by Cindy Gerard
Silence. Paralyzing. Weighted.
"You still with me?" he demanded, more harshly than he'd intended because her life hung in the balance of her reply.
Finally, from that twelve-foot distance that seemed as vast as the mountain to which they both clung, came a watered-down version of her fiery wit.
"You better not have l-lost your edge, James. So help me … if these knots l-let loose, I'll come back and h-haunt you."
A smile of relief twisted grim lips. She was still with him. And she was still fighting.
"There's not gonna be any haunting around here—not on that count, but dammit, Matilda, I sure as the world wish you'd set your mind to do this sometime soon. I'm as wet as a sponge up here and I'd like to get this show on the road."
"C-Clay."
All bravado was gone.
Everything inside him thundered to a sliding stop. He couldn't keep the rusty hitch of apprehension out of his voice. "Yeah, hotshot?"
"D-don't let go."
He swallowed hard. Drew a deep breath. "Get your little butt up here and then we'll see about letting go.
"Now," he demanded calmly, leaving no room for any answer but the one he wanted, "are you ready?"
He could almost feel her gathering her courage, as precious seconds ticked by.
"Ready."
He didn't wait so much as a heartbeat. "Okay then. Here we go. Real easy now."
Flat on his belly on the rock, the cold stone biting into his bare chest, the rain peppering his bare back, he began to gather the rope of denim.
"I'm going to reel you in like some little old catfish. Just come with me. That's it," he praised her, grunting with the effort and the angle of her ascending weight. "Slow and easy. Hang on tight and dig with your feet."
Hand over hand, steady and slow, he pulled, making himself ease her along the wall of rock instead of jerking her up with all his might the way he wanted to.
It was a brutally sluggish ascent, made difficult by the rain-slicked rock and the wet denim.
After what seemed like forever, he heard the sound of her overtaxed breathing grow nearer. After what seemed like another eternity he connected with the knotted sleeves.
"We're halfway home," he grunted. "Just a little farther now."
The prospect fueled his energy and renewed his sense of urgency. He reeled faster. After three long, hard pulls, he connected with the slender circumference of her wrist.
"Thank you, God," he whispered in the same moment she cried out, less in desperation than relief, less in fear than in belief. Her other hand groped wildly into the dark empty pocket of space. He dropped the jacket and snagged her flailing hand in his.
"I've got you," he grunted as he dragged her farther away from danger and closer to the top of the mountain.
"I've got you." He all but swore in triumph as he hauled her the last yard, up and over the cliff face.
"I've got you," he growled in sweet, glorious relief as he rolled with her wrapped in his arms away from the deadly edge and into the dripping overhang of a heavily branched pine.
"I've got you," he murmured again and again into her sodden curls as she clung and he clung and the violent trembling of her body assured them both she was safe in his arms.
It took them both several heart-thundering, breath-catching moments to truly acknowledge that she was out of harm's way. It took several more before Clay could attach a thought to the anger he should be feeling for the danger she'd placed herself in.
He was certain that he was about to lay into her with both barrels when she turned her wet, sweet body closer into his and lifted her face to the rain. And in that moment, like the night, his anger faded to black, and a dark, intense awareness took its place.
The small hands that had been clinging to his bare shoulders in desperation, did so now in a studied, sensual exploration. The dark eyes that had shone so wildly with fear now met his with a steady, unblinking yearning.
"Damn you." It was barely a breath into the night, less admonishment than concession for what was about to happen. "I ought to beat you within an inch of your life for putting yourself in such danger."
"I know." Her eyes still wide and focused, she held his gaze as the tentative touch of her fingers tracked a path along his jaw. "I know," she murmured again and coaxed his head down to hers.
Knowing full well the consequences, he let her.
It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But it was necessary. It was vital. And it was the one thing he couldn't have stopped even if the earth did.
With a muttered oath, he covered her mouth with his. Not with the gentle caress of assurance she needed, but with the totality of the fear he'd felt for her but hadn't let himself give in to. The fear was latent but full-blown, fueled by a bruising relief that they'd beaten the mountain and the elements and the night.
She didn't shrink away from the contact that bordered on brutal. She met his kiss full measure, all energy and urgency and need. She'd cheated death. Now she celebrated life, ferociously clinging, desperately craving the strength and the heat of his body and the elation of her victory in his arms.
It all crashed in on Clay then. This need she'd incited to a full-blown riot in his blood. The anger that resurfaced at the thought she'd almost been lost.
He'd never been more angry with another human being in his life. And he'd never been so relieved. He swore through a deep, drugging kiss. She cried out and drew him closer still. And then he soothed while she whimpered. And took while she gave.
And on that cold, wet, rocky summit, with the rain battering and the wind restless and wild, something changed unalterably between them. It wasn't something they could acknowledge or even name. It only was. And it seemed destined to happen as he rolled her beneath him, dominating her as he had the mountain, setting them adrift on the wind of this new storm the two of them had created.
