by Mallory Kane
He stood there for a few seconds, watching her. She didn’t move except for her lips as she murmured unintelligibly and her head, which rocked slightly back and forth as if she were trying to say no.
The urge to touch her, to smooth her wrinkled forehead and whisper in her ear that she was safe, that it was just a dream, overwhelmed him. But what if he woke her up? How terrifying would it be for her to be jolted out of her dream to find a man standing over her bed?
He didn’t have to answer that question, though, because at that moment she jackknifed and went completely rigid. “No! No! No-o-o!” she panted. “Please! No!”
“Rose,” Dixon whispered as he rushed to her side. She didn’t wake up, but her brow furrowed, as if a part of her brain had heard him.
He brushed her temple with the backs of his curved fingers—no more than the brush of a butterfly’s wing.
She winced. “No…” she muttered, then suddenly, her eyes popped open. They reflected the dim glow from the streetlamps. He could see that they were glazed with sleep and wet with tears as she met his gaze. He knew, though, that she wasn’t seeing him. She was still staring at whatever monster inhabited her dream.
“Lyndon, help me!” she cried.
That was his guess anyway. It was as close as Dixon could get to interpreting the four mumbled syllables. A place deep inside him hitched to hear her call her fiancé’s name. His fists clenched at his sides. At least he knew what she was dreaming.
Instinctively, he knew this wasn’t the first time she’d had this dream. Obviously she didn’t remember the dream—or at least not all of it—when she woke.
She was still staring at him with those glassy, unseeing eyes. Her face was ghostly white in the dimness and her chest rose and fell rapidly with her uneven, gasping breaths.
“Rose?” he said softly. “Rose, wake up, hon. You’re dreaming.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “Come on, Rose. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
As he watched, her gaze cleared and focused. Then, in the next fraction of a second she sat up and scrambled backward until her back hit the thick, tall headboard of the bed. “No!” she cried, her voice clear and laced with panic. “No! Get away from me. Help!” She held up her hands—those beautiful scarred hands—to protect herself.
He straightened and held out his hands in a palms-up, unthreatening gesture. “Rose, it’s me. Dixon,” he said. “You were having a bad dream.”
She cowered against the headboard and her eyes cast about, as if she were searching for the best route of escape. “Get away from me!” she cried again. “Get away!”
“Okay,” he said, backing away from the bed. “Talk to me, Rose. Are you awake? Do you know who I am?”
Her chin lifted and she frowned at him.
“Remember? I was sleeping down the hall, in your old room. Do you remember who I am?”
“D-Dixon?” she whispered.
“That’s right. It’s me. You were having a bad dream.”
“Bad…” She shook her head, looked at the rain-streaked window, then at the bedroom door.
“Rose,” he said softly and held out his arms. “You’re safe.”
In one smooth, swift motion, she bounded up and off the bed and into his arms.
He embraced her trembling body as she snaked her arms around his bare waist. He held her close, gently caressing her back, whispering into her sweet-smelling hair.
“Sh-shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” He gently rocked her from side to side, soothing, calming.
Despite the quivering that rocked her, her cotton-
covered breasts were soft and firm against his bare chest. Her back under his fingers curved enticingly, a mixture of delicate muscle and soft roundness. He fought to curb the erotic pulses shooting from the skin of his chest, from his fingertips, from his lips that brushed her hair straight to his groin.
He’d never felt anything like the sensation of holding her. He’d had his share of women, but somewhere deep inside, he knew that Rose was different. And knowing that, he realized that he loved her, that he’d loved her from the first moment he’d seen her picture.
Whether she could ever feel the same was irrelevant. He loved her, and he would die to protect her if that was what it took to keep her safe.
She shifted in his arms and he felt the trembling stop. Finally, she was beginning to calm down. But then, her soft, firm flesh began to shimmer beneath his touch. In relaxing, she’d unconsciously molded her body against his. Suddenly, the soft pressure of her belly and thighs against him turned into exquisite torture as his erection stirred and grew.
He shifted, adjusting his stance so her body didn’t press quite so uncomfortably against him.
“Dixon?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Rose,” he responded. “I’m right here. Are you feeling better?” He slid his hand up and down her back, comforting her, torturing himself.
“I…” She made a little noise that sounded like a muffled giggle. “I forgot you were here. I was…” She paused and looked up at him. “Was I having a nightmare?”
He nodded. “I think so. Do you remember any of it?”
The furrow between her brows deepened for an instant. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Although—”
Dixon caught her hand and led her back to the bed. He sat and tugged on her hand until she sat, too. “Will you tell me about it? Your dream?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders and he watched the lamplight dance across the delicate bones and muscles of her shoulders and neck. He wanted to taste all the places the light touched. He wanted to taste all the places the light didn’t touch—had never touched.
Stop it. He swallowed hard and forced himself to ignore his still-pulsing erection. He hoped to hell Rose hadn’t noticed it. He didn’t want her to think that he was being guided by base desires. He needed her to trust him and he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t if she knew how much she turned him on.
