Housebound

by Anne Stuart

  The wet mud was caked to her legs, her arms, had even found its insidious way up inside the loose poncho when he tackled her. “Are you as muddy as I am?” she questioned in a husky voice as they reentered the darkened house.

  In answer Noah reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of matches. He lit one, the flickering light illuminating an expression on his face that was no long angry, just wryly amused, and Anne could imagine exactly what she looked like. “No one could be as muddy as you are,” he declared.

  “Then I get dibs on the shower. We’ve lost our power before—I know from sad experience that there’s only enough water pressure for one decent shower. You can make do in the kitchen sink.”

  “I don’t think I’ll fit,” he drawled.

  “There are candles in the drawer by the sink,” she continued, ignoring him.

  “What about you?”

  “I always keep them around in each bedroom, just in case this happens. I’ll meet you back in the library when I’ve scraped off the first few layers of Jersey dirt. I…I’m afraid I dropped the dinner.”

  “I remember.” He shook the match out just as it was about to burn him, and once more they were plunged into darkness. Anne could feel the warmth of his body heat so very near her, the heat of his breath on her upturned face, the very sexy smell of fresh rain and yes, mud, on his skin.

  His voice dropped to a lower note in keeping with the intimacy of the darkened space. “I’m sure we can rustle up something from the refrigerator if we’re hungry.”

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, and she flinched nervously. Instead of pulling back he strengthened his grip, the long fingers digging gently into her shoulders, kneading away some of the tension. “I’m not going to hurt you, Annie, love,” he said gently.

  Oh, yes, you are, she responded silently, resigned as she stared at him through the pitch blackness. She could only make out his outline, but she knew exactly what his expression would be. That achingly sweet smile coupled with the blazing warmth of those magical eyes. It was a good thing she couldn’t see his face, she realized belatedly. The darkness was her only defense against a man she wanted far too much.

  “Go on up and take your shower,” he murmured when the silence between them had stretched almost to the breaking point. And without another word she turned and fled through the darkened house.

  It was like a litany murmured under her breath as she quickly undressed in the candlelit bathroom. “Wilson,” she murmured. The name failed to conjure anything more than a disapproving glare from his blandly handsome face. Kicking the rain-and mud-soaked clothing into the corner, she ran some of her precious water supply into a washcloth.

  “Nialla,” she tried, and the sudden vision of Noah’s dark-haired wife swam into her mind. A beautiful, dark-haired witch, willful and pregnant with Noah’s longed-for child. Dead, leaving him to mourn with only half a heart. The eyes that stared back at her from the mirror were filled with a sadness still touched with her unwilling longing.

  She winced as the washcloth danced too roughly across her cheek. Peering through the candlelight, she gazed with awe on the rich purpling bruise on her right cheekbone. She must have hit her face on a rock when she went down, she mused, remembering with unwilling warmth the feel of his body on top of hers. Something she’d felt too many times, and not enough. Not completely.

  The shower was gloriously hot and forceful as she stepped under the heavy stream. There was nothing she would have liked better than to have stood there beneath the pounding water until all those sweetly seductive fantasies left her. But the water supply was severely limited during a power outage, and she quickly scrubbed her tingling flesh with the lavender-scented soap that was her major luxury. Her thick black hair had escaped the brunt of the mud, and she contented herself with a quick rinse, letting the hot water stream over her face. She was so involved in the blissful sensation that she didn’t hear the bathroom door open, didn’t see the dark shadow silhouetted by the wavering candlelight.

  The pounding of the water lessened, faded to a trickle, and then stopped altogether, but Anne was finally, blissfully clean. Pushing aside the shower curtain, she stepped onto the bathmat and looked up directly into Noah’s eyes.

  HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, he thought, splashing the small amount of water from the sink over his chest and shoulders in the darkened kitchen. He should have known something would happen, known enough to avoid it. He should never have come to New Jersey, should never have detoured by way of Anne Kirkland.

