by Amber Scott
When he slept, he looked so much younger. She wondered how old he actually was. As much as she shouldn't, she started to think of him as real. Jesse. Beyond his age, she found herself wondering so much more.
A pang rippled from her heart down to her belly. Her throat tightened a little. She blocked the thought before it could manifest, before it could even be defined. With it, the pain receded back into hiding.
She wouldn't mourn what she might soon lose. He was here now. That was all she cared about. She was here with him.
His skin was tan and smooth. A small faint scar showed above his left eye, parting in two the path of his eyebrow. His hair wasn't black but dark brown, and under the sunlight, shined auburn. Not all over. In hints, glances.
His chin was stubborn with a slight cleft, his Adam's apple well-defined by corded muscle. His collarbone dipped and gave way to those wonderful shoulders, that chest.
Samantha sighed again. Fantasy come to life, and he was all hers. Surprisingly, that never came into question. Unlike other men she'd met, she didn't wonder if he wanted her. If she was pretty enough, sexy enough, or what he was looking for.
She didn't wonder. Inexplicably, she knew.
The trail of her thought resonated in her body. All hers, to do with as she wanted. To tease. To please. While she could see the world had weathered him, she was curious, as well, to know how many women had.
A man this good-looking probably didn't lack for attention ... and from an early age, she had no doubt. But attention and experience varied.
Samantha became bold. Maybe it was thinking of all those women—how many, how beautiful—she could only imagine. Or perhaps it was from the possessiveness.
Whichever or both, she grew bold. She wanted to erase the mark of any other woman. She wanted to be the only one who mattered, who ever would or could.
She wanted to ruin him. To do that she would need to brave unfamiliar territory. Well, unfamiliar in action but knowledgeable enough in theory.
Every women's magazine article and each midnight, three-too-many martini conversations with her gay roommate, collected in her mind.
She began with her hand.
Samantha traced a path from Jesse's chest down his belly and crept her fingers under the coverlet and sheet. While her breath grew bated, his breathing maintained an even rhythm. Her thighs tingled with anticipation. Beneath the sheet, she drew closer, passing the area of eroticism.
Down to his inner thighs, she wisped her fingers over the relaxed muscles and came up the other leg, teasing him as he had her. She wanted to touch him where it counted, to grip his hardness and stroke it, but was determined not to do so until she knew he was awake.
She wondered if he dreamed of her hands, if he incorporated his physical sensations into his resting imaginings. As she got near his cock, his body twitched. The covers moved, tented by his erection, growing steadily.
He was real to her. Alive, breathing. Real.
A slow, lazy grin spread on his mouth. He stretched out his legs and hugged her shoulders.
"Don't stop,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
She wasn't about to. Her body responded to his voice, to her accomplishment, by wetting with a little throb of want. She raised a leg across his, pressed her need against his hip, so he could feel her arousal.
He groaned. “What are you doing to me, Samantha?” He kept his eyes closed, but he rolled her way.
"I'm teasing you."
"Teasing? You're making me crazy."
Pride swelled inside her. Crazy was good. He'd done more than that to her. She slowly raised her hand up his body and gently slid it over his stiff flesh.
He groaned again, opened his eyes, and cupped her face. His eyes shone green and glassy, a strange tenderness reflected in them. A pang twinged in her chest. Samantha swallowed.
Jesse's hand left her cheek and found her hip. He rolled toward her, her hand the only thing separating his desire from her own. His eyes locked with hers. She watched, fascinated, as pleasure washed through them. His lids became heavy, the green darkened, but his gaze remained on hers.
Her wet arousal turned urgent. Suddenly, all designs of impressing him with skill and innovation vanished. She could think only of feeling him inside her while he caressed her with his gaze.
She moved her hand away, letting the smooth tip of his erection skin her palm and fingertips. She raised her leg and shifted her hips. His cock glided along the sheath of her pussy, open and hot. Her clitoris swelled and thumped.
