UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  He stopped dead; she wore that soft, enigmatic smile again, and without realizing why, it staggered him. Without a word she took his arm and started up the stairs. He gritted his teeth when they stopped at the door of her room, wishing he could run for it. He couldn't take many more of these chaste little hugs good-night.

  She leaned toward him, and he pulled back defensively, knowing he had stretched his control to the limit tonight. Her smile never wavered as she looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

  "It's a fantasy, remember? I think it deserves at least a good-night kiss."

  He froze, staring at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes lustrous and her lips parted in silent invitation. His own lips trembled at the memory of hers beneath them.

  "Christy," he whispered raggedly.

  "Don't give up," she said softly. "The night's not over yet."

  Her hands slid over his shoulders to lock behind his neck, and he groaned low in his throat. "Don't," he said shakily. "I can't—oh, Lord," he gasped as she pulled him toward her, amazing strength in those slender arms.

  "Don't think," she whispered. "It's fantasy. Just feel."

  He stared down into those huge gray eyes and was lost. He lowered his head, meaning only to brush her lips with his before he fled down the hall in desperation. But the moment his mouth met hers, the instant his lips tasted her soft, sweet warmth, fire leaped through him, bringing nerves so long battered into submission raging back to life.

  His hands moved to cup her face, to tilt her head back for his kiss, to press her harder against his mouth. Some last remnant of sanity clamored a warning to go slow, but his body was screaming for the relief it had been denied.

  Christy's senses leaped into awareness, as if they had been waiting for this moment, as if all those thoughts of him, all those dreams, all the sleepless nights, had built up the pressure inside her until it burst into heat and flame in the first moment she knew he was going to kiss her.

  The last of her doubts were left behind in the dust as her heart took off and soared. Any lingering thoughts that it had been merely circumstances that had made their first encounter so incredible were singed to ashes in the first fiery response of her body to the feel of his mouth on hers.

  Trace felt the tender, delicate probing of her tongue on his lips, felt the searing response of his body, felt it clench fiercely, and knew if he didn't stop now he wouldn't be able to. With a gasping breath he tore his mouth away, feeling every muscle in his body go rigidly taut in protest. She was looking up at him, that smile on her lips, her eyes dark and smoky…

  "Don't look at me like that." His voice shook.

  "Why?" She knew perfectly well what he meant; she'd made no effort to keep her feelings from showing in her eyes.

  His hands went to her shoulders as if he needed her support to stand. "Because I can't take this!" He swallowed heavily, closing his eyes as he let his head loll back. "I've run through enough cold water to fill the damned ocean. Hell, I've tried the ocean, too. It's not cold enough, either, even at three in the morning. You don't know what hell it's been, leaving you here every damned night!"

  "Don't I?" she whispered. His head snapped upright, his eyes searched her face. "You're not the only one who remembers. I—" Her voice caught. "I just thought you didn't want to … touch me anymore."

  "Didn't want—Lord, Christy, I didn't dare touch you!" He broke off and pulled her close. His hands slid down her back, pressing her hard against his hips, a shiver going through him as she came in contact with his urgently inflamed flesh. "That's what just looking at you does to me," he said hoarsely, "and has since the first time I saw you. I never dreamed you would think—"

  She made a small little sound, and he felt the movement of her head against his chest. Of course, you idiot, he told himself bitingly, of course she didn't know. She wasn't one of those worldly, jaded women who had filled his world for so long, who could calculate down to the last iota a man's reaction to them. Nobody had ever truly wanted her in her life, and he expected her to read his mind?

  "I'm sorry. I thought you knew, that it was … obvious."

  "I … wasn't sure. Until tonight."

  "I promised myself I wouldn't push, that I'd give you time." He laughed wryly. "We didn't exactly get a chance to know each other under normal circumstances. I knew the minute I touched you, kissed you, I'd want more. Much, much more."

