On Temporary Terms

by Janice Maynard

  He kissed her forehead. “Don’t be mad.”

  “You don’t want me,” she said quietly. “I’m not mad. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Quit being a bloody fool,” he shouted. “Of course I want you.” A tension headache wrapped his skull in a painful vise.

  She looked up at him, blinking, her expression stormy and wounded. “It didn’t sound like it. I tend to forget that men don’t like pushy women. I’m accustomed to problem solving. I guess I overstepped my bounds. I apologize.”

  He released her, took a step backward and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from shaking her. “For the life of me,” he growled, “I dinna ken how a woman can be a selfless angel one minute and a contrary mule the next.”

  Clearly, she didn’t like that remark. “Go to hell, Duncan. I changed my mind. I wouldn’t sleep with you if every last man in Candlewick vanished tomorrow.”

  She took a step in his direction and thumped a finger into his chest. “You’re arrogant and entitled and you think men rule the world. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Stewart. That may work in Scotland, but here in America we’re—”

  He snatched her up and kissed her ruthlessly, not giving any quarter until the fight left her, and she groaned low in her throat and every hair on the back of his neck stood at attention.

  Now that he had regained control of the situation—for the moment—he decided to enjoy his advantage. Keeping one arm around her, he used his free hand to unbutton her shirt. “I love your bosom, lass. Have I told you so?”

  “You might have mentioned it,” she mumbled. “And FYI, nobody here calls it that.”

  He was debating the logistics of baring her lovely body when he realized her bra had a front closure. “Sweet heaven,” he muttered. With one quick flick of his wrist, her heavy, pink-tipped breasts spilled into view. He released her so he could fill his palms with the pleasing weight of them. “Don’t tell me I don’t want you. It’s the daftest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “I know this is wrong,” Abby whispered, her expression equal parts troubled and yearning. “Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong man. Wrong woman. But I don’t care.”

  He scooped her into his arms and strode toward the house. “I care,” he said, breathing heavily, not from his burden, but from the urgent need to put an end to this dance. “No more discussion,” he said firmly. “We’re on the same page. And if we want to keep it a secret between us, that’s our right. Small towns are the same the world over. Gossip is the breath of life. I won’t have you tormented when I’m gone.”

  “I agree,” Abby said. “Need-to-know only.”

  “Put your hand in my pocket. Get the key.”

  When Abby giggled, his neck heated. “That was a serious request, lass. I find I don’t want to put you down. I’m afraid you’ll run away when I’m not looking.”

  Abby located the key quickly, and soon he had her inside with the door closed and locked behind them. “Now what?” she asked, her smoke-gray eyes darker today...filled with secrets.

  “I have a really large, fancy shower in my bathroom. Why don’t we see if we’ll both fit?”

  Eight

  Abby couldn’t decide which was worse: breaking half a dozen ethical codes of conduct or taking advantage of a man who was at a low point in his life. The more frightening thing was...she didn’t really care. Some hitherto dormant part of her personality had wrested control from her careful, always-cautious self and decided that this was the year Abby Hartmann was going to have a wild and glorious affair.

  Duncan hadn’t been kidding about his bathroom. It was a decadent homage to marble and glass. And mirrors. Way too many mirrors. She sucked in her tummy and concentrated on the important things. Like watching her Scots lover undress. He stripped off his clothes with an economy of movement that was elegant and yet deeply masculine. No self-consciousness there.

  She already knew that his chest and arms were golden brown from his days spent on the water. Clearly, not all of his responsibilities involved a boring desk job. Though he was as fair-skinned as she was, he had a light, seemingly permanent tan except for a strip of white around his hips and upper thighs. The dusting of hair on his muscled body had been gilded by the sun.

  His erection reared against his belly, long and thick and hard.

  Some unknown force sucked all the oxygen out of the bathroom. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and her limbs froze.

  Duncan’s smile was gentle but knowing. “Don’t get shy on me now, Abby. I liked the warrior woman up on the mountain.”

