Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  How did one go about seduction anyway? She couldn't just go to his room and say, "Would you kiss me again?" She just couldn't.

  Could she?

  Olivia stood there for several minutes in an agony of uncertainty. She was going to feel the pain anyway. But she didn't want to let him go without feeling the pas­sion first, the passion he could offer her, the passion she'd never even known she could feel until he came.

  Olivia thrust her room key into the pocket of her dress and reached for the door handle before she could change her mind.

  When she knocked, all she could think was that if she hadn't heard the clerk correctly, if this was the wrong room, she'd die of mortification. But it wasn't the wrong room. The door swung inward, and Conor stood in the doorway.

  He had removed his waistcoat and shirt. The shirt was bunched in one hand as if he'd just taken it off when she knocked. She'd seen him without his shirt many times, and it should not have unnerved her, but it did.

  "Olivia?" He frowned at her in surprise and tossed the shirt aside. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "There's something I wanted to tell you earlier," she said, trying to keep her nervousness out of her voice and failing completely, "but I didn't have the chance."

  Footsteps from the stairs at the end of the corridor had him glancing in that direction. He swore under his breath and grasped her by the elbow to pull her inside. The door closed behind her and she flattened against it, looking up at him. He did not look pleased to see her. She felt her courage falter. He did not look pleased at all.

  "What is it?" he asked, in a voice that did not sound promising to her intent.

  She took a deep breath. "I told you before that I missed many things when I was a girl." She plucked at the sides of her skirt and had never felt more scared in her life than she did right now. But her gaze did not waver from his.

  "What I didn't tell you," she went on, in a shaking voice, "was that I wanted all those things. I wanted balls and parties and sneaking away from chaperones for romantic strolls in the garden with beaux. I wanted to laugh and dance. I wanted romance. I wanted . . . I wanted to be kissed, but I never was, at least, not until you . . . until we . . . I lied to you about that."

  "Yes," he said. A hint of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and his voice was gentler than she'd ever heard it before. "I know."

  She left off plucking at her skirt and spread her palms wide between them. "So, that's what I wanted to tell you."

  "Olivia, why did you come to my room late at night to tell me this?"

  Her heartbeat quickened to a frantic rhythm. She lifted her face, wet her dry lips, and tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She swallowed twice and gathered all her courage. "I want a little piece of what I missed all those years ago, and you told me that after­noon in the kitchen you could show me, and you did—a little. I want you to show me again, Conor. I want to spend the night with you."

  "Jaysus." He stared at her, his dismay so clear, she wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor. All her courage fled, and painful embarrassment took its place.

  "I'm sorry the idea doesn't suit you," she said, and turned around, reaching for the door handle. She was not going to let him see how it hurt, she was not. She'd already made enough of a fool out of herself. She tried to open the door, but it didn't budge, and she realized the latch was stuck. Her hands desperately worked the handle back and forth, and she heard him come up behind her as she finally managed to yank the door open.

  His palm hit the door beside her, closing it. Though he wasn't touching her at all, she felt the heat of his body behind her as if it were a touch. His warm breath fanned her cheek as he bent his head. "Love, I hope you realize what you're really asking for," he murmured in her ear. "You want me to make love to you."

  She turned around and looked up at him, meeting his intense blue gaze squarely. "Yes," she said. "That's exactly what I want."

  22

  Holy Christ. She was serious.

  He studied her bathed in the light of the lamp and the shadow of his body, and he could not think of what to do or what to say. She was flat against the door, her face pale, her dark eyes wide with ail that wariness that reminded him of a doe in the forest. She looked ready to flee at the slightest danger. She looked completely vulnerable.

  Which was exactly what she was. Vulnerable, inno­cent, and without a clue about what she was asking for. She wanted romance, not sex.

  Conor cursed himself for that afternoon in her kitchen and his own damned teasing, his own cocksure words.

