A Wanted Man

by Susan Kay Law

  And now she knew he was a fraud. He could ride after the most vicious criminal or walk into a strikers’ camp with a dozen guns trained on him without the slightest twitch. But he could not enter a cave to get in out of the rain.

  “In my room…you were in my room that night, after my sketchbook was stolen. How?” she asked, her voice conversational and curious, without a single hint of disappointment or reproof. She could have been asking him why he didn’t like cream in his coffee for all it seemed to disturb her.

  “It’s a bigger space. Open windows, lights…sometimes I can handle it, for a little while.”

  “There were no lights that night.”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  She still held his hand. He turned his wrist, curled his fingers so that he held hers instead. Her bones were long, narrow, and felt as fragile as a bird’s. And yet they’d painted those landscapes, huge and magnificent, and gave him a lifeline through the darkness.

  “You distracted me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He was about to shock her. She would know that, somewhere deep inside, no matter how many other things were going on around him, every second he spent in her company he was imagining her naked and beneath him.

  “We were in your bedroom. You were in your nightgown. If I concentrated hard enough on what lay beneath that nightgown, what we could do in that bed, I could almost forget that there were walls around me.”

  Her hand went limp in his. Now she would surely pull away. He had to force himself not to tighten his grip, to hang on no matter how hard she tugged.

  And then she stepped out of the shadows, joining him in the rain. It was marginally lighter outside the shelter of the stone. Her sopping clothes weighed down her slender frame. Her hair clung to her head. She was delicately formed, narrow shoulders, narrow face, her skin pale with cold. It made her eyes look huge and blue, so deep he could fall into them.

  Maybe he would. It had to be a better place in there, with all that gentleness, all that warmth.

  “You need to get back inside,” he told her. “It can’t be good for you to catch a chill.”

  “I’m fine,” she told him. “Truly, I am. And I will. Get back inside, I mean.” She stepped closer. Closer. “When you come with me.”

  “I ca—”

  She stopped his denial with her mouth, full on, open, her tongue slipping in to blunt the formation of the word she didn’t want to hear.

  Her body fell tightly against his, the wet fabric no barrier between them. He felt the heat of her immediately, the swell of her breast and the dip of her waist, the press and retreat of her belly as she gasped into his mouth. The rain pelted his back, cold, persistent. But the fire she sparked was relentless, overpowering.

  His free hand found her back. He swept it down the wet bumpy rope of her braid—she’d lost her kerchief hours earlier—and up again over the long, sleek track of her spine.

  He tore his mouth away. Not to leave her—no, not that—but because there was so much more he wanted to taste. His lips roamed over her face, beneath her ear, along her neck, his mouth filled with the sweetness of the rain, her flesh, life.

  She had started this for him. Laura truly believed she had begun it for his sake. But it couldn’t be that simple, she realized dimly, not when the pleasure surged in her immediately, a tingling ripple of joy that followed the roaming of his hands and mouth.

  She relaxed in his arms while his mouth fastened below her ear, his tongue swirling, hot wild circles against cold flesh, the contrast making the heat blaze all the brighter.

  A sear of lightning, a bright bleach of the landscape, a dazzle flashing in her eyes. And then the crack of thunder, a whip strike through charged air, all her nerves spiking toward bliss.

  Have to get inside. Have to get him safe.

  She tried to cling to sanity. She had a purpose, beyond the drowning flood of pleasure, of the want that she’d never allowed more than the slightest purchase in her life until now. It swamped her, redoubled, a hundred times over, as if the pressure had only built while she’d held it in, tried to ignore it, and it exploded, a hurricane of need.

  Walk. She inched forward, using her body to guide him back. But the motion brought her more firmly against him—her breasts hard against the unyielding slab of his chest, her hips against his pelvis, increasing and decreasing the pressure with each tiny step, a shifting, tantalizing rhythm that brought a moan to her throat, a sound the wind caught and carried into the storm.

  Violence battered her. Not the storm—the fierce emotion, the brutal sweetness.

