by Rosalyn West
“And?” she prompted.
A smile of raw sensuality shaped his mouth.
“And I wanted to hear you say my name, saying you wanted me just as much.”
Her resistance evaporated. She swayed against him, pressing her lips to the damp wall of his chest, tasting the salty warmth with greedy abandon.
“I want you, Reeve. I’ve always wanted you. That’s why I came here tonight … for you, for this.”
Her confession absolved him of doubt.
“Do you want to go upstairs with me?”
She damned them both with her husky reply.
“Yes.”
One powerful arm curved about her waist, lifting her out of the circle of discarded clothing, hugging her against him until her head was forced back and her mouth quickly taken beneath his own. In a moment of floating ecstasy, he carried her down the hall, up the curve of the stairs, into his room, straight to his unmade bed. He leveled her across the tangle of sheets, mattress giving under his weight atop her own, as he kissed her hard and openmouthed until nothing existed except those wet, intensely unique textures.
This was what she’d been holding herself for. Not as a proper gift for an unknown stranger her parents might have picked for her, not for a financial ally chosen for her brother’s benefit, but this man, for reasons of love, not propriety. As a gift to convey that love in a way no other could.
He broke away, reaching down to ruck off her drawers, big hands trembling clumsily over the laces to her corset. And through it all, he kissed her, hurriedly, hungrily, along her torso, between the scented valley of her breasts, over the full swells and tender peaks, never lingering in one place even as she arched up in offering, crying out his name.
His legs thrashed, freeing themselves from the hug of denim. And then there was nothing between his hard, toned body and the sleek satin of her skin.
He moved against her, creating an agonizing friction.
“I’m gonna explode if I don’t take you now,” he mumbled frantically into her kisses.
“Then take me now,” she breathed back.
A unison gasp of shock and surprise marked their first joining. Quick, hard thrusts followed, rough with excitement, deep from urgency too long denied. Soon, too soon, he cried out, passions spilling upon that hoarse shout of wonder.
Crushed beneath him, Patrice lay tense, stunned by the invasive hurt, by the pressure of him within her. She shook all over, alarmed by the unexpected pain, intrigued by a brief streak of expanding pleasure that ended with his completion, uncertain of what to do now that all was fait accompli.
Mumbling something that sounded like, “Worth the wait,” Reeve stirred, easing up on his forearms so she could breathe. Too shy with him and with her own emotions, Patrice couldn’t meet his gaze.
“That was … nice.”
When he laughed at her inarticulate description, Patrice glared upward only to melt down to hot butter beneath the intensity of his gaze. His expression held awe and dazed delight and a tenderness that relieved her tremulous fears.
Then he shook the walls of heaven with his quiet claim.
“That was the lightning. Now I’ll bring on the storm.”
Chapter 22
For the next few unhurried hours, they explored the luxury and limits of passion, satisfying curiosities, sating fantasies, tasting, touching, exploring until Patrice slept fiercely in the aftermath of her own discoveries.
“Patrice.”
She moaned, the sound soft and sensual, new. Her head turned to expose the curve of her throat for his nuzzling kisses. Her hand reached languidly to ruffle through his mussed hair, finger-combing it into some semblance of order. After a moment, he spoke again.
“Patrice, you have to go.”
She made a negating noise and rolled to fit against him, no longer bashful or innocent in her welcome of her body’s response to his emphatic differences.
“ ‘Trice, you can’t stay here.”
“Want to,” she murmured, nipping at his shoulder, tonguing the hollow of his collarbone until he groaned and clutched her closer. They nudged and rubbed up against one another, thighs shifting, hands gliding, pressing until, with a lengthy moan, Reeve admitted to himself that there was nothing more he could do about it, at least on this night. He gave her one bruising kiss and rolled away.
“C’mon, Patrice. Let’s find your clothes. I’ve gotta take you home.”
She burrowed into his covers, all soft, honey-sweet sensuality to purr, “I’m at home right here.”
Feeling the irresistible pull of her yearning gaze, Reeve threw himself away from it before he was lost once more. The shock of cold floorboards beneath bare feet cooled lusty passions to a calmer sensibility. He snatched up his denims and shimmied into them. When they were buttoned, he dared look back. A mistake. Patrice, now on her back with knees bent up at alluring angles, stretched creamy arms over her head for the expulsion of a leisurely, luscious yawn. Heat roared through his veins, thundering into his well-satisfied sex with a rejuvenating energy the rest of him couldn’t quite match. Having learned full well the extent of her power over him, Patrice smiled like a sultry temptress and reached out her hand.
“Come back to bed, Reeve,” she crooned in a smoky caress. Her gaze grew heavy lidded.
A feverish chill shook him as he looked upon the substance of his every wish fulfilled—Patrice Sinclair sprawled naked in his bed and still warm from his possession.
And as out of his reach as ever.
Intimacy changed nothing. It made everything worse. Now he knew full well what he was missing. Because passion hadn’t been prefaced with words of love or commitment.
She hadn’t said it was more than that, and he hadn’t asked. She said she wanted him. Want implied a lot of things. A desire of his body, a need for his restorative wealth now that he was Byron Glendower’s heir. He wanted more than that.
