UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  Christy felt three years of longing rage to the surface with the first touch of his mouth on her breast. He tugged the nipple to taut hardness, then suckled so deeply that she cried out, arching toward him. The thick lashes lifted, and she wondered how his eyes could look so green in the silver light. When he paused as he looked at her, she nearly cried out in protest as the wonderful, fiery sensation ebbed. She twisted in his arms, her body begging silently for him to put his mouth on her again. A low sound of pleasure came from him before he spoke thickly.

  "What is it, love?" His hand slid to her other breast, his fingers catching and teasing the nipple. "Do you want me here, too?" She twisted again, moaning. "Tell me, Christy," he urged, needing to hear it, to be sure she wanted it as much as he did.

  "Yes, please," she gasped, beyond embarrassment as her back arched, offering the neglected breast to him.

  Hot, piercing pleasure stabbed through Trace at that shy, innocent offering, and his body clenched fiercely. Once more he knew he was holding on by only a precarious thread of control that was slipping by the second. When he took that eager peak between his lips, circling and teasing it with his hot, wet tongue, she cried out his name so sweetly that he felt it all the way down to that throbbing, pulsing part of him that was so swollen and hard he didn't dare move for fear of shattering into a thousand pieces.

  And then it was Christy who moved, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she twisted away, as if the pleasure had become too much to bear.

  "Please," she gasped out, "I want…"

  "Anything," he whispered hoarsely. "Just tell me."

  "I want… Can I … touch you?"

  He shuddered, closing his eyes against the strength of the need that ripped through him, the need to have her do just that. Followed by the certain knowledge of what would happen if she did.

  "I'm sorry." Her voice was shaken, and she began to pull her hands from his waist. "I shouldn't have—"

  "Christy, no." Somehow he found the power of speech and grabbed at her hands. "It's just that … it's been a long time, and I—" He stopped as he met her eyes and saw the hurt there. Without another word he dragged her hands down his body, clenching his jaw as he spread them over himself.

  Christy's doubts melted away at the astonishing feel of him in her hands. He was hot and hard and satin-smooth, and she could feel every hammer beat of his heart beneath her fingers. Tentatively she flexed those fingers and nearly jumped when he groaned raggedly and his hips jerked, pushing that thick, throbbing length between her palms.

  "Trace?" she whispered, all her wonder and innocence ringing in the single word.

  He muttered something low and garbled and wild; then he shuddered violently as his hips moved again, plunging his eager flesh against her slender hands. And again, until she quickly learned and made the movements herself, adding the stroking pressure of gentle fingers to the convulsive bucking of his hips.

  Suddenly he clenched his teeth to bite back a growling, guttural cry, and she heard a hissed "stop" as his body went rigid. She didn't want to stop; she loved the feel of him, the vital, pulsing heat of him, and all that she was learning from his response to her touch. And she slowly drew caressing, circling fingers up the hot length of him once again.

  The harsh, guttural cry he'd stopped escaped now, spiraling pleasure mixed with a pain and despair she didn't understand. Then she felt the boiling, pulsing explosion begin for him, felt the last convulsive jerk of his hips, and knew why he'd wanted her to stop.

  His body arched up with the tautness of a bowstring. She couldn't be sorry or embarrassed; she was too full of wonder and pleasure that he had trusted her with these most intimate, vulnerable moments, and more than a little stunned at the fierceness of his response.

  When he fell back limply at last, it was a moment before she realized something was wrong, that he had pulled away from her and was muttering something in that tone of remorse she'd heard before.

  "—didn't mean to… I'm so sorry, Christy."

  She reached for him, but he pulled away again. He wouldn't look at her; her heart quailed, and her racing blood slowed in fear as she began to think she had done something horrible in her naïveté. Yet he was carefully gentle when he began to wipe her hands with his discarded shirt.

  "Trace?" Her brow was furrowed in bewilderment.

