SOMEBODY'S HERO

by Marilyn Pappano

  "P-please," she whispered when he drew her nipple into his mouth.

  He knew what she wanted. When he slid his fingers under the elastic of her panties, she instinctively lifted her hips. When he drew them down, she kicked them away, then reached for his jeans, fumbling over the button, rasping the zipper. Her delicate, strong fingers groped inside, wrapping around his erection, and she forgot about his clothes. He struggled out of them, his shirt hitting the cushion, dropping his jeans and briefs to the floor the instant he retrieved the condoms from the pocket.

  "Do you have…?" Panting, she left the question unasked as he pressed one of the packets into her hand. She ripped open the plastic and unrolled the sheath over him with such care that he gritted his teeth on a long, low moan. "Now," she pleaded, tugging at his hips, opening to him, guiding him.

  He slid inside her, filling her, and came, the release so intense that bright light exploded on his eyelids. He shuddered against her, his breathing harsh, his cry guttural when she suckled his nipple between her teeth. But the orgasm was only the beginning. He was still stone-hard inside her, still craving, still needing. Though his body was so sensitized that every breath throbbed with pain, he began thrusting into her, and she met him, taking him long and deep.

  He was in the middle of his third orgasm when she arched beneath him, her hips pumping in frantic little strokes, her breath reduced to nothing more than desperate little pants. Tension shot through her body as she stiffened against him, and deep inside, her muscles convulsed around him, tightening, relaxing, tightening again, draining him.

  Slowly, muscle by muscle, her body softened, even as he softened inside her. He rested his forehead on her shoulder as the rushing in his ears and the pounding in his chest slowly receded. When he could take a breath, he did, and when he could lift his head, he did that, too, to find her watching him with an expression he couldn't quite grasp. Solemn. Satisfied. Sweet. And something more, something serious and intimate and … hopeful. Something that could save him.

  Or destroy him.

  It seemed forever before he could look away—not until she shifted and he realized she bore the bulk of his weight. He moved to the side, disposed of the condom, then turned back to her. "What do you think? Do you still want to share a bed with me?"

  Her stretch reminded him of a sleek, sensuous cat, and her smile was, at the same time, sweet and seductive. "Absolutely. Again and again and again…"

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Tyler's bedroom was exactly what Jayne had expected—masculine, utilitarian, filled with furniture of his own making and amazingly neat. The walls were a buff color, the ceiling tan and the drapes and bedding were coordinating patterns in tan and blue. The lodge-style bed was stained a deep mahogany, while the dresser and nightstands were dark blue with mahogany tops. There were few personal touches—a cut-glass dish on the dresser that held a watch, a wallet and a handful of coins; two dog beds, shoved into opposite corners; and a few family photos that she fully intended to study once she found the strength to move again.

  The only thing out of place was the condom wrappers dropped to fall where they would. And her?

  She was sprawled on her stomach across the bed, a dark blue sheet pulled across her torso, a matching pillowcase against her cheek, her hair pushed up over her head to let her sweat-dampened skin cool. She was so very tired, but not the least bit sleepy.

  She gazed at Tyler, also sprawling, except he lay on his back, one arm folded over his eyes to block the overhead light. He looked magnificent, all smooth brown skin and muscle. He could give any cover model she'd ever seen a run for his money. Sweet and considerate, handsome as sin, an impressive body and incredible energy. What more could a woman ask for?

  Unable to resist, she laid her hand on his rib cage, gliding her fingers over satiny skin, sinewy muscle and bone. She had half expected to see scars, courtesy of his worthless father, but the only ones she'd found were small and could as easily have been the result of typical child's play, work on the farm or hazards of his job.

  Del Lewis had given his oldest son plenty of scars, though—on the inside, where no one could see them but he could feel them.

  She tapped her fingertips on his rock-hard abs to get his attention. "How long?"

  Moving his arm, he opened one eye to squint at her. "How long what?"

