by Cindy Gerard
When he reached for her, she squealed, ducked and ran. She was fast. He was faster. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, slung his other arm around her waist, and spun her off her feet and back to the sink.
She shrieked, then laughed, then pleaded when he swung her up and onto the edge of the counter. "You wouldn't," she cried reading this thoughts through his eyes.
"Oh, but I would. And with great pleasure."
Then he picked her up and sat her right back down in the dishwater.
Bucking and gasping, she managed to not only splash water all over the counter and the floor but all over him as she launched herself out of the sink.
Instinct had him reaching out to steady her. Propulsion had her landing flush against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist so the most intimate part of her was cuddling the most intimate part of him.
The impact and the sizzling contact knocked him off balance. He staggered backward, felt the front of a kitchen chair hit the back of his knees and sat down with a thud.
The aged pine strained, snapped, then crumpled under the impact and their combined weight, dumping them both on the floor.
That's where they stayed until Clay got his senses and his breath back. When he thought he had a loose handle on both, he lost it again when he realized his chest was full of woman and his hands were full of a lush wet bottom.
"You," he managed, as her shoulders shook with laughter, "are a disaster waiting to happen."
Disaster, it turned out, was the key word.
She slowly raised her head, then pushed herself up until she was sitting astride him. And as she sat there above him, her gypsy hair wild and tangled and tousled around her flushed, smiling face, he became grievously aware of how tempting she was.
There was the wet shirt to consider. It still wasn't doing much of a job concealing the shape of her breasts, the allure of her tight little nipples. And then there was her wet bottom.
Though his hands were no longer cupping her there—they'd shifted to the tiny curve of her waist—his palms still burned with the memory of how neatly she'd fit. She fit somewhere else just fine, too. Where her bottom connected with his groin, she pressed into him, soft and wet and wonderfully warm.
Suddenly she wasn't smiling anymore. And through her flashing dark eyes, he could see that water fights and getting even was the last thing on her mind.
Something far more compelling had shifted the flush of laughter on her face to beautiful, heated awareness. He searched her eyes, saw her need and knew nothing short of a natural disaster would keep him from fulfilling it.
"Come here," he demanded gruffly as he spread his fingers wide over the fine framework of her ribs and urged her unerringly toward him.
"This is a mistake," she whispered even as she bent to his mouth and let him draw her into a long, deep kiss.
"A big one," he murmured against her lips as he wrapped her tighter in his arms and rolled her beneath him. "And this one's mine … so now we're even."
With a shivery little sigh, she arched against his wandering mouth as he trailed a string of nipping kisses down her throat to her breast and sought her nipple.
She cried out, clutched handfuls of his hair. "So who's keeping … oh, my God, do that again … who's keeping score?"
"You are," he growled as he tugged her shirt out of her jeans and peeled it over her head. "You are," he repeated on a husky rumble as he unhooked the front clasp of her bra, brushed the cups roughly aside and replace them with his mouth, "and we both know it."
She would remember this, by God, Clay swore as he drew her deeply into his mouth. He was going to make sure of it. She was going to remember every touch, every caress, every intimate demand his mouth and hands and body made of hers.
When he'd made love to her before, he'd been gentle. And she'd been sweet. Achingly so.
There was no gentleness in him now.
And there was no sweetness in her.
There was urgency and instant, white-hot greed.
"Off," she ordered, desperately working the buttons on his shirt when he didn't do it fast enough to suit her. "Get it off. I want to touch you."
He rose to his knees above her, his thighs straddling her hips. To hell with the buttons. He ripped his shirt open and was in the process of peeling it from his shoulders when she arched up, clutched his thighs with her hands and pressed hungry, biting kisses to his chest. He moaned when she circled his nipple with her tongue then swore when her busy, busy hands went to work on his belt buckle.
His abdominal muscles contracted involuntarily as the back of her hands made tantalizing contact with bare flesh, and his own hands knotted themselves loosely in her hair.
He'd never been in a tornado. Never experienced a hurricane. But the force with which she demanded, the frenzied speed with which she took, made him feel like he was caught in one now.
Her hands were everywhere. Clawing down his back, clutching his waist, streaking to his hips to cup and caress and press him to her mouth to breathe fire against the straining bulge beneath his fly.
He groaned her name once, then again as he dragged her away, lowered her to her back again on the floor. His arms were shaking as he braced above her, his breath less than steady as he pinned her hands above her head.
She strained against his grip like the waters of a wind-tossed sea—all restless energy and impatient swells. Her eyes were fever bright, burning into his, begging him to let her have her way with him, begging him to have his way with her. Her hair lay in a tangled, silky halo around her beautiful bruised face. Her breasts, so pretty and pale, so lush and full, rose and fell with her needy breaths, their pink tips tightening in delicious response beneath the heat in his gaze.
Demanding with his eyes that she watch him, he cupped one breast possessively in his hand, electrified as much by the way her eyes went dark as by the feel of her supple flesh, the incredible velvet softness of her nipple. He'd never known the simple act of touching a woman could evoke longing this powerful. Or that the sight of the still-angry bruise on her ribs could tear so sharply at his gut.