  He could show her, aye. He wanted to show her, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. Hell, his desire for her had been eating at him for over a month now, until he thought sure it would finally drive him mad. But now, when he had her in his sights, when all he had to do was lower his head and kiss her, he found himself unable to move.

  It would be so easy. It would not be easy at all.

  He would hurt her. There was no avoiding it. He didn't want to live with that. He liked her too much, he respected her too much. He reminded himself yet again that she was not his kind of woman. She needed a man who didn't suffer from terminal wanderlust, a man who didn't have demons lurking in his soul, a man who actually liked farming, families, and going to church. She needed and deserved a man who would marry her, stand by her, cherish her, be a father to her daughters. He was not that man.

  "Go back to your room, Olivia," he said before he could change his mind. "I'm no good."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Then you're a fool." He watched her lift her trem­bling chin with stubborn bravado. He sighed. "All right, then, let's just say I'm no good for you."

  "I think I'm perfectly capable of deciding what's good for me." She gazed up at him with those damnable dark eyes. "I think that's you."

  "Tonight, maybe. But not tomorrow when I leave you and move on."

  "I'm not asking for tomorrow," she whispered. "All I'm asking for is tonight."

  "You don't know what you're saying."

  She lifted her hands, and he saw them shake as she hugged herself and rubbed her bare arms as if she were cold. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I want you to make love to me. I may not be . . . experienced, but I know what that means."

  Conor thought of that kiss in the kitchen, and he doubted she had the slightest idea.

  "Don't. . . don't you want to?"

  Did he want to? To lose himself in the softness of her would be a taste of heaven itself. He should turn her down, toss her out, tell her no. He closed his eyes, fighting what he wanted with everything he had.

  "Conor?"

  It was the way she said his name that was his undo­ing. She said it like a caress, with an aching, wobbly tilt that wrenched him, turned him inside out, made him into the vulnerable one. He'd lost, and he knew it. So much for being valiant and noble, and doing the right thing. It had been proven to him a long time ago that he wasn't a hero anyway.

  He opened his eyes. "Don't hate me for this tomor­row, Olivia," he said, and cupped her cheeks, tilting her head back as he brought his mouth closer to hers. "For God's sake, don't hate me."

  His mouth came down on hers before she could reply. Her lips parted freely, and with that first taste of her, he knew there was no turning back. He deepened the kiss, sliding his hands up into her hair.

  His hands found the combs, and as he pulled them free, her hair came tumbling down. The combs dropped to the floor, and he tangled her hair in his hands, reveling in the silken feel of it and the warm, sweet taste of her. He brushed light kisses across her lips and her cheeks as he began walking backward, pulling her with him toward the bed. Arousal coursed through him, and he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth.

  She made a tiny smothered sound of desire, and she quivered in his hold, a fluttering feminine response that his body instantly recognized. He wanted to take her without the preliminaries, without the tenderness she wanted and the finesse
that she needed. He had to slow down.

  He tore his lips from hers and buried his face in the curve of her neck. His hands left her hair and slid down to her slender waist. He trailed kisses along her shoul­der, and his fingers caressed the small of her back as he forced himself to contain his moves, to be patient, to wait.

  He pulled back and looked into her face, watching as she slowly opened her eyes. He had never seen her look lovelier than she did at this moment, with her hair falling in lustrous waves around her shoulders and an expression of dazed astonishment on her face, a look that pleased him more than the practiced smiles or breathy sighs of all the easy women he'd known.

  She smiled that extraordinary smile, tilting her head back, and her eyes closed again as she breathed his name on a tiny sigh. Conor had the feeling he was going to see her like this in his mind, hear her soft, drawling voice echo in his ears for many solitary nights to come.

  His hands left her waist and came up between them, his eyes never leaving her face as his fingers found the top button of her dress, hidden beneath a silken rosette.

  She gasped and opened her eyes again, shying away with the first hint of resistance. "Shouldn't you put out the light?" she whispered.