A loud crack of thunder had her clamoring closer in his arms and startling him back to harsh, cold reality. Even now, as he held her huddled against him, he felt the trembling she tried and failed to stem. She may be safe from the cliff face, but she wasn't out of danger. He had to get her out of the storm before she went into shock.
He pressed her cheek against his bare chest. "We've got to move out, Maddie. I've got to get you out of this weather."
If possible, she snuggled closer. Then, reluctantly, she finally allowed enough room between them so that he could stand and give her a hand up. He snagged his sodden hat then watched on as she gingerly rose and eased her weight onto her right leg.
"You're hurt."
"No," she insisted, even as she grimaced through what clearly was pain.
"You're hurt," he repeated gruffly, daring her to deny it again.
She shook her head, dragged a heavy fall of wet curls away from her face. "It's just a bruise. I'll work it out."
She worked it out all of two heavily limping steps before he swung her into his arms and began the slippery descent back to the valley.
* * *
A long hour later Clay climbed the cabin steps. With a labored breath he closed the cabin door behind them with a solid kick and shut the storm outside. Maddie was shaking violently now—whether from shock or cold or a deadly combination of both he didn't know. He knew of only one way to make it stop. He had to get her warm and he had to do it fast.
Flipping on the light in the great room with his elbow, he carried her directly to the bathroom. In clench-jawed silence and ignoring any thoughts of decorum, he stripped her, then reached past her to turn on the shower. Then he tugged off his own clothes and led her with him into the warm fingers of the shower spray.
Steeling himself against the feel of her wet, quivering body against his, he held her until the worst of her trembling finally subsided. Then he gently bathed her and washed her hair.
All the while she watched him in silence, her dark eyes misty and trusting and devoid of fear. With tenderness and skill, and a dogged determination to see to her injuries an
d nothing else, he cleansed the jagged scratch that ran diagonally across her temple. Assured by her response to his gruff "How many fingers?" test and satisfied the hot water had dispelled most of her chill, he urged her out of the shower.
Drawing a deep breath, he assessed the angry red welt on her ribs, just below the full curve of her breast. Then he probed the slight swelling around the bruising at her knee. At each touch, she flinched, but didn't cry out as the bite of peroxide set her scraped flesh on fire.
When he was finally certain she'd come out of this with only minor scrapes and bruises, he wrapped first her body then her hair in a thick towel. After knotting a towel at his own hips, he picked her up and carried her up the stairs to the loft bedroom.
She snuggled against him like a child. A surge of protectiveness filled his chest as he eased her to her feet beside the bed, then held her steady while he turned down the covers.
Turning back to her, he unwrapped her towel and laid her on the feather bed.
It wasn't until he opened his mouth to urge her to sleep that he realized how hard he'd clenched his jaw shut.
All this time—while he'd undressed her, held her lush, naked body flush against his in the shower, tended to her injuries, cradled her warmth against his chest—he'd made himself think in terms of first aid and helping hands. With studied detachment, he'd distanced himself from seeing her as a woman.
All this time he'd been able to hold it together.
Or so he'd thought.
She'd been hurting. She'd had a need.
But as he laid her down, it was his own need that raged at him to let it take over, his own need that demanded to be heard.
He almost lost it then. His control. His determination not to take advantage. As she lay there, her supple body so perfect and soft, the pale flesh of her breasts and belly all rosy and glowing—and her eyes—slumberous and languid and asking for something she couldn't possibly want, he almost followed her down on that feather bed.
He'd never in his life seen her this way—silent, compliant—though he'd thought a thousand times that he'd wanted to.
And here she was, those things and more. She was vulnerable and desirable and more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. His sex reacted to the erotic picture she made. Soft sexuality. Seductive submission. He'd wanted her this way, too. A week ago he wouldn't have been able to admit it. He couldn't deny it now.
But neither could he deny that a silent Maddie was a troubling Maddie. Though he'd never admit it to her, right about now he'd give his right arm to hear some sharp, biting comment from that viper's mouth of hers. Anything to know that she was truly all right and to break this sensual spell that spun like a silken cocoon around them.
Yet when he looked at her mouth at this moment, it wasn't a shrew that he thought of. He thought of the feel of her lips beneath his on that high mountain cliff. He thought of the way she'd tasted, exotically sweet, erotically hungry. He thought of the thunder that had raged around them and the storm that had been building in his loins. And he knew it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.
She needed rest. And from him all she needed was to be left alone.
With a clenched jaw and an unsteady hand he pulled the covers to her chin, then turned away from the bed while he still had the strength to leave her.
"Don't go."
Her whispered plea was a tantalizing caress in the intimacy of the night. It tethered him where he stood, when the only right thing to do was walk away.
But temptation had never been this seductive. Need had never been this great.
Fighting both, he made himself take that step.
The rustle of bedclothes, the softness of her fingers at his wrist stopped his movements and his heartbeat.
She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Without turning to face her, he let out a ragged breath, shook his head. "This isn't smart, Maddie."
Her reply, when it finally came, was sunrise soft but as inevitable as nightfall. "You think I don't know that?"