  She tilted her head back to look at him, seeing concern battling with passion in his eyes. She felt the first quiverings of apprehension; he'd shown no sign of changing his mind, no indication that he'd seen it couldn't possibly work. Indeed, that was a knowledge she'd had a hard time hanging on to herself these past two weeks.

  She should tell him, she thought. He was trying so hard, never knowing it was futile. Never knowing that their time together was almost over. The words died unspoken when his mouth came down on hers again, sending ripples of wildfire racing through her. It was selfish, it was wrong, but she couldn't deny herself this; she wanted him with a fierceness that vanquished all else.

  She clutched at him, her hands sliding down to his chest, her fingers curling, reaching for the heat radiating from him beneath his shirt. She heard him make a low, husky sound, and his tongue plunged forward, probing the depths of her mouth with hot eagerness. The brush of his tongue over hers sent a spurt of blazing heat through her, and she moaned against his lips.

  His mouth was both gentle and fierce, cajoling and demanding, and she responded to the combination ardently, eagerly. When he drew back his tongue she felt bereft and followed with her own. His low groan when she slipped into his mouth fired her, and she pressed forward urgently.

  He responded quickly, his arms tightening around her, his mouth suddenly fervent and undeniable. He was sapping her strength with every coaxing movement of his lips, every stroking caress of his tongue. Her muscles were turning to jelly, her bones to some molten, flowing liquid, and she began to sag against him.

  He felt her sudden weakness and pulled his mouth away for a gasping breath. "Christy?"

  She looked up at him, dazed, able to think only that he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She reached up with a hand that was trembling and traced his mouth with a slender finger. She saw his eyes close for a moment as if he were in pain. When he spoke, she knew he was in pain; his harsh whisper echoed with it.

  "Help me, Christy. I can't do it alone."

  Help? she thought, perplexed. Then she felt his hands shake, as if he wanted to let go of her but couldn't. She thought she understood then, and moved the hand that had been caressing his mouth to the black tie at his throat. She gave it a tug with fingers made unsteady by the thought of taking off more than his tie; the knot came loose easily.

  "What are you doing?" It was a groan, breaking from him as he grabbed her hands and held them still.

  "You said to help," she said uncertainly.

  "Oh, Lord, Christy, I meant help me stop!"

  "Why?"

  She said it so simply, so innocently, that it took away what little breath he had left. "Because I know what's going to happen if you don't," he choked out.

  "Not here, I hope." She glanced around at the shadowed hallway as if that were the only problem.

  "That," he grated, "is entirely possible." And he knew it was; the way he felt right now, he could easily take her right here and now, in this narrow hall, on this cold tile floor. "Christy, please."

  "It's my fantasy, isn't it? Shouldn't I get to decide how it ends?" She freed one hand and reached for one of the studs fastening his classic pleated tuxedo shirt. She unfastened it and moved to the next with both hands, aware of his eyes watching her every move.

  "Christy." He caught her hands once more, and she could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, could feel the tension radiating from him. He lifted her chin with a gentle but unyielding finger. "Are you sure? I don't want this if you're not. It means too much. You mean too much to me to force this before you're ready." />
  Stop it! she cried silently. Stop making me think, stop being so kind, so gentle, so … so loving! She didn't want reality intruding on this, not now, not when she needed him so desperately. She barely got the words past the choking tightness in her throat. "It's not like it's the first time."

  "Yes, it is," he insisted fiercely. "You—we weren't thinking then. I don't think we had a choice. You do now."

  "Then I've made it." She undid another stud. "Let me have my fantasy, Trace."

  Something disturbed him about her words, but then she parted the edges of his shirt and leaned forward to press her lips against his bare chest, and all rational thought fled. His body came to sudden, full hardness in one wild, surging flood, warning him that this time it would not be denied.

  Like a striking hawk his mouth came down on hers, but it was as if the white-hot talons dug deep into his own vitals. She met his fierceness with her own, taking his lips, his tongue, as he took hers, each wanting to devour the other.

