by Tracy Sumner
“You were waiting for me.”
She nodded. Of course, she was. “Where have you been?” She twisted the brim of the hat into further disarray.
He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder. Light illuminated his profile, his strong chin and elegantly curved nose. “I was at the newspaper, finishing Benjamin Folkes’ editorials.”
“Oh.”
He turned, his gaze running the length of her, then said with barely concealed anger, “You should have let me know.”
She laid the hat by her side, her gaze leaving his. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I talked with Gerald.”
She shrugged. What did he expect her to say? That she needed him? That she had started a hundred letters telling him how desperately she needed his help with the Sentinel, only to remember her promise by the river bank? She refused now, as she had then, to tangle him in a web of her making.
“Goddammit, but you are stubborn.”
She turned then, her anger sparked, her gaze fixing on him. “And you aren’t?”
He sank to his knees on the bottom step, his face level with hers. Their gazes locked in a silent contest of wills. She did not move an inch, refusing to be intimidated.
Sighing, he lifted his hand to her face, touching the bruise on her forehead. He stroked the ridge of her cheek, the skin beneath her jaw. “I came here because I could not stand the thought of another man loving you,” he whispered. Sliding his hand into her hair, he pulled her close as he leaned in.
She moaned before his mouth met hers. The anticipation of touching him again, of having him touch her...
She struggled to catch her breath as his tongue began to trace her lips. Oh God, she thought, her mind remembering and recording all at once, was he this wonderful before?
Trembling, she pressed forward, opening her eyes when she encountered only cool winter air. He had retreated, a pensive expression on his face. Was she imagining the naked fear she saw reflected in his dark gaze?
Didn’t he know by now that she would never hurt him?
Rising, she offered him her hand. He hesitated only a moment before taking it. She opened the door and pulled him inside. The house was dark but for a fire flickering in the hearth. The crackle of burning wood and the acrid aroma of smoke filled the small room.
Charlie closed the door and watched Adam’s gaze circle the modest structure. He glanced toward the fire, the flame’s glow revealing a quilt, pillows, a bottle of wine and two mismatched glasses.
His gaze tilted to her, then back to the makeshift bed, as a lazy smile spread across his face.
“That’s the bottle of wine you gave me last summer.”
“I thought it might be.”
She walked to him, until they stood less than a foot apart. Lifting her hands to the buttons on his shirt, she released one, then the others, until the cloth hung open from neck to waist. He made no move to help her, but if his tight gaze and rapid breaths were any indication, he liked what she was doing.
Encouraged, she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, forgetting it as it slipped to the floor. Her gaze devoured his chest. She wanted to memorize every crest and hollow. Noticing the wide bandage on his left arm, she lifted her gaze to his.
He shook his head as if to say “not now” and stepped forward. Grasping her face with both hands, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. She parted them, not wishing to play the part of a chaste woman when she was not. Nor did she wish to be. To act as if she had forgotten the incredible passion that flowed between them, or to act—even more absurd—as if she didn’t want him, would be impossible. She was sure he could see stark need in her eyes, hear it in the steady beat of her heart.
Laying her hands on his shoulders, she tore her mouth away and bent her knees, planting kisses down his neck and chest. She slanted her head and circled his tight brown nipple with her tongue.
“How...I have missed you, sweetheart,” he said, his chest rising and falling with each quick breath. He let his hands fall to his side as her mouth moved lower. The taut muscles of his stomach clenched in what she hoped was anticipation.
She kissed until her lips met the cloth of his trousers. As she worked the buttons loose, her knuckles brushed against his hard shaft. He groaned, and his fingers grasped hers. She paused, glancing at him through her lashes. His pupils had darkened so that they appeared black.
There would be no stopping now.
He dropped her hand and bent to tug his boots off. She watched his stomach muscles bunch and tighten as he straightened and faced her. Without a word, he pulled her to her feet, grabbed her shoulders and shoved her against the door, sinking into her from lips to toes.
“Nights, I have laid awake. So many nights, wanting you. Wanting this.”
The whispered words rang in her ears as he rubbed against her, his long body angled so their waists were parallel. She groaned and stretched, searching for his mouth. “Please,” she said. Her body—especially the tender area between her legs—began to hum in response. Every part of her remembered this. Remembered him.
He obeyed her appeal, his mouth falling to hers as his hands stripped her of her clothing. Crisp air lingered on her skin but a moment as he slipped his arms around her, wrapping her in his warm embrace.
They stood, she pressed against the door, he pressed against her, writhing and touching, tasting and licking, their moaning louder than the pop and shift of the logs in the hearth.
Air glided over her face, and she opened her eyes to find his traveling the length of her. He paused in two places before meeting her gaze. “Beautiful,” he whispered and lured her to the makeshift bed by the fire.
She sank to the blanket, surprised by the sudden shudder that shook her. She rolled to her back and looked at him as he took off his trousers. The dancing flames threw scarlet light along his chest and legs, along his arms as they flexed and straightened. Her mouth felt dry from exertion, her mind dazed with the knowledge that he was hers once again. Jared. She must have whispered it, because he nodded before dropping to his knees beside her.