  Locking gazes with him was too intimate...like staring straight into the sun. She propped her foot on a stool and bent to unlace her boot. “I’m not shy,” she muttered. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him, but he didn’t move. When she had removed her sock and shoe, she swapped feet and repeated the process.

  Because Duncan had unbuttoned her shirt and unfastened her bra, her breasts bounced when she bent over. It seemed stupid to hide them away again when she was about to get in the shower.

  With her feet now bare, she straightened slowly.

  Duncan’s gaze narrowed. Slashes of red colored his cheekbones. “Take off your clothes,” he said. “I want to watch.”

  A deeply flawed part of her personality refused to let her resist a dare. Duncan’s sexual demands challenged her to match his confidence. She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “No one’s stopping you.”

  She slipped off her shirt and bra and tossed them aside. Shoulders back, chin up, she let him look his fill. When the muscles in his throat worked and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, she surmised that he was not quite as relaxed as he appeared.

  “Now the rest,” he said hoarsely.

  The shorts had a zipper, one that could be lowered very slowly while a man watched. When the zipper opened as far as it would go, she shimmied the khaki shorts down her hips all the way to her ankles, stepped free, and kicked them aside.

  Every wild, rushing impulse in her brain screamed at her to cover herself with her hands. She had never felt more naked or more vulnerable. But then again, she had never been as aroused.

  Duncan nodded slowly. He turned and started the water flowing in the shower, adjusting the temperature and testing it with his hand. He faced her again. “Can your hair get wet?”

  “I was hoping you might wash it for me.”

  His erection jerked and bobbed visibly as if her words had been an actual, physical touch. “I could do that. Come here, Abby.”

  It wasn’t far. Five steps. Six at the most. The journey took forever, because her world had skidded into slow motion.

  He put his hands at her hips and slid her underwear down her legs. When he knelt at her feet and tapped her ankle, she stepped out of the panties automatically, afraid of what he might do next and equally afraid that he might not.

  But nothing happened. Duncan straightened. He pulled her into the shower enclosure, joined her and closed the glass door. The water was warm, but not hot enough to produce an obscuring cloud of steam. Good move on his part. They were drenched in moments.

  He reached for a travel-sized bottle of shampoo and squirted it into his hands. “Turn around,” he said gruffly.

  Given long enough, Abby might have melted like hot wax and slipped down the drain. Having Duncan massage her scalp and neck was one of the most erotic, pleasurable experiences of her life. She felt him behind her, large and tall. Her head fell back against his chest. “Forget sex,” she mumbled. “This is amazing.”

  Chuckling, he turned her to face him and aimed the showerhead to rinse her hair. “I hope you’re joking.” He took the washcloth and dried her face. “You look about sixteen right now. I didn’t realize you had freckles. Just a few.” He touched the bridge of her nose. “They’re tiny. And cute. Like you.”

  “I was a mess when I was sixteen. Acne. Braces. Ze
ro confidence. Trust me. It wasn’t my best moment.”

  The water sluiced over his broad shoulders. She wanted to touch him, but despite her bold request on the mountaintop, she found—in this intimate situation—she was regrettably out of her depth.

  Duncan’s eyes, always dark brown, glittered with hunger. “Touch me, lass. Please.”

  How could she refuse? How could she let her bold show of feminine courage amount to nothing but words?

  Without speaking, she reached for the bar of soap and the second washcloth. When the cotton was wet enough for her liking, she lathered the soap, set the bar aside and took Duncan’s hard erection in her palm, wrapping it in the slightly rough fabric of the washcloth.

  His breath hissed out in a gasp. At his hips, his hands fisted. His eyes squeezed shut. Carefully, gently, she washed him. First his sex. Then his chest and his neck, and at last his back.

  Duncan’s entire body was rigid. Neither of them had done a complete head-to-toe. But they had both been under the water long enough to take care of the immediate sweat and dirt from their hike.