  He shuddered as she slid her hands beneath his open shirt; the feel of her hands on his naked chest snapped the last fragile thread of misgiving. Without breaking that fiery kiss, he swept her up into his arms, heedless of the small silver bag she dropped or the silver high-heeled sandal that slipped from her small, arched foot at his first step.

  She felt like a featherweight in his arms as he strode down the hall, kicking open the door to his room rather than release her to turn the knob. He carried her through; the slam as he kicked it shut again echoed in their ears.

  Christy jerked reflexively at the sound, her head lifting. Her eyes widened; only now did she realize where she was. She had seen this room only once, briefly, when he had shown her the house for the first time. It was huge, airy, made bright and open by huge windows and a large skylight; now it was awash in the silver glow of the moon's last light.

  He set her down beside the big bed that sat beneath the skylight, turned so that the first sight on awakening would be the rolling expanse of the Pacific. She staggered slightly as her one heel-clad foot threw her off balance; his arm was there immediately to brace her as she kicked the shoe off.

  Steady now, she found herself facing the next stud on his shirt, the gap above it giving her a tantalizing glimpse of muscled chest. She lifted her hands, meaning to undo that fastening, but the sleek, hot skin was much too tempting, and her fingers slid under the parted cloth.

  She felt him tense, heard his rapid intake of breath. He let it out in a long sigh as her hands stroked over his chest, only to take it in on a gasp when her seeking fingers found the flat discs of his nipples. She raked her nails gently across that suddenly taut flesh and heard him groan low in his throat.

  She moved quickly then, her fingers hurrying to unfasten the last of the studs, her hands lifting to smooth the shirt back off his shoulders. He twisted to free his arms from the sleeves, and she watched the ripple of his muscles with eyes that had turned to molten silver. When he dropped the shirt carelessly on the bed she leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of his chest as she pressed her lips to his heated skin.

  With another groan he moved them, his hands going to the zipper of the Cinderella dress. It drifted down to rest in a froth of silver and white at her feet, revealing a lustrous teddy of silver silk. It shimmered in the moonlight as she breathed, her breasts rising with each breath.

  Trace shivered with the sudden burst of sensation that ripped through him. He was remembering another time, another place, when she had been clad in shimmering silver. He had taken her in a frenzy then, no less fierce or turbulent than the storm that had raged outside. He felt that same need now, the need to bury himself in the fire he'd dreamed of for so long, the fire he'd feared was gone from his life forever.

  Shuddering, he grasped her shoulders and held her away from him. "Slow down, love," he said thickly. "We've got a long time to make up for."

  "Then we should get started." Her voice was low and husky, and it sent impossible rushes of ice and fire rippling up and down his spine.

  "I've waited three years for this. I want to go slow. Very, very slow."

  At his words, a qualm tried to work its way through the heat pooling deep and low inside her, but Christy banished it without a thought. Tonight was her fantasy, the dream she would live on for the rest of her life. She clung to it so fiercely that she was able to ignore the twinge that went through her when he took a small foil packet out of the nightstand, to protect her as he hadn't been able to on their night of hell and heaven.

  "All right," she whispered. "Slow…"

  * * *

  Ten

  « ^ »

  Trace's hands clenched into fists as her hands went to the thin straps of the teddy. He wanted to reach for her almost as badly as he wanted her to continue; the sight of her undressing for him with that innocent, open sexiness roused him to a fever pitch he'd never known before.

  When she slipped the silver straps off her slender shoulders, the teddy slid downward, only the outward thrust of her nipples keeping it from falling completely. When he looked at the bared curves, when his eyes fastened on the tight little peaks that kept their tenuous hold on the sheer silk, he felt a surge of boiling, swelling heat that told him he was frighteningly near to being out of control.

  He nearly laughed, grimacing inwardly at the memory of the Hollywood sex symbol who had nearly become a sexless symbol. The body that rose to the mere thought of this gray-eyed waif, that drove him to erotic dreams of her that made him feel he had all the control of an adolescent who'd just discovered why men and women were different, had pointedly and repeatedly refused to cooperate for anyone else. He'd wisely given up the attempt before the rumor mill got hold of it, knowing he wouldn't get away for long with "just tired, I guess," for an excuse.