  He sighed, a sound rife with disgust as he began to clean himself up. "Great," he muttered. "I dream about this night for three years, and when you're finally, really here, I go off like a firecracker with the world's shortest fuse."

  "Is that— I mean, I—" She took a breath and tried again. "Did I do something wrong?"

  He froze, then met her eyes at last, only then seeing her doubt and uncertainty. "Oh, Lord, Christy," he groaned, "I'm sorry. You drive me so crazy that sometimes I forget how innocent you are."

  She flushed, and she couldn't have said if it was because of his remark about her innocence or his admission that she drove him crazy. He saw it and, discarding the shirt, pulled her into his arms.

  "I didn't mean for that to happen," he murmured against her hair. "I … just couldn't wait, not with you touching me like that, not when I've waited so long to feel your hands on me."

  "You … have?"

  "I've thought about it, dreamed about it, wished it, prayed for it… Hell, I would have sold my soul for it, if the devil had ever been around to take it."

  Pleasure flooded her suddenly, unexpectedly. "You wanted me that badly?"

  "So badly I couldn't hold back any better than a schoolboy with a hormone problem," he said dismally. He hugged her closer. "I'm sorry, Christy."

  "No. Don't be. I … it makes me feel … special. That you let me—" She broke off, floundering in her embarrassment.

  "Didn't do much for you, though, did I?"

  "You'll never know how much," she said softly, doing a great deal to soothe his slightly bruised ego. Then she wriggled in his arms and looked at him with a glint in her silver eyes that was suddenly, unexpectedly mischievous. "And I'm getting the distinct impression that you're not quite through yet, anyway."

  She couldn't help her delight; she might be naive, but she had passed basic biology in school and knew that this was not the norm. And no matter how she looked at it, whether he had just been without a woman for too long or he truly wanted her so much, she came out the winner.

  Trace had felt it moments ago, that tingling return of desire, startling him with both its speed and intensity. No matter how hard the logical part of his mind tried to chalk it up to long months of celibacy, his heart knew better. But he could keep his promise now; he could go slow and sweet and long, until she—

  "God," he said suddenly, as her hands found and stroked him with unerring certainty, "you learn fast!"

  Christy smiled, a secret, feminine smile as old as time as she savored the feel of him pulsing to new life beneath her touch. "Teach me more," she whispered.

  And he did, although not in the way she had asked. Instead of showing her how to please him, he seemed unstoppably intent on showing her that he knew exactly how to please her. His hands stroked and caressed every trembling inch of her, seeking out and finding sensitive spots she hadn't known existed, sending currents of heat racing through her from so many places that she thought she would explode when they all merged together in that boiling, white-hot pool deep inside her.

  She couldn't think as his strong, supple fingers made erotic centers out of the most unlikely places: the arch of her foot, the back of her knee, the inside of her elbow. She couldn't breathe when those same fingers found the hotter, secret places, and that hot, swirling pool inside her began to churn under the pressure of a growing, aching heaviness.

  He stroked and caressed her breasts until she was moaning, arching her back to thrust them into his hands, begging him with every bit of silent pleading she could manage to move his fingers that last critical inch and touch her throbbing, begging nipples.

  "No," he said quickly when she
began to close her eyes again. "Look at me, love. I want to see your eyes."

  She hesitated, but then the moonlight was gleaming in wide gray eyes. The moment her gaze met his again his fingers moved, catching and rolling her nipples, tugging gently. A gasp rose from her, and her head rolled back as she lifted herself convulsively, but Trace saw the flare of pleasure, of passion, in her eyes, saw the wonder and the awe.

  He knew then that there had been no one since that night, no one who had touched her like this, made her feel like this. It was a heady feeling, and it strengthened his determination to make this a flight she would never forget.

  He teased and tormented those deep rose crests until she was moaning again, her slender body twisting when his hand slid down over her flat stomach to tangle in the dark curls below, to knead and caress the soft mound. She didn't even realize that she had parted her legs for him, that she had tilted her hips to give him access; she only knew that if he stopped she was doing to die.