“I’m not sure I can,” she was saying. Dixon had to think back a couple of seconds. She was responding to his request that she tell him about her dream.
“Just talk. Try to verbalize what you do remember, before it gets too far away and you can’t.”
“Maman would come in and lie down with me when I had the nightmares,” she said. “She’d tell me to forget them and go back to sleep.”
Dixon ran his thumb across her knuckles, feeling the almost undetectable ridge of a scar. “Is that what you want to do?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, then bent it. Her soft dark hair fell, shadowing her face. “No. Maman was like a sentry, guarding me, keeping the memories at bay. But you…” She lifted her head and met his gaze, her eyes glowing like amber in the pale light. “I somehow feel safer with you.”
He felt a slight sting at the back of his eyes. “I swear to you, Rose, you can trust me with your life. I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you.”
“I believe you,” she said as her gaze drifted down from his eyes to his mouth. For an instant, he thought she might kiss him, and for the life of him he didn’t know what would happen if she did.
He’d just promised her that she could trust him, but he was sitting next to her on her still-warm bed, clad only in khaki slacks. She wore even less—a thin, gauzy nightgown which might as well not have been there.
Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips and he nearly lost it. His erection, which he’d thought he had under control, surged to full engorgement.
He stood quickly and stepped over to the window, biting his tongue, hoping the pain would deflate his erection. Get a grip. You’re thirty-six, not seventeen. Exercise your strength. Mind over muscle.
Staring out the window, he saw that it had stopped raining, and the moon was peeking out from behind the clouds.
He heard the old bedsprings creak, but before he could turn and head for the door, he felt Rose behind him. She laid a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. Her touch burned him like a brand.
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“Dixon, what’s wrong?”
Without turning around, he spoke. “This is a really bad idea. You need to go back to sleep and I…” He took a long, shuddering breath. “I need to get out of here.”
When he turned toward the door, she caught his arm. “I don’t want you to go. I need you.”
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Rose, don’t. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Rose laughed quietly and ran her hand up Dixon’s arm to his bicep. His skin was warm and supple, so vibrant, so alive. His was the first, the only bare male skin she remembered ever touching. It was smooth and golden in the pale moonlight, yet so different from hers. Stronger, thicker. And irresistibly sexy.
“I’ve lost my memory, not my mind,” she said. “I know what I’m asking.”
Dixon turned and gazed into her eyes. “Do you?” he muttered, his jaw working. “I don’t think so.” He covered her hand with his and removed it from his arm, then placed it on his belly, above the button on his pants. “Is this what you’re asking for?”
Rose was shocked, just like she knew he’d intended. She’d watched movies, read books. She’d discovered—or rediscovered—the feelings coaxed from her body by sexual imagery and description. But she’d never felt a man’s belly—softer than his arm or his back, but still rock-hard. She’d never seen an erection—not even covered by fabric.
But she wasn’t going to let him frighten her into running away—not without fighting. So she splayed her fingers over his warm satiny skin. The muscles under her hand quivered and contracted. He drew in a sharp breath, and she knew she was going to win.
A frisson of anxiety slid down her spine. She really didn’t know what she was doing, just like Dixon had said. All she knew was that something about him drew her, unlike anyone else she had ever known—or at least anyone that she remembered.
“Yes,” she murmured, lifting her head so that her mouth was less than an inch from his. “That’s exactly what I’m asking for.”
His eyes looked black in the dim light, and they stared into hers like dark lasers, burning through to the very core of her. “I don’t think so,” he said, his warm breath drifting across her lips. “But we’ll see.”
Then he kissed her. He didn’t touch her at all, only held her there with the strength of his kiss. Her hand still rested on his belly and she felt the muscles contract even more as she slid her hand downward, past the button on his pants. Her fingertips encountered crisp hair and even softer flesh. Then the back of her hand brushed the silky, rigid length of him.
She gasped, and so did he. His head jerked back and he searched her face. Looking for fear? For surprise? For triumph?
She closed her eyes and reached for his mouth with hers. She parted her lips slightly and tasted his. With a rush of breath, he opened his mouth and met her exploring tongue with his own.
A moan escaped from her throat as a fierce desire speared her down deep in her core, then spread like fire out her limbs, all the way to her fingertips and toes. Her knees quivered.
Instinctively knowing she was about to collapse, he wrapped his arms around her and molded her body to his. His erection pulsed against her belly and stoked the fire his tongue had sparked.
“Rose—” he breathed “—if you’re going to stop me, do it now.”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Never.”
Then she reached for his mouth again, pressing herself against him, rocking against his hardness. Something was driving her, something beyond physical desire. She needed this. It terrified her how desperate she was to experience this thing she didn’t remember ever doing before. She’d existed in a netherworld draped with mysterious whisperings, lies and impenetrable fog.
Dixon had exposed her to her blank past. She needed him to take her further, to help her prove she was alive. That she was capable of facing the world that Maman had hidden from her.
She took refuge in the delicious recesses of his mouth, immersing herself in the taste of him. He wrapped her in his arms and laid her down on the bed. As he shed his slacks and stretched out beside her, the relief she felt was so sharp it startled her.
