by Beverly Bird
“Appropriate, then,” he answered finally.
She took them, clutching them, holding them to her breast. “Thank you, Adam. They’re perfect.”
And then he finally kissed her.
It occurred to him that he had been playing with it a little, saving it, dancing around it with conversation, because at some point it had clearly become inevitable. And he thought it had happened long before tonight, before she’d asked him with that guileless innocence that was so uniquely her. It was sweet and it was fun to hold the possibility out there on a close horizon and allow its imminence to warm something inside.
His palms were damp. He felt sixteen again as he finally, finally put his arms around her and drew her closer. The cheap red flowers got caught between them.
She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her other arm around his neck to hold him. She was enervated and alive. She was so relieved it seemed to drain the breath out of her, and so excited she could barely draw in more. But he kissed her as he had the first time, over and over again, so she could taste him, could breathe in the scent of him, could revel in it.
“You’re so good at this. I thought that the first time.” She gave a long, shaky sigh and sank into him.
As before, his hands moved. He wasn’t consciously aware of it this time. He needed, so he searched. He craved, so he sought. And somewhere, on some level, he remembered the delightful surprise he had found the first time. There was guilt. It still lingered in the very pit of his stomach. But there was far, far too much pleasure for him to heed it now.
She had always brought him pleasure. She had always been pleasure.
She felt his touch at the small of her back, up and down. To her shoulders, gripping. To her bottom, an intimacy that ignited her with that same longing for more that had come to her in the buggy. He caught her hips, holding her against him. She could feel him growing hard and her heart skipped, then thundered. For her. And then his hands went back to her hair. He pulled the pins out and took handfuls of it again as it tumbled down. He used it to pull her head back, making her mouth open wider. He kissed her harder, more hungrily, his tongue moving deeper, and she was afraid she would die. Here. Now. Too soon.
When his hands moved this time, he lifted her in his arms. She gave a gasp of surprise.
“Not the kitchen,” he said, and looked around dumbly, like a man coming out of a dream. “Somewhere else.”
“My room.”
He went down the hallway and found it easily, the only other door beside the bathroom. And it was everything he’d thought, and a few things he hadn’t.
Here there were personal things. A closet door stood ajar, and he could see lavender and purple and blue dresses. A tattered, faceless doll sat on a mirrorless dresser. And a stack of books, almost hidden beneath the nightstand next to the bed, as if they were something nasty she needed to keep from prying eyes.
Her bed was a twin.
He had a moment of near dumb indecision, because he was a big man. And now he was a big man with needs and wants he’d tried to ignore for too long. He was shaking with them. He looked at the floor, back at the hall, then he swiped the quilt off the bed without setting her down and turned back to the living room.
She said not a word. She watched him, her eyes huge, a little frown forming between them. He dropped the quilt in front of the wood stove and kicked the chair aside. He lowered her to the blanket, and he thought she was blushing. Because her schoolgirl bedroom was not made for a night of love? He laughed hoarsely and kissed her again.
“Wait,” she whispered.
He drew back a little to look into her eyes. “What?” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”
“The quilt. Adam, not this quilt.”
So that was it, he thought. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or weep with frustration. “It’s fine,” he said. “Here is just fine.”
“That’s not it.”
Need clamored in him. Somehow, impossibly, he found patience. “What then?”
“It’s two hundred years old. It’s...famous,” she said solemnly.
“Famous,” he repeated.
“It’s...a legend. And one of our traditions.” She struggled to explain when speaking was the last thing she felt capable of. But he needed to know. It was so important that he know. “You might not want to use it. Before they married, my people did something called bundling.” Now the words flew out of her. She wanted to get them over with. “It meant...well, sleeping together. Just sleeping together. Nothing more. This quilt...that’s what it’s always been used for. Oh, Adam, it’s what I’ve been saving it for. And it’s fine, here, now, with us, but there’s something you must know.”
“Tell me.” His voice was raw. He tried to chuckle. He kissed her again. “Tell me and get it over with.”
“Whoever bundles within it soon marries.”
His heart kicked. “That’s a...uh...rule? Like the Ordnung?”
