"I have to know," she said halting him with her outstretched hand. "I have to be sure you desire me. Because I would die if you only felt pity."
He turned both palms upward in a pleading gesture. "I can show you. Let me show you how much."
Her heartbeat thudded and her body yearned for him to do exactly that.
"Everything about you excites me," he said with devastating frankness. "Your hair, your skin. Not a day goes by that I don't see you and think of undressing you, kissing you."
"But I'm so big," she said softly.
"Look at me," he demanded. "Do I seem intimidated by your height? You're tall, Thea, but you're perfectly made. Your legs are long, your waist is narrow. Your breasts... the thought of your breasts keeps me awake at night."
Already taut with arousal, her body responded to his words.
"The idea of making love to you has had me lathered since the first time we met. I've thought of it a thousand times. Tonight when you stood near me and touched me, I thought I'd go crazy with wanting you."
"Show me," she pleaded.
Booker took the remaining steps to reach her, and she readied herself for whatever came next. She hoped he would kiss her once like the last time. Prayed she would know what to do, how to please him. Wonder of wonders, he touched only her face at first, reverently cupping her cheek, sliding his fingertips over her cheekbone, her brow, her lips. She'd never imagined his touch could be so gentle, so good. Tears welled in her eyes at his exquisite tenderness.
He wanted her. She let her eyelids flutter shut and focused on his callused fingers administering sharp pleasure to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. His chin scraped her neck.
"Will you kiss me once?" she asked.
"I'm afraid not," he replied, and she opened her eyes in acute disappointment. He brushed his lips across her eyelids, closing them again. His warm mouth touched her forehead, her temple, her nose, and hovered at the corner of her mouth. "Once would never be enough."
Her heart danced in joyous anticipation. She wanted to touch him, needed to learn everything at once, but held herself in check.
He closed his hands over her shoulders and pulled her toward him, covering her mouth in an eloquent kiss, a kiss that spoke of his eagerness and his desire for her. Hesitantly, Thea touched his jaw, relished the masculine texture. He opened her lips with his tongue and she met him with slick, hot thrusts of her own. He groaned into her mouth.
Booker sucked her lower lip between his teeth, nipped the corner of her lip, kissed her chin, her cheek, her neck. Thea dropped her head back, awash with delicate nerve endings her husband probed into screaming animation.
His mouth left a cool trail across her face and throat while his hands seared a burning path around her waist, her rib cage, smoothed down across her buttocks and gathered her nightdress upward until his fingers splayed over her round, bare buttocks.
Thea's breath caught.
Bending his knees, Booker pressed his face against her nightgown, nuzzled her breast through the restricting fabric.
"Here, let me..." Thea untangled herself long enough to yank the gown over her head. It dropped into the shadows at their feet.
Gently, Booker pulled away from her and allowed the moonlight to wash her nakedness in its silvery glow. Trembling, Thea awaited his reaction.
He reached for her left hand and placed it over his racing heart. "Don't ever wonder again, Thea Hayes. Don't ever question whether or not you're a beautiful woman."
He guided her right hand to show her just how much he wanted her. "Don't ever wonder again whether or not I desire you."
Thea learned a heart-stopping, graphic lesson about the male species. She curled the fingers of her left hand into the thick, damp mat of his chest while her right elicited a hiss from between his bared teeth.
This was no fantasy, no dream, but a reality: Her reality. Her right. Her due. She deserved this happiness.
Tenderly, he circled both her wrists and drew her curled fingers to his lips, pressing damp kisses against her knuckles. She imagined those lips on other parts of her body and liquid heat sluiced through her being in a downward flow.
"Show me," she begged. "Now."
"Have patience, my love," he replied, and nipped her thumb. "We have all night."
"No." His teeth raked the tender inside of her arm from wrist to elbow and higher, and tingles radiated up her shoulder and across her skin. She couldn't wait all night. She would explode into a million frantic particles. She shook her head and splayed her fingers against his matted chest. She'd been patient long enough. She'd waited far too long already. "Now."