She moaned.
“Rose?” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop? I can stop—” He drew a quick breath. “I can.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him again and again. “Don’t you dare stop,” she warned him.
He buried his head in the curve of her neck. She nuzzled his hair.
“I was afraid I’d never find you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
And she understood. No matter how lost she’d been, he had been there, searching for her. Even though she hadn’t remembered herself, he had.
Her heart felt shattered. For the first time, she realized how much she needed to believe him. She knew he meant the words, but was he afraid he’d never close his case? Or was he afraid that he was doomed to live the rest of his life without her?
At that instant he lifted himself on his elbows and gazed down at her. He pushed a strand of hair off her forehead and his fingers got tangled in it. He opened his mouth to say something, then frowned and shook his head.
As apprehension curled through her belly, she started to ask him what was wrong, but he pushed his fingers through her hair and bent his head. But he didn’t kiss her—not on the mouth. Instead, he pressed his lips to the scar at her hairline. He kissed every millimeter of the knife wound, from her temple, down her cheek to the curve of her jaw.
Then, with his lips still against it, he whispered to her. “I swear to God I’ll find him, Rose. I swear. And when I do, I’ll do my best not to kill him on the spot. But I’d like to.”
“No, Dixon. Don’t even say that.” She cupped his cheek in her hand and forced him to look at her. “Stay here with me. Don’t think about anything but here and now.”
His mouth quirked upward. “I can do that,” he said, then lowered his mouth to hers in another breath-
stealing kiss.
“I love kissing you,” she whispered, pushing her fingers between their mouths and touching his lips with her fingertips. “Your mouth looks so straight and harsh. It’s hard to believe your lips feel so gentle and sexy.” Her fingers trailed across his cheek. “Not so fond of the stubble, though,” she teased.
“No?” He rubbed his cheek against hers.
“Ow,” she muttered, and he laughed. She smiled at him. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh,” she said.
“No, it’s not.”
She touched his lips again. “Yes, it is.”
“Hmm.” He nibbled at the underside of her chin, then ran his tongue down her breastbone.
“Oh,” she breathed as he touched her breast, cupping it, his thumb caressing the sensitive tip. Her core throbbed—another new sensation. “Oh, Dixon…”
He pushed the soft, loose nightgown away from the tip of her breast and took it into his mouth. She bit her lip, trying to swallow the cry that pushed at her throat. It escaped as a long, pleasured moan. She hadn’t dreamed that such ecstasy could exist.
Dixon spread his legs on either side of Rose’s flanks. He sat up and slid the delicate gown off her shoulders and down to her waist. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and felt his jaw tighten.
Crisscrossing her chest and the soft skin of the tops of her breasts were more scars. “No,” he hissed, more breath than voice. “Rose, how did you bear it?”
“Don’t—” she started.
He shook his head and spread his palms over the ugly, pencil-thin ridges that marred her beautiful skin. “I am so sorry, Rose. I’m so…” He couldn’t talk anymore past the lump that was blocking his throat.
Bending over her, he touched his tongue to every single scar. Rose gasped “don’t” again, but he ignored her, turning his attention from the scarred skin to the dark areolas of her nipples. He sucked in the entire areola, then slowly let it go. Then he did it again, licking it, then nipping the distended tip
with his teeth.
Rose uttered a quiet scream as he turned his attention to her other breast and gave it the same erotic attention. Her back arched, pushing her nipples with their dark areolas upward.
She reached for his shoulders, running her hands over his skin, then up to caress the nape of his neck. She tried to pull him toward her, to kiss him, but he wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, he moved down her belly, discovering only one long, jagged scar there. He caressed and soothed it with his tongue as well.
He followed his tongue with his fingers, sliding them down over her abdomen and farther, until he cupped his palm between her thighs and slowly stroked her.
His touch sang through Rose with the bright hot fury of lightning across a dark summer sky. When he dipped into her with one long finger, pushing in, then withdrawing, pushing and withdrawing, in an erotic parody of lovemaking. He rested his head on her belly, feeling the small rhythmic contractions of her muscles.
She tried to grasp his wrist, tried to stop the sensual assault. “Dixon—” she gasped. “What—”
He stopped.
“No! Don’t stop, please,” she begged. Opening her eyes, she realized that the moon was shining in the window, turning their flesh an odd silvery gold color.
She’d felt the strength of his body, seen a hint of his smooth golden flesh in the pale rain-soaked streetlamp’s light, but now she devoured the planes and bulges, all the places, both smooth and hairy.
He looked leaner without his clothes, but still muscled and hard. His broad chest heaved with his harsh breaths, his abdomen rippled and his thighs flexed powerfully.
He wasn’t looking at her face, his attention was on his finger, hidden in the thatch of red-gold hair at the apex of her thighs. He dipped into her again, deeper, and she forgot what she’d been doing—what she’d been thinking.
Nothing mattered, nothing existed but his intimate probing caress. She arched against him, more than ready. He turned to her then, bringing himself back up to kiss her.