  Through the haze of need and pleasure she heard him ask her something, although she couldn't comprehend the words. But whatever it was he wanted of her, there could be only one answer, and she gave it to him.

  "Yes," she breathed. "Oh, yes."

  His fingers moved gently, probing, parting her flesh with exquisite care, pausing only when he had to fight down a shudder of his own when he encountered the slick, wet readiness of her. The knowledge that she responded to him so completely, that she was so ready, was almost his undoing. Unexpectedly, he was thankful now that things had happened this way, that his body had been unable to resist the long dreamed of touch of her hands; he knew he would never have been able to hold out long enough to do what he wanted to.

  He felt her startled jump, her gasp and sudden intake of breath as his fingers moved, and knew he had reached his goal. He carefully, relentlessly began to message that tender spot, that pulsing center, savoring the tiny little cries that rose from her. He felt the heat radiating from her and ordered his mind not to think of what it would be like to sink mindlessly into it, not to remember how tight and hot and sweet she was.

  Christy knew the odd little sounds she heard were coming from her, but she couldn't stop them, couldn't even seem to care. All she knew was that her body had come alive under his hands, and he was drawing her up to some high, dancing place and that she would burst if he didn't take her all the way.

  She felt the first, beginning ripples, and her every muscle tensed as she reached for it, lifting her hips, pressing that throbbing core that had become the center of her world harder against his hand. She cried out his name as her fingers dug into his shoulders, and…

  He stopped. Slowly, that teasing, coaxing hand withdrew, and with a low whimper she lifted heavy lids to look at him. Her heart was thudding, her blood still pounding hot in her ears, and she looked at him in bewilderment.

  "Trace?"

  He smiled, a lazy, satisfied smile, and in the eyes still glowing green in the silver light was a look she'd never seen. "Easy, love," he murmured.

  "But … why…?"

  "Because it's time to start all over." His voice was as thick as honey and twice as sweet. "This time like this."

  He bent over her and pressed hot, feverish kisses over her brow, her lowered eyelids, the tip of her nose. "My hands were just learning the way," he breathed against her ear.

  She gasped, knowing he intended to follow the same long, passionate path with his mouth and knowing she could never stand it. "Trace, no, I can't—"

  "Yes, you can, love. This is the first time we never had, Christy. This is the way it should have been."

  His mouth moved over her, along every path his hands had taken. By the time his lips closed over her nipple, drawing it deep into the hot cavern of his mouth, she was writhing, one soft little cry of his name barely dying away before the next one began.

  Trace felt the pulse pounding in his ears, felt the throbbing, demanding ache rising from his swollen manhood, and ignored it all. Nothing was more important, and, to his amazement, nothing was giving him more pleasure, than watching her fall apart in his hands and under his mouth.

  He felt her tense when he pressed soft kisses across the tender flesh of her inner thighs, heard her suck in her breath when his breath parted the dark curls at their juncture. "Please, Christy. Trust me."

  She shivered, a protest forming on her lips, but a vision of him lying open to her, masking nothing of his unbridled response to her touch, flashed through her mind. He hadn't wanted her to touch him because he had known what would happen, she realized suddenly. But when he knew how much she wanted it, he had held nothing back from her. Could she do any less?

  And then she realized her aching, throbbing body had made her decision for her; her thighs had opened for his gently probing kiss. At the first touch of his mouth, his tongue, she arched in shocked surprise. He stopped.

  "Christy, did I hurt you?"

  "No," she gasped. "I … I just didn't know…"

  A smile curved his lips, and a low, pleased masculine laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "You've only just begun to find out, love," he promised, and bent his head to her again.

  Christy shuddered again and cried out, her body engulfed in a blazing inferno like nothing she'd ever felt before. She cried out again and again, not knowing what she was saying, only knowing that the tension, the building, swelling heat and fire within her had to have some outlet or they would erupt, taking her with them in a fiery explosion that would leave nothing of her behind.