He conceded by dropping to his knees before her, gripping her bare hips and burying his face in her belly. Inhaling sharply, he groaned. Thea delved her fingers into his damp hair and watched him press kisses around her navel. His tongue darted out and he tasted her skin, flicking a path as high as he could reach. His nose resting intolerably beneath her breast, he stroked her thighs and hips until her knees trembled and she didn't think she could support her own weight any longer.
He taunted her with his nose and brows until she tipped forward breathlessly and offered herself to his reverent mouth. His lips manipulated with first quick, then slow and exquisite, strokes.
Thea's knees buckled and she fell forward heavily. Booker caught her against his chest, let her knees slide to the floor and covered her lips with his wet mouth. Instinctively, she doubled her forearms behind his neck and pressed against his flesh, breasts to breasts, hips to hips, thighs to thighs, and victoriously returned the kiss.
Booker spanned her ribs, affably pushed her a few inches away, and coaxed her to her feet. In one unbroken movement, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the enormous tree bed.
From the rumpled sheets, Thea observed him with a grin. "Are you still all right?"
Moonlight silhouetting broad shoulders and narrow hips, he unfastened his trousers and stepped out of them, coming to lie beside her.
"Do I feel all right?" He pressed his heat against her hip.
She touched his handsome face, his swollen lips, his smooth shoulder. "You feel marvelous. You make me feel beautiful."
He placed his thumb alongside her temple and skimmed it over her brow. "You are beautiful. Don't ever forget."
His lips hovered a fraction of an inch from hers. "Will you remind me from time to time?" she asked.
He skimmed her belly, her thigh. "I'll remind you as often as you'll let me."
When he touched her he had to feel the ceaseless throbbing, the molten dew his lips and hands had wrought. Her eyelids fluttered shut.
"Thea," he whispered, and covered her lips with his. His tongue slid between her parted lips and matched the slippery strokes of his fingers. Her breathing stopped. Her heart stopped. The entire world stood still while he keenly, unrelentingly, awakened her to the reality of physical love.
Perspiration prickled along the length of their bodies where their skin touched. Booker pulled his mouth away, and Thea sucked the hot night air into her lungs.
"Are you frightened?" he asked.
Thea gathered the unraveled edges of her mind. “What is there to be frightened of?”
"It will hurt some."
"No, I'm not frightened."
"You might get pregnant."
"Would you care?" she asked.
"You're my wife," he replied in a sensual rasp. "I want our children."
She wrapped her fingers as far around his rock-hard bicep as they reached and felt his muscles quiver. "Nothing would make me happier."
He finger combed her hair across the sheet, then brought a strand to his nose, brushing his lips with the tress. "I've been dying for this, Thea. Knowing what your hair felt like, what your skin smelled like, how you respond when I touch you."
She tried to see his eyes in the darkness, but had to be satisfied with his sincere tone. "And knowing all about me, you're not disappointed?"
"No," he whispered. "But a
ll my questions haven't been answered yet."
"What else?"
He rose above her then, one rock-hard knee nudging her thighs apart. "I want to see your face in the moonlight when I'm inside you."
Thea's heart ricocheted against her breast. He kissed her openmouthed, their tongues and lips grappling, then lodged himself on the very edge of entry and pulled back to watch her face. Thea licked her salty lower lip and stared back at him through shuttered lids.
He kissed her again, and with a gentle lunge, sheltered himself inside her. He raised his head and studied her expression. A tremulous sigh escaped her lips. With a timid and unskilled but perfectly natural movement, Thea raised her hips and grasped him tightly against her.
The August heat was forgotten. In a mindless whirlpool of clasping bodies and straining kisses, Booker encompassed her with a never-to-be-imagined frenzy of pleasure, murmuring guttural encouragement against her neck, her chin, her mouth.
She thought of all the nights she'd dreamed of him, vague imaginings of a dark shadow lover. Now she had him in her arms, in her body, in her heart. He arched and his tongue flicked fire across her skin.