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “That’s the legend. That’s its magic.”
He looked at it again, where it peeked out from behind her shoulder. Pale ivory. Blue stitching. Big, interlocking rings. And this time when he laughed it was easy and warm.
“Are we bundling, Mariah?”
She nodded seriously. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It’s okay,” he said, and his mouth found hers again. “It’s okay. I don’t believe in magic.”
This was exactly the way he’d wanted it to be, with the natural warmth of a fire, in the place where he’d first seen her with her long hair spilling, in that nightgown. When he’d first started wanting her.
Adam, what kind of women have you known? Not enough and one too many, he thought, and none of them had kept faceless dolls from their childhood or books that were a talisman against everything that had left them lonely.
He leaned over her, smoothing her hair back with one hand. It was trapped beneath her and she leaned up to pull it free, watching him, her eyes wide. Her hair spilled over the quilt then, liquid and dark. He lowered himself carefully to feel her body against his again.
She encircled him with her arms, almost shyly. And it occurred to him that she probably had very little idea where to go from here, but that was okay, too. He had ideas. He was full of them.
“Where were we?” he asked, his voice rumbling.
He rolled over, onto his back, taking her with him. It startled her, but then she realized that they were almost in the same position they’d been in in the buggy. And then she understood what he was doing, that he was picking up where they had left off, and if there had been tears and shame and anger in between, they were gone now, as if they had never been.
Once again, his hands began sliding over her clothing, drawing her skirt up. And this time there were no surprises for either of them. She anticipated the delicious heat that shot through her when he found her skin. He was ready for the smooth warmth and what it did to him.
He realized she had a few ideas of her own. She was moving against him in a way that made him frown uncertainly, jogging one knee then the other, then he felt her stockinged foot slide over his calf. She’d been kicking her shoes off.
He didn’t hesitate. He was too hungry, suddenly too desperate. He’d wanted to make this pretty. But there was nothing pretty about need, nothing soft about desperation. He slid his palm underneath one stocking and worked it down over her knee. He went to the other one and then he moved his hands upward with a determination that he’d been able to bring to only one other pursuit in his life—finding his son.
She felt as if she could read his mind. Or maybe she could only read his eyes. But she knew what he was thinking. She had helped to end one search for him, she thought, even if she’d had selfish reasons of her own. Now she would ease the other. She had no finesse, no experience. But he was a glory, so male, so perfect, and she loved him, so her hands moved with more instinct than thought.
She did to him all those things he had done to her, everything that had made her feel
so good. She threaded her fingers into his hair. It was thicker, more tangled than she would have imagined, and that fascinated her. She remembered the way he had nibbled on her lip and she did it back, and felt elation and something unrestrained flash through her when he groaned.
And, of course, there were her stockings. He had slid them off her effortlessly, with a skill—and, she imagined, experience—that she simply did not possess. She did not think she could manage the same with his jeans. But she tried.
He was hard to the point of pain. It had started with the promise of what they would finally share. It had built to a throbbing urgency with each of her fleeting touches. Her hands were like something gossamer, like the breath of an angel. Each time his body reacted, his blood surging toward that point of contact. And each time it vanished before he could fully appreciate it. She moved on, leaving him straining and wanting more.
He wondered how he would stand it, how he would wait, knew only that he had to. Then her fingers found the zipper of his jeans, brushing over his hardness, and he had to catch her wrist.
“No,” he said hoarsely.
“No?”
“Don’t touch me there. I...won’t be able to make it right. Make it perfect.” And he needed to. Oh, how he needed to. Even now, caught in the throes of wanting her, he knew it would be his only salvation afterward.
“It’s already perfect, Adam,” she chided. “If it gets too much better, I’ll die.”
He was lost. He dragged her arm up, found her wrist with his mouth. Her pulse pounded there and he ran his tongue over it to soothe it, smiling when it only grew more erratic. He would have promised her a next time, a chance to explore when he wasn’t this needy, this close to the edge. He felt something spasm inside him as he realized they probably would not have time for more.