  "Over at my house, when I started to touch your—" shyly, slyly, she glanced at his penis, soft now, and grinned when even that caused a slight twitch "—you said it had been too damn long. How long?"

  He opened both eyes but gazed at the ceiling instead of her. "A couple years. Maybe … five."

  She tried to imagine Greg—or any other man she knew—voluntarily going five years without sex, but it was impossible. Greg had resented those few weeks of abstinence before and after Lucy was born—eight, no more than nine. Five years … wow.

  And she was the one he'd chosen to end it with.

  "Because of—what is her name?"

  "Angela. And no, not because of … well, maybe in a roundabout way."

  She turned onto her side, adjusting the sheet so it covered everything vital. She lacked the confidence to lie there totally exposed, not unless he was doing something about it. Besides, a conversation with the man she was falling in love with about the woman he'd once loved—maybe still did love—was best done with protection. "Because she broke your heart."

  "No," he said quietly. Firmly. "She didn't."

  "But you loved her."

  Finally he turned just his head to offer her a wry grin. "Are all you romance writers so hung up on love?"

  "You can't have happily ever after without it," she replied. "Did you love her?"

  "I did."

  Jayne swallowed hard. Never ask a question unless you're prepared for the answer—advice she'd picked up from someone long ago but remembered too late. She'd known he'd loved Angela. She just hadn't been ready to hear him say it. She certainly wasn't ready to hear him say he still did.

  "For a time I loved her and then I didn't. We reached a point where all we were doing was fighting and having sex. I hated the fighting. I'd spent my whole life around it. The sex was still good, but you can't base your future on good sex."

  That was better. Past loves that were entirely in the past were okay. "You must have been hurt when it ended."

  He gave her another of those wry looks. "I must have been?"

  "You moved up here. You isolated yourself from the rest of the world. You stopped having sex. Breaking up with her had one hell of an effect on you. If it wasn't hurt, then what was it?"

  He turned onto his side to face her, tugged one side of the sheet free and covered himself. "It wasn't hurt. It was just … she showed me some things about myself that I didn't like."

  "What kind of things?"

  For a long time he looked at her, then he quietly, deliberately answered, "Private things."

  Jayne swallowed, hoping the pain didn't show on her face. "There's an awful lot about you that I do like."

  After another long silence, he said, "You shouldn't."

  Yes, she should, although she didn't like the fact that he was probably going to break her heart. And it was probably too late to do anything about it.

  "Do you want me to go home?" she whispered.

  For a moment he was so still, so solemn, that she thought he might say yes, but then he slid his arm around her and pulled her across the bed until she was tucked snugly against him. His chin pressed to the top of her head, his muscular leg insinuated between hers, he answered with the same quiet certainty.

  "No, Jayne. I want you to stay. For as long as you will."

  * * *

  She awoke reluctantly Saturday morning, wishing for a few more hours' sleep. But the sun was full-force in her face and Lucy would be up before long, wanting breakfast and adventure and—

  Her bedroom windows faced north and west, she realized, so the only way the sun could hit he
r was if it was midafternoon or the world had turned on its axis. She eased her eyes open and saw unfamiliar linens and furnishings and abruptly remembered the night before. Oh, yeah, the world had turned on its axis.

  She didn't need to look behind her to know that she was alone in the bed. Tyler had held her close long into the night. Every time she'd moved, even in her sleep, she had felt him, smelled him, been surrounded and protected by him. She listened quietly but didn't hear any sound from him.

  As the sunlight advanced, she threw back the covers and sat up. There was no sign of her clothes in the bedroom or the attached bath. She combed her fingers through her hair, rinsed her mouth with mouthwash while wishing for her toothbrush, then located a chambray shirt in his closet. It smelled of fabric softener and, more subtly, of Tyler, as if the very essence of him was woven into the fibers. Sliding her arms into the long sleeves, she buttoned up the front, then opened the door and cautiously stepped out.