She wanted to disappear inside him, merge and become one. She swelled around him, strained against him, nurtured him at her upstretched breasts until a cry of frustration escaped her lips.
"Raise your knees," he urged against her mouth.
Thea obeyed, tucking her heels against his buttocks. Her head fell back in pleasure.
He cradled and lifted her hips, their slippery, perspiring bodies emitting tiny sucking sounds. An all-encompassing satiny shudder rippled outward from the center of her being and enveloped him. He groaned and hammered every last question from her mind in a series of sublime quakes.
Booker panted raggedly against her temple, rolled himself onto his back and flung out his arm. In the silvery light, she watched the rise and fall of his matted chest subside, but he lay impassive, silent.
Thea wondered if in her overcredulous haste she'd made a fool of herself—been too eager, done some unfeminine thing that had shocked him. Perhaps in her smitten passion, she'd disgusted him.
Hoisting himself on one elbow, he studied her face, her body. Thea resisted the urge to cover herself. He drew his finger through the puddle in her navel and found the edge of a sheet to dry her belly. Tossing the clammy fabric over the bed's edge, he lowered his head and kissed her breast. At her sigh, he smiled.
"Well, Mrs. Hayes," he whispered throatily. "Did we meet a few of those needs?"
"Are you disappointed?"
He pulled her hand to his mouth. "Not in the least." He kissed her palm, spread her fingers over the hollow of his stubbled cheek and nuzzled. "I need you."
She rubbed her thumb over his bottom lip.
"Not just for Zoe," he clarified. "For me."
A tear slipped through her lashes and slid into the already wet hair at her temple. An unbidden sob rose in her chest and escaped in a rush of long-pent-up emotion. She buried her forehead against his chest and her shoulders heaved. So long. She'd waited so long and had given up before he'd come into her life. Her extreme joy almost frightened her.
"Hey," he said, his hand hovering helplessly above her head. "Why are you crying?" Delving his fingers into her hair, he pulled her head back and forced her to meet his shadowed face. "What?"
"I love you," she confessed on a quiet sob. His fingers curled gently against her scalp. With infinite tenderness, he guided her face upward and pressed his lips to hers. He tasted of salt, and sex, and latent strength. Never had he kissed her with such delicacy, such candid reverence.
Ignoring the sultry heat, he pulled her into his arms, draped a hair-roughened knee possessively across her smooth thigh and held her until she slept.
* * *
"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.
"You didn't."
"Does this feel good?"
"Mmm, yes. I never knew..."
"What?"
"That you'd be so..."
"Am I?"
"That you'd be so... everywhere."
"Does this hurt?" he asked.
"Mmm. No."
"Don't move... stay like you are...."
"Can I do something to make you feel better?"
"If it felt any better, it would be over."
"Booker..."
"Hmm?"
"Just... Booker."
"Does that hurt?"
"No."
"You're beautiful."
"It's dark."
"You feel beautiful."
"I really please you, Booker?"
"I've never..."
"What?"
"I don't have to hold back with you."
"That's good?"
"It's never been so good."
"Booker?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm going to have to move now."
"Okay... oh, Thea."
"What?"
"Just... Thea."
* * *
Morning light beamed through the open windows. Beneath the sheet, she was bare. Thea forced her gritty eyelids open and oriented herself. Wincing, she sat and blinked.
The door opened and Booker appeared with a bucket of water and towels. "Morning."
"Morning." He'd already shaved and dressed.
"I brought fresh water for you." He poured it into the ceramic basin on the washstand, then picked up her wrapper from the floor and laid it across the foot of the bed. "No one's up yet. You have time to bathe."
She held her hair back. "Thank you."
He leaned over and kissed her. Frowning, he touched a finger to her chin, tilted her head back on his thumb and ran a finger over her neck. He plucked the sheet away from her breasts and inspected her.
Embarrassed, she followed his gaze and discovered her abraded red skin. She met his eyes.