He placed the ball of his palms against her nipples and kneaded them in small, tight circles. She moaned and twisted her head to the side, shutting her eyes so tightly that colors collided behind her lids.
“Open your legs.” She felt his knee work between her thighs.
She submitted without hesitation.
Probing fingers, lips on the back of her knee, teeth nipping the inside of her thigh. She was dizzy with anticipation, longing. She lifted herself to his mouth as she clenched the blanket in both fists. Oh, yes, it was delightful, sensuous...vulgar. She loved it. The hunger in her built, and the fierce need to take him inside her drove all else from her mind.
She wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled. All at once his weight settled upon her, his face inches above her own. He was struggling to contain his rapid breathing. She was glad to see he shared her problem.
“I want to look at your face while I make love to you, Charlie Whitney,” he said and slid into her, his arms pressed flat on either side of her head.
She opened her mouth to respond, only to hear a groan slip out.
He pulled back, then pushed his hips forward, inching into her. Their gazes did not stray as he governed the deliberate rhythm. He only laughed as she urged him—with her hands and her hips—to go faster. He whispered in her ear, “Patience, sweetheart. Patience.” But he could not hide the tremor that laced his words.
She smiled and moved her hands to his hips, guiding his movements. “Slowly then. I’ll close my eyes and think of your lips kissing me between my legs, your tongue inside me.”
He stopped, staring at her, his eyes as wide as she had ever seen them. And as dark.
She was sure this time they had made the full run to black.
“Goddammit, you make me crazy,” he said and thrust home. Hard. He seemed incapable of softening his movements. She heard an apology mixed in with his moans.
> She didn’t want his apologies. She didn’t want to make love to him like a lady. Her body and her mind felt not quite hers as they moved together, sweat and heat binding them. Were those her teeth biting his shoulder? Her hands pinching his damp skin? Her voice imploring him to go faster? Her legs tightening around his?
As they strained and stretched, their bodies shifting much like a wave upon a stormy sea, she imagined herself a wild animal, panting and clawing, desperate for gratification.
For sustenance.
He knew. He paused, drawing his hand between their bodies and closing in on the bud of skin she had come to recognize as being the center of her pleasure. He had, of course, known it all along.
She buried her face in his hair as he settled deep inside her. The spicy scent of him flowed through her nostrils, so solid and memorable that she could all but taste it. She clutched him, her hands curving around the rounded muscles of his back. Not able to control herself, she writhed under him, lifting her hips.
Move dammit. I need it.
“Charlie.” His voice was ragged, his breath hot upon her skin. “No. Don’t move. I can’t—”
“I. Don’t. Care.” She sucked a patch of skin between her teeth and angled her body, up, then down, drawing him in and out of her.
He rolled to his back, holding her about the waist to keep them joined. “Do it then.”
She rose until she was sitting astride him, her legs bent, her knees pressed along either side of him. Flinging her hair from her face, she stared at him. His face was red; a vein in his temple pulsed. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his neck, much like melting wax. She captured it with her finger, then brought it to her lips. He groaned and closed his eyes. She felt him twitch inside her.
She was amazed she could do this to him. Level-headed, stubborn, inaccessible Jared Chase lay sprawled beneath her, his lips pressed together so hard the edges were white, his fingers digging into her hips and sliding to her buttocks.
He wanted her.
Moreover, it seemed as if he had missed her as much as she had missed him.
“Are you trying to...kill me?” His eyes opened, an almost angry expression reflected in them.
She laughed and leaned in, brushing her cheek against his. She flattened her palms on the blanket on either side of his head. “Whatever do you mean?” But, she proved the question pointless by lifting the length of him, then down. Then again and again. “Like this, Mr. Chase?”
“Crazy,” he said and pulled her mouth to his.
Pleasure, intense and determined, was so close to the surface that little more was needed to secure it. She hoped it was the same for him. It was hard to think, so she merely reacted to him surging beneath her, his hands guiding her hips, the taste of his sweat, salty and distinct, upon her tongue. The scent of sex, roses and them lingering in the air.
As heat tore through her, a stinging wave of bliss, she pulled her lips from his and tucked her head into his shoulder, fighting to hold back her whimpers. Her fingers crawled through his hair; she pulled as needle-like pricks danced along her neck and back.
He dragged her hips down and she felt him, really felt him, jerk inside her. A hoarse cry fell from his lips. His hands stilled her as he thrust, grinding his hips back and forth.
“Oh, heaven,” she said and collapsed atop him. His heart thumped like a hammer beneath her ear. They lay sated and silent for so long, the frigid air began to nip at her moist skin. For a moment, she had doubted she would ever be cold again.
She sighed and leaned back, pulling the blanket over them as well as she could.
“Cozy?”
“Umm, very.” She snuggled into him and kissed his chest.
“Did you find any of my hair tangled in you fingers?”
