by Tracy Sumner
Adam stepped back, into a tree trunk. She smiled. He had nowhere else to run. The pulse at his throat was tapping against his skin. Beautiful skin. Soft lips. Firm chin. Wide chest. Flat stomach. Oh. He looked as hard as the tree he’d shoved himself against.
“Chase” —she leaned close until her breasts brushed his chest— “I’m naked under this dress.”
He snapped his head up, his eyes blazing with hunger and anger. “Stop playing with me.”
“I so want to play with you. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Moving faster than she could have expected, he grasped her shoulders, turned and pushed her up against the tree. The rough wood bit into her back as he pressed into her from chest to hip. He moved his hands to either side of her head, imprisoning her between his arms.
She didn’t speak, only stared up at him. Finally.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Submission
The act or instance of submitting.
Defeated, he leaned in to kiss her. It was not a battle worth fighting. She issued a breath of relief as his lips settled on hers. He almost smiled. Obviously, she had been running out of ideas to get him to touch her.
She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She tried to pull him closer, but he resisted, digging his fingers into the bark. Her taut body was so inviting. He wanted to sharpen himself against her like a dull knife.
Christ, he wanted her.
If only she had not mentioned her lack of underclothing.
Had she lied? Running his hands down to her waist, he pulled her dress up in fistfuls. With the material wadded in a sloppy roll at her navel, he slid his hands to her buttocks. Skin and muscle, smooth and tight, met his roving fingers.
Oh...she had not lied.
He seized her hips, lifting and nestling her against his hard length. Instinctively—she was a damned intuitive creature with respect to lovemaking—she wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Yes,” she whispered against his lips, “I like this.” Of course she would. They liked the same things, it seemed.
Her skin was warm and the air between them thick, just like the night before. A kaleidoscope of colors had begun to spin before his closed lids. Everywhere he touched her, his skin tingled. He slanted his head, inviting her tongue to engage his in play.
Her arm dropped to trail between their bodies. He sucked a sharp, surprised breath in and tore his mouth from hers as he felt her reaching for him. Her fingers carefully undid his trousers. She released him from a tangle of cloth and surrounded him with her fingers.
“Does this hurt?”
He lifted his head from her shoulder, where it had dropped when she had first touched him. “No...no.” Corrupt contemplation he knew, but he hoped she left the scent of roses upon him.
He glanced down. Bare legs tied like a string about his waist, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs mixing intimately with his own. As he stared, incapable of speech, barely able to breathe, she placed him at her entrance.
Before she let go, she ran her hand along his length. An inquisitive touch. Gentle, arousing. He literally pulsed in her hand.
He threw his head back and closed his eyes as he raised her hips and slowly, slowly eased into her. She arched in an impatient movement, drawing him in with a hard, long thrust that left them both gasping.
“Charlie.” He lowered his head and kissed her.
She moaned against his lips as he began a vigorous rhythm. He wrapped his arms around her, to protect her back from the rough bark. Each thrust chafed. But the hot points of pleasure coursing through him, her soft skin surrounding him, was more than enough to defeat the small dose of pain.
Her sweet breath caressed his neck, his ear. He squeezed her bottom as his tongue moved in rhythm with his thrusts. He could not get enough of her. He had never been with a woman and experienced so much. Strangely a mental picture, far different than what he was actually seeing, sprang to his mind.
He saw her hunched over her desk in the Sentinel office, her pink tongue tucked between her teeth. He saw her striding along the boardwalk as though President Fillmore was awaiting her arrival. He saw her snapping her fingers and clicking her tongue, talking to that damn orange cat. He saw her running through a cornfield, her sable hair whipping like smoke.
He pressed his face to the side of hers as all those images intertwined in his mind, in his heart. He squeezed her as he drew closer to his desire, sliding into her, again and again.
She shivered and twisted, asking him to help her, telling him she was burning up.
He kissed her neck and whispered, “Close your mind. Don’t think. Feel.”
Her muscles clenched. She must be close.
He turned with her in his arms and laid her gently on the ground, sinking on top of her, never breaking their connection. Her arms flopped behind her, thrusting her chest up. Her eyes were shut, words slipping from her lips in an incoherent flow.
He placing one hand at the juncture of her thighs, the other at her breast, and began to caress her. Even through the cloth of her dress, her nipple hardened, puckered.
“Jared...I’m dying.”
He groaned and shuddered above her. “Then I’m dying, too.”
They moved together, sweat from their bodies mingling, the tangy aroma settling over them like a sheet.
A tide of fervent response consumed him. She curved against him as his name slipped from her in a loud cry. Her muscles clenched like a brace about him. It was more than he could take. He thrust into her, then held himself still as everything he had, everything he felt, flowed into her. He shut his eyes, allowing the world to fade into nothing but his strong heartbeat.
And hers.
Gasping, he lowered hid body to hers. Her harsh, quick breaths lifted the hair from his neck. He heard her swallow.
He rolled, pulling her with him. She descended like a feather against him. As he flung his arm over his forehead, he wondered if he would be able to stand and walk from the secluded clearing. Damn. It had been even more phenomenal than last night. And more frightening.