  But if he hadn’t, would she have tumbled off that slippery slate roof into the greenery below and lain there, a broken mass of bone and flesh in the pouring rain until that bumbling old fool of a father came home and found her?

  And if he hadn’t, and she’d managed to avoid that first pitfall, would she have run headlong into the live wire stretching across the rain-drenched, limb-strewn landscape? Maybe he was meant to be there.

  The Chinese had a belief that once you saved a life, that life belonged to you. He’d saved Anne Kirkland twice in one day—surely he at least deserved the reward of a few hours of that warm, soft flesh. Just her body and only on loan. Not her heart and soul.

  But he knew he was only fooling himself. Anne wasn’t the sort to give just her body; it came equipped with all sorts of traps and restrictions and needs that he wasn’t capable of dealing with. If he gave in to the temptation that had been haunting him for the last weeks he’d only end up hurting her. And she needed to be loved, not seduced and discarded.

  It had been a peaceful afternoon, lying with her in front of the fire, listening to the rain pour down on the leaky sieve of a roof, and for a while he’d fallen under the spell of the tumbledown house. Or maybe it was just under the spell of its desperate mistress.

  He should rummage around in the darkened kitchen and dig up a few more candles, then see if he could rustle up some sort of dinner. He should put his damp, muddy shirt back on, lean back, and wait down here for Anne to make a reappearance. Give her time to pull her defenses around her, let her keep her distance. He was helping to rip her house away from her; he at least owed her that much.

  But he wasn’t going to. He was going upstairs after her, stalking her, ignoring any claims conscience or Nialla might have on him. And when he found her he had the dismal feeling that he would never want to let her go.

  NOAH WAS LEANING against the sink, clad only in a pair of denim jeans, arms crossed over his bare chest when she saw him. His hair still glistened from the water, and a few droplets clung to his chest and the thin matting of hair dusted across the tanned expanse. At her outraged expression he straightened into an upright position, handing her the towel she’d left by the sink. She took it in numb hands, still speechless with surprise and anger.

  Belatedly she pulled the towel around her wet body. “What are you doing here?” Instead of the strong, angry tone she wanted, her voice came out in a whisper, and her eyes as she looked up at his were both vulnerable and beseeching.

  “Waiting for you,” he answered, his voice sending shivers of delight along her spine. He took a step toward her, that broad bare chest disintegrating all her determination. One strong hand reached up to gently touch her bruised cheek. “Did I do that to you?”

  If the sight of him was demoralizing, the light touch of his fingertips was the finishing touch. “You didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice no more than a wisp. “I hit a rock when you tackled me.”

  His fingers passed the bruised cheek to curl behind her head, pulling her slowly, inexorably closer. The look in his eyes was intent, allowing no distraction or opposition. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, lightly tantalizing.

  Anne shut her eyes in sudden despair. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded softly, her voice full of pain. “Please, Noah, leave me alone.”

  He moved a fraction of an inch away, his breath still warm on her face, and his eyes were curiously sad. “I wish I could, Annie love,” he whispered. �
��But I can’t.” And his mouth took hers again, his hands cradling her damp head and holding her still for his questing tongue.

  She felt her head tip back beneath his onslaught, her mouth opening hungrily beneath his voracious one. Her hands let go of the scanty towel and pressed against him, her fingers splayed out across that broad expanse of heated flesh. The touch of his skin was fire, burning away her noble resolutions, her better judgment, her last ounce of sanity. With a little moan she let him pull her closer against the warm haven, the towel falling forgotten to the floor as his hands slid down her naked back to press her lightly against his overwhelming desire.

  He moved his mouth away, giving her a moment to catch her breath. “Which bedroom has a double bed?” The question was short, abrupt, and common sense began to rear its ugly head once more.

  “Noah, I can’t—”

  “For God’s sake, Annie,” he cried, his voice hoarse and ragged, “don’t play games with me. If you don’t tell me which bedroom I’m going to make love to you right here on the bathroom floor.” And to prove his point he pressed her more fully against his hips.

