Maggie's Man: A Family Secrets

by Alicia Scott

  Her legs were bare now, bare and tingling from the cold and the moisture. She grazed her fingers up her calf briefly and was grateful to notice that at least she’d shaved. Not bad at all. She’d done it.

  She raised her head to finally meet his gaze for a bold finish … and whopped her head against the dash.

  “Ow!”

  “Are you all right?”

  His fingers slid into her hair immediately. Her eyes stung anyway. All right? Of course she wasn’t all right. His voice was concerned and gentle, just like a damn brother’s, and she didn’t want another brother! The big, stupid oaf!

  She rolled back, straightening at last and staring at him with big blue eyes that were slightly accusing.

  “How is your head?” he asked gently.

  “Hard as a rock,” she snapped back.

  His eyes widened some at her vehemence. “Okay.” But his fingers were still in her hair, not pulling away. And they were making slow, rhythmic circles that sent a fresh rash of goose bumps down her spine.

  “Umm … that helps,” she murmured weakly. Her eyes were closing; she couldn’t help herself. His fingers were very nice.

  “Better?”

  “A little bit more.”

  “Greedy, aren’t you?” She heard the lazy smile in his voice.

  “I’m trying,” she muttered to herself.

  But just as a fresh wave of goose bumps fluttered through her and tightened her belly, his hand drew back. She cracked open her eyes to find his fingers laced together safely on his lap. She looked at those fingers; she looked at the soaked denim sculpting his hard, muscled thighs.

  And God, she was hungry. Just plain hungry.

  For the first time, she understood her mother a little. She didn’t forgive, but she began to understand.

  She was shivering, shivering and shaking, and it had nothing to do with the cold. She wanted those hands back in her hair. She wanted to wrap her bare alabaster legs around his waist and press her high tiny breasts against his chest. She wanted to feel his skin; she wanted to taste it. She wanted to run her hands through his ridiculous haircut and feel the pale stubble on his cheek rasp across her neck.

  She wanted to pounce on him and attack him like a fierce, ravenous feline. Her eyes darkened. Her flesh rippled with the goose bumps and she felt the interior of the car heat another five degrees.

  “Maggie,” Cain said, his voice faint, hoarse. “Maggie, you’re covered in goose bumps.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why … come sit on my lap,” he said abruptly, his jaw tight, his gaze steady. “It will conserve body heat. It’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “All right.” She clambered up on the seat and fell obligingly onto his rain-soaked jeans.

  Immediately his arms were around her, his skin still cold and damp, but unbelievably thrilling around her shoulders. Her fingers dug into his forearm, steadying herself as she leaned against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest. His thighs spread, cradling her on his lap, and though he didn’t say a word, his hands began to briskly rub her arms.

  She released her breath slowly, her eyes wide so she wouldn’t miss a minute of what was happening. She was on his lap, in his arms, and she could smell soap and rain and a faint, masculine odor that was his alone. She wanted to sink her teeth in his neck and inhale him.

  Instead, she carefully leaned her cheek against his chest, focusing on the feel of his bare skin. Smooth. Cool and yet warm, wet and yet vibrant. She could hear his heartbeat, thump thump, thump thump, fast and sure as a stallion’s heart.

  “I can hear it,” she said without thinking. She raised her hand and splayed her fingers across his chest, marveling at the touch, the sound, the scent. “You sound like you’re racing.”

  His hands began to rub her arms faster. “I suppose.” He didn’t sound composed anymore. She shifted on his lap.

  “My hair must be wet against your chest,” she said at last.

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sat up instantly. He pushed her cheek back against him just as fast.

  “You’re fine.”

  She smiled at that, definitely beginning to make progress. If only she could get comfortable. She squirmed a bit more.

  “Maggie.” His voice sounded very strange. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to get comfortable.” She sat up again, planting her hands on his chest and looking at him quizzically. “I think you have something in your pocket.”

  His face looked very strange, as if his lips were trying to do several motions at once. Finally, he said steadily, “I don’t have anything in my pocket, Maggie.”

  “Yes, you do. Something hard and uncomfort— Oh.” Her eyes got very wide. “Oh!”

  “Yes. Oh.”

  “Did I do that?”

  His lips finally curved and he granted her a wry smile. “You might have had something to do with it, yes.”

  Her face broke out into a brilliant smile. “It was the striptease act, wasn’t it? At least until I hit my head.”

  “You didn’t have to do any act, Maggie.” His fingers cupped her head, his thumbs brushing her cheek. “Trust me, you didn’t have to do an act.”

  “What … what do we do now?” she whispered earnestly, hopefully.

  “I would suggest that you stop moving and hopefully the situation will resolve itself.”

  She complied immediately, sitting perfectly still with her hands frozen on his chest as she waited to see what would happen next. After another moment, he said, “You can still breathe, Maggie. Just don’t move.”

  “Oh.” She expelled her held breath and drew in another ragged gulp. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s a basic biological function—it happens. We’re two adults, sitting half-naked in a tiny car, no one around, soft music, pitch-dark night. I haven’t had sex in six years.” His voice got definitely ragged and strangled. “Maggie, I’m sorry,” he said abruptly and his hands wrapped around her waist. “You’re going to have to sit on your side of the car. I can’t do this.”

