Jared's Love-Child

by Sandra Field

  Jared lifted his head; with some of her own intensity, he searched for the pins in her hair, drawing them out one by one until her blond curls, rich and shiny, tumbled to her shoulders. He eased her sweater over her head and undid the catch on her bra, tossing it to the floor. Then, watching the play of expression on her face, he touched her breasts through the shining fall of her hair, stroking them to their peaks, teasing her nipples to hardness.

  Her breathing quickened. In the pale moonlight that filtered through the windows his eyes were depthless; she could lose herself in them, thought Devon, and never find herself again. Stifling terror before it could be born, she began undoing the buttons on his shirt. She spread the fabric apart to bare the dark hair curling on his chest, and tangled her fingers in it, the heat of his skin making her blood race in her veins. With sudden impatience he yanked the shirt free of his waistband; it joined her garments on the floor. Devon stepped closer, rubbing her nipples against him, briefly closing her eyes in ecstasy.

  She felt him cup one breast and take it in his mouth, his tongue laving her until she wondered if she could die from sheer delight. With all her strength she held him to her, feeling the hardness of bone beneath his hair, dropping her cheek to rest there. Her whole body felt suffused with sweetness and with incredible promise; Jared, she already knew, had no intention of rushing his seduction of her.

  For seduction it was. Never in her life had she been so gloriously and sensually fondled. Knowing herself beautiful in his eyes, shamelessly hungry for each and every caress, Devon was filled with the longing to give Jared as much delight as she was receiving. They had time, she thought, all the time in the world for a lovemaking she already knew would be beyond anything she’d ever experienced; pierced by desire, she watched the muscles ripple in his shoulders as he raised his head.

  This time he found the zipper on her jeans, sliding the faded denim from her thighs until she was clad only in a pair of lacy briefs. Her cheeks flushed as with excruciating slowness he slid his palms along the taut curve of her waist to the rise of her buttocks, pressing her against his erection.

  “Come to bed with me, Devon,” he said huskily, and for the second time lifted her in his arms.

  Her cheek lay against his chest; she murmured, “I want this to last forever, and I want you inside me so badly I can hardly breathe.”

  He’d carried her into a bedroom whose tall windows were filled with the myriad restless shadows of leaves in the moonlight. Then she was on the bed and he was lying on top of her, kissing her closed lids, her throat, her breasts, as though his one need was to imprint himself on her, to touch every inch of her body. With one hand he drew the scrap of lace down her legs, then, with exquisite gentleness, he parted her thighs, teasing the warm, wet petals of her flesh until she writhed beneath his touch.

  Desperate to be filled by him, Devon reached for the waistband of his trousers; moments later he was naked to her. With the first shyness she’d shown, she whispered, “You’re so beautiful…”

  “Touch me, Devon,” he said, guiding her hand down his corded belly to the hot silkiness of his manhood.

  She curled her hand round him, watching his face convulse, and suddenly knew she had no need of shyness. Not now. Not with Jared. In a single lithe movement she straddled him, then lowered herself until he slid within her, clasped by her tight, sleek warmth. He thrust upward; she gasped his name and rode him, her head falling forward until her long hair almost hid her breasts, aware with every nerve-ending she possessed of Jared grasping her by the hips.

  Still holding her, he rolled so they lay face to face. “This is too fast,” he muttered. “I want you to—”

  She wrapped her thighs around him in a frantic longing to have him as deeply inside her as it was possible. “No…no, now, Jared,” she whimpered. “Now…please.”

  Her words were like a catalyst. He thrust again and again, their rhythms inexorably meeting in an explosion of sensation unlike anything Devon had ever experienced. She cried out his name, and with an all-encompassing joy felt the throb of his release. Wrapping her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could, she closed her eyes, and heard the pounding of his heart inseparable from the racing of her own.

  Until two shall become one flesh…

  She knew what that meant now. Knew it in her bones. How strange that she’d had to wait so long to find out.

  “Devon,” Jared said unsteadily, “are you okay?”