"I'll shave every night for the rest of my life," he promised.
Did that mean he intended for it to happen again?
He stood. "I'd better let you get up. I'll see you downstairs."
She nodded, and he closed the door behind himself.
She washed in the water he'd provided, using the only soap available—his. She would smell spicy—like him—all day. As she dried herself, she heard the thunder of horses approaching the house. Thea put on her wrapper and stepped to the window.
Below, half a dozen riders pulled their mounts to a halt in the dooryard. Thea recognized Marshal Hardy heading the party. Beside him rode Irving Jackson. Each man held a revolver or rifle. Something about the way they set their mounts, the way their hands remained on their weapons, send a trickle of alarm through her heart.
She flew down the hall to her room and pulled on a blouse and skirt, knotting her hair against the back of her head with tortoiseshell pins without even brushing it. By the time she ran down the stairs and out the back door, Booker stood before the marshal.
Instinctively, she ran to his side. He moved in front of her, protectively.
Red Horse approached the group from the barn, holsters strapped to his thighs, a rifle resting on his forearm. Thea's stomach clenched at the defensive sight.
"Where was your husband the night before last when your pa was shot, Mrs. Hayes?" the marshal asked.
"He was right here," she replied. Why did he ask her that?
"Standing with you?" he asked.
Lips and voice tight, Booker interrupted. "If you have something to say, Marshal, why don't you ask me?"
"I'm askin' a witness I trust," the marshal replied. "Thea's always been an upstanding citizen, and since this is her pa we're talkin' about, I don't think she'd lie to me. Now, Thea, are you sayin' Hayes was right with you when you heard the shot?"
"No. He went to the barn to throw down some hay for the horses."
"Was anyone with him?"
Perplexed, she glanced at Booker's grim face and back to the marshal. "N-no."
"Where was the Injun?" Irving Jackson asked.
Thea looke
d up at the hotel owner. The flesh around both of his eyes was a sickly shade of purplish green and one eyebrow protruded garishly beneath a knot. A partially healed cut swelled the right corner of his mouth. What was he doing out here with the marshal? The odd assembly looked like a posse or a... lynching party. Her heart tripped double time. "Red Horse was in the corral getting the rest of the horses."
"Did he have a rifle with 'im?"
Internal alarm clanging, she cast him a wary frown. "No."
"How about your husband?" Marshal Hardy asked. "Did he have a rifle with him?"
She knew they left one in the barn in case of emergency. It rested over Red Horse's arm right now. "I don't know."
"Did he or didn't he?"
"No. He didn't take his rifle."
Eyes narrowed, Booker stepped between her and the interrogator. "What are you getting at, Marshal?"
The beefy man gripped the pommel, leaned forward and adjusted his weight, the saddle leather creaking. "Heard Jim Coulson was shot, so we came to question you."
"You haven't asked if we know who did it."
"Do you know who did it?" Marshal Hardy asked, squinting down at Booker.
"No. The rain washed away all the tracks."
"How convenient," Jackson commented, struggling with his swollen lip.
Beside her, Thea could almost feel her husband bristle at Jackson's sarcasm.
"Are you accusing me?" Booker asked.
"Maybe," the marshal drawled. "Maybe not."
Anxiety climbed the back of Thea's neck, numbing the base of her skull.
"Do you have proof?" Booker asked. " 'Cause if you don't, we have work to do."
"Just tryin' to figure out who stands to profit from Coulson's death," Hardy said, and bit off the end of a fat cigar. He took his time, looking at the frayed end, fishing a match from his pocket and striking it with a thumbnail. He puffed on the cigar until the end glowed orange. "Seems to me, you're the only one with a reason. Everybody else looks up to the man."
Booker took a stiff step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Get off my land now."
Horrified, Thea jumped to life and pushed past him. "Marshal! How dare you accuse Booker of trying to kill my father! My husband wouldn't do such a thing."
"No? Well, who would, then?"
"I don't know, but it wasn't him."
Land of Dreams Page 21