She tilted her head, then he heard her giggle. He had not heard her giggle before. Not once. Charlie Whitney was not a giggling girl. Helpless, he rolled his head toward her and flicked his eyes open. Hers were wide and blue. So blue they brought an ache to his chest. “Why are you laughing?”
A mischievous glint entered her gaze. “I was thinking about writing an editorial on the public school system.”
“School system?” She had been pondering an editorial while...
She lifted her hand to her mouth and laughed behind it. “No, silly.” She tapped her finger against her temple. “I was imagining the places a resourceful person could find to make love. I mean, if it works so well with clothes on.”
His mind flipped through a vast array of locales suitable for just such a passionate encounter. Charlie was there, in all of them—under him, over him, beside him, in front of him, bending, pulling, licking, sucking. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Charlie, you’re killing me.”
She touched his face. Helplessly, he leaned into her touch. “Chase, I’ve never been a modest, prim model of correct behavior. It used to upset me that everything I did was perceived as being so” —she paused as she searched for the right word— “so inappropriate.”
Adam opened his eyes, mindful of the sincere expression that would be sitting on her face. He had never known anyone to be so sure and, at the same time, be able to understand—even laugh—about the way the world perceived them.
“My mother once told me she was amazed she had been a part of creating a child so very different from herself. She was pleased. Can you imagine? Such a wonderful, wise, elegant woman...and here I was, lagging along her side, barefoot often as not. Dirty face, torn clothing. She allowed me to do too much, I suppose, to make my own decisions. Even then. She wanted me to be able to think for myself.”
She trailed her hand down his chest, stopping when she ca
me to the patch of hair that showed through the open neck of his shirt. She slipped her fingers through it, absently, never imagining how even this very simple touch upset his equilibrium. “I know who you are, Adam Jared Chase.”
He pulled away and rolled to a sitting position. He slung his arm upon his raised knee and glanced back at her. She was regarding him quite calmly, as if she had expected his abrupt withdrawal. He supposed she had. Damn her.
“You mustn’t think I’m being insincere. I’m sure you’ve known many women who have been. Who wanted more than they said they did.” She lifted on her elbows, which only served to advance her breasts to the front of his mind. “I’m telling you exactly what I want. In definite terms, as a matter of fact.”
Insincere? Is that what she thought? Her honesty scared him senseless. He should have never touched her, never kissed her, never laid a finger on her. Because he was not going to change. Even for her. But letting her go back to Edgemont after making love to her like this was probably going to kill him.
Just looking at her, lying there, dress pulled up to her waist, eyes glowing with passion. So beautiful. He urged his gaze from her. “Oliver Stokes has contacted an editor to take over the Sentinel. Temporarily at least. Benjamin Folkes. I’ve met him a time or two. Been in the business for years. Well-respected. Conservative. A good front man for Stokes.” He traced a pattern in the pine straw lying between his feet. “He’s an ethical man, but he won’t buck Stokes. I’ve scheduled a meeting with him next week. Stokes wants you to meet him as well.”
“Stokes knows I’m in Richmond?”
He stabbed a piece of straw in the dirt. “News travels fast. By the way, the bastard is very happy with the progress of the Sentinel.”
“Why is he bringing in a new editor, then?”
“My editor in Richmond wants me back. Stokes has agreed. He figures the hard part is complete. The Sentinel has been reorganized. The press is in place. He has a very capable pressman and a promising reporter. Also, after the incident with his thugs...” He stopped tracing circles and swiveled his gaze to hers before returning to his study of the area between his feet. “Let’s just say I was not obliging.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I would kill him if he tried anything like that again. Miles will keep me informed.” He neglected to mention he had said this to the man as he shook him by the collar of his linen jacket. “Stokes also mentioned the gossips around Richmond are very interested in the female reporter residing in my home.”
“Hmmm...you may have some explaining to do.”
“The explanation is, she’s an employee. And a well-chaperoned one at that.”
“An employee you’re intimate with when the chaperone isn’t looking.”
“Charlie, please, I’m begging you.”
“I want to know today isn’t going to be the last time. I want to share this with you. I don’t want you to feel bad every time. I want you to know that I accept you for who you are.” She paused, then said, “I want to call you by the name I say in my head when we’re together.”
“No.” He pushed his fingers through the straw.
She continued as if he had not spoken. “I’ll stay until next week. After we have this meeting, I’ll go back with Mrs. Peters. I’m not going to deny what I want any longer. And, I’m not going to help you deny what you want any longer, either.”
His gaze migrated to her. Her face was tilted to the sky, her sapphire eyes wide and clear. Was she so sure she could do this and leave? She seemed sure.
It was no matter, really, for he could not deny he wanted her, even if he was able to deny the depth of his emotions. He could no more leave her alone—while she slept just down the hall—than he could make it snow in July.
Next week, though. He would send her home next week. With enough memories for a lifetime.
He threw a fistful of dirt against his boot. “All right. I give up.” Perhaps this was what he needed. What he had needed since Eaton’s death.
