The Wrangler's Bride

by Justine Davis

  “Right answer?” she asked, feeling suddenly nervous.

  “Yes.” His voice was low, rough. “I want you in my bed. And if that’s not delicate enough or sensitive enough, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Mercy managed to say, with what little breath his words had left her.

  He strode off down the hall, still carrying her as if she were no more burden than the tiny foal had been. He thought he wasn’t sensitive enough? Had he forgotten that she’d watched him handle that tiny creature as if it were the most fragile thing on the planet? That she’d seen him soothe that frightened, exhausted mare with a voice and touch as delicate as any she’d ever known? Had he truly not realized how much of himself he’d shown her tonight?

  She had no time to dwell on the thought; Grant pushed the door to his room open with his bare foot, and carried her inside. She had never been in here, had only glanced in once or twice when he left the door open, enough to know that the room was quietly masculine, with solid, heavy furniture and deep colors. The bedclothes, simple white sheets and plain blankets topped with a dark blue quilt, were tossed to one side, where they’d landed when he rolled out at Gambler’s alarm. A shirt was tossed over the foot of the bed, and a pocket watch lay next to a comb on the dresser. But it was the stack of at least a half-dozen books that sat on the nightstand that made Mercy smile; in the view of a lot of the world, Grant might have chosen to “waste himself” out here, but he’d never stopped working his excellent mind.

  He set her down beside the bed, letting her slide down his body slowly, intimately, as if he wanted to feel every inch of her with every inch of himself. The idea made her shiver with renewed need. He felt it, she knew he did, because his eyes widened, then narrowed, and she knew she’d never before seen a heat like the heat that flashed in that vivid blue.

  He kissed her again, even more fiercely this time, hungrily, as if she were the first taste of spring after a Wyoming mountain winter. She sagged against him, wondering where all her finely honed strength had vanished to. With a low, almost primitive sound that was somehow undeniably and vehemently male, he eased her down onto the bed. She thought he would follow, but instead he turned and yanked open the nightstand drawer with far more force than was probably necessary. He fumbled in the drawer for a moment, making her wonder if possibly, just possibly, he might be shaking just as she was.

  Her eyes automatically followed the movement as he tossed a foil packet on top of the nightstand. Her gaze flicked to his face. He grimaced.

  “I don’t trust myself to remember it…later.”

  That simple statement, and all it implied, sent a shudder through Mercy. He came down beside her in a rush, grabbing her swiftly, the urgent need in his face taking away any sense of unease. He kissed her again, brow, cheeks, chin, the tip of her nose, then rained a fiery path of nibbling kisses down the side of her throat.

  He tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt she’d pulled on in such a rush. Mercy shifted to oblige him, freeing her arms from the sleeves herself, remembering only when he moved to pull the soft, well-worn shirt over her head that she wore no bra. In the moment Grant freed her from the shirt, she heard him groan. And then she felt his hands on her breasts, cupping them almost reverently. She felt each of his fingers like a brand, searing her, making her nipples draw up tight and hard.

  She looked down, and the contrast of his tanned, finely muscled and work-strengthened hands against the soft white flesh of her breasts made her shiver. He paused, glancing at her as if he were unsure she welcomed his touch. She opened her mouth to speak, to beg, if necessary, if that was what it would take to get him to move his fingers that crucial distance to the taut peaks that had turned from pale pink to deep rose. But she was beyond words, and so told him in the only way she could think of; she arched her back, thrusting her breasts upward to him.

  He muttered something low and harsh and dark-sounding that she didn’t quite hear. And then she didn’t care; he caught her nipples between his fingers and gently plucked them to exquisite hardness. Mercy cried out, stiffening in shock as arrows of fire shot from that aroused flesh. Heat seemed to erupt in her then, careening around until it settled low inside her.

  Her cry seemed to galvanize him, and he made swift work of her jeans and her soft sheepskin boots. For a moment, he simply looked at her, and had it not been for the raw desire that tightened his face into taut planes, she might have been embarrassed.