She tilted her head. His eyes were closed, and a lazy smile sat upon his face. Those damn dimples of his dug as deep as a well in the ground. “Hair?”
“I think you removed a sizable hunk.” He yawned and pulled her closer. “Getting older, may need that hair.”
She smiled. He sounded content. Thank goodness, he hadn’t abandoned her or tried to deny what had taken place between them.
A sharp gust of wind rattled the window above them. The occasional crackle of burning wood lulled her. She snuggled deeper beneath the blanket, moving gently so not to wake him. His breathing was calm and even. She wiggled her nose and sniffed; his chest hair tickled. His distinct scent mingled with smoke on his skin.
She experienced not an ounce of contrition for lying naked in a man’s arms. A man who was not her husband. There was not a lick of shame, not a spot the size of a grain of sand to be found in her.
He was not her husband, but he was the man she loved.
“I love you, you know.”
She closed her eyes. It felt good to finally say those words. Even if he did not hear them.
* * *
Adam slipped through the door, shutting it softly behind him. Charlie was sleeping like the dead, which was about the shape she had been in when she fainted. Still, his stomach knotted when he remembered her pitching to the dirt at his feet. He shook his head and slipped a cheroot from his shirt pocket. The wind and his fingers, which quivered ever so slightly, kept him from lighting it on the first try. “Dammit.” He tucked it tighter between his lips.
Resting his shoulder against the porch post, he observed the tranquil morning. The sky was still dark, but a glimmer of red was beginning to show on the horizon. He tipped his head into the wind. Did they get any snow here? Being so close to the mountains, he supposed they got some.
He wished like hell Charlie had some of Miles’ whiskey in her house. He needed a drink right about now—actually, he needed a whole bottle.
I love you, you know.
She said it as if he should know. And, of course, he should have. Charlie would never give herself to a man without love being the active force behind it.
Why, why did she have to say it?
How could he leave her? It looked as if it was about time for a new roof on her house. How could she possibly afford that?
He knocked his boot against the step.
He had awoken this morning with dreams in his mind and Charlie tangled about him like a vine. The dreams brought the past into his heart, before his eyes, reviving his mother and Eaton. So much so, that he woke thinking they were there in her house. With him. He realized in an instant that this was not possible, would never be possible, and turned to find Charlie there.
Solace, for the first time in years.
To know he was not alone.
He lowered himself to the step, placing his elbows on his thighs and dropping his hands between his knees.
Their faces had dimmed in his memory, his mother’s and Eaton’s. Even in his dreams the images had faded like an aged daguerreotype. His mother’s hair had been a lovely shade of auburn, had it not? And Eaton had spoken with a slight lisp, had he not? He smothered the cheroot and threw it to the ground. How could he have forgotten his own family?
His mother’s voice came to him then, almost if she stood behind him. Words she had spoken long ago during one of their summers at the seashore. Advice he had forgotten. You carry them always, in everything you do. In everything you are, they are alive. He had asked about her parents, who had passed away long before he was born. The way you hold a fork, Jared, the color of your eyes, the places you will visit with your children and say, I remember when. These are the things which make a person complete. Death cannot take them.
His mother. Eaton. Charlie.
I love you, you know.
He dropped his head to his hands, fighting a powerful urge to cry. He had never considered himself to be an emotional man, never expected to feel so much for one person as to be overpowered by it. Overpowered.
What he felt for Charlie Whitney knocked him quite completely from his feet.
He supposed it was love, dammit.
A gentle nudge against his back had him swinging around. S
he stood by the door, wrapped from neck to ankle in the blanket they had slept under. He caught sight of a slim, pale shoulder.
He presented his back to her and swiped his hands across his eyes. “Do you have anything on under that?”
“Nope.” She shuffled over and plopped beside him.
This was Charlie. His Charlie. He supposed he liked that she had no shame concerning him.
“Fire in the sky.” She pointed to a sun steadily rising, tinting clouds that sat just above the horizon a blistering golden red. “We’re like a fire in the sky. Defiant, passionate...then we fade away.”
He turned, controlling his expression, betraying none of his earlier thoughts. “What are you talking about?”
She shrugged and tugged the blanket to her neck. His gaze followed, lingering on the soft breast he had glimpsed.
“I guess I was just wondering. I mean, well...” She swallowed and shrugged again. “When are you going back to Richmond?”
He glanced away, then returned his gaze to her. She was staring at her toes, wriggling them like a child. He suppressed a smile. “I’m not going back to Richmond. At least, not permanently.”
The blanket slipped from her fist. “Not going back?”
He raised the blanket to her neck and lifted her hand to hold it. “I want you to marry me.”
“But, our arrangement?”
“The arrangement be damned! You need help with the newspaper, and your roof needs to be repaired. Maybe replaced. Would not support heavy spring rain, I can tell you that much.”
“Roof...”
He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Will you please quit repeating what I say in that odd tone?”
Her brow furrowed. “Roof?”
“Charlie.”
“Roof!”
His hands fell from her shoulders. He had a sinking suspicion he had committed a blunder here.