When he thought he could trust himself, he turned to face her. "Then why?"
The eyes that met his were swimming with confusion and wonder and need. "I don't know." Her breath caught on a throaty little hitch. "I don't want to know. I just want … just please … don't go."
She was so fragilely beautiful lying there. So achingly seductive.
And he was only so strong.
With a final, failed attempt at telling himself he was making the mistake of his life, he leaned over her. Damp, dusty curls framed her face in a soft wild tumble as a small hand lifted to touch his face while the other reached for the towel at his waist.
"Maddie," he murmured, as he joined her in the nest of feather ticking and age-softened quilts. "Promise me you won't hate me for this later."
"There is no later," she whispered, opening her arms then arching her back on a sigh as his dark head lowered to nuzzle her breast. Her artist's hands, with their slender fingers, combed through his hair as his mouth cruised healing kisses to the welt along her ribs.
"There is no later," she repeated, guiding his mouth to hers. "Only now … only now."
And Maddie lost herself in now.
This man … oh, this man. He was steel and velvet. Tenderness and temptation. Every move he made was magic. The slow, deliberate glide of his big hands down her back. The brush of his fingers, lingering on every ridge of her backbone, the touch of his breath, warm and deliciously unsteady, whispering across the sensitive skin of her shoulder, tracking with a feathery caress along her collarbone. There he hesitated, nuzzling her with his lips, tasting her with his tongue.
A heavy sigh, a pleasured groan, and the sensual journey of lips and breath and stubbled jaw began a downward descent. She cupped his head in her palms, slowly absorbed the texture of his hair with her fingers, the damp silk of it, the weight of it, as she lowered her head and drew in the scent of it.
The glide of his hands along her back, though slow, became more than exploration, less than honest greed as he increased the kneading pressure and drew her closer.
The flow of his hands was delicious. They were callused and rough, sensually abrasive, his strength gentled by a determined lack of urgency, electrified with a carefully banked need. And his mouth, his mouth was like liquid fire, heated by desire, tempered by patience and by promises of pleasures to come. Promises that he delivered.
A nip to her shoulder told of his hunger. A leisurely scrape of teeth along her arched neck pleasured them both. A slow, licking glide of his tongue toward her breast mellowed, then excited, and introduced them both to the sharper side of anticipation.
With delicious languor his open mouth cruised along the inner swell of her breast. With maddening thoroughness he tasted the essence of her, breathed heat that elicited a shiver, tracked kisses that wrung out a moan. And then he found her center at last, drew the tight bud of her nipple into his mouth and feasted.
Sensation spiked through her blood like a fever, then shot like mercury from that sensitive point of pleasure to the deepest heart of her need, where it curled and burned, then tugged, drawing her tight like the string of a bow.
The pleasure was acute, frighteningly so. She cried his name, tried to pull away, but his big hands held her gently captive as he opened his mouth wider around her breast and drew her deeper into his mouth and deeper under his spell.
With a breathy moan she gave in, gave up the fight and let the sensations flow. Like a feather on a silken breeze, she drifted, rode the delicious thermal currents of his lovemaking and let him take her wherever the winds of his desire decided to go.
Clay had never tasted such sweetness. Never touched skin as soft, never needed this badly. Her breathless little sounds, her quicksilver responses fired more than desire, but less, much less than greed. He'd always found pleasure in lovemaking. In both the taking and the giving. But never so much in the giving. Her restless motions thrilled him. Her needful, uninhibited touches arrested him.
&n
bsp; And when he finally cupped the heat of her, slipped his finger into the hot liquid center of the heart of her, he thought he'd explode from the sheer erotic rush.
She was slick like honey, soft like velvet and burned as hot as his burgeoning need. He pleasured her with an elicit touch and a slow steady rhythm that had her writhing against his fingers with a hunger and a desperation bred of the urgency he'd incited.
He stirred her deep and her heartbeat quickened. Deeper still and she came apart for him. He covered her cry with his mouth and her body with his and guided himself deep inside.
Then all he felt was sensation. The sweet, tight clenching of her body, the languorous drift of her hands down the length of his back, the steady regrowth of her desire as she arched her hips to his and rode with him toward yet another stunning, unparalleled peak.
He wanted to savor her. He wanted to saturate his senses with her essence and stretch this exquisite side of pleasure that he'd glimpsed with other women but never fully known. But the feel of her beneath him, holding him, taking all of him, transitioned from what he wanted to what simply had to be.
He had to be deeper.
He had to be a part of her.
And he had to believe, as he careened over that desperate edge where instinct ruled and rational thought ceased, that what he was with her, right now, was all he would ever need to be.
* * *
Chapter 6
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Maddie woke up alone—alone and devastatingly conscious of what had happened last night. Not just her scrape with death, but her night with Clay in this bed.
She rolled to her back, aware of a gray morning and a light mist of rain frosting the loft windows. The slight movement made her aware of other things, as well: the stiffness in her limbs and the bruises from her fall; the sensitivity of her slightly swollen breasts … the lingering tenderness caused by the presence of man between her thighs.