  She retained enough sense to put her hand on the top of his head, the thick, soaked waves of his hair, and press it lower so he didn’t bang it as they entered the cave. He took it as a sign to move lower; his mouth roamed down her neck to the hollow at the base of her throat, and she shivered—the cold? His touch? Impossible to tell.

  She felt the difference as soon as they stepped inside. The only touch on her back was his, not the pelting of the rain. The sound muted, the temperature rose.

  She kept nudging him forward. Deeper into the cave, deeper into the passion. Into safety? Into danger? She could no longer tell the difference.

  Sam hit the wall. Cold, rough against his back. Distantly he recognized the texture of the wall, the shallow, scalloped indentations from some hopeful miner’s chisel.

  Laura was alive in his arms. Her mouth seared his cheek, the line of his jaw, darted over his skin, silver streaks of pleasure, never resting anywhere long enough for him to savor the feel of her there.

  He captured her head in his hands, held her still for his mouth. His tongue plunged deeply. Sweet, so sweet…he could kiss her a thousand times and never get enough. Hell, he had kissed her a thousand times, in his dreams, awake and asleep, until he thought he might go mad with it, and he’d never come close to the reality of it.

  She stole his breath. The wall was hard, unyielding behind him, the ceiling bare inches above his head. And she pressed against him tightly, squirming close, the hard points of her nipples clearly detectable through the barely there barrier of their wet clothing. It pressed upon him from all sides, the brutal memories, the dream of her against him.

  He tore his mouth from hers, let his head clunk back against the stone, hoping it would jolt the rising terror from him. Or blur his brain enough that he’d forget where he was and just enjoy her. Though he might have hoped for this, he’d never expected it, and oh, it was so much more than he’d imagined. She was so much more than he imagined.

  He closed his eyes. It didn’t help; dark was dark, and he needed the sunlight. His lungs burned, craving air.

  Minutes ago Laura had been miserable. Cold, wet, and ruthless men with a penchant for guns on their trail.

  Now she soared. His neck tasted of rain and salt and man. Her body arched against his, her hips circling without conscious thought, trying to get close enough, never quite managing, but gaining enough of a hint, a luscious taste, to drive her on.

  But he wasn’t responding. She felt it first as a faint frustration: Why didn’t he kiss her back? Why weren’t his hands on her? Why did he just stand there?

  Soon she realized it was more. He held himself too rigidly, his breathing too labored.

  She drew back. Hard to see him in the dark. But she could hear him, desperate gasps for air. She placed one hand on his chest—soaked cotton, no longer cold, the rock-hard plane of his chest beneath—as it bellowed in and out.

  Distraction. She had to be his distraction, she thought, and went to work.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Laura, I’m sorry, I have to—”

  Her hands tore at her blouse. When had the buttons gotten so damned small? They stuck stubbornly in their holes, and her trembling fingers didn’t work nearly as well as they should.

  Finally, she got enough open and yanked the front wide. She shoved her shift down, baring her torso to the chill of the air. She grabbed hi
s wrists and placed his hands squarely on her breasts.

  “Don’t think about the cave. Don’t think about the dark, don’t think about the walls.” She leaned into his hands, still and open against her. “Think about me.”

  “Laura.” His hands rotated, the tough skin of his palms a luscious rasp against her tender flesh. And then he cupped her, lifting, testing their weight.

  She should have been embarrassed. The thought winged in, far in the back of her mind, and tried to take hold.

  But this was a different world than she’d ever inhabited. A different skin.

  The darkness sealed them off from anything she’d ever known. The press of danger hard behind them encouraged her to forget about anything but this moment, this second, for it was all that the world promised them: now. This.

  And so, shameless, aching, she leaned into his touch. Oh, if she’d have known, had even suspected what it could feel like, she’d have done this five hundred miles ago.

