In Wilde Country

by Living Wilde (The Gift

  Now, feeling the pressure of Kaz’s erection against her belly, she wanted to wrap herself around him. Her arms. Her legs. All of her, every inch of her in contact with him.

  A soft moan escaped her throat. Kaz groaned. He drew her even closer; she could feel the race of his heart or perhaps it was hers; she could feel the tension radiating through his body.

  She had to stop this from going any further.

  But she didn’t want to stop it. She wanted this. Wanted to learn. Wanted to come alive under his touch…

  He clasped her hand. Drew it from his neck. Kissed the palm, then folded her fingers over the kiss.

  And eased her into her chair.

  Her heart was beating wildly. It was pounding. She wondered if he could hear it, because she certainly could; the drumming of her pulse rang in her ears.

  “You’re going to eat something,” he said as he took the chair across from her. “And we’re going to talk.”

  He put things on a plate. Tiny crustless sandwiches of smoked salmon, crème fraîche and capers; thinly sliced cucumber and watercress on wafer-thin crackers; rounds of toast topped with caviar.

  “It looks delicious.”

  He handed her the plate. She ate one sandwich. Ate another. And then she tucked into the rest.

  She ate everything. Delicately. Neatly. But she ate every bite, except for the time she looked up and saw him holding a tiny sandwich in his big hand, and laughter burst from her lips.

  “What?” he said, puzzled but smiling, and then he looked at the sandwich almost hidden between two of his fingers and he started to laugh and she laughed even harder, until her belly hurt and she was gasping for air.

  It was the first time she could remember laughing since her mother had fallen ill.

  No, she thought in amazement, no. It was the first time she could remember ever laughing that freely and openly in her entire life.

  And in that instant, she knew that everything she’d heard her father and his friends say about Kazimir Savitch was a lie.

  He was not a thief; he was not immoral. He was an honest, hardworking man.

  Her laughter faded. She wiped her fingers on a linen napkin, blotted her lips. And she gathered all the courage she possessed.

  “Everything I told you is true.”

  Kaz put down his sandwich.

  “I didn’t say I—” His cell phone rang. The last thing he cared about right now was answering that phone. He pulled it from his pocket, shut it off and set it aside. “I didn’t say I doubted you.”

  “I would doubt anyone with a story like that. It sounds like a modern version of a fairy tale. Rapunzel, locked in the tower. Snow White, under a spell cast by a witch—”

  “Sleeping Beauty,” Kaz said in a low voice, “waiting for the kiss of the prince.”

  Their eyes met, and he said her name. Rose to his feet. Reached for her hand.

  The world stood still.

  There was nothing but the two of them and the falling snow and then—

  And then, she was in his arms.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The bedroom was all gold and white. A crystal chandelier hung over the bed.

  There was no reason to turn it on.

  This was a moment that deserved soft shadows. The falling snow, the glint of street lamps that had just come on, lent the room all the light it needed.

  Kaz lowered Katie to her feet. Her eyes were wide and dark, the color of amethysts. Her mouth was the palest rose. He could see the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

  The need within him was hot and urgent. He had never felt anything like it. He wanted to strip her bare. Ravish her.

  Every instinct he possessed warned him against it.

  “Katie.” His voice was low. Rough. He framed her face with his hands. “Are you sure?”

  Katie stared at him. Her head was spinning. Was this what it felt like if you’d had too much champagne?

  She didn’t know. She’d never had too much to drink. Never had too much of anything. Safety lay in being cautious.

  “Sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

  She looked into the face of this stranger.

  “You,” she whispered, and she rose on her toes, lifted herself into his kiss.

  He groaned as he swept his arms around her. She felt delicate. Fragile. And yet he knew her strength, understood that in her own way she had overcome what life had dealt her just as he had.

  He slid one hand into her hair, tilted her face to his and captured her lips.

  There it was again, the taste of honey and vanilla and cream, the satin softness, the sweetness that was her mouth.

  She moaned.

  He deepened the kiss.

  She whispered something. His name. She shifted against him, and he caught his breath.

  “Easy,” he said.

  She pulled back.

  “No,” he said, “no, don’t move away.” He cupped her bottom, lifted her into him. She gasped at the feel of him and the sound of that gasp sent heat racing through him. “I only meant—if we go too fast… I want this to last, sweetheart. And if you move against me—”

  He kissed her throat. Her head fell back and he kissed her throat again, but the sweater was in the way.

  “Wait,” he said, and he eased the sweater up over her head, over her arms.

  Better. So much better. The simple cotton T. The softness of it. And, oh yes, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Kaz cupped one hand over her breast.

  She cried out. Her nipple jutted into his palm. He bent his head. Kissed her breasts through the thin cotton. Caught one nipple, then the other lightly between his teeth.

  She sobbed. Her knees buckled. He caught her in his arms and took her to the bed.

  He undressed her. Slowly. Slowly enough to make the blood seem to run thick in his veins. First her boots. Then her black tights. He drew back and looked at her, so lovely, so beautiful in low-cut white cotton panties and the little white T-shirt.