Samantha wasn't sure she could take being driven crazy again. Her need had grown so rapidly, she wasn't sure she could take his prolonging it, enflaming it anymore than it already was.
She blinked, wanting to close her eyes and feel him with all her other senses. But his gaze held hers rapt. As he slipped his proud attraction into the mouth of her pussy, she watched. God, she was so wet. He felt so solid. Satisfying in such a basic, primal way.
Like he belonged there.
* * * *
Jesse felt it too and didn't speak. He focused on controlling his body, but found it difficult when every nuance of pleasure painted her face so honestly, so openly. He'd never known a woman like her, never experienced such magnificence. It should intimidate him.
It didn't.
She didn't.
He could see the wild mustang in her soul, the untrusting, untamed part of her. He wanted to conquer it, to win it. He also needed to taste it.
The first stroke might as well have been their first touch. Each time their bodies came together, called together by this unseen, feral force, it got better.
Every time, he thought to tame his passion, to rein it in and show her a new world of pleasure. He saw one, instead, and chased after it like a fool in the rain. It blinded his reason and clouded his logic, and soon all he could do was feel. Feel her as he pulled out and thrust back in. Wet. Hot. Exquisite.
Each plunge took on a new level of pleasure, so sweet it was almost painful. Each wave of pleasure showed on her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, her widening eyes.
He felt like master and slave all in one. He thrilled in what he gave, equally desperate to take the same.
Her hands roved and gripped his shoulders. He rolled her on top, gripped her perfectly shaped ass with both hands. His mouth watered; his pulse kicked.
She whispered his name. “Jesse. Jesse."
Her eyes begged him, thanked him.
She cried out, and his body poured into her. He fell into the oblivion of climax, hoping he'd not left her behind, knowing he hadn't. Samantha's pussy clutched his cock, cinching up and releasing, and she cried his name, again and again, rocking up and down. Up and down. Up. Down.
She fell against his shoulder.
He wrapped his heavy arms around her, his heart slamming down. Reality stayed away, not ready to rudely intrude on them. He was grateful for the polite delay, because he knew when it did, things would change.
Once he knew she hadn't gone back to sleep, Jesse spoke.
"Samantha.” His voice sounded strange in the silence of his home. “I don't know who you are or where you've come from, but we can't keep going on like this."
She sat up. When he looked up at her, he prepared himself for a full offense. She wasn't insulted. She was smiling.
"Why not?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and tucked her chin.
His eyes narrowed. Unusual. Different to be sure, from any other woman. Why? Why was she not offended by being naked in his bed, in the full light of day, when anyone could come upon them, though it was unlikely any would since he tended to have few visitors. Still, even a widow, free to live as she pleased, had standards, expectations within society to conform to.
Why did she trust him so implicitly?
"People will talk. I don't want you ruined. And,” He glanced at the window and back, “and I can't offer you a proper proposal should any find us in our compromising state."
Samantha shrugged. “I don't care wha
t anyone thinks. There's really no reason to. I don't regret what we've shared.” Her eyebrows drew together. “Do you?"
"Christ, no.” Jesse sat up. “But we can't just hole up in here and act like rabbits for the rest of our days. Nice as the thought may be."
She pushed out her lips, wriggling the lower one like she was chewing on his words. “No, I suppose there have to be other things to do in this state."
Jesse chuckled. “Not many more. But my stomach can think of at least one other thing."
"Mmmm. Food. Yes.” She licked her lips.
Jesse rose, tossed her the long shirt he'd given her before, realizing she'd want proper clothes. Hers needed a washing, still covered in mud from when Tommy had found her lying on the ground.
Ginny would have something that would fit her. He could send her to town to get more. Christ knew he had enough money.
They might as well eat with Tommy and Ginny, as well. He became so caught up in his musings he didn't see her disappear.
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Chapter Eleven
Samantha focused her eyes and shrieked when Carla's face came into view. She sat upright, pushing the woman's hands away.