  And now here he was, ready to explode like a green kid at just the sight of her. Desperately he tried to marshal the last remnants of his splintering control. "Christy," he said raggedly, then could say no more.

  She looked up at him, saw his eyes on her hotly, still vividly green, and it was as if he had touched her, caressed her with eager hands. It took her breath away, filling her with the urgent need to have those hands on her, touching her as he had in her dreams. She gave a little shake of her shoulders that sent the teddy slithering to the floor to mingle with the silver-and-white foam of her dress.

  Trace made a torn, choking sound, and she saw his knuckles go white as he clenched his hands into hard, merciless fists. With a slow graceful movement, she slipped off the matching silver satin panties. She stood naked before him, for the first time in her life experiencing the feminine pride of knowing she had the power to do this. At the same time she felt incredibly shy, and the color rose in her cheeks as his eyes, hot and dark now, drank in every sweet curve and shadowed hollow.

  He reached for her, but then he stopped and let his arms drop to his sides, his hands cramping into fists once more.

  "Christy," he choked out. "Lord, I don't dare touch you." He closed his eyes, and she saw a shiver ripple through him. "I'm hanging on by a thread just looking at you."

  "Then maybe I'd better finish what I started," she whispered. She saw every muscle in his belly ripple and then go rigid at the first touch of her hands on his waistband. She heard the low whistle as his breath left him in a rush when she tugged at the zipper. Her cheeks were flaming even hotter at her own new-found boldness, but suddenly nothing in the world was as important to her as seeing that beautiful, sculpted body again.

  Her fingers couldn't help but brush the bulging swell of him as they moved downward, and for the briefest second she thought she felt his hips move convulsively toward her. She heard a low, strangled sound; then every muscle in his body tensed, and the motion stopped.

  Trace knew he was in deep trouble the moment she moved again. Her slender hands slid both the tuxedo pants and his briefs off with slow care, but the freeing of his achingly erect flesh did nothing to ease the painful heaviness that was w
eakening his knees. Not when Christy was caressing him, his legs, hips, lingering in the hollow at the top near his buttocks before she knelt to take off his shoes.

  He'd had women undress him before, but he'd always viewed it with detached amusement, especially when it was so clear in their eyes that their main motivation was to see if the celebrated Trace Dalton body lived up to its billing. There was nothing detached about him now; he was totally, seethingly involved, and only the fear that he would go off like a rocket the instant she touched him kept him from begging her to change the direction of her gentle stroking.

  Christy lingered a moment near the floor, trying to regain what little composure she could before facing him again. She had nearly cried out in stunned surprise when that potent male flesh had sprung free from all restraint. She'd never really seen him in the urgent haste of the storm, and now that she had, she couldn't quite believe it. Had he really been inside her, like that?

  A sudden, vivid memory flashed through her fevered mind, a memory of a wonderful, swelling fullness, driving away that hollow ache, vanquishing all fears. Yes, she thought, oh, yes, he had been there, had filled her until there was no room for fear or pain or doubt…

  They lay down on the bed together. Subtlety was gone now, reduced to a drifting pile of ash in the inferno kindling between them and joined by the cinders that were all that was left of his wish to go slowly. Flames leaped along singing nerves, shimmering, hot and golden, and the firestorm that ignited rivaled Charlotte's intensity.

  Trace's hands slid down her slender shoulders, seeking, searching, until his fingers curved reflexively to cup the firm swell of her breasts. He heard her gasp as his thumbs flicked her nipples, nipples already hardened in anticipation. He couldn't wait another second; he had to have that tight little peak in his mouth. He lowered his head to her, another spurt of unbearable heat searing him at the way the moonlight fell in a tantalizing strip across her breasts, as if drawing him to the nipples that seemed oddly darker in the silver light.