  The feel of him through the denim sent a shaft of white-hot emotion through her. The last tiny thread of control was gone—indeed, had been gone for weeks. She had made her token protest, defended her honor. Thank heavens he wasn’t going to listen.

  “There isn’t a double bed in the entire house,” she said unevenly, her voice a mere thread. “We’re very sedate, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure you are.” His mouth began trailing soft, leisurely kisses across the tops of her shoulders as his hands began weaving patterns of desire over her back. Somewhere she found the nerve to respond, and her fingers lightly threaded through the fine mesh of hair that pressed against her soft breasts. Feeling ever braver, she ran her hands down his sides, down to the frustrating barrier of his jeans, and then slid them around his waist and up his leanly muscled back. He shivered in response, his mouth traveling up her neck with ever-increasing determination, until once more he captured her mouth, his tongue diving past the meager barrier of her small white teeth to taste the nectar of her complete submission.

  And yet it wasn’t submission, Anne realized dreamily. It was, quite simply, acceptance of the desire that lay between them, desire too strong to succumb to common sense and self-preservation. For a long, delicious moment she was content to receive the gift of his kiss, that thrusting, powerful tongue promising a still more powerful thrust. And then she began to kiss him back, her tongue darting into his mouth with far less practiced skill, tentatively sampling the delights that awaited her.

  For the second time that day she felt herself swung up into his arms and held high against his chest. His mouth never left hers as he kicked open the bathroom door and headed into the candlelit hallway. She had no idea where he was taking her, and she didn’t care. She was content—no, eager—to follow wherever he led.

  And he led her down the winding stairs into the library, stretching her out on the thick carpet with only the light of the fire illuminating her pale body. “This is where we started,” he murmured, following her down. “I want to be able to watch your face in the firelight, Annie, love.”

  She didn’t say a word, just stared up at him, her black hair fanned out beneath her. In the fitful glow of the firelight Noah looked almost demonic, leaning over her, his body taut and golden, the muscles etched in shadow.

  “Shall I give you one more chance?” he murmured, staring down at her with intent eyes. “A five-minute head start? Do you want to leave me, Annie, love? Do you want to sleep alone tonight? In that narrow bed with its clean white sheets?”

  “If I said I did, would you let me?” she countered in a husky voice.

  “Games again?” he mocked gently. “If you meant it I would.” And then he added, “But you’d be lying. Wouldn’t you?” His voice was barely audible as his head dipped toward hers. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, the sibilant sound long and drawn out. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And with her final, complete acquiescence all hurry seemed to leave him. He savored her body, first with his eyes, that blue, Celtic Gypsy gaze of his traveling hungrily over her body with a slow, hot longing that left her shivering with reaction. And then his hands, those clever, practiced hands that had already proven they knew how to pleasure her. They cupped her breasts, the thumbs gently teasing the already aroused nipples, they stroked her stomach, rippling across her pale flesh in the flickering firelight, they trailed up and down her smooth thighs until they opened to his gentle insistence, and they sought and found the heat of her, taking what they already knew so well.

  And finally, as she arched helplessly up against those hands, his mouth followed, capturing one rosy-tipped breast and then the other. A low, helpless whimper of longing came from the back of her throat, a whimper of longing and impatience, and he laughed softly against her breast. It was a warm, happy sound, that laugh of his, filled with a pure, sensual joy.

  “You’re ready, aren’t you, Annie love?” he whispered on a note of triumph that she willingly granted him. “You’re more than ready, aren’t you? Tell me, Annie.”

  “Please,” she gasped, her breathing ragged, his clever, clever hands driving her to the steep cliff of ecstasy.

  “Please what?” he mocked gently, and his deep rich voice only inflamed her more. “Please leave you alone? Please don’t do this?” he echoed her earlier words, and wordlessly she shook her head back and forth as she reached vainly for the fulfillment his hands promised yet still withheld.