  “Mercy,” Grant whispered, then kissed her again. “Who’d have thought that little imp would grow up so beautifully?”

  “You were always beautiful, to me,” she whispered, recovering her voice at last.

  Grant flushed slightly. “You were…prejudiced.”

  “Yes. I still am. Even overdressed, you’re beautiful.”

  He took her hint, and skinned out of his jeans. When he turned back to her, Mercy took her own long, lingering look. He let her, as if in return for his own slow stare at her. She’d known he was strong, solid, and utterly male, but this sight of his naked body made her imaginings pale by comparison. His chest seemed even broader when she could see the way it narrowed to his trim waist and flat, ridged belly. The source of his easy grace was obvious to her now, with the sight of his slim hips, strong legs, and high taut backside; riding did work some interesting muscles, she thought.

  And the tight jeans that she’d thought did little to conceal the contours of that most masculine part of him in fact had concealed a great deal; he was as strong and powerful there as everywhere else. And if she’d had any doubts left about the genuineness of his need, they were gone now, dispelled by the sight of his fierce arousal. She trembled, half in anticipation, half in apprehension, of what was to come.

  Her thoughts must have been clear on her face, because Grant’s brow furrowed. “Mercy?”

  “I…”

  She saw his jaw tighten, but he asked evenly enough, “Do you want to stop?”

  “No,” she said quickly, “it’s not that, it’s just…it’s been a long time, and you’re…”

  “I’m what?

  “In proportion,” she said, blushing furiously.

  “Oh.” He looked as if he were pleased, but wasn’t sure if he should show it or not. “Is that… Are you…” He stopped, blushing himself this time. “I didn’t really think about how little you are.”

  “I’m not little,” she protested automatically. “You’re just…”

  Her voice trailed away as she looked him up and down again. And she completely forgot what she’d been going to say. She could only stare, the thought of him making love to her with that splendid body making her quiver, inside and out. She heard Grant smother what sounded like a gasp, as if he’d been kicked in the belly.

  “Later,” he said, grating the words out, “later I want to look at you like you’re looking at me now, for a long, long time. I want you to touch everything you’re looking at, and I want to do the same to you. But later. Please.”

  He reached for her then, and she rolled into his embrace eagerly. His hands seemed everywhere, stroking, caressing, seeking and finding every nerve ending in a body awakening to this kind of sweetness like never before.

  She felt herself moving, shifting restlessly on the bed, and for the first time in her life she felt utterly out of control of her body. It was Grant’s to command, and he did so with every lingering touch, and she couldn’t find it in her to care. She didn’t care about anything except his not stopping until this awful, wonderful pressure building within her eased, until he gave her what she needed, what only he could give, to sear away this aching, pulsing need.

  When his hand gently probed between her legs, she knew what he would find, felt her own heat and dampness before his fingers proved it with their easy slide over feminine flesh slick with its own wetness.

  Her breath caught and she moaned his name when he found and teased that tiny knot of nerve endings he’d so thoroughly brought to attention. She grabbed his shoulders, clutching
at him, thinking he was the only stable thing in a world that was threatening to spin out of its orbit.

  Never ceasing that maddening circling caress, he took her hand in his free one and dragged it down his body. She hesitated, feeling suddenly shy. In her five years as a cop, she’d seen, by necessity, her share of things sexual. But that was different, this was Grant, and this was pure and clean and good and so far removed from the garbage she dealt with in her work that she felt utterly naive.

  “I don’t know…” she began, letting her voice trail away when she realized how silly it sounded, pleading ignorance at her age and with her background.

  But Grant didn’t seem to find anything silly about it. “Ah, Mercy, sweetheart…I’ll show you.”