  When she released him, he stayed where he was, eyes still closed. Clumsily, Abby did a quick swipe of other, more personal areas of her own body. She had spent one night in Duncan’s bed, but she didn’t feel comfortable enough with him yet to let him wash her in a way that might lead to more than she had bargained for.

  Before he could stop her, she opened the glass door. “I’m all clean now. I think I’ll dry my hair while you finish up.”

  As an extra measure of safety, she didn’t even remain in Duncan’s bathroom. She darted across the hall to her own and began the arduous process of taming her naturally curly hair.

  She’d half expected Duncan to follow her after a moment or two. When he didn’t, she was disappointed. She finished drying her hair and smoothed the bouncy waves behind her ears.

  Grabbing her silky, thigh-length robe out of her suitcase, she slipped her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash. At the last minute, she scooted back to the bathroom and added a spritz of her favorite perfume.

  Then she hovered in the middle of the bedroom and lost her nerve. Biting the edge of her fingernail, she thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t have sex with Duncan Stewart. Without him at her side, it was far easier to be sensible. But then again, she was tired of being sensible.

  She crossed the carpet, reached for the doorknob and screeched when the door swung inward, the bottom edge catching her bare toes. “Ouch. That hurt.”

  Duncan, wearing nothing but a strategically placed damp towel, had entered just as she was prepared to go in search of him. “Sorry. I thought you’d gotten cold feet.”

  “More like bloody,” she groused.

  He scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to his bedroom. “It’s your own fault. If you hadn’t been such a chicken, we’d be in bed by now.”

  She punched his shoulder. “I’m not a chicken. I needed to use my hair dryer.”

  “I have one in this bathroom, too, you know. Be honest. You got scared in the shower.”

  His chest was warm and hard beneath her cheek. He held her with disarming ease, not even breathing heavily.

  “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

  “That’s verra good,” he said, looking down at her with a feral masculine grin that curled her aching toes. He dropped her on the mattress. “Don’t move. I’ll get supplies.”

  She held up her foot, loathe to get blood on the very nice comforter. “It’s not really so bad. More of a scrape than a cut.”

  Duncan returned and sat down on the bed, lifting her leg across his lap. “Let me take a look.” He dabbed at the blood with an alcohol wipe. “I think two tiny Band-Aids will do it.”

  Abby screeched. “That stings.”

  “Quit bein’ such a wee bairn. Hold still.” He spread antibiotic ointment across the two toes with the worst abrasions and covered them. “All done.” His thumb pressed the arch of her foot. “Do you hurt anywhere else, lass?”

  Abby fell back on her elbows. Unfortunately, that made the sides of her robe gape. “My lips could use a kiss,” she whispered. “You know. ’Cause they went numb when I was looking at this huge, gorgeous, naked man a little while ago.”

  Duncan’s gaze locked on to her breasts. His pupils dilated. “I understand.” Lazily, as if he had all the time in the world, he tossed the towel aside, flipped back the covers and dragged Abby between the sheets with him.

  The cool cotton made her shiver.

  They rolled together in a delicious tangle of arms and legs and fractured breaths. “Duncan,” she said, suddenly fixating on the one question she had never asked. “Is there a woman back in Skye who might have a problem with what’s happening between us?”

  He had been about to kiss her, but now he froze and reared back, a frown creasing his noble brow. “No. And if there had been anyone like that, I’d have ended it before I left. Would no’ have been fair to ask a lass to wait for me when I thought I was coming here to stay.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Do you always talk this much during sex?” he asked, grinning to let her know he was teasing.

  Abby sniffed. “If you’d kissed me already, I wouldn’t have been able to talk, now would I?”

  * * *

  Duncan was more than a little infatuated with his sharp-tongued, quick-witted Abby. She was fierce and caring, and now that he had her naked again, he was done with conversation for the moment.

  He took her chin in one hand, tilted it up and captured her mouth roughly, nipping her bottom lip with sharp teeth. She tasted like sweet honey and feminine temptation.