  He could have looked at her forever, his gaze sweeping over the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the swift rise and fall of her breasts.

  “Now you,” she whispered.

  He nodded. Rose to his feet. Toed off his shoes, took off his suit jacket, undid his belt, Jesus, his fingers felt thick, clumsy, and he thought To hell with this! and he tore off all the rest, left on only his boxer briefs because of the way she was looking at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks rosy, her expression a little fearful…

  No. No, it wasn’t possible.

  This couldn’t be her first time.

  He wouldn’t want that.

  Ah, God, he ached for that.

  To be her first lover. The first man to know her.

  It was a ridiculous thought, and why was he wasting time, thinking? He grabbed his trousers, dug out his wallet, prayed that he had condoms in it.

  He did.

  But he didn’t want one yet. Not yet. Not until she was ready for him, ready for him…

  He sat down beside her and gathered her in his arms, kissed her until her lips were soft and yielding, until she was moving restlessly against him.

  He sat her up.

  Pulled the T over her head.

  Her hands flew to her breasts.

  “No,” he said, gently circling her wrists with his fingers, “no, sweetheart, let me see you.”

  He brought her hands to her sides.

  And looked at her.

  His throat constricted.

  Her breasts were small. Perfect. Rounded, with nipples the color of pale apricots. Did they taste like apricots? He bent his head to her, licked one nipple. She cried out, arched like a bow. He sucked the nipple into the heat of his mouth. Honey again, and cream, and vanilla, and a taste that was all hers, only hers.

  “Kazimir.”

  Her whisper was a plea. He lifted his head. Saw a wildness in her eyes.

  “Kaz,” she said, “Kaz, please—”

  “Please, what?” he said, but
he knew the answer by the way she was reaching for him, by the way she was gasping for air.

  Her hands swept over his shoulders. His arms. She touched his chest, ran her fingers over muscle and bone.

  He groaned her name. Stripped off her panties. Tore off his briefs. Saw her eyes widen with shock at the size of him. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, it would be fine, but he was losing control, losing himself, losing the fight to make this last.

  His fingers shook as he grabbed the condom, tore the packet open.

  He started to sheathe himself, but her hand closed around him, soft and cool and trembling.

  He looked down. Watched her holding him.

  A sound tore from his throat.

  He lifted his head. Looked into her eyes. Said her name.

  She let go of him, but she watched as he rolled the condom on. It was as if she were doing it with him, her hands on his hot, hard length, her imagined touch bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

  She reached for him again.

  He caught her wrists. Brought her hands to her sides.

  “Katie,” he said, and he entered her.

  She flung her head back. Hissed softly as he went deeper. Deeper. Deeper…

  God.

  It was true. He was her first. Her first! He went rigid, fought for control. She sobbed his name.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, “oh don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—”

  She lifted her hips. He drove forward. She cried out; he felt her muscles contract around him and he held still, trembling, the sweat beading on his forehead.

  She lifted up. Reached for him. Dragged his head down to hers and as she opened her mouth to his, he surged forward.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes yes yes…”

  Kaz slipped his hands under her. Together, they found the rhythm of the most ancient of dances.

  The room spun.

  And then Katie gave a high, keening cry.

  Kaz thrust deep one last time.

  And the world dropped away.

  * * * *

  Sometime during the night, he woke and drew the covers up.

  They lay facing each other, Katie in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. Her breathing was deep and even. She felt warm and absolutely right, just where she was.

  Kaz stroked his hand down her side. She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer. He smiled. Then, still holding her, he rolled onto his back, folded his arm under his head and stared up at the chandelier.

  Light from the street and the park glittered like fireflies in the delicate crystals.

  He’d violated every rule of surveillance. Of protection. Every rule of whatever in hell it was he’d agreed to do for Ekaterina Rostov. Operations like this were not personal. You didn’t get involved. You sure as hell didn’t let your emotions take over.

  He knew he should be pissed off. Not at her. At himself. Instead, what he felt was joy.

  He’d liked a lot of women, enjoyed their company; he’d sure as hell enjoyed taking them to bed, but this—

  This was different.

  Something was happening to him. He didn’t know what it was, but he liked the way it made him feel. Happy. Content. At peace, if that made sense.

  The other emotions inside him?

  Not so good. Definitely, not so good.

  Kaz’s mouth thinned.

  He was hot with anger.

  He knew of Gregor Rostov. The man was dangerous. He was a schemer. God only knew what kind of political alliances he had. A smart man would never turn his back on Rostov.

  And now, he’d sold his daughter. To the highest bidder. To the king. Kaz’s grandfather. It was a brilliant political maneuver, marrying the Sardovian heir to the throne to the daughter of a man who might otherwise one day flex his muscle as an enemy.

  Katie. Beautiful, spirited, bright, tenderhearted Katie, married to Prince Dmitri, Kaz’s dead father’s brother.

  Kaz wanted to punch his fist through the wall.

  But that wouldn’t help Katie.

  And there had to be a way, there had to be…

  “Mmm.”