"What are you doing?” What happened? She must have passed out in the woman's kitchen. She was still here, sitting on the awful-colored linoleum, Carla trying to make her drink something.
"It's all right, Sammie. Drink this. You blacked out."
Samantha pushed the cup away. Hard. It spilled onto Carla's low-cut shirt, and the cup clattered to the floor.
Carla reached after the cup and stood after rescuing it. She ignored Samantha, searching the cup for damages. When the woman held it to her bosom and looked heavenward, Samantha's tiny itch of guilt went away.
Good. Well, not good. Not bad, either. She looked around her, for what she didn't know exactly. For a sign of what happened to her, for evidence it wasn't real.
That it was over.
A hollow feeling spread out inside her, pain along the edges. It opened and widened until her whole body numbed a bit.
"Are you okay?” Carla stood above her, cup set down on the counter behind her. The older woman's tone wasn't one of surprise. In fact, it sounded annoyed, exasperated, even.
Samantha tried to stand. The room went all topsy-turvy on her, so she sat back down in the middle of the kitchen floor and glared at the auction-house owner.
"Tell me what happened,” she demanded, realizing Carla probably couldn't tell her much but needing to hear some sort of explanation, a run-through of how she went from sipping tea to having the most erotic and realistic dream, delusion of all time and place, and then back to here. Sitting in an ugly, old kitchen, staring at the knees of a woman who made her somewhat uncomfortable. “Tell me exactly what happened in the last ten minutes."
"Six hours."
Samantha blanched. “Six hours?” No wonder the dream seemed so long. Oh, God, Charles. She had to get Charles. His plane landed hours ago. He would be worried sick. Or raving mad. Or both.
She again tried to get up. “I have to go.” Again, the dizziness took hold of her, and she pressed her hand to her forehead, sitting back down.
"If you'd like, I'll call someone. But I think you should at least drink some water."
Carla's tone sounded strangely concerned. She definitely sounded worried, but for some reason, Samantha didn't get the feeling the woman was worried about her health. Probably annoyed a customer had gone and passed out for six hours—
"Why didn't you call an ambulance or something?” Samantha looked up at the woman.
Carla had the decency to look caught and a bit remorseful. “I thought you'd wake up?” She said it like a question, one eye squinting dubiously at Samantha.
A weird thought sprang into Samantha's mind. “Did you slip me something in my tea?” It sounded ludicrous even saying it, let alone thinking it, but she couldn't seem to stop the words.
Carla snorted, shook her head, and crossed her arms. “No. Like what? Drugs?"
Samantha slowly nodded. “Yeah. Drugs. Did you slip me something to try to get my dad's map and poster from me without paying? Are you trying to steal from me?"
God, she wished she could stand up, move, something. Too late, it occurred to her that accusing someone of something like foul play wasn't well-done from a vulnerable and immovable position such as her current one. In case it was true, probably not the smartest thing to do.
Carla's response was anything but evil-villain-like. She stammered, gasped, and threw up her hands, only to re-cross them over her bust. She turned back to the counter where the cup sat.
A funny feeling formed in Samantha's stomach. She suddenly got the idea she knew Carla from somewhere. That was impossible. She'd never met Carla before. The funny feeling turned to a sour feeling. The hollow became hurting. She didn't like this, any of it. She almost wished she hadn't awakened, and that scared her.
She didn't want to be depressed or ill. She didn't want to be a woman who couldn't live life, who was crippled emotionally.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Carla turned to her, saw it, and rushed to her side.
"Shhh. There now. Don't cry, Sammie. You're okay. Here, drink a little water, and I'll call someone. Okay?"
Samantha nodded, wanting to tell her not to call her Sammie, that only her dad called her that. Emotion overwhelmed her, and she wanted everything to be normal again. To feel normal again.
Carla smoothed her hair, and Samantha drank from the teacup she'd almost broken. She gagged a bit, swallowing, realizing it wasn't water. She looked up, terrified, up at Carla, and strange sympathy swirled in the woman's gaze. Whiskey. Why on earth would Carla give her whiskey?