  He shook his head, and slid the button free. He reached for the next one, then the next. His knuckles brushed against her breasts, then her ribs, as he worked his way down, and he felt her tremble with each button he unfastened. By the time he reached her waist, she was pushing against his shoulders.

  "Oh, please, put out the light," she whispered, turn­ing her face away, blushing in hot confusion.

  "Why?" He bent his head to kiss her neck. "Sure, you've seen me naked," he teased against her ear. "It's only fair that I see you."

  That unnerved her even more. She made a small sound of agitation, and he left off undressing her for the moment. He pulled her against him and began nibbling on her earlobe as his hand caressed her ribs. "Olivia, I don't think I'll be able to unfasten all these hooks of yours in the dark," he confessed. "Besides, I want to see you, look at you. Let me do that."

  She did not reply. He ran his hand up and down her torso in a slow caress, kissed the velvet skin of her ear, her throat, down to her shoulder and back again, every move designed to coax, to persuade, to make her yield. "Will you let me?"

  "All right," she whispered so softly he almost missed it, her body rigid.

  He pulled back and gazed down into her face. "Olivia, look at me."

  She slowly, reluctantly, opened her eyes and met his gaze.

  He shook his head. "No, look at me." He grasped her hand and drew it toward him, placing it against his chest. "Touch me and look at me."

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it there, against his chest until he felt the pulling resistance stop. Her hand flattened against his chest. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she whispered.

  He let go of her hand and spread his arms wide. "Do what you like."

  Her lashes lowered, and she remained still for a long moment, staring at his chest. Then she leaned toward him, fanned her hands against his chest, and touched her lips to the jagged marks of knives and hatred, her kisses as soft and tentative as the brush of a butterfly's wings. All the defensive walls he'd spent a lifetime building collapsed as if they were made of straw.

  Olivia felt a tremor run through him with each touch of her mouth, and it disarmed her to realize that she had the power to do that. Beneath her lips, she felt the raspy softness of the hair on his chest, the hammering of his heart, the rise and fall of his rapid breathing.

  "Enough," he groaned, and his hands tangled in her hair, gently pulling her back. "That's . . . enough for now, I'm thinking."

  He slid his hands to her shoulders and hooked his thumbs under the neckline of her dress, pulled it off her shoulders, down to her waist, and let it fall to her feet. She stepped out of it, and he pushed it out of the way with one foot.

  He tugged at her corset cover, and she knew what he wanted her to do. She lifted her arms, and he pulled the undergarment over her head, then tossed it aside. He lowered his head and trailed kisses along her shoul­der, while his fingers worked to unfasten the front hooks of her corset. Finally, that garment, too, was tossed aside, followed by her petticoat.

  With each piece of clothing he took from her, Olivia's anxiety grew. She didn't want him to see her without her clothes. It was too embarrassing, too agonizing. He must have seen many other women, far prettier women than she; and she did not want the comparison.

  He slid his hands down her spine, reaching for the hem of her chemise. "Lift your arms, Olivia," he said gently. "Let me see you."

  Reluctantly, she raised her arms above her head, allowing him to pull the garment away. He dropped it to the floor, and she could feel his eyes on her body. She could not look at him. She folded her arms over her breasts and squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Yes," he said.

  The one word startled and puzzled her. "Yes, what?" she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.

  "Yes, I think you're beautiful."

  Astonished, she opened her eyes and found him smiling at her. His eyes had that smoky hue that made her feel weak. She watched his black lashes lower as he reached out and grasped her wrists gently to pull her arms away, spread them wide, and gaze his fill. "So goddamned beautiful, it makes my head spin. It does, indeed."

  Relief washed over her. He didn't think she was plain, he didn't think she was disappointing. He thought she was beautiful. He told her so, not just with his words, but with his eyes, his hands, his voice. Her shyness and embarrassment melted away under his heated gaze. "You shouldn't swear, Conor," she whis­pered and pulled one hand free to touch his lean cheek.