  Taking his time with her, he gave her every nuance he’d been too obliterated the night before to offer. Coaxing, persuading, insisting. She met him taste for taste, ragged sigh for ragged sigh. When had merely kissing a woman ever made his entire body ache with need?

  He had let her keep the sexy robe for a moment, but now he wanted it gone so he could taste and touch and torment her lush, beautiful breasts. With his teeth and his tongue and his fingertips, he played and cajoled and teased. Her nipples were pert, rigid raspberries. Her curves were a man’s playground, warm and full and sensitive to his touch.

  But other delights awaited.

  Before Abby could think to protest, he slipped the narrow sash from her robe and anchored her wrists at the spindled headboard. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing, Duncan?”

  “Dinna fash yerself, lass. I’ve a mind to play. But you can stop me anytime. Do you understand?” He gazed at her for long seconds, letting her see the full extent of his hunger, but also telling her with more than mere words that he would keep her safe.

  Whatever she saw in his eyes must have reassured her. “I understand, Duncan. You’re the boss.”

  She said the last three words deliberately. Nothing in their relationship to date had been about Abby taking a subservient role. She was a smart, well-educated woman who was the equal of any man. Her sly comment indicated that she was willing to play his game.

  Hearing those three words in the context of this sexual encounter snapped the tight control he had kept on his libido. Abby was naked and willing in his bed. Tonight, he would not let her go.

  He slid a bit lower on the mattress and deliberately parted her legs. The scent of damp female skin and shower soap filled his lungs. He traced the crease where her leg joined her body. “Sometimes a man likes dessert before his dinner.”

  Abby actually cried out when he tasted her intimately. Her thighs tightened around him, but he kept her legs spread. The sight of her moist folds, ready for him, sent his arousal up a thousand fold. He ran his tongue over her sex lazily, hitting the most sensitive spot and then bit her inner thigh when she climaxed wildly. “Untie me,” she cried.

  H
e rested his cheek on her trembling thigh as she came down from the top. “I dinna think I will. Unless you really mean that. Do you want me to stop, Abby?”

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her entire body was one pink blush. Her gaze couldn’t quite meet his. He had never seen a more erotic, sensual tableau of abandon.

  She swallowed visibly. “No, Duncan. Don’t stop.”

  He went a little crazy after that. He made her come twice more in a similar fashion until he allowed her to recover and catch her breath. It seemed best to take a linear approach next so he shoved all the covers back and nibbled her perfectly pink-polished toes.

  Abby was ticklish at first. But when he took her toes one at a time and suckled them, she didn’t seem to mind.

  After that, he kissed his way up her shapely calves, pausing to nip the insides of her knees, before returning to her female secrets.

  Again, she tried to close her legs. He gripped her ankles firmly. “Don’t try to thwart me, Abby. You said I’m the boss. I know very well what you want. It’s the same thing I want. Do I need to tie your feet apart to make you behave?”

  “No,” she said quickly, her breath coming in sharp pants. “Don’t do that. I’ll behave. I promise.”

  He nodded slowly. “Excellent.” Her faux submissive dialogue went straight to his gut and kept him on a slow boil.

  Abby watched him with trepidation in her wide-eyed gaze. He wanted to laugh, but he was having too much fun and he didn’t want to ruin the mood.

  When he stood up, she dug her heels into the mattress, alarm on her face. “Why are you leaving?”

  “Nothing so dreadful, sweet Abby. Close your eyes and rest.”

  “Fat chance,” she muttered.

  He was gone less than two minutes. When he returned, Abby’s eyes were closed, but her body was rigid. He stroked her hair. “This next bit will go easier if you can’t see what I’m doing.”

  At his matter-of-fact words, Abby struggled wildly. But the knots at her wrists held firm. Her robe was made of a thin fabric that was almost transparent...almost, but not quite. Artfully, he arranged it over the top of her face, taking care not to cover her nose.