He stuffed his fingers between hers, twisting, fisting them together to haul her out of his sheets. Patrice floundered in surprise and put her feet on the floor to anchor herself from being dragged over the edge.
“Reeve, what’s wrong?” There was no cocky self-satisfaction in her voice now. He heard an edge of panic, and it fueled his own.
“Get dressed.”
The brusque command brought a sparkling brightness to her eyes as she asked, “What did I do to make you so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” he lied through the clench of his teeth. He was angry, but at himself, not her. “I just have to get you home before your brother finds out where you’ve been.”
He’d dreamed of winning her love without complications, so he would know beyond a doubt that she wanted just him, Reeve Garrett, accepted at face value. He’d lost his chance at that coveted, precious gift, and he could never get it back. He would never know if she’d shown up at the front steps of the Glade because she loved him or because she wanted to make love with him. Very different, very important meanings to a man of his background.
But Patrice didn’t understand his reasonings. Wrapped up in his sheets and her own indignation, she said, “Is this where you thank me for the good time and sneak me out the back door?”
“No,” he grumbled irritably. “This is where I take you home and sneak you in yours.”
Her pout settled into a more matured frown as consequence settled, scattering any lingering thoughts of intimacy. His curt statement was a correct summation of their situation. She’d come to him in the night, on the sly, they’d stolen a few hours of secret pleasure, but now it was time to get back to the reality of their lives. And she was as cross about that as he was.
“Go saddle your horse. I’ll be out in a minute.” She stood, dragging the sheet behind her like the train of a royal robe. Brought up short when he placed his foot upon it. He gave her a faint smile.
“That looks good on you.”
A return smile flirted across her lips. “Thank you. Save it for me.”
Because there was a
hint of somberness to her teasing, he frowned. “I plan to.”
She searched his face, needing to find reassurance after taking such a huge step away from the strictures of her upbringing. She found it in the sudden mellowing of his gaze.
The ride back to the Manor was a time of reflection, but not regret. How could she regret something so spectacular? But memories alone couldn’t fend off the uncertainty she took home with her.
He wanted to court her. That meant marriage. The flutter of expectation within her breast was stilled by grim circumstance. Deacon would never allow it. The town would never condone it. It formed a delicate balance; what she owed them weighed against what she owed herself and Reeve. She hugged to the broad security of his back, wanting to believe there was enough strength there to shore up her own wavering doubts. The fragile state of her emotions provided a weak defense against her insecurities.
Don’t break my heart.
How she wished she could close out her brother’s urgent plea. How she wished she could face him boldly with what resided within her own. She loved Reeve Garrett, and he wanted her.
Wanted wasn’t the same as loved. Was the other true as well?
She tried to think clearly over the anxious beat of confusion. If not for love, then why else would Reeve pursue her? All she had was the Sinclair name, no fortune to go with it. If he was intent on claiming her in marriage to win his inheritance, he wouldn’t be so concerned about Deacon catching them together. In fact, he’d relish the idea. If it was the result of unbridled passion, why would he show such concern for her now? Guilt? It had to be more. But what? What meant the most to Reeve?
The Glade. Jonah.
This was Reeve’s day of triumph. He’d taken the Glade from the father who’d denied him dignity. He’d taken the fiancée of the man who’d threatened to take his future.
Had their night together been a culmination of desire or an act of revenge and pride?
Reeve reined in the lathered stallion as they approached Sinclair Manor. Damp earth muffled the sound of loping hoofbeats. Her spirit writhed in turmoil by the time he brought her to the door of her darkened home.
“Do you want me to go inside with you?”
His question startled her. Was he thinking to protect her or make a claim upon her? One thought warmed, the other agitated. “No. That won’t be necessary. Everyone’s asleep.”
He twisted in the saddle, giving her a long, inscrutable look that dared her to act ashamed. Her chin tilted up of its own accord, winning his slight smile.
“Well, I’ve talked to you first and you seem to have no objections to my courtship.” Patrice blushed at his confidence then stiffened at his next words. “When do I talk to your brother?”
He saw the fear jump into her gaze, that flash of expression more honest than her hestitant reply.
“Please don’t rush things with Deacon. Let him have time—”
“To what?” His tone was soft yet steely. “Have a change of heart? Patrice, you’re dreaming if you think he’ll ever come around.”
She drew a panicked breath, knowing he was right. “Then give me time.”
“To do what, Patrice?” Seeing her distress, he eased back on his intensity. “Do you have second thoughts about me?”
“No.”
He considered her answer, his reaction to it hidden. “How much time?”
“I—I don’t know, Reeve.”
His guarded look grew, his voice thinned. “Have whatever time you need. But Patrice, I will not sneak around behind your family’s backs. To do so as children is one thing. It left a bad taste then. Until you give me leave to declare my intentions, it’s best we not see each other alone again.”
“I agree,” she said, not because it was what she wanted but because she could see it was the wisest course.
He reached around to assist her dismount, his arm brushing her breasts. Their startled looks collided with jolting awareness.
