, about her? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing at all. And he was wrong. Because she did feel … had
felt something. Wasn’t she changed today? The blood smudged on her thighs last night proved that her life was now and forever different.

  And it was that realization, minus a concrete understanding of what it meant for her and Jack, what came next, what he might expect, that made her want to run away, to be alone with her aching muscles and her troubled thoughts. She needed time to sort things out for herself, to see how she felt about them. And to decide what she was going to do about them. If anything.

  Turning to the kitchen window, which looked out onto the barn, its service court, and the horse corral, Angel crossed her arms under her bosom and stared. What she saw brought a reluctant grin to her face. She chuckled, shaking her head. Jack sure lost that battle. Because there they all three were. Lou and Boots had filed out, right behind Jack, after eating a meal of beans and corn bread with her. Angel recalled the darting glances the two old drovers had shot her and Jack, who’d done no talking to each other. She remembered the men’s subdued conversation, their lowered voices. As if she were asleep and shouldn’t be awakened.

  Those two old coots sure acted hell-bent on helping Jack make his preparations to leave, when the truth was they weren’t doing much more than getting in his way and slowing him down. Then it occurred to her, they probably meant to do just that … slow him down. Angel’s grin widened. She could respect that. Why, at lunch they’d even insisted he sit a spell, long enough to go over with them what was and what wasn’t missing after all the goings-on around here, and what needed to be done in his absence.

  Of course, Jack had protested at every turn. He’d told them to rest, had said he didn’t need any help. May as well have saved his breath, Angel decided. Because Lou and Boots had followed him right outside, out to the barn, still stubbornly intent on helping him. As she watched, they were leading Jack to the barn, pointing and gesturing for all they were worth. Must be time to figure out what was and what wasn’t missing.

  As if it matters, was Angel’s desultory thought as she finally turned her back on the scene outside and leaned against the sink behind her. She focused on the drop-leaf table across the way, but didn’t really see it as she gave herself over to her thoughts. And found herself agreeing with Jack. What good would it do, he’d asked, to have a list of items needing replacement, if there was no place to bring them to? Because nothing was settled. They could all still be killed, and the Circle D could still just dry up and blow away.

  Angel huffed out her breath, forcing herself to think the thought … Jack’s leaving. But I’m not. She was staying put, right here. And there was the crux of the problem. All their lovemaking last night hadn’t changed a thing … except her and her plans. Not that she’d … participated out of any hope of changing his mind about her owning the Circle D. She wasn’t one to use feminine wiles to get her way. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she owned a feminine wile. Or if it would work, if she had one and tried to use it. What the heck am I thinking? Move on, Angel.

  All right. Adding to her frustrations was her demoralizing realization—arrived at after listening to Jack and his two old drovers, from hearing Boots’s seemingly endless list of concerns and details to be seen to—that even at the best of times, she couldn’t hold this place together without Jack, or someone like him. She didn’t have the know-how, the years of experience, or even the muscles it took to make a go of a cattle ranch. What had she been thinking? She ought to just leave, was what she ought to do.

  But she wouldn’t. And how had he extracted from her a promise to stay put? Then she remembered. He’d done so after the second time they’d … made love, and before she’d gotten up, insisting on sleeping in her own bed. She’d expected him to say otherwise, but he hadn’t raised a fuss. He’d said “Fine … go”—and something about her being as independent as a hog on ice—to her argument that she wasn’t used to sleeping with anyone and saw no need now to start doing so.

  To her way of thinking, it’d been bad enough she’d given herself to him. She stopped at that thought … why had she given herself to him? How had that happened? One minute they were arguing downstairs, and the next they were naked upstairs and in bed. Well, however it had happened, she didn’t have to compound her mistake by spending the night in his bed and risk getting caught by Lou or Boots the next morning. Not that she cared what they thought. It just would have been … embarrassing. And none of their business.

  So, was last night a mistake? Angel asked herself for about the tenth time today. Probably, she decided, and that led her to the next question for herself. If last night was a mistake, then could what they’d done together be called lovemaking? Because … was love ever a mistake? Grimacing, Angel put a hand to her forehead and rubbed hard. All these silly thoughts. Where were they getting her? Certainly not any closer to being outside.

  And not any closer to answering the one notion that nagged her the most. And that was … no words of love, of loving each other, had passed between them. No words about today, about what last night meant for the future. But had she really expected such assurances? Angel now asked herself, thinking about it as she opened the kitchen door and stepped out back, breathing in the clean, fresh air. After all, it wasn’t as if she loved Jack Daltry.