  He bent his head and drew her nipple into his mouth. His hair, sleek and wet, brushed her skin, and she winnowed her hands through it, holding him in place, just in case he thought to pull away. He drew in strongly, causing a bright stab of pleasure that arrowed to her stomach…and lower still.

  Sam tried to hold on to his talisman. Laura. Just Laura. Her nipple was hard against his tongue, the texture pebbled, the skin of her breast surrounding it velvety. He kept his eyes closed; it would be dark if they spent a night together, wouldn’t it? He tried to tell himself that this was no different. But the press of the walls still threatened to crush him.

  He straightened, feeling her fingers curl into his hair, hearing her disappointed moan as she arched into him. “I’ll get back to that,” he promised.

  His hands strapped hard around her back, cupped the slight sweet curve of her rump through those ridiculous bloomers. He lifted, spun her so quickly she squealed, and pushed her against the wall so her feet dangled loose.

  Better. No more wall against his back. There was air behind him now, a cool wash of wind coming in from the mouth of the cave mixed with a spray of rain. That helped, too, reminding him of the unguarded opening only a few feet away.

  And she was in front of him. Laura, with her open heart and so many wondrous delights offered freely to him.

  Her butt still rested in his hands. Her breasts were higher, more easily in reach of his mouth, and he bent to them again. They were lovely things, marble-pale and beautifully formed. Despite the strenuous day, that exotic floral scent still clung to her, and it was stronger there in the damp valley between her breasts. He nuzzled the curves, licked slowly over the nipple, then swirled his tongue until he heard her cry out.

  This was supposed to be about Sam. The refrain pounded in the back of Laura’s mind, a dim reminder, a fading lie. For this was for her, too, the sweet oblivion of a man’s touch. She could no longer deny it, could no longer believe it was a rational decision that brought her here. How could anyone think when there was so much to feel? It overwhelmed her.

  Desire. She’d heard the word. Knew people did crazy things in the grip of it, wild and stupid things, and had never understood why.

  Now she did. This feeling had changed the world, had pulled kings and queens and generals helplessly in its wake, caused destruction and glory. She’d sometimes wondered if she’d had it in her, if somehow the capacity to feel this great passion had passed her by, if that was something else she’d surrendered with her youth before she’d ever had the chance to use it.

  But oh, she hadn’t. It had only required the right time, the right man. She reveled in it, gloried in it.

  His hips moved against her, and she gasped. She pulsed back, tilting her hips, and found that spot, right there, where pleasure burst with each movement, intensified with each beat.

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, opening herself to him.

  “Laura.” Oh, she would not survive this. How could she? Her nerves would shatter. She would fall into pleasure, and it would sweep her away. It was too strong, too overwhelming.

  His hips went still, and she nearly sobbed. She tried to do it on her own, straining against him, the firm ridge of him hard against her, and oh why wasn’t he cooperating?

  “We can’t do this.”

  “Of course we can.” She rotated her hips. His hands were still clamped beneath her rear, holding her up, squeezed between the wall and him. She might never touch earth again. “We are.”

  “I’m going to put you down,” he said. “And then I’m going to go outside—”

  “No!”

  “—and cool off.”

  Cool off. It was probably an excuse to get out of the cave, back into the storm.

  Lightning flared, briefly flooding the space with painful brightness, throwing his face into stark relief. White, dark, shadows, pain.

  Shocked at her own boldness, driven by fear and desire and concern, she reached between them and cupped him through his pants. And then was shocked again, for it wasn’t at all what she expected—bigger, harder, hotter.

  This was bold. Fascinating. So different from anything she expected that she had to explore further.

  She dropped her legs to the floor to steady herself and scrabbled for his buttons.

  Inside. She wanted inside.

  There. God. Iron-hard, so hot it might have just been pulled from the forge, longer than her hand, thick enough that when she wrapped her fingers around it they barely met.

  She drew the circle she’d formed of her thumb and forefinger down his length, and air hissed out him. But it was not fear that caused his reaction this time; she was certain of that. Surely the same feelings that gripped her held him, too; they had to. The feelings were too big to be contained in one human alone.