“Reeve—”
He palmed the back of her head, anchoring her for the hard ravishment of her lips by his. His kiss was different from the others they’d shared. This one hurt as much as it pleasured with its frustrated slanting pressure. Then abruptly it sweetened to a soft feathering of tenderness, telling of his reluctance to let her go with so much unresolved between them. She was gasping and disoriented by the time he let her breathe. Then he lowered her to the steps and, without a word, left her there on unsteady legs, with uncertain heart.
Unaware that her brother witnessed everything from the dark vantage of the parlor window.
It took every ounce of her will to get up the next morning, to leave the fantasy of dreams and go down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. She’d washed vigorously, nearly peeling off skin to make sure Reeve’s scent didn’t linger. Weary and sore, it was torture just to walk upright, but she managed. If she could survive Deacon’s probing look, she could get through anything.
He already sat at the table buttering a biscuit. The knife paused in mid-stroke. Slowly, his gaze lifted, touching on hers, flickering back down before any identifiable emotion registered. He continued slathering on jam, the pressure he applied breaking the biscuit into crumbles within his palm. He let it fall to his plate and wiped his hands off on his napkin.
She settled shakily into her chair across from him and reached for the coffee just as he did. They exchanged a quick look, and Deacon picked up the pot, filling her cup, then his. She could feel the tension in what he wasn’t saying.
Hannah swept in bestowing a bright smile on both of them. “I never sleep so well as when under my own roof,” she declared after kissing Patrice’s brow and allowing Deacon to seat her.
“In your own bed,” Deacon agreed without betraying more.
He knew.
Patrice went cold inside as she sipped the scalding coffee. It took both hands to steady the cup. She waited for him to say more, but his silence was worse.
“I’m going into town this morning to pick up our new dresses from alteration. Patrice, can you be ready in an hour?” Then Hannah’s cool hand pressed to her forehead. “You look a bit peaked. Perhaps you should stay home and rest.”
Rest? At home, alone, with a brother who knew she’d been in a man’s bed?
“I’m tired is all. I’m sure I’ll feel more myself after breakfast.” She supplied a wan smile and risked a glance across the table.
Perhaps he didn’t know where she’d been or who with. Maybe he’d seen her tiptoeing to her room all breathless and blowzy. If he knew it was Reeve, wouldn’t he be on his way to kill him even now instead of calmly eating his grits?
She watched him, growing more agitated by the moment, trying to read something telling into his measured movements.
Finally, Hannah pushed back from the table with a dainty dab at her lips. “I must be getting ready. Unless you’d rather I stayed home, dear?”
Patrice glanced up guiltily to murmur, “No, Mama. There’s no need for that.”
“If she needs anything, I can take care of it.”
Deacon’s cool offer stirred a prickle of gooseflesh.
“Really, Mama, I’m fine. Just let me finish here.” Patrice studied her plain coffee cup, lingering over it, praying Deacon would leave the room without calling her on her betrayal of his trust. Don’t break my heart. It was one thing to discard that wish when in a lover’s arms and quite another to do so within the home he’d struggled to rebuild to keep his family safe.
Deacon sipped at his brew. She fought not to cringe beneath the bore of his stare. Perspiration trickled under her collar, and her breaths grew shallow, fast, as she waited for his next move with all the dread of a small animal in a snare, unable to escape and almost looking forward to the killing blow to relieve the Suspense. She jumped when his chair scraped back. Tremors rose up in tiny eddies as she tracked his progress around the table by the sound of his footfalls.
In the next moments, he had the power to destroy her life.
He sto
pped directly behind her. Carefully, she set down her cup, gripping her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them shake with tension.
Her heart gave a leap as his knuckles grazed her cheek.
“You do feel a little warm. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
She closed her eyes, hysteria swelling, threatening to take hold. If he knew, why didn’t he say so? Why did he keep her twisting in dread, trembling in fear of his condemnation? For the sake of torture? To grind in the fact of his absolute control over her future? To make certain she understood how in error she was to defy him? Confession pressed at her tightly sealed lips, pushed by the need to apologize, anything to earn a reprieve from the calculated stalking perfected while he played the deadly game of espionage.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Deacon. Thank you for your concern.”
“I thought I made it clear last night how important you are to me. I hope you were listening. I hope you heard more than just the words.” His dramatic pause left her close to weeping. “Patrice, is there anything you need to tell me?”
She twisted in her chair, lifting her guileless gaze to his. “No, Deacon. Nothing.”
For the longest moment, he just looked down upon her, seeing right through her deception, right to the lying core of her soul. A flicker of emotion touched his features, so briefly she almost missed it. On anyone else’s face, she’d have thought it compassion, but she didn’t think her brother knew what it was to feel another’s pain.
“Are you sure, Patrice?”
What else could she do?
She smiled up at him, said, “Very sure, thank you.”
His expression remained unchanged from its cool detachment. The words, I’m sorry, forgive me, were so close to escaping, as was the need to feel the tight security of his arms as she poured out all her woes. She hesitated.
Then he told her quietly, “You can trust me, Patrice. I understand more than you know.”