  Her vision blurred at the edges, and all she could see was Trace's bent head and her own hands entangled in his silky hair. She didn't remember moving her hands, didn't remember reaching to push his head away because she couldn't bear any more of this all-consuming fire, then clamping her fingers in his hair to hold him to her because her heart had shifted to that pulsing spot beneath his mouth, and if he left her it would cease to beat.

  Pleasure, hot and bright and shimmering, rose from that hot, boiling turbulence he'd begun in her, and she arched upward fiercely, heedless of the wantonness of her position as she lifted her hips to make it easier for his probing, stroking tongue.

  "That's it," he murmured thickly against her flesh, trying desperately to ignore his body's demands for one final moment. "Open for me, love."

  "Trace … oh, Trace!"

  She knew she had screamed it, but as the explosion began for her, she couldn't stop herself. She barely heard the low growl that ripped from him at that passionate cry, only knew that he had moved suddenly, quickly, leaving her stranded once more on the edge of the pinnacle. No, her mind screamed, she couldn't take it again, she couldn't.

  And then he was there, hot and hard and demanding, groaning low and harsh when his aching shaft brushed her slick, hot flesh. Yes, her mind screamed. "Yes! Now, please, all of you, right now!"

  With a low, guttural exclamation he thrust forward hard and fast, and Christy cried out again. Oh, Lord, it was too much, he was too big, too full, too hard, she couldn't take him, she couldn't hold him…

  The molten, liquid heat broke free then, flooding her with a searing, consuming tide of pulsing, throbbing pleasure that shook her to her soul. She cried out his name, her hands clutching at him, her nails digging, clawing at his back as she bucked wildly, her body clenching around the swollen male flesh that stretched it so sweetly.

  In that moment she felt him let slip his own control, felt the sudden rippling of the muscles beneath her fingers, felt the shudders that swept him and heard the sound of her name ripped from deep inside him. He slammed into her in a final, convulsive thrust, a fierce, triumphant sound erupting from him as he threw his head back and arched himself against her, his body quivering with the explosive violence of pouring himself into her sweet, hot depths.

  Christy awoke to the golden light of morning streaming in through the skylight, turning Trace to a gleaming, perfectly sculpted image before her sleepy eyes. Still naked, he was sitting sideways on the bed beside her, c
ross-legged, his eyes unusually bright and an expression on his face that told her he'd been watching her sleep for some time.

  In the moment when she forced her eyes fully open she saw him make a quick, furtive swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. It was then that she realized the unusual shimmer in his eyes was the sheen of tears, and her throat tightened. She reached for him, wondering what was wrong.

  He took her hand in his, lifted it and pressed a warm kiss against her palm, but made no move to come closer to her. Instead his eyes moved over her, drinking in the sight of her slender body bathed in the pure morning light.

  "I wasn't sure about buying this house until I saw this room," he said quietly, unexpectedly, his voice thick and husky. "But then I knew. I knew you would look just like this in the morning, just like I knew how you could look painted silver by the moon."

  Christy's eyes widened, the last remnants of sleep effectively banished. "You … bought it because of that?"

  "I bought it for you."

  You're the one. This is your house. Eric's words leaped into her mind unbidden, taking her breath away. After all this time…

  "Even when I thought I'd never find you, never see you again, I wanted this place. I tried to fix it up the way I imagined you would like it. It made me feel better, somehow."

  Christy sat up slowly. "You … imagined very well."

  "You like it?"

  "You know I do."

  "I mean really like it? Enough to … live in it?"

  She tensed. She saw him swallow, and he plucked at the fabric of the comforter he had pulled over them last night. A fine sheen of sweat was on his forehead, and she realized that, incredibly, he was nervous. Instinctively, automatically, she turned her hand in his and curled her fingers around his reassuringly. He looked up at the unexpected gesture.

  "I can't let you go again, Christy. It would kill me this time. It damned near did last time."