  “Please, Noah,” she whispered, opening her eyes to look into his, her need deep and pleading. “Make love to me. Now.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them, terrified that she’d see a look of smug victory cover his face. She should have known better. The moment she confessed the need her body had been telegraphing, a change came over him. The final restrains had been lifted, but instead of smug self-assurance there was a blazing tenderness in his eyes.

  It took him only a moment to strip off his jeans. Anne listened to the sound of the zipper in the darkened room, the rustling of the clothing as she kept her eyes on his. She wanted to let her gaze wander over his body, let her hands follow and discover the glory of him, but she felt suddenly, unaccountably shy.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Annie,” he begged, kneeling between her legs. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’ll be very, very gentle.” He levered himself forward, and she could feel him hesitate, feel the clenched muscles in his arms on either side of her that supported his weight. And then slowly, miraculously, he filled her, reaching deep inside to her very soul. And after the first moments of surprise and discomfort she welcomed him, reaching up with her arms and legs and her body to greet that magnificent invasion.

  His control was absolute. Ignoring the cost, he began to move, rocking back and forth with a slow, steady rhythm. And each time he filled her it seemed a little deeper and a little fuller. A light film of sweat covered her skin, and shudders began to shake her body beneath his. And still he moved, seemingly intent only on pleasuring her, as he varied the force and the tempo of his thrusts.

  The white-hot flames were building now, licking her body, and she clung to him like a boat adrift in a storm-tossed sea. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, it happened, and she was flung out into the sky in a shower of stars, and in that explosion of glory she felt his body stiffen in her arms, heard his strangled cry, and she wept, for the joy of being alone no longer.

  It was a long time before they returned to earth. She lay there beneath him, content beyond words, listening to the crackle of the fire, the distant soughing of the wind, the ever-decreasing pounding of his heart against hers. She lay there, drifting through the sensations, and mused that she felt happy for the first time in her life. She’d never noticed the lack of happiness before, but suddenly, with this overwhelming fulfillment, she realized how bleak and lonely her life had been. And wou
ld be again, she thought, testing the pain as one would prod a sore tooth. But she was still too anesthetized with pleasure to let the agony overwhelm her. It would soon enough, she reasoned, nuzzling her head against his shoulder. Only this time she’d recognize just how empty her life could be. Damn him.

  Noah finally raised his head, looking down at her from eyes that were dark and unfathomable in the flickering firelight. “You look unhappy,” he whispered, kissing her lingeringly and with delicious thoroughness.

  She smiled up at him, the tears still wet in her eyes. Tomorrow would be time enough for the pain. “Looks can be deceiving,” she murmured, and kissed him back, running her fingers up the lean sinews of his back. She never wanted him to move, she wanted to lie there forever, enveloped in his warm strength.

  And indeed, he seemed in no hurry to quit the haven of her pliant body. With lips and teeth and tongue he explored the contours of her face, the tip of her nose, her eyelashes, the small, stubborn chin, the sensitive earlobes, until he once more claimed her mouth, setting his seal on it and leisurely investigating the succulent, honeyed depths.

  When he finally broke away they were both breathless, and as he rolled onto his back he took her with him, tucking her under his arm so that her head rested on his shoulder. She could look up and see his face against the flickering firelight, and a sudden chill swept over her body. His face was dark, shadowed, with a hint of trouble in the slant of his eyes and the curve of his mouth. Tentatively she put a hand on his broad, slightly damp chest, letting her fingers trail softly through the thin dusting of hair. His hand reached up and caught hers, stopping the lazy caress. As if by its own volition his thumb began a lazy caress of its own against her slender hand, even as the sensuous lines of his mouth tightened still further.

  “I’m not in love with you,” he said abruptly, suddenly, the fingers around her hand tightening. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Anne looked at him, lazily unperturbed. “Whoever said you were?” she countered softly. She was more pleased than threatened by his words. The very fact that the idea of love could be floating through his mind was definitely a good sign.