  She opened her eyes. His chest was still heaving; there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Okay?” she quavered. “Nope.”

  “It’s been a long time. I was too—”

  In a surge of what was undoubtedly tenderness, she chuckled, “Okay, you say? Not the right word, Jared. I feel miles beyond okay. I feel marvellously and wonderfully ravished.” And with wicked provocation she stretched as gracefully as a cat, linked her hands behind his neck and kissed him very thoroughly.

  He responded most satisfactorily; so much so that Devon realized she was all too ready to be ravished a second time. Nibbling at his lower lip, she said with artless enthusiasm, “We could do it again. If you like.”

  “Oh, I like.” He grinned, a boyish grin that sent another of those disconcerting waves of tenderness through her. “Had it been a while for you, too?”

  “A very long while.” Like seven years.

  He shifted so he lay on top of her, keeping most of his weight on his elbows. “So you want to do it again, do you, Devon Fraser?”

  She ran her palms down the long curve of his spine, tracing the small bumps of his vertebrae, then the taut rise of his buttocks. “I know you’re ready,” she said naughtily.

  “Can’t hide that.” His smile faded, and as though the words were dragged from him, he said, “You make me feel as though I’ve never done this before…what is it about you that’s so different from anyone else?”

  Devon didn’t want to think about any other women in Jared’s arms. The women of his past, the women of his future. Intuitively she pressed her fingers to his lips. “No talk,” she whispered. “We don’t need words. For one night we belong to each other, Jared. Just one night. Make love to me…and let me make love to you.”

  “There’s nothing I want more,” he said throatily, and, with the lightest of kisses, closed her lids. Her nerves attuned to an excruciating sensitivity, she felt the featherlight touch of his lips on her face, her throat, the hollows of her collarbone; and the whole time she was repetitively roaming the hard planes of his back and shoulders, memorizing them, her nostrils filled with the scent of his body and of their loving.

  How could this not be loving?

  With a fierce concentration, as though she was unutterably precious to him, Jared played with the silken rise of her breasts until her hips were twisting beneath him and her small, broken cries spoke of pleasure and pain. When he lifted her, she went trustingly to his embrace, and when he carried her across the room, then put her down and held her against him in front of the big mirror on the bathroom door, Devon saw a woman she hadn’t known existed: a glowing creature whose pale limbs were eclipsed by Jared’s tanned muscularity, his height, his purely male triumph in his possession of her. She watched him cup her breasts, bury his face in her hair, and trembled with primitive hunger.

  Turning in his arms, Devon kissed him until she could scarcely breathe. Then, in the mirror, she saw him slide his mouth down her body, past her taut nipples, her belly, to the juncture of her thighs. Throwing back her head, she cried out his name, lost to the sweet madness of surrender.

  But before she could tumble into the abyss he lifted her, to lie on top of him on the bed again. He must have felt the frantic thrumming of her heart, seen her dazzled eyes: she had no wish to hide anything from him. With an in-articulate groan, he kissed her fingers and then her mouth, his hair black against the pillow.

  Loving the roughness of his body hair against her breasts and thighs, Devon began her own slow, sensual exploration, sensing how
openly Jared was allowing her the freedom to his body. He was a proud and private man; she’d known that from the beginning. His vulnerability was a gift.

  She could not possibly have abused such a gift; she only craved to enjoy it to the uttermost and to return it to him the best way she could. Her hands, her mouth and all the graceful curves of her body were her own gift to him; with them, she sought to arouse in him the peaks of pleasure that he’d shown her. The arrowed hair at his navel led her further; very gently she took him in her mouth, heard him gasp.

  He lifted her again, and, covering her with his big body, he thrust deep within her. She’d never seen such blazing intensity in a man’s face. If he was conqueror, he was also conquered, she realized with an atavistic thrill of pride. As, of course, was she. Then, inexorably, Devon felt her own rhythms rise to meet his, and again tumbled from ecstasy to the ancient and limitless peace of release.