He released her hands, but not her gaze, caressed her breast with the back of his knuckles, then let his hand slip away. With a needful whimper she arched toward his touch. Denying her, he slowly rose back to his knees.
She knew. She knew exactly what he wanted. Her eyes never leaving his, she rose to her feet before him. Tangling her hands in his hair, she tugged his head back and bent over him. Enticingly, erotically she brushed the crest of her breast across his waiting mouth. Seductively she lowered her head, bowed her back, cocooning him with her body, the wild tumble of her hair, and the rush of sensations evoked by his seeking mouth.
She closed her eyes and let go of a breathless little moan. He could feast on the taste of her forever. And at the moment, that's all he wanted to do. He suckled, nipped, languidly licked then shaped her to the fit of his palms and began all over again. And she just kept on giving. Softly moaning, restlessly yearning, until the fire he'd ignited in them both burned out of control.
With a reckless cry, she pulled away, her eyes misty with longing, her breasts heaving as she finished the job she'd started on his fly. He returned the favor by unzipping, then stripping her jeans and silk panties roughly down her legs.
Then they were tangled in each other's arms again and she was pushing him to his back on the floor, flowing over him like a drape of silk, moving on him like a river. He lost himself in the texture of her skin, the woman curve of her hips, the dark desire in her eyes.
With hungry hands she surrounded him. With a shimmering sigh, she guided him home. And with the confidence of a woman pleasuring her man, she impaled herself on his heat then rode with him to a rhythm as wild as the mountains, as primitive as nature had ever intended.
She was grace and beauty. Fire and frenzy. And in that explosive moment before she seduced him over the exquisite edge where life ceased for a glorious instant, then began anew in
a golden rush, two individual and distinctly different people became one. And in that moment it was only as one that they mattered.
* * *
Wholly wasted and devastatingly sated, Clay lay spread-eagle on his back on the hard, wood floor. He felt more dead than alive, yet more alive than he'd ever been in his life.
He was still breathing. That was a good sign. And slowly cognizant thought was making a comeback. Slower still, like walking against a strong wind or wading against a deep water current, it all came back. The reality of what just happened sank in.
The little gypsy had seduced him. Just like he hadn't yet caught his breath or regained enough strength to do anything but stare at the ceiling, he still couldn't quite believe it.
Oh, it had started innocently enough. And he'd been aware every step of the way that he was going to make love to her. But it was supposed to have been on his terms. It was supposed to have been under his control. Not that he was into dominance. He just wasn't into annihilation.
And that's exactly what she had done to him. He still wasn't sure when the shift from seducer to mindless putty had transpired. He only knew he didn't like it. At least he didn't think he liked it. Not the loss of control part, anyway. The other part—good Lord—the other was unbelievable.
When he heard her stir beside him, he rolled his head toward her. His first instinct was to reach for her and pull her close again. Despite the confusion he was feeling over what she'd managed to do to him, he would have acted on that instinct if she hadn't sat up, groped for her clothes and made a hasty retreat to the bathroom.
With a frown he watched her go. So much for a tender moment after.
With a deep breath, he crossed his hands behind his head and did a little more staring. And a lot more thinking.
What the hell is happening here? he wondered as he heard the spray of the shower hit the stall wall. And why had it happened again?
Even more puzzling, why had he let it?
Feeling his strength gradually restored, he rose and snagged his own clothes. He zipped up his jeans and shrugged into his shirt, frowning when he reached for buttons that were no longer there.
He scowled at the closed bathroom door, dismissed the fleeting thought that it would have been nice to join her.
"That would require an invitation, wouldn't it?" he muttered, suddenly angry as he opened the cupboard and snagged a mug for coffee.
Full mug in hand, he sat at the table, contemplated the broken chair and brooded about why he was suddenly in such a foul mood.
The reason was too obvious to discount. He'd been here. He'd done this. Once before they'd made fantastic, memorable love. And once before, she'd shut him out afterward. The first time it had been with excuses and words chosen carefully to ensure he'd back off. This last time she'd opted for the physical approach. She'd literally turned her back and shut herself off from him behind a closed door.
Well, he wasn't going to walk that road again. He wasn't going to let himself start thinking that they'd shared something other than sex. Something other than chemistry and physical need and another reckless moment.
Because that's obviously all this was to her.
A smart man would count his blessings and be damned glad she wasn't expecting something more from him than a quick, hot tumble. A smart man would be thanking the gods that he wasn't permanently entangled with a wild little gypsy like her.
"Damn," he muttered, dragging both hands down his face and wishing to hell and back that he was a smart man.
What timing. What absolute, ironic timing. It took a runaway woman, a mountain storm and another rash, reckless moment to figure out what his brothers had known all along.
He was in love with Maddie Brannigan. He was in love, damn his sorry hide. And damn her, she didn't have the good sense to love him back. Just like he had too much pride to let her know it.
He stared grimly out the window. If a bigger fool walked the earth, he'd like to meet him. They could have a good laugh at each other's expense.