  No barks from Cameron and Diaz greeted her. No television. No Tyler. On a meandering journey through the house, she located her sandals by the back door and found her dress and underwear draped over the washing machine and dryer, the fabric damp from the morning dew, but still no sign of Tyler. His pickup was parked out back, though, so he couldn't have gone far. Then she noticed the open workshop doors.

  Maybe he'd wanted her to go home, a twinge of morning-after uneasiness suggested. But maybe he was as much out of practice with morning-after etiquette as she was.

  Stepping into the shoes, she went outside and headed for the barn. Off in the distance, the dogs barked. Nearer, the birds sang unseen in the trees. Those were the only sounds—peaceful, natural—until the whine of a power saw sliced through the air. She stopped in the doorway and watched Tyler a moment. He wore jeans that rode low on his narrow hips, a pair of battered work boots, safety glasses and nothing else. He measured, made another cut, then measured again before he noticed her.

  Laying the glasses aside, he faced her, one hand on the saw table, the other on his hip. He'd stood that way in the kitchen last night just before he'd told her that his mother had killed his father, but all that tension was gone this morning. He looked relaxed. At peace. "Good morning."

  Now that she'd tracked him down, wearing only his shirt, she got a full-blown case of the morning-after nerves. "I … good morning."

  "I didn't expect you to be up for a while. I told you I was coming out here, and you said, 'Uh-huh,' without missing a snore."

  "I snored?" she asked, dismayed by the notion.

  "Delicately. About like Cameron," he said with a grin. Picking up the extra-large mug on a nearby table, he brought it to her before returning to stack the cut boards together.

  The mug and its contents were warm and smelled heavenly of coffee beans, cream and caffeine. Just a deep breath was enough to raise her level of awareness, and a sip warmed her all the way to her toes. "Ooh, you make the real stuff."

  He gestured to the coffeemaker near the sink. "Don't you?"

  Taking another drink, she answered with a shake of her head. She was enjoying her coffee when something he'd said earlier sank into her brain. I told you I was coming out here… He hadn't wanted her to go home. The relief banished the morning-afters completely as she moved farther into the room. "What are you doing?"

  "We're building a pantry today, remember?"

  "Oh, yeah. I thought I was going to help with that."

  "There's plenty left for you to do. Did you find your clothes?"

  She nodded.

  "We're lucky some critter didn't carry them off for nesting material."

  "I'd track down any critter that ran off with my favorite Victoria's Secret bra. It's the prettiest and sexiest one I own."

  "I didn't notice," he remarked as he lifted a sheet of plywood onto the cutting table. "I was more interested in getting you out of it."

  "Which you did quite well." She stopped beside him. "Can I help?"

  "Yeah. Put these on."

  She set the coffee aside, then put on the safety glasses he offered. He pulled her over to the saw, right between the table and his body, and gave her a quick lesson on the tool, but truthfully she was more than a little distracted. His voice was pitched low and occasionally turned a bit husky, and heat fairly radiated off his body. He brushed her breast more than once while reaching to show her something, and the one time she stepped back unexpectedly, she found in an intimate way that he was as fully aroused as she was.

  "Tyler?"

  "Hmm." He nuzzled her ear, and her head instinctively rolled to one side, giving him better access.

  "Can this wait a while?" She reached back to stroke him through the faded denim, then gasped as he slid both hands under her shirt to cup her breasts. She turned, rising onto her toes, wrapping both arms around him, kissing him fiercely, greedily. His hands were between them, making short work of the buttons. Then the shirt was open, exposing her to the morning air, to his hands, to his mouth as he suckled first one breast, then the other.

  Pulling his mouth back to hers for another claiming kiss, she opened his jeans, released his hard, heated length and arched her hips against it, whimpering with the pure raw need to feel him inside her. For one instant she thought of the box of condoms on his nightstand, then he braced her against the table and all thought fled her mind. Knees bent, he filled her with one long thrust before wordlessly coaxing her to wrap her legs around him. Blindly he carried her to another table, this one lower, its height perfect to accommodate them, its surface smoother.