  She looked up at him, genuinely puzzled. She thought they were beyond all this and moving to the next step, the actual sex part. The part she’d never done before but read a lot about. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” He drew in a deep, fierce breath. “Why not? Do I look like I’m made from stone to you? Do you think I’m so cold and remote that a half-naked woman can sit on my lap and I feel nothing, that I remain in total control?” The words held old anger. She recognized the sound immediately and leaned even closer to him, her breath whispering over his throat.

  “I hope not,” she whispered. “I really hope not.” And then her arms curled around his neck, knocking off his baseball cap, and everything clicked for her. She was no longer thinking of her ancestors or her peer group or what kind of woman she wanted to be or what kind of woman she should be. She simply responded to him, woman to man, and recognized in herself that she’d been capable of this all along. With this man, at this moment.

  Her lips settled on his and she thought he tasted sweet.

  With a groan, his lips opened and succumbed. He suckled her lower lip hungrily and she opened her mouth for him, pressing against him and knowing what she wanted.

  At the last minute, his hands gripped her face fiercely. He dragged back her head until he could find her eyes. She was dazed and hungry, already reaching for him. But his eyes were bright, deep and compelling.

  “Do you understand what you are doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand I have nothing to give you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t need like other people need, Maggie. You can’t reform me, you can’t save me, you can’t own me. I will keep you hostage even after this moment, but I will also definitely let you go once we reach Idaho. You can go on your way. I will go on mine. But I am not one of your lost causes, Maggie—understand
that. I’ve made my choices, taken my chances, and I’m willing to pay for them. Just don’t ask me to pay for your choices—I don’t do that.

  “That’s the way things are,” he warned.

  “All right.”

  “None of that is going to change because of one moment of passion,” he continued.

  “I know,” she said, but she thought that he was lying. Because this wasn’t just one moment and it would change everything.

  His nostrils flared. Some of the composure seemed to leave him, and now she could see the sweat on his cheeks and the raw need burning in his eyes.

  “I’ve never forced a woman, Maggie. I swear on my mother’s grave I’ve never forced a woman. But it’s been a long time and I want you … God, I want you like I haven’t wanted anything. Once we start, I don’t know if I can stop.”

  For the first time, she hesitated. She was afraid. She was an inexperienced virgin and he was a man who’d been around the block, a man convicted of murder.

  Yet she trusted him. There was absolutely no rational basis for it, and that should scare her because she knew she could be overly sentimental. But Cain wasn’t emotional or rash. He was the first man—the first person—she’d met who was clear, concise and up front. He didn’t use guilt or badger or yell or any of the other games her parents had so excelled at. He accepted her as she was. He gave her options and respected her power of choice. He treated her like an intelligent woman. He trusted her word.

  She took a deep breath. She looked him in the eye because he’d always granted her the same courtesy. And abruptly, her hands reached up and gripped his face. “Will you answer one question for me?” she whispered intensely, her eyes searching his gaze.

  He hesitated only for a second. “Yes. For you.”

  “Did you kill Katherine Epstein?”

  His gaze was so steady, so true. “No, Maggie, I didn’t.”

  “I knew it,” she whispered triumphantly and kissed him hard.

  Chapter 10

  Her mouth opened for his immediately. She’d tasted his tongue before and she wanted to taste it again. She wanted him to consume her, wanted to feel the softness of his lips, the warm, sure strokes of his tongue. He surprised her though. She thought he would be rough and eager, tearing at the few remains of her clothes and claiming her with a wild, reckless passion that would never give her time to think.

  Instead, his hands remained on her face, his fingers tangled in her hair. He held her head steady, and instead of being frantic and clumsy, he explored her thoroughly, as if he’d just been granted a special gift and he wanted to know everything about it.

  His lips were soft, soothing. He tasted her lips gently as if they had all the time in the world and at this moment he wanted to simply sip and savor her flavor. Next his mouth brushed her cool cheek, the corner of her eye. He kissed her lashes, and the feel of his lips against her eyelids made her smile. He touched her brow, her hairline, her chin.

  Then his fingers moved slowly, splaying in her damp hair, rubbing her scalp luxuriously. They found the hot, swelling lump from her unfortunate encounter with the dashboard and lingered lightly.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” she whispered, her large blue eyes still mesmerized on his face. “Kiss me again.”

  He smiled. “Greedy, definitely.”

  “Yes.”

  His mouth moved deeper this time, his hands slanting her head so he could delve into her, explore the corner of her lips, the fullness of her lower lip, the moist recesses of her mouth. His tongue grazed over her teeth and she shivered at the new sensation. Then he stroked her, sure, strong, and knowing, and her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him close.

  His mouth left her, but before she could protest, he trailed warm kisses down her throat, tickling, quivering kisses that spiked goose bumps along her flesh. His hands moved, his broad palms curving around to support her lithe back. He bent her toward the steering wheel and she surrendered willingly, offering him her pale throat, delicate collarbone and gently rounded breasts.