  Gradually Jared’s harsh breathing quietened, the heavy pounding of his heart slowing against her ribcage. They were equals, she and Jared, Devon thought with distant certainty. Equals. True partners. Holding him in her arms even as she was held, she closed her eyes and let herself drift into the sleep of satiation and fulfillment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN Devon woke, it was still dark. She lay very still, watching the leaves dancing in the moonlight, and for a few seconds had no idea where she was.

  Then she noticed other things: the jut of a man’s hip, the weight and warmth of his thigh over her own, the fan of his breath on her cheek. Her arm was lying loosely over his ribcage, which reverberated to the steady beat of his heart.

  Jared. She was in bed with Jared.

  Her heart dipped in her breast. She was instantly and fully awake, and for a moment could only stare into his sleeping face, as if it might somehow disappear and she’d wake up in her own bed and realize she’d been dreaming.

  A dream or a nightmare? she thought crazily.

  She’d gone to bed on the strength of a few hours’ acquaintance with a man who despised all women, and in particular Devon and Alicia, as money-grabbing opportunists. A man who was, officially, her stepbrother, even though they weren’t related by blood. A man she would be required to meet and be on outwardly friendly terms with for as long as her mother’s fifth marriage lasted.

  Devon swallowed a spurt of near-hysterical laughter. For once, she was on the side of divorce. The sooner the better. How could she have been so stupid, so criminally shortsighted?

  So wanton?

  She dared not start dwelling on all the things she and Jared had done together, here in this very bed, such a short while ago. She’d be lost if she did.

  She had to get out of here. Fast. If Jared woke and kissed her even once, she’d make love with him again. She knew she would.

  She inched her leg from under his, and slid her arm free. He didn’t stir. Very slowly, she eased her body away from him. He muttered something she couldn’t catch. Devon froze, holding her breath. But then he settled again, his breathing resuming its slow, deep rhythm.

  Sitting up, her eyes adjusted now to the dim light, Devon could distinguish the tangle of their clothing on the floor, and felt hot color flood her cheeks. As every detail of how her garments had ended up on the carpet raced through her brain, the sweet ache of desire blossomed instantly in her belly.

  Stop it, Devon! Stop it. You can’t afford to remember the incredible pleasure of making love with Jared. Not now. Not until you’re miles away from him and from “The Oaks.”

  Her feet touched the carpet; she stood up, tiptoed toward her clothes and picked them up. Then, naked, she crept out of the bedroom into the living room. Awkward with haste, she yanked on her sweater and jeans, wincing at the tiny sounds of the zipper, and shoved her feet into her sandals. Clutching her underwear, feeling like a character in a French farce, she turned the door handle and pushed on the door.

  It opened soundlessly and closed behind her just as quietly. Devon scurried down the hallway, trying to get her bearings. Instead of taking the stairs to the kitchen, she turned a corner and found herself in another hall that, to her infinite relief, she recognized. Almost tripping in her haste, she ran into her own room and frantically threw everything that was hers into her open suitcase.

  Car keys…what had she done with them?

  Her hands were ice-cold and for a moment Devon couldn’t even think. But then she saw the keys lying innocently on the bureau, and with a gasp of relief grabbed them and ran for the door. The hall was empty.

  She’d been afraid she’d find Jared blocking her way.

  She took the stairs at a run, undid the bolts on the front door and slipped through. Her red convertible was sitting exactly where she’d parked it yesterday. Yesterday? It was a lifetime ago. Her case bumping against her leg, she hurried toward it.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  Stifling a shriek of alarm, Devon saw a security guard marching toward her, the same one who’d let her into the barn last night. Drawing on every ounce of her coolheadedness, a trait she’d often needed in places like Yemen and Papua New Guinea, Devon said calmly, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. I have to catch an early flight out of Toronto— I should have left last night, but I’d had one too many glasses of champagne. Will I need a pass to leave the property?”

  “I’ll give the guy at the gate a buzz,” he said easily, “and tell him you’re Mr. Holt’s stepdaughter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Safe journey, miss.”