  Sunlight streamed in the windows, and the air was cool against her flushed skin, smelling of wood and Tyler and raw sex. He stroked into her, hard and deep, while his tongue mimicked the action in her mouth and his hands teased and caressed her breasts, her nipples, her belly, between her legs. Sensation was building, gathering, sweet and ragged and sharp, making her muscles quiver and her heart race.

  "Hey, Bubba, I—" Rebecca's voice came from the door behind Jayne, sounding distant through the rushing in her ears. "Oh, my God—I'll go—"

  Jayne knew she should stop, should be embarrassed, should be mortified, but all she could do was plead, with kisses, with words, with touches, for release. An instant later, with one more thrust deep inside her, with one more tormenting stroke from his fingers, she came, and so did he, emptying himself, filling her.

  As soon as the intensity waned, as soon as the fever started to fall and the shuddering began to ease, she lifted her head from Tyler's shoulder. "Please tell me Rebecca didn't walk in on us."

  A thin sheen of sweat coated his face and trickled down his throat as he dragged in a breath to slow his pants. "Sorry. I didn't think I needed to lock the door at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning."

  Now she was mortified. As he pulled out of her, she gathered the edges of the shirt and quickly refastened the buttons from the neck all the way to the hem. He left, going to the sink against the far wall, then came back, his jeans done up, with a handful of paper towels for her. Politely he turned his back while she cleaned up.

  "We, uh, forgot the condoms," he remarked.

  "I didn't forget. I just wanted you too much to wait."

  A muscle flexed along his spine. "You do pretty damn good with bold. You trying to get me hard again before we have to go out there and face her?"

  She slid to the floor and he turned once again. "Why don't you go? I'll just huddle right there." She gestured to a large cubbyhole underneath the adjoining worktable.

  Tilting his head to one side, he studied her a moment before gently unfastening the top two buttons on the shirt. "Are you embarrassed?"

  "That your sister walked in on us having sex?" Jeez, what kind of question was that? She wrote about steamy, wild, superorgasmic sex, but she didn't, as a general rule, experience it, and she certainly didn't get caught experiencing it. Of course she was embarrassed!

  "That you were having sex with me." His eyes were shadowed, his expression hard. He looked so tough and so vulnerab
le that she wanted to close the distance between them and hug him tightly until those looks were long gone.

  Instead she remained where she was and gave a straightforward, no-room-for-misunderstanding answer. "There's not another man in the world I'd rather be with, Tyler."

  After another long moment, he nodded and the vulnerability disappeared. "Do you want to wait here while I send her home?"

  It would be easier for her, though eventually she would have to see Rebecca and putting it off would just make it unnecessarily awkward. Besides, so what if Rebecca had walked in on them? It wasn't as if they'd both been naked and howling, though they'd been close, she admitted. She'd been wearing Tyler's shirt, and he hadn't shucked his jeans. Rebecca couldn't have seen much. Not that she'd needed to see any more than she had, obviously, to know what was going on.

  Abruptly a giggle escaped Jayne. "This is the kind of thing you expect to happen when you're young and sneaking around behind your parents' or your roommate's back. Not when you're grown up and have two houses with four bedrooms with locking doors at your disposal."

  He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Aw, what's the fun of bedrooms with locking doors?"

  "Hey, I wasn't the only one having fun in that bedroom last night."

  "No, you weren't. And just for the record, Jayne, there's not another woman I'd rather be with."

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat and turned away, making a show of looking for her shoes, to hide the sudden dampness in her eyes. "Do you know where I lost my sandals? I had them on when you picked me up."

  "You seem to have a tough time keeping track of your clothing." He bent to pull one out from beneath the table saw and offered it to her.