  The unexpected endearment made her pulse leap. It began to pound in her ears as he guided her hand, curling her fingers around him, showing her the motion, the degree of tightness. She stroked him, once, then twice, and he pulled his hand away. She did it again, and reveled in his groan of undisguised pleasure. Base to sensitive tip, she caressed him, tiny frissons of heated sensation shooting through her at the feel of that hard, silken-smooth and fire-hot flesh beneath her fingers. At the same time, his own fingers were driving her to the brink of madness, making her burn with a heat she’d never known, even as she wanted to cry out from the unbearable hollowness she was feeling, an emptiness only he could fill.

  In the same instant she knew she could bear it no more, Grant’s hips bucked, pushing him hard against her hand.

  “All night,” he told her, his voice a harsh rasp. “I swear, next time we’ll do this all night, Mercy. And we’ll do it any way you want, anywhere you want. But I can’t wait anymore.”

  Swiftly he opened the foil packet he’d set out. When he finally shifted over her, she welcomed him, parting her legs to cradle him as her arms wrapped around him.

  “Yes,” she whispered, as she felt the first probing touch of blunt male flesh, “Oh, yes, Grant, now.”

  He slid into her in one easy motion, as if their bodies had only been waiting for this moment to show them how perfectly they fit together. Grant froze, then shuddered at the moment he was in her to the hilt, and Mercy cried out his name at the wonderful fullness of it.

  Grant said something under his breath, a passionate growling of her name and a wondering, slightly awe-struck oath. She felt him shudder again, and pulled him closer, tighter. She hadn’t known enough to imagine this kind of closeness in the childhood days when she was so absorbed by her crush on him. If she had, she thought now, as he began to slowly move, to draw back and then renew the deep, hot pleasure by pushing into her again and again, she would never have recovered from it.

  If, indeed, she ever had.

  But it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered, except that this was Grant the man, not the boy, and he was teaching her things she’d never known, with the driving power of his body and the fierce glow of pure, hot desire in his eyes. With each motion of his hips he drove her higher, until she was rising to meet him eagerly, wantonly, until the room echoed with the sound of flesh against flesh, and the covers that were meant to protect against the winter cold were kicked aside, unnecessary in the face of the heat they were generating.

  Grant swore softly, reverently, then said her name in a voice she would never forget. His hand slipped between them, to find and stroke that bit of flesh yet again. At his first touch, Mercy cried out. Convulsively she arched against him, and he stroked her again, harder, then harder, caressing her with his fingers as his flesh filled her to an exquisite tightness.

  She prayed he wouldn’t stop, wished she could find the words to beg him not to stop, but nothing seemed able to escape her except a continuous moaning of his name.

  And then her body tightened like a drawn bow as the explosion began. Her body clenched around his, making her even more potently aware of his presence inside her. She heard him cry out her name, felt him arch and slam into her one last time, and then she was lost to everything except the convulsive rippling of her body and the sizzling waves of heated sensation that ripped along every nerve.

  Only gradually did she come back to herself, becoming aware of Grant’s harsh, rapid breathing first. She lay there for a long time, simply savoring the unexpectedly welcome weight of him, treasuring the sheen of sweat on his skin, loving the way he still gripped her shoulders, as he had for his final thrust, tightly, as if he feared she would vanish if he let go. She felt the sudden welling of tears, coming upon her so quickly, as they had that day by the pond, and she couldn’t stop them.

  And she wondered what new set of problems she’d managed to create for herself. She was here, in Grant’s arms—something she’d dreamed about incessantly twelve years ago. But her life was in the city, and his was irrevocably here. And she had little faith in the probability of success for long-distance relationships.

  But they would deal with that later. For now, just being here was enough. Just feeling his solid weight was enough.

  But she couldn’t help wondering if he still hated city girls.