As though in answer, Carla said, “Go back to him, Sammie. He needs you."
As she was about to ask who, the world went blank.
* * * *
Not ten minutes after he found her gone, Jesse came upon Samantha sprawled in the grass, legs akimbo, hair pooled like a puddle on the ground. He rushed to her side, looking for signs of injury.
"Damn it,” he said through clenched teeth. This woman would be the death of him. The longer he knew her, the more mysterious she became. The more suspicious he grew.
He touched her brow. It was warm. She was breathing. Gingerly, he scooped her into his arms. No snakebite could explain this.
The pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, and he hated the picture they formed. First, he found her asleep, whimpering near camp with Mick and Joe, the very site Mick had chosen.
Next, she is discovered, not by him, but by Tommy. Weeks after an encounter exceptional both in experience and possibility, Tommy finds her. Not Ginny, not him. Tommy.
Tommy was a good man, a good husband and loyal to the bone, but he'd never be deemed a genius. He often reminded Jesse of the proverbial gentle giant. He wasn't stupid. By no means. A bit gullible, perhaps.
Now, after a full night of lovemaking almost too good to be true, she disappears again, only to be found vulnerable and fainted not ten yards from his front door. One minute he was making her breakfast, preparing to ask the questions that needed asking, the next, she was gone. If he didn't know better, he'd say he'd checked this very area. That would mean worse than suspicious. That might mean outright deception.
He didn't want to believe it, yet. Yet? At all. There it was, forming in his mind anyway. Mick. Joe. Samantha.
What's the next best thing to killing the man who knows where buried loot lies? How about finding it, stealing it, and carrying on in the greediest, backstabbing way as always.
He'd been set up. He'd let his guard down one too many times, and his partners had gotten to know him well enough to find this woman and play his emotions.
Jesse carried Samantha across his threshold and laid her on the bed. She didn't waken. He watched her breathe. An actress. A good one, to be sure. One with loose enough morals and, no doubt, some experience.
His stomach turned sour
, anger roiling in it. He fisted his hands, released them, and fisted them again. Damn them for making a fool of him. Damn himself for being one.
Any right-headed man would have detected foul play from the first. He'd been blindsided by beauty, vulnerability. The same she practiced now, lying in his bed, the same spot where they'd gone to Heaven and back only an hour ago.
Ginny knocked loudly on the front porch, calling his name. Jesse walked the short distance through the living room and barred her entering.
"Jesse,” she protested. “You can't keep her here like some concubine. The woman has a reputation to keep intact. Every woman does."
He shook his head and for a moment thought he might be too angry to speak. Even worse, for a moment he thought they might have gotten to her, too. And to Tommy.
"She's gone."
"Gone.” Ginny stopped fighting him. “Gone where?” Her eyes narrowed.
"She dressed, left not an hour ago. Leave it be, Ginny."
"If she's gone, then she's well. If she's gone, you'll let me pass."
Jesse didn't move. He shook his head and gave his sister his most penetrating warning look. “No, Ginny. Get back home. I'm leaving here."
Ginny didn't wince, but he'd obviously hurt her feelings. He couldn't help his brisk tone, though. His mind raced so fast with implications and plans, he hardly had time to soothe his sister's matronly concerns for a woman who plain didn't deserve them.
As Ginny looked past his shoulder and back to his face, silence stretched and pulled between them. Finally, she stepped back.
"I don't know what is going on here, Jesse. But I love you, so I'm going to trust you."
Jesse nodded. He ignored the well of guilt her tenderness caused to bloom inside his chest.
"How long will you be gone?"
She always liked a deadline, a worry date she'd call it. The day when she knew something bad had happened, something terrible, and maybe even her worst fear. Because a sister shouldn't have to be informed of such a thing by some stranger. Or so she said.
This time ... “I don't know.” And he didn't.