  She leaned back against the wall, thinking it might steady her. But nothing would; her head spun, her stomach fluttered. And as lovely as this exploration was, her hands filled with him, it did nothing to assuage the ache that settled between her legs, and so she released him, sliding her hands around his hips to the hard curve of his rear, and pulled him close, back against her.

  Each thrust of his hips made her gasp. Pleasure, pure and physical. Incredible.

  Laura. All else had fled Sam’s mind. She filled him, the sweet heady scent of her, the warm lithe curves of her against him. Her wet clothes chilled her skin, gooseflesh along her forearms; yet the warmth of her simmered through, her flesh, her heart.

  Oh, she carried a faint scent of horse, her clothes were stained, her hair a wet snarl. But it only showed that she’d fought, first to do the right thing, then to survive. The fact that she’d battled by his side linked them together. And she bound him to her by this moment, a wild generosity that he could not refuse.

  He balanced on the dangerous edge. Her hands upon him, and the way she’d spread her thighs and cradled his hips and ground against him…oh, God. Pleasure drove him hard. He was in danger of finding his peak right against her like the most inexperienced youth, propelled beyond his control by the first touch of a woman.

  He shouldn’t do this. Sanity called to him dimly from some whisper of conscience, immediately drowned out by the wonder of Laura against him, gasping in pleasure, urging him on. Yes, yes, yes.

  He had to feel her. He sought the buttons at the sides of her bloomers, released them in an instant, and shoved his hands below her waistband.

  There. Her bare bottom filled his palms, soft, skin plush as velvet, and he squeezed once, quick and hard, before moving on.

  He had to draw back a bit. She whimpered, tried to yank him back.

  “Not yet,” he whispered. “Only for a moment, I promise, but I have to—”

  He slid his hands around. Probed gently, carefully, while he shook with the effort control demanded.

  She was wet and hot and sleek, and she cried out when he touched her.

  “Gently,” he murmured against her ear. “Gently.”

  But there was nothing gentle about her. She pushe
d against his hand and grabbed his back, her nails digging in, her hips gyrating wildly. Her breath came quick, ragged and harsh.

  And then she let go, struggling to push her bloomers and her drawers down, but they clung to her hips. “Help me,” she panted.

  He shouldn’t. But what man could say “no” to a woman determined to strip? He told himself it didn’t have to mean anything more than that. It was not an admission of what they would do next. Just a chance to glory in her bare and open for him.

  The wet fabric was stubborn, and it took all four hands and a luscious wriggle to inch them past her thighs. But he didn’t have the patience to work them over her boots and left them there, sagging around her ankles.

  He wrapped his arms around her and lifted, leaning her back against the wall. “Come,” she said. “Here.”

  “I—” She pulsed her hips against him, and he felt the glide of her against him, sleek and velvety, and he nearly blacked out with it, overexcited, overheated, overcome.

  “Inside me,” she demanded.

  He tried to protest. But her mouth swallowed his words and her tongue swirled inside and she was right there and he slid inside her a fraction before he realized he’d moved. Maybe he hadn’t moved. Maybe she’d done it, pushing herself forward, impaling herself on him.

  Laura had forgotten her plan. Forgotten everything in the heated maelstrom of pleasure, in the feelings that swelled up inside and took her over and drove her closer, tighter, until she thought that, maybe, if she could be absorbed through his skin, that would get her close enough.

  She would die if she did not have him inside her. Right now, deep and hot. It hurt to not have him there, and so she pressed herself on him, curving her hips until she couldn’t go any farther without his help.

  And then there was another kind of pain entirely. Stretching, burning, and she gasped.

  “Laura?”

  “Don’t stop,” she said. The storm roiled outside the tiny cavern, a violent burst of fury. She wanted him there, with her, in this shelter they’d made of pleasure.

  He shook against her. Fear? Or need? Maybe both. She craved the need. He would want her more than he would fear the dark, more than he would hate the memories. She would make sure of it.