  Eleven

  He had to stop this. Dreaming about Mercy every night wasn’t just going to drive him crazy, it was going to kill him. He’d never awakened so tired so often as he had since she’d arrived on the ranch. Although, he mused sleepily, he didn’t feel particularly tired this morning. In fact, he felt pretty damn good, cozy, comfy, warm, relaxed, and amazingly pleased with the world. In a minute he’d try to remember why. But for now he’d stay in this half-asleep place, where everything was wonderful and the lingering effects of the dream had him half convinced it really was Mercy tucked into the curve of his body, her sweet backside warming already warm flesh.

  He jerked awake, coming up on one elbow abruptly. The room was bright enough to tell him first that it was much later than his usual rising hour of five, and second that the snow had probably stopped and the sun was out. The third thing the nicely lit room told him was exactly why he was feeling so damn smug.

  It all had been real. It hadn’t been another of those vivid, erotic dreams. She was here. Mercy was here, in his bed, naked, her slender shoulders bare above the covers, even though the room was a bit chilly, the pale blond silk of her hair spread out around her. Hair that he now knew intimately, as he’d stroked its length, and felt the soft, enticing brush of it all over his body.

  It all came back to him in a rush, the memories of last night, of his own fever, and her fiery response to it. The images that flashed through his mind hardened him with a speed that made him gasp. The first time, when he’d realized she was crying, and fear had knotted his gut until her words by the pond had come back to him.

  Sometimes, when something…makes me feel so much, it kind of bubbles out…

  Want and need and desire had slammed into him again at what she’d silently told him with her tears, about how he’d made her feel. And time after time they had come together, each time more intense, until he’d wondered that either of them could still move. Then they’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep, arms and legs still entangled.

  Mercy moved then, murmuring slightly as she snuggled closer. Grant stifled a groan as the taut curves of her buttocks stroked rapidly expanding flesh.

  He’d never felt this before, this sense of joy in the morning, this feeling of utter rightness of waking with a woman in his arms. Not just any woman, this woman. He supposed he’d known, when he wanted her here, in the bed he himself had been conceived in, that some part of him knew this was different. That it would be like this.

  He fought the urge to give in to it, to savor the unexpected morning sweetness, the pleasure of simply her presence. His heart, his gut and his body might be rejoicing, but his head was sending out warnings as loud as Gambler’s bark.

  She was still a city girl. She’d said so herself. And she’d as much as told him she would go back to being a city girl.

  I promise this will only be for a while. As soon as they call me, I’ll be on the next plane out,
and out of your way.

  She’d said it, in so many words. And he hadn’t forgotten it, not really. It just hadn’t mattered, not last night, not when he wanted her so fiercely that the logical, rational part of his mind that warned him when he was about to do something stupid seemingly ceased to function.

  And now? Now that he knew just what was possible, now that he knew that Mercy reached him in ways no woman ever had, in ways he’d never imagined, even in the most taunting, teasing dreams he ever had?

  Now that he knew, had a single damn thing changed?

  He felt something tighten deep inside him, something he hadn’t felt since Constance had handed him his battered heart back on a platter.

  You went into this with your eyes open, he thought grimly. You knew she would leave. There was nothing here powerful enough to hold a woman who wasn’t born to it. Including him.

  Mercy stirred again. He wanted more than anything to kiss her awake, slowly, softly. He wanted to see it in her eyes again, that fire, that passion, wanted her to reach for him again, eagerly, wanted to hear that tiny gasp of pleasure when he slid himself deep into her.

  He didn’t do any of it. With the sinking emotions of a man who knew he was already in way over his head, he drew away from her. His body protested the loss of her soft warmth, clenching violently. And when she rolled over and her lashes slowly lifted, when he looked down into those sleepy green eyes, it took every bit of determination he had not to grab her and do something even more stupid than he already had, and tell her things he didn’t want to say and she didn’t want to hear.

  “Good morning,” she said, and the soft, loving smile that curved her mouth squeezed at his heart.

  “Barely,” he said, knowing he sounded a little gruff, but unable to help it. The need to stay close warred with the need to pull back to safety, and the result was a tension that was rapidly building to the snapping point inside him.

  Mercy blinked. “What time is it?”