by Lin, Amber
A breathless laugh escaped her as she struggled against his hard body and unmistakable erection. She finally broke free, almost definitely because he let her, and scrambled up the stairs as he gave chase. In the bedroom, she scooted behind the large bed, holding up a pillow as a shield.
He strolled in after her, leaving his clothes in dark puddles behind him. It should have looked vulnerable, but on him, nakedness was impressive, powerful and a little intimidating. The sight of his lean muscles and tanned skin made her burn. His taut expression and the thick proof of his returned desire made her want to get on her knees.
She wanted to worship him, but still slightly annoyed by his presumption, she wanted to make him work for it. “What was in that box?”
“State secrets.”
“Ha! I had already looked inside. They’re medals. Your medals.”
He looked chagrined for a moment, then he snorted. “And?”
“And why’d you take them down? Your dad was so proud of them.”
“Surprisingly, this topic isn’t really working for me.” He glanced down pointedly at his very naked self.
She tilted her head, the better to mentally measure him. “You do okay.”
“I do okay? Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
“Promises, promises.” Backed into a corner, she watched him approach with growing anticipation and arousal. Twilight cast a soft glow through the window, bathing his skin in caramel.
He toyed with the hem of her shirt, growing suddenly sober. “I was telling the truth out there. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t promise to stay.”
She should accept that, should let him off the hook, but instead she asked, “What can you promise?”
The shadows lent his brown eyes an amber glow. “If it were anyone, it would be you.”
“Good answer,” she whispered, drawing him down for a kiss.
His hands framed her face as his mouth claimed hers. He invaded her senses. She tasted his heat and breathed his musk. She slid her body against the dusting of hair that marked him as male. His lips were soft, tender, a stark contrast to the rigid length nudging her thigh. Slowly his hands slipped down, his open palms so sure and possessive, they sparked white-hot need. She wanted him to possess her. She was already his.
He lifted her snug against his body and laid her down on the bed. The skirt of her dress rucked up between them, exposing her. He stood, but she didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her bared legs or blatant need, because he stared at her with something like awe.
He didn’t appear embarrassed like her, and why should he be? He was all planes and angles, all sleekness and strength. And his cock. It jutted from his body, stark and proud. Her sex pulsed. Her throat grew dry. Then he took himself in his fist, and she almost came at the sight.
He ran his hand up and down in leisurely strokes. The curved head disappeared on each upward motion and was revealed, glistening and thick, on every pull. The slow pace was a tease, making her heart beat faster and her breath speed up. It was almost a drawl; the lazy way he spoke, the lazy way he tugged his cock.
Something primal stirred inside her, almost violent but completely feminine. She wanted to make him insane with lust, wanted him panting and desperate. But she also didn’t want him to stop pleasuring himself. So she was stuck, frozen in indecision and longing so great she ached with it. She physically hurt, and her fingers slipped down to assuage that ache, and oh, oh.
His eyes narrowed at the sight. His nostrils flared, his cock jerked. Oh, yes.
She rubbed at her clit, slow at first, then built up a rhythm. There, he caught it too. She reached lower, sliding her fingers inside, not surprised to find herself slick and hot and ready. He leaned closer, his body straining toward its goal, their fingers working faster and harder, bumping together, clumsy with need. It was almost cruel, knowing that she was seconds away from being filled if she wanted it, and she did. She wanted him inside her, but the wanting was delicious.
She watched his body change in front of her like a storm rolling in. A flush of arousal darkened his already tanned skin. His lip curled up at the side. She knew him well now—he was close. A subtle thrusting motion jerked his hips in time with their mutual rhythm.
“Hell.” His voice was hoarse, but she loved the way he said it, all low and drawn out.
Suddenly she knew what she wanted, what would push her over, and him too. “You like this?” she asked, her breath coming short.
He groaned. “How can you ask me that? I’m dying.”
“You’d like it better if I took this off, right?” She would too, because her dress had never felt more constraining, the soft fabric abrasive against her sensitive nipples.
“Yeah.” His eyes had narrowed to slits. “I want to see you.”
“You sure? I think I could come like this, and we’d be done.”
“Ah, shit.” Faster now, yes. “I want to see those pretty tits before I come. Let me see you, baby.”
She paused in her own self-pleasure to pull the dress over her head. His gaze was glued to her breasts, his hand working his cock so hard it had to hurt. He looked like a man at the end of his rope, and it filled her with a feminine pride. “What do you say now?”
“Fucking gorgeous.”
“Oh, I like that. But I did something you wanted.” She paused, feeling nervous but determined. “What do you say?”
His gaze met hers, the barest tilt of a smile on his lips. After a beat, “Thank you.”
“Miss Bouchard,” she whispered, unable to dampen her answering grin. She found her clit again, circling, waiting. So close.
His gaze alight with humor and heat, he drawled, “Thank you kindly, Miss Bouchard.” It was exaggerated but no less sexy—more.
She touched herself, laughing. She came laughing too, her heart overfull, her lust imploding. And then he was on her, inside of her, bringing them both back to the edge. She gasped her approval, mouth open, everywhere open.