This would have to be enough. This would have to be everything. He tumbled her beneath him again. He found the knot at the back of her waist and pulled the infuriating apron off her. But she wasn’t a woman who could simply wait. For better or worse, through all her life, she had acted on what she wanted, what she needed, even if it cost her in tears. And if he wouldn’t let her touch him, she thought, then she wanted to be free of these clothes so he could touch her.
Together, they finally got the simple cotton dress over her head. He had expected the pristine white bra. The high, daring cut of her panties stunned him as much as the stockings had. And he could feel everything inside him begin to chum with an urgency that wouldn’t be denied much longer.
Her panties were white, too, but not cotton. They were almost silky, and the thighs were cut to the waist band. Her hips were smooth and sloping. he moved a hand along one as his mouth dove to her breast. He took her nipple through her bra, determined not to rush her, but needing, needing...
She cried out and arched into him. Her arms came hard around him, but when he would have expected her to dig her fingers into his sweater and hold onto him while sensation pummeled her, she grabbed the hem of it instead, dragging and tearing it upward.
“Please, Adam.”
And that was when everything went crazy. He forgot about pretty. He forgot about giving her only sweetness to remember. He forgot to savor, because this would be the one and only time. He forgot not to scare her.
She got the sweater over his head at the same time he found the clasp of her bra. She tugged almost angrily, moving the offending wool away. He pushed cotton aside and found skin, and her breasts were perfect. Small enough that his hand covered her perfectly. He parted his fingers and went back for her nipple, and this time she raked her fingers down his back.
He had no memory of getting his jeans off or his briefs. But then his hands were beneath the waist of her panties, shearing them away, too. For a moment her hand fluttered and he thought she would try to cover herself, try to hide the soft black curls from his gaze. As if she were ashamed. But she held his eyes and her hand fell away, almost defiantly. Emotion burned in him and he kissed her again hard.
She wrapped her legs around him and held on, cleaving to him, and she fit as perfectly as he had always known she would. Her mouth went to his neck, below his ear. He moved his head enough to claim her lips again, shifting his weight, pulling her closer, and that easily, that simply he slid inside her as if it were ordained, meant, written in the stars all along.
And then he felt resistance.
For a moment he froze. But on some level, in some unconscious, murky place in his heart, he had known this would be, too. He had known. And it was why he had tried to protest, as best he knew how; why he had tried to be strong against what both his body and his heart had wanted.
“Mariah, I don’t want to hurt you,” he growled.
“You can’t. Ever.”
“You don’t know.” How could he take her virginity from her and go?
He was torn with regret, panic, with indecision between honor and need. But it was too late. It had been too late from the first time she had smiled at him with her hands clasped together in front of her, too late from the first time she had stood beside him in that field watching Bo. It had been too late when she had zipped his jacket for him, and far, far too late when he had found skin beneath her skirt. And now, now that he was already, finally, inside her, it would be agony to go. Such restraint was more than he possessed.
So he pushed. He tried to do it gently, but a growl of pain—his own pain—rolled in his chest, because he knew he was going to hate himself for this later. He felt her back arch a little and he thought he could feel something hot tear through him, as well.
“I’m sorry.” How stupid. How helpless.
Mariah couldn’t answer. Yes, there was pain, brief, hot but somehow galvanizing. For a moment there seemed to be friction, where there had only been liquid fire before. But then something new flooded her. It was still hot, but now it coiled in her muscles; now it throbbed in low, secret parts of her. She moved against him tentatively and heard him moan. She had started out wanting to take something for herself. Now she knew, incredibly, that she was giving something back, as well, and that was beautiful.
Mariah felt the most amazing thing. Pride. Again. And this time it was fierce and strong and glorious.
She moved again, and this time he rocked against her, and then all rational thought died. She was only vaguely aware of him burying his face at her throat. Everything inside her was centered low and exploding.
He said her name, in that gravelly way he had when he was very emotional. And it was sweet enough to bring tears to her eyes.
She had been right. It was her last clear thought. She would remember this moment, this man, for a lifetime, and nothing could ever, ever tarnish that. She clutched the single flower that remained in her hand, wound her arms around his neck and held on.
Chapter 16
Sunlight speared through the living-room window and caught Adam squarely in the eyes. He rolled over on the hard