  At the big wrought-iron gates, Devon waved at another guard and accelerated onto the country road. She was a very good driver and she’d have the roads to herself.

  There was no sign of any pursuit.

  Two hours later, after a fast and uneventful drive, Devon was unlocking the door of her sixteenth-floor condo on Queen’s Quay. Stepping inside, she snapped the bolt, put the chain in its slot and dropped her case.

  She was home. She was safe.

  Alicia and Benson were leaving for a Greek cruise today; if her mother phoned, she’d tell her under no circumstances to give Jared her address or phone number. In a couple of days she herself was leaving for Chile.

  As a crushing exhaustion settled on her, Devon lugged her case into her bedroom and switched on the light. Her room was painted sage-green with white trim, the bed had white covers and heaps of white cushions, and her desk and bedside table were bleached pine. The picture windows overlooked Lake Ontario and the Toronto Islands.

  Home. Safe.

  She sank down slowly on the bed. Why had she been so terrified that Jared would follow her? Race after her along the country roads in the middle of the night? It would be the last thing he’d do. One night, he’d said. No tomorrow. He’d said something else: that it was only sex between them. No more. No less.

  She was the one who inwardly had labeled their wild, impulsive night together as lovemaking.

  Her cheeks scorched with shame, Devon knew there were other words that could be used of the short time she’d spent in Jared’s bed. A one-night stand. An easy lay. She pressed her palms to her face, wishing with all her heart she could erase the last twelve hours. Why, oh, why hadn’t she stayed in Yemen? Then she’d never have met him and, under the stress of her mother’s wedding and her own exhaustion, fallen into bed with him. Fallen like a ripe plum from a tree.

  She’d cheapened herself, betrayed all her principles, because a black-haired man with such menacing and beautiful grace had kissed her and carried her off to his bed.

  How could you, Devon? How could you?

  Jared woke to the first low rays of the sun slanting across his bed. The sheets were twisted around his hips; he was cold. Swiftly he reached out for Devon, wanting her body pressed to his in all its delicious warmth and softness.

  His outstretched hand found only more crumpled sheets.

  He opened his eyes. Apart from himself, the bed was empty.

  He sat up with a muttered curse, instantly wide awake. The wat
er wasn’t running in the bathroom and the door, the door with the mirror, was ajar, just as it had been last night when he’d exulted in all the voluptuous curves of Devon’s body. Her astonishing beauty.

  Her clothes were gone.

  He flung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his trousers and hauling them on, his brain racing. Maybe she’d gone to the kitchen to find something to eat and hadn’t wanted to wake him.

  That was it. Of course. Watching her eat the hamburger last night, he’d been amused by her appetite: Lise wouldn’t be caught dead licking mustard off her fingers.

  He strode down the hallway to an unoccupied front bedroom and thrust the sheer curtains aside. Devon’s red Mazda was no longer in the driveway.

  She’d left. Some time in the middle of the night, she’d gotten out of bed without waking him, and left.

  Normally he woke instantly to the slightest sound. But then nothing about last night had been normal.

  Jared dropped the curtains back in place. In his bare feet he padded back to his suite of rooms, closing the outer door. There was a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach and all his movements were slow, like those of an older man. A man who’d had a severe and very disagreeable shock.

  One night, he’d said to her. There’ll be no tomorrow. But he hadn’t said half a night. A third of a night, a quarter of a night. How dared she leave before the night was over? Without as much as saying goodbye to him. Then, with another of those disconcerting surges of hope, Jared ran his eyes over the bedside tables and the bureau.

  No note. Nothing. Only her absence. A bed empty of her laughter, her brilliant eyes, her exquisite body.

  He’d never in his life had his control so swept away by a woman as he had last night. He’d forgotten every one of his rules, all the careful steps by which he usually orchestrated a seduction. Raking his fingers through his hair, he admitted with another clenching of his belly that Devon had stripped him of more than his clothing; she’d removed his restraint, his power, his long-cultivated detachment.