  The steering wheel was cold, her hair wet on her shoulders, the air damp and frigid. But his mouth was hot, hot and soft, and she felt it acutely, focusing on it as his lips moved across her chilly flesh.

  His tongue nuzzled her pulse, which beat blue and rapid at the base of her neck. He nipped her throat and tasted the creamy expanse of her shoulder. And then his mouth trailed down to the rising swell of her petite breasts.

  For a moment, she was self-conscious. She opened her eyes, looking at his bent head, the tousled mass of his golden hair, the look of rapt concentration on his face.

  “It’s not much,” she whispered.

  “What?” he murmured. His tongue traced the edge of her bra. Her whole body shuddered with the impact.

  “I used to …” It was very hard to think. “I used to do that ‘I must, I must, I must increase my bust.’” She rowed her arms weakly. “You know, from Judy Blume.” She looked down at her ironing-board chest. “It didn’t work.”

  For his response, he settled her back against the steering wheel and brought his hands around to cup the high, delicate crests. “Maggie,” he said with complete, husky sincerity, “you are perfect.”

  “Oh,” she said dumbly and felt her eyes suddenly fill with tears. “Don’t stop,” she whispered abruptly, her voice frantic and desperate and raw in the rain-filled hush of the car. “Please, just don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.” And his hands moved suddenly, one slight twist and the frivolous material fell away. Her breasts were bare and beautiful, creamy white mounds topped with pale pink nipples. His mouth closed around her, sucking as gentle as a babe and the sensation ripped through her as fierce as a lion. She cried out his name shamelessly. She buried her fingers into his hair and held him against her breast. If he left her now, she knew she would just die.

  Now she could feel the flame. It was inside her, low and bright in her belly, and with every tug of his mouth it grew bigger and fiercer, heating her veins, boiling her blood. She was a wanton; she was shameless. She would dance the lambada in only a black lace shawl to keep this man with her, to run her hands through his hair, to dig her fingers into his shoulders, to listen to his low, steady baritone.

  “Please,” she whimpered. Her head thrashed from side to side on the steering wheel and she no longer cared. His mouth increased its pace, laving her left breast, suckling hard and the darts of passion sparked hot and mad through her blood.

  Her hips found the tempo on their own, her prim plaid skirt tangled around her waist, her bare feet digging into the seat beside his thighs as she arched herself against him. She heard his groan, she heard his ragged breath and then his hand slid abruptly between her thighs, cupping her mound.

  “Maggie, you are so wet,” he muttered, and his fingers slipped inside her plain white panties and plunged into her without further preamble.

  She cried out. She arched her entire body, lifting off the steering wheel, her fingers digging into his scalp, her neck cording with unbelievable tension. The flame was so big now. So big it was consuming her and she’d never felt such heat, such fire. It was bigger than even she was, and when she lost her last grip on reason the conflagration would combust within her, annihilating her, reducing her to ash. And she was terrified and yet already inflamed and wanting the holocaust more than she’d ever wanted anything.

  “Take it, Maggie,” Cain whispered thickly. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

  She fell apart. The desire burst within her and she fell into a million dazzling pieces, weeping, moaning and clinging to his sweat-streaked torso as if he was her last hope on earth.

  Immediately his hands moved, curving around her shoulders and scooping her against his chest. He rocked her small shuddering form against his large, solid body, stroking her cheek and murmuring sweet words of nonsense as her senses blew away like confetti and her body disintegrated to ash.

  I love you, she wanted to whisper, she wanted
to weep. I love you with my whole big, generous heart. Just hold me like this. Just hold me close to your heartbeat and never let me go.

  And then she began to cry in earnest, big, silent tears she couldn’t explain. She’d just never realized how empty she’d been, how cold, how barren, how lonely until he’d wrapped his arms around her and told her she was perfect. It meant so much to her, this man, this moment, this feel of her cheek against his chest.

  She wanted him as she’d never wanted anything. She wanted to sleep curled in his arms—she wanted to wake up with his body already hard and earnest inside her. She wanted to scrub his back in the shower and she wanted to watch him eat breakfast. She wanted to know everything he feared and everything he hoped. She wanted to sit with him in front of winter fires and listen to his low, steady voice tell her about his dreams. She wanted to bear his children and suckle his son at her breast.

  “Maggie, are you all right?”

  No. How can I be all right when I want something I can’t have? She’d been so careful not to want too much in her life. So careful not to dream too grand because she’d lived through her parents’ marriage, and she knew what could happen to dreams.

  And now she no longer cared. She was a Hathaway Red. She wanted it all.

  She pushed herself up on his lap, wiping at her cheeks with her shaking hand. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m … I’m sorry. I … I bet, I—”

  “Maggie.” His fingers curled around her chin and raised it slowly. “Don’t apologize.”

  “Okay,” she said and felt her eyes well up again. His green gaze was so steady, so true, and his callused thumb brushed her cheek, as soothing as a kitten’s lick.

  He was shifting restlessly in the seat. She glanced at his lap, and realized belatedly that he was still hard, still hungry. She didn’t ask and she didn’t hesitate. She reached down her hand and found him through the wet, clinging fabric of his jeans.