* * *
When Maddie emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Clay couldn't help but feel that her intent had been to wash all traces of him clean from her body. She'd accomplished her goal in spades. Not only did she look squeaky clean beneath her clothes, all traces of hunger and heat and need had been stripped from her face. She couldn't have made her feelings clearer if she'd hung a sign around her neck that said Don't touch.
A chill as cold as the September rain rolled through his body.
Take it like a man, James, he told himself, and proceeded to do just that.
"Oops," he said, manufacturing a lopsided grin and giving a throwaway shrug of his shoulders. It was the best he could do by way of apology for his part in their little stray from grace. It was the best he could do because what he really wanted was to take her into his arms and start what they'd just finished all over again.
It was as plain as the heart on his sleeve, though, that she didn't want that. Looking skittish and embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at anything but him. "Yeah. Big oops."
While a very large part of him wished it could be otherwise between them, the sensible part accepted that it couldn't. He made himself clear the path for them to get on with the business of getting on. "Yeah. Well, accidents happen. Won't happen again, though—at least not that particular one."
"Right," she agreed stiffly. "It won't happen again."
He watched her face, foolishly looking for a sign, any sign, that she wasn't as sorry as she seemed to be. When none came, he bit the proverbial bullet and called that chapter closed.
He'd been fourteen when he'd lost his father. It had been hard, but he'd made it through that. He could tough this out, too. And even though his chest tightened at the thought of losing her, he could let her walk away.
What he couldn't do was stay in this cabin one more moment with nothing but her, nothing but memories of how she'd felt above him, how it felt to be inside her, dogging him like a shadow.
"Weather report," he said, forcing a cheerfulness he didn't feel, as he rose and rinsed his empty mug in the sink. "While we were, ah … otherwise occupied, the sun came out. Do I hear a hallelujah, sister?"
Her gaze drifted slowly to the window. Her unenthusiastic "Hallelujah" projected more relief than joy.
Because he couldn't conjure much of either, and because he couldn't look at her without wanting her, he left the kitchen without a word, found a shirt with all of its buttons and trudged outside.
* * *
Maddie let out several breaths that she hadn't been able to fully exhale since she'd found Clay in the kitchen all rumpled and mussed and looking like he was the one who'd been ravaged.
Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. How had things gotten so messy again? How had she let what happened happen? Again.
And how could she live with this huge, hollow ache that threatened to burst inside her at the simple act of looking at him?
At his sexy, distant smile. At his thick black hair that felt like silk beneath her hands and that she would never touch again. At the sculptured muscle beneath his shirt that she'd never again caress or kiss. At the satin strength of his arms that she'd never, ever feel around her.
Somehow she had to figure out a way to deal with a loss that was never hers to bear. He had. And he hadn't pulled any punches. As far as he was concerned what they'd shared was just a big "Oops."
If she hadn't been hurting so much when he'd said it, she'd have liked nothing better than to have carved that snide little grin off his face with an extremely dull hacksaw. Make that a dull, rusty hacksaw.
"'Oops,' my sorry butt," she sputtered, and tried really hard to hate him.
Damn him. Damn, damn, damn him! He'd reduced what they'd shared to a mistake. To him, evidently, it was. Well, he'd never know that she thought otherwise. And he'd never know how much he'd hurt her. Both times…
She may be a little slow on the uptake, but she wouldn't be giving him ano
ther chance to get to her that way. There'd be no more fooling around. And no more feeling sorry for herself.
Resolved to deny the hurt, she climbed the loft stairs, only then realizing that their little scuffle on the floor had riled up her sore knee again. Limping in deference to the dull pain, she slowed her steps. Cabin fever or not, she would not set foot outside as long as he was out there.
"So what exactly are you going to do, champ?" she murmured as she reached the bedroom and realized she'd boxed herself in for the duration.
While the loft was sparsely furnished, it did boast a four-shelf bookcase crammed full of books. Grateful, but without enthusiasm, she browsed the selection. For some reason her attention kept wandering back to an ancient hardback volume on the James Gang.
"Outlaws, every one," she muttered, and thought morosely that all the James gang of old stole was money. The new generation stole hearts and then carelessly tossed them away.
"You are pathetic, Brannigan," she grumbled then selected the book out of spite to herself and flopped down on the bed.
Despite the fact that it promised to be interesting, she couldn't get into it. After rereading the first page three times, she tossed it on the quilt beside her and cursed herself one more time for being a melancholy sap.
She scrubbed her hands over her face, wincing when she touched her bruised temple—one more reminder of the results of the mess she was in. This whole episode in her life had been just one series of colossal boo-boos. The biggest boo-boo, she finally admitted, wasn't the physical damage she'd done. A damning tear leaked out and trickled from the corner of her eye and into her hairline. Her biggest mistake had been falling in love with Clay James.
Yep. That's exactly what she'd done. She'd fallen in love with the enemy, and there was as much chance of a thunderstorm in the desert as there was that he'd ever love her back.
Rolling to her side, she willed away the tears and stared at the book lying beside her on the bed. She ran her fingers over the cover, fiddled with the binding, opened it up again. It was when she was absently flipping through the pages that the key fell out.