In time with his thrusts, he grunted, “Jesus, you are so...”
When nothing came, she laughed breathlessly. “Silly?”
He shuddered and jerked and ground himself against her body. “Perfect,” he mumbled in the throes of his climax.
At the word, her own orgasm dropped out of reach, leaving only ripples of pleasure where a tidal wave would have been. As he recovered on top of her, as his cock twitched within her, she sobered. No one had ever said such things to her before, romantic and raw. If it were anyone, it would be you. But it was rejection all the same.
The sweat cooled on her body, his breathing evened. He’d fallen asleep, she realized with some wonder. She had turned into a giant pillow, but instead of feeling objectified, she felt complete. He needed softness, and she provided it. It was incredibly intimate to be joined this way, providing a cushion for his body. It was almost kinky, being used this way. The more she thought about it, the sexier it seemed, which was crazy and probably just a result of oxygen deprivation—he was heavy. Even so, her sex clenched. His cock throbbed in response. She could have laughed. Asleep, and he was still responsive. Even when they were still wet and sticky from... Oh, no.
No condom.
No, no, no. How had they forgotten? Okay, she knew the answer to that, but God. What a mistake. With a sigh, she rolled him off her and went into the bathroom. Flustered, hurting, she reached between her legs. Her fingers came up sticky. She swallowed hard at the proof of her recklessness. How much would it cost her?
She found a washcloth and washed the remains from her body, knowing it wouldn’t do any good now but needing to try. Her movements were jerky. It made her angry, how quickly she had forgotten her diner, her town, her life for a few hours with a man who wouldn’t even give them a fair shot as a couple. She stared at herself in the mirror, accusing. Who are you?
* * *
Sawyer woke up breathing hard, sweating. He had been dreaming again, recounting the more gruesome missions in a macabre memorial for friends fallen. His nostrils still registered diesel and desperation even as his gaze greedily drank in the sight of Natalie. She crouched against the headboard, wide-eyed.
His throat felt raw. “Did I hurt you?”
“Of course not.” But her voice was shaky. Maybe he had hurt her, maybe not, but he’d scared her.
He sat up and ran his hands over his head, trying to release the residual adrenaline.
The military wasn’t the linchpin he’d hoped it would be when he’d left town as a cocky eighteen-year-old. Violence was too messy to hold anything together. But it had one thing going for it as a life choice: he was damn good at it.
Even now it called to him. Fight, win. What could he fight here, except the memory of an empty childhood? What could he win except the disappointment of a woman who wanted more than he could offer? His time with her had been...amazing. Unforgettable. Over. As soon as it was daylight, he would find a way to send her back.
“Sawyer?”
At the sound of her voice, he refocused and realized she had come closer. Kneeling beside him, she watched him. It was too dark to read her expression. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”
He shook his head. “Not particularly.”
She paused, looking down. “Sex?” she asked softly.
There was something off about it. Her confidence was missing, though he didn’t know why. Her playfulness too, though he didn’t have it in him now to chase after it with silly jokes and roaming hands. Nor could he trust himself to be gentle with her in this state. “No, thank you,” he answered just as quietly.
“I know. I’ll tell you a story. A bedtime story. Would you like that?”
“Hmm.”
“Everyone likes bedtime stories and mine are very good.”
Well, with an argument like that... “What kind of stories?”
“Fairy tales that Gram used to tell me. They’re part of my heritage, actually, so you have to agree with me about how great they are.”
She looked so earnest, that he wasn’t entirely sure she was kidding. “I’d be honored.”
At her prodding, he lay back down. Instead of lying down, she cradled his head in her lap, gently stroking his temple. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of sleep and woman. A bedtime story looked a lot more appealing from this angle.
Outside, the storm raged against the window. Whatever had ravaged the town and phone lines the night before was back. They were in the thick of it, so why not? Why not enjoy her softness, her strength when he had the chance? He couldn’t imagine her even wanting to stay after seeing firsthand how wrecked he was.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a young prince. The prince had beautiful golden hair, and everyone admired it.”
“Don’t fairy tales usually open with princesses locked up in towers?”
“Please save your questions until the end,” she said primly. “One day the king captured a man from the forest, who was secretly a sorcerer. The sorcerer tricked the prince into releasing him, and when the king found out, he was so enraged that he vowed that whoever did it would be executed. Then they discovered it was the prince who’d done it.”
“Let me guess. The king saw the error of his ways? Sorry. No questions, I remember.” He closed his eyes and allowed her words to float around him. Her voice was like a caress, soothing the tension away in tandem with her gentle massage.
“Unfortunately, no. The king ordered his son to be executed, but when the guards took him away, they were so moved by his pleas and the beauty of his golden hair that they sent him away into the forest.”
He whistled. “This is a kid’s bedtime story? What exactly is your heritage here, the Huns?”
“I’m German, of course. At least partly. I thought you knew that.”