  He turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm, then his eyes met hers. They held the wicked gleam she knew so well. "Goddamned bloody beauti­ful."

  He released her other hand, and she watched him sink to his knees in front of her. He unlaced her boots and when he lifted one of her feet in his hands, she grasped the bedpost to steady herself as he pulled the shoe off and tossed it aside. He removed her other shoe, then his hands curved behind her ankles and moved slowly up her calves to her knees, sliding inside her drawers to the garters that held up her stockings.

  His fingers lightly caressed the backs of her knees, and that slow, aching warmth began spreading through her. She felt as if she were melting beneath the magic touch of his fingers, and her hand tightened its grasp on the bedpost. "Oh, my," she gasped. "Oh, my."

  She thought she heard him laugh softly under his breath, but she couldn't be sure. He pulled the ribbon ties of her garters, then slowly slid the stockings down her legs, his hands gliding over her skin like a warm breeze. She lifted her right foot and he pulled the stocking off.

  When he had removed both her stockings, he slid his hands up her legs again, the heat of his touch burning her through the thin lawn fabric of her drawers. His hands moved up her thighs, her hips, to her waist, where he reached for the drawstring and pulled, undo­ing the bow that held up her drawers. He bunched the delicate fabric in his fists and began tugging it inex­orably downward over her hips.

  Olivia felt another wave of embarrassment as she realized what he was doing, what he was seeing, and she tensed, fighting off the impulse to shy away.

  "Lovely," he murmured as more and more of her bare skin was revealed to his gaze. "So lovely."

  He leaned toward her, letting go of the drawers to grasp her bare hips in his hands. She felt the garment slide down her legs to pool around her feet, as he pulled her toward him and pressed a kiss to her stomach.

  Olivia gave a startled cry at the carnal pleasure of that kiss, at the quivering sensations that rippled through her. She let go of the bedpost and reached for him instead, her hands settling on his shoulders to keep herself from falling as he traced kisses across her stom­ach and her ribs, tasting her skin with his tongue.

  His hands moved upward along her hips, following the curve of her wai
st, across her ribs to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly back and forth across the tips. She tilted her head back with a moan, closing her eyes, and her hands tightened convulsively on his shoulders.

  His hands slid to her back, guiding her to bend closer to him. She did, and he opened his mouth over her breast and drew her nipple between his teeth. She felt an incredible pulling sensation that seemed to draw all the breath from her. She lifted her hands from his shoulders to cradle his head, to pull him even closer.

  But he did not come closer. Instead, he pulled back and rose to his feet. He grasped the top hem of the bed­covers and pulled them down to the foot of the bed. He turned to her, and lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and laid her in the center of the bed. She opened her eyes to find him watching her as he began to pull off his boots. She kept her gaze locked with his, unable to look lower while he undid the but­tons of his trousers and slid them off his hips.

  The mattress dipped with his weight as he moved to lie beside her on the bed. Leaning on one elbow, he gazed down at her for a moment, then reached out to touch her face. She closed her eyes and felt his finger­tips lightly graze her cheek, her chin, her throat, then move across her collarbone to brush lightly over her breast. His hand lingered there for a moment, then moved lower, tracing a light, random pattern over her stomach with his fingertips, then lower still. Olivia for­got to breathe as his hand slid between her thighs. When he touched her there, she cried out and jerked against him with a wordless sound, feeling hot little shivers race through her body.

  Shocked by the intimacy of it, she thought she ought to push his hand away, tell him to stop, but she could not. She could not think past the tension and heat that rose within her at the touch of his fingers. She clutched at the sheets, bunching fabric in her fists as she began to move with his hand, unable to stop herself. The tension seemed to build inside of her with every stroke of his fingers. "Conor, oh, Conor," she gasped, feeling as if she were hov­ering on the edge of something glorious and wonderful.