Rain began to pelt them as he pulled her on top of him.
With the storm acting as a shield against the rest of the world, their swift desire propelled them.
The arrangement commenced.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Exploration
The investigation of unknown regions.
Charlie looked north, up the broad, deep river. The sun was fading, but she could still glimpse Richmond’s dappled, clay hillside. Those hills—she had learned—held a mélange of shops, factories, foundries, churches, hotels, warehouses, banks and mansions. She had passed the incredibly wealthy and the indescribably poor on the city’s crowded streets.
She and Chase spent the days in the city: eating ice cream on the grassy expanse of Capital Square, buying plums and grapes from the town market and feeding them to each other between laughter and kisses, stopping by the Times office, where Chase showed her a printing press the size of a mountain and a supply closet she would always remember with a warm glow.
They spent the nights exploring—mind and body—hungrily, feverishly.
They took walks along the river, talked of life and philosophy, love and religion, politics and wealth, as bells pealed and smoke from the tobacco factories swirled in the air around them. They visited small, clandestine restaurants, whispering to each other across a table as the world around them faded. They sat in companionable silence in his library as he worked on his assignments, and she sketched him with broad, sure strokes.
She observed the passing of the days with a silent eye.
Chase had become her best friend. Her closest friend. He voiced her thoughts before she did, shared her interests, supported and challenged her, ignited her temper and her passion. He smiled when she muttered something scandalous, debated social issues with her until she was blue in the face, and made love to her tenderly and with spirited abandon.
Glancing toward Chase’s house, the light from her bedroom window beckoned.
She walked slowly, sidestepping puddles and downed limbs from the storm the night before. As usual, her thoughts were with him. As they had for so long now. For what seemed like forever.
He had finally let her in. A bit, anyway. It felt good, so deep and sure.
Only...another part of her denied their closeness, pushed it away with an emotionless swift shove. She felt strong and independent for doing it, even as a hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
Last night, a crack of thunder had woken her, and she’d turned to find Chase twisting and mumbling, tangling the sheets around his legs. One name passed his lips. Eaton. She knew his were fierce nightmares. She’d shaken him, all the while murmuring soft words, not expecting his violent reaction. It was obvious from his startled expression that he was not used to sleeping in the same bed with anyone.
His past had bubbled from his lips, from his soul, like hot lava spewing from a volcano. She’d been foolish to think the circumstances affecting them were similar. Her mother and father had loved her, had willingly offered love to her. Chase and Eaton had turned to their father for love, only to find a harsh man who was unwilling or unable to offer more than money and a name.
They had survived simply because they had each other.
How awful it must have been for him. To hold the person he loved most in the world in his arms while their life spilled to the ground like whiskey from a broken bottle. His memory was still vivid. He said he sometimes woke to find himself wiping his hands upon the sheets—trying to wipe away Eaton’s blood.
A warm breeze off the river lifted her hair from her face. She increased her pace to a light run, throwing a glance at her window. Sure enough, Mrs. Peters’ pinched face was peeking from between the curtains. Hellfire.
Charlie hopped up the steps and pushed through the pantry door, the inviting warmth of the kitchen rushing to greet her. The distinctive aroma of cinnamon hung heavy in the air.
“Miss Whitney, you’d best get up there.”
Charlie flashe
d Mrs. Beard a weak smile. “I know, I know.”
Mrs. Beard clicked her tongue against her teeth. She kept her gaze trained on her sticky biscuit dough as she said, “That old nag has been here at least ten times asking after you. I told her you had taken a short walk.” She sniffed. “None too pleased to hear that, I tell you.”Charlie only grunted and continued through the kitchen. Knowing she was alone, she lifted her dress past her ankles and took the stairs two at a time. She wasn’t looking forward to the evening, damn Mrs. Peters and her meddling.
She halted at her bedroom door and smoothed a hand over her hair. She tugged on the sleeves of her dress, hoping to settle some of the wrinkles. She looked a mess as usual, and she knew it. Mrs. Peters had not yet learned to accept this as fact.
The door flew open, and Charlie gasped and took a step back.
“Young lady, where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is?” She grabbed Charlie’s elbow and yanked her into the room.
“Mrs. Peters, the dinner guests won’t be arriving until—”
“I know what time the guests are arriving. I planned this evening.”
Yes, Charlie knew that as well.
“Two hours is not enough time to dress for the evening.”
Two hours?
Mrs. Peters hauled Charlie to the bureau like a recalcitrant child. “Oh, dear, I sometimes forget you have been without female influence for so long.”
“Really, this is just a simple dinner.”
Mrs. Peters glared at her before turning to the wardrobe. “Charlotte, dear, you minimize the evening I have planned. Mr. Chase is a man of means and reputation in Richmond. His father was a well-respected judge; his family is associated with the very best people. He has just recently returned from an assignment. One of interest to many of his friends.” She opened a drawer and lifted a pair of gloves, stockings and a small box of hatpins from within. Walking to the bed, she deposited them carefully before returning to the wardrobe.