  She closed the door behind herself and stood there on the enclosed landing a moment, considering her own question. Do I love Jack Daltry?

  No, she decided, shaking her head. She didn’t. But instantly another part of her mind—or was it her heart?—lodged a protest. Well, okay, she amended, she didn’t suppose she loved him. But maybe she did. She quirked her mouth, thinking further. How would I know? I don’t know what love feels like, now do I? I’ve never loved anyone.

  The distant, fading echo of her father’s gentle laughter haunted her a moment. He’d died so long ago, killed by that stray bullet as he’d walked past a saloon brawl in Red River Station. She was five when that happened, but she supposed she’d have to say she loved him. Didn’t all children love their parents?

  Angel sighed, thinking now of her mother. Okay, as a child she’d loved Virginia Daltry. She had memories of her mother’s many tendernesses and her caring ways. Her quiet spirit and soft voice. But that was before Tom Devlin had been killed and Virginia’d taken to a life of whoring. Angel flinched at the cold, ugly word. Could it be, as Wallace Daltry had said, that her mother hadn’t had a choice? That she’d had to sell her body, and her soul, to feed the child that Angel’d been back then?

  It made sense, she now admitted … for the first time. But Angel suspected she’d always realized that. Just hadn’t allowed herself to believe it. And why hadn’t she? Because—she took a deep breath, as if doing so would help her handle the truth, as well as her own private guilt—she’d not been able to pull her mother out of that life. She’d barely made enough money at the hotel to support herself. And the one time she’d haltingly asked Saul if she could have her mother stay there and work, he’d said “I don’t want her kind around here. Got enough troubles as it is without the likes of her on the premises.”

  The likes of her. Her kind. His words ate at Angel, then and now. She recalled it was that day she really understood how other folks saw her mother—indeed, how they saw her, Virginia’s daughter. It was after that—again Angel saw herself on that day, a skinny, ashamed fourteen-year-old—that she’d taken a step back from her mother, wouldn’t accept her money, had hardened her heart toward her. Had left her there to die.

  Angel grimaced, letting go of her disturbing thoughts. What good did they do? She couldn’t undo what had happened. And then made up her mind to enjoy her moments of solitude. Dressed again in Jack’s denims and his chambray shirt, she put one foot in front of the other, as if an act of will was required, and ambled down the back steps. As her booted feet touched the rain-squishy ground, she realized she wasn’t done fretting over the question in her heart. Because here she was thinking about it again. Did she love Jack Daltry?

  Suddenly angry with it all, she thought, No, I don’t. But again, and
immediately, her heart protested, thumped leadenly in her chest, stopping her and forcing her to turn her head toward the barn, to seek him out.

  And … there he was. Her breath caught. Framed in the open doors of the hayloft, with a knee flexed, his arms crossed over his chest, stood Jack Daltry. And he was watching her. Even from this distance, she felt the weight of his stare, felt certain she could feel the blue of his eyes darkening as they had last night. Her gaze riveted to his, time and distance no barrier, Angel stood frozen.

  Then … he turned away, disappearing into the barn’s dark interior. In the same instant, Angel slumped, felt weak and clammy, as if she’d just been released from a spell he’d cast over her. Her heart now thumping, she wanted to turn and flee. But innate dignity and a huge dose of pride forced her to turn, head held high, and to stride evenly toward her destination. The meadow carpeted in bluebonnets. The wolf flower.

  And suddenly, she was among them. As soon she walked into the field of silky-haired leaves and delicate blue blooms, Angel felt better, felt her cares begin to slip away. She didn’t know how far or how long she’d walked among them—just that she was, exhilarated by the sunshine, by the quiet, by the openness—when an unbidden thought stopped her where she stood, shattered her. He was right. As if possessed of a will of their own, Angel’s hands found her face, covering it. I did try to get through the lovemaking without feeling anything. Why? Is it because of Mama?

  Mama? Angel gasped, lowering her hands, staring straight ahead, right through the undulating ocean of flowers sifted by the breeze. She hadn’t called, or even thought of, Virginia Devlin as Mama since she’d been about ten years old. So why now? Maybe because now she was a woman herself? Because now she knew what it was like to be faced with hard choices? Because now she knew what it felt like not to choose well?