  Kaz rolled to his side. “Katie?” She sighed and he brushed his lips over hers. “Sweetheart. Are you awake?”

  She wasn’t. Not really, and he knew that. But he wanted her. Needed her. He kissed her again, still lightly, held the kiss until he felt her lips cling to his.

  “Kaz?”

  Her voice was husky, rough with sleep. A good man would have done nothing more than draw her closer, stroke her until she drifted off—but he wasn’t a good man, he was a man in desperate need of tasting the honeyed sweetness of Katie’s lips, of hearing her soft cries as he drew the beaded tip of her breast into the warmth of his mouth.

  She sighed. Her body shifted against his. “Kazimir,” she whispered.

  He moved over her. Her arms rose, looped around his neck.

  He kissed her. Parted her lips with his tongue.

  Her sigh became a moan.

  She sobbed his name as he kissed his way down her belly, to the apex of her thighs, put his mouth to her, and savored her sweet essence.

  “You can’t,” she said, “oh God, you can’t!” She cried out. “Kaz! I’m going to—I’m going to—”

  “Come for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you, I promise. I won’t let you fall.”

  She came in a blinding rush, her cries of ecstasy rising into the snow-lit room. Kaz rose over her, scooped her into his arms, kissed her mouth, let her taste their mingled passion. Held her until she stopped trembling.

  Then he entered her.

  Slowly. As slowly as either of them could bear. There was such a thin line between the pain of holding back and the pleasure of claiming her.

  She clutched his biceps.

  Her soft cries thrilled him.

  He started to move. Not quickly enough. She dug her fingers into his arms; he gave a low, wicked laugh, caught her wrists, used his hands to manacle them on either side of her body.

  “Kaz. I need to touch you.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Not until you come again.”

  She came on a long, high cry. Kaz let go of her wrists, rolled onto his back, his hands cupping her hips, his erect penis still deep inside her, never leaving her, never losing that tight, hard, silken contact.

  She threw her head back. And began to ride him.

  He groaned as he rose to her. Rose with her. His hands shaped her breasts and she sobbed his name and when she climaxed this time he let go, let go, let go and came in a blinding rush, heart pounding, blood racing, colors dancing behind his closed eyelids.

  She collapsed on top of him.

  When his brain cleared, he wrapped her in his arms, kissed her hair, whispered softly to her.

  And knew that this mission—giving her to another man—was one he absolutely would not complete.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next time he woke, it was morning.

  The world outside shimmered under a snowy mantle; the sun hung like a yellow diamond in a clear blue sky.

  Katie lay draped over him like a blanket.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  He smiled, rolled her off him and gathered her in his arms. “It isn’t just a good morning, it’s a wonderful morning.” Gently, he smoothed a tangle of hair from her forehead. “Are you OK?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I mean…”

  “I know what you mean. And I’m fine.”

  He kissed her. “I didn’t expect—”

  “I know.”

  “But…” His voice roughened. “But I’m honored, sweetheart. I don’t know any other way to tell you what—”

  “I’m glad it was you.”

  He nodded. “Good. Very good. Because the last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you.”

  “You couldn’t hurt me,” she said, but he saw the quick shadow in her eyes and he knew she was thinking of what lay ahead, that the
y had only today. And tonight. And then they would fly to Sardovia.

  “It’s not going to happen.” His voice was low and hard. “You’re not marrying the heir to the throne.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. She blinked them back and put her hand against his jaw, loving the rough feel of his morning stubble against her palm.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered.

  “Katie.” He caught her wrist, pressed a kiss into her palm. “I won’t let him have you.”

  “There’s no way out, Kaz. I told you, my mother is dying. I can’t tell her the truth. It would hurt her more than you can imagine. She thinks I will be happy and cared for and—”

  Kaz captured her lips in a long, deep kiss.

  And did the one thing he could do to make them both forget, if only for a little while.

  He made love to his Katie, his Ekaterina, until she wept with joy in his arms.

  * * * *

  They showered together, and had breakfast at the little round table by the window. Then Katie put on what she had worn last evening—the heavy white fisherman’s sweater, black tights, black boots. She tied her hair back in a ponytail.

  She looked as if she were eighteen, Kaz thought, and his heart clenched like a fist.

  He put on what he’d been wearing yesterday: suit, shirt, tie, shiny black shoes. The doorman hailed a taxi that took them downtown, to Kaz’s Gramercy Square penthouse. They held hands through the twenty-minute cab ride, held hands as Kaz hurried Katie through the lobby, and when they got into the elevator, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her.

  He linked his hands at the base of her spine.

  “You are,” he said softly, “the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She laughed and leaned back in his arms. “Liar.”

  “Never about you,” he said, with such seriousness that her smile faded. “You’re beautiful, Katie. Everything about you is beautiful.”

  Her smile was all a man could ask for.

  “And you,” she said, “you are—you are wonderful. You are all that I ever hoped—all that I ever dreamed—”

  He kissed her. A very good thing, she thought, because she’d come close to saying something impossible.