He was as obsessed with this woman as he could ever imagine being, but tracing her ancestral lineage on the sly was a step too far, even for him. He shrugged. “I figured Bouchard was French.”
“I’ve got French ancestors too, but they came by way of Germany. Or maybe they married in. To be honest, I’m not really sure. That part of the story changed a little every time Gram told it. The fairy-tale parts were much more consistent, so I think we can depend upon that.”
“Excellent,” he said.
A smile crossed her lips. He had come to understand her dry humor, whether he liked it or not. But he did like it. “Where are your ancestors from?”
He stretched out, pulling her down beside him. “Poland. And before you ask, I don’t know any Polish fairy tales. Dad wasn’t much for telling stories, unless they involved me failing horribly.”
She was quiet. Then, “Your dad seemed very sad to me.”
Sad? Dad was stubborn. Solitary. Mean, when he bothered to pay attention. But then it was like Natalie to look deeper, to give him the benefit of the doubt. If Dad had been sad that he was left alone, that he had driven everyone away, including his son... well, then that was what he deserved. Sawyer wasn’t going to feel shitty about it.
She continued the story with the prince wandering through the forest. He wrapped his golden hair in rags so that no one would recognize him. Then one day he came upon a gardener. The gardener thought the boy was a simple beggar, so he took him in and put him to work. The prince worked hard under his guidance and proved himself, keeping his hair color and his identity a secret the entire time.
Sleep claimed Sawyer in increments. Her voice was a tender lullaby, her caress the gentle rock of the sea. As he drifted away, her words weaved new pictures to replace the old, a blanket of silk and sweetness to keep him warm, the pull of her voice so strong it kept him tethered to her even as he slept.
Chapter Seven
Natalie woke to the sound of the phone ringing from the living room. Somewhat disoriented, she jumped out of bed only to realize she was naked. After slinging the sheet to cover herself, she realized that left Sawyer exposed and hard and...oh, God, the phone.
“Hello?” she answered, out of breath.
“Tally! Tell me you’re fine.” It was Joe Peterson, and though he sounded his typical happy self, she heard the note of haggard concern in his nickname for her.
“I’m fine, I swear it. How are you guys? I’ve been worried about everyone, and the phone lines were out.” Babbling, again. She took a deep breath.
“We’re good here. A few bumps and bruises around town, but nothing serious. You’ve been the one unaccounted for. Jesus, Tally.”
She felt dismay that she had been having sex when they’d been genuinely worried, even if she really hadn’t had a way to contact them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know the storm would hit so soon or be so bad. I just drove out here because—”
He cleared his throat, his voice gruffer than before. “I know. Lucy told me you were planning on giving Sawyer a visit, so we figured you’d be there. Still, if the phone lines hadn’t come back up, I would’ve saddled Lefty and made my way over there today.”
She looked down at her nakedness, thinly veiled with the worn bedsheet. “I’m glad you didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
He seemed to read her mind. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on anything either.”
“There’s nothing to intrude on,” she said too quickly. She became aware of Sawyer leaning against a wall, watching her through lowered lids. He looked a littl
e menacing and a whole lot sexy, his nakedness proving her words a lie.
“Whatever you say,” Joe said. “We’ve had the quilting club at our ranch since the storm hit. Lord, the speculation... Some of the words I’ve heard Lucy say, a man should never have to hear from his sister.”
There was a scuffle over the line, then Lucy came on. “I knew it!”
“Oh, God.” This was mortifying. “Why are you doing this? Don’t talk about it.”
“Listen, you’re all right, aren’t you? Big brother still has his concerned face on.”
“I’m okay, seriously. We slept through most of the storm. No big deal.” And it wasn’t, but then Sawyer raised his eyebrows at her, and she flushed without knowing exactly why.
Lucy spoke to her brother. “See? She’s fine. Now make yourself scarce unless you want to hear something really dirty.” Then to Natalie, “I wasn’t really worried about you.” She snorted. “As if you haven’t taken care of yourself for years anyway. But listen, I have a question. And before you answer, you should know that I have twenty bucks riding on this. So what is the precise color of his—”
“Lucy!”
But Joe had already wrenched the phone back. “Pretend that didn’t happen,” he said. “I’m sure going to. But about that, are you absolutely sure that you’re...well, willing. Because you can tell me if you’re even the slightest bit uncomfortable—”
“I’m uncomfortable,” she said quickly, “with this conversation.”
“That makes two of us.” Joe let out a breath. “In that case, I have some news for you. The storm has been gaining momentum. It’s a tropical storm now, and the last band is still on its way. Looks like it’s going to hit us in about two days. The advisory is in effect until then, which means we’re all staying put. Unless you tell me you feel unsafe or are in imminent danger of any type, then you’re camping out in Sawyer’s house. You guys got enough food?”
Oh, the chili. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, now that the phones are back up, you’ll be able to reach me if anything changes. I have been going out to check on folks. It takes forever to get anywhere and back with the roads like this, but it’s been a blessing. I have six women in my house, Tally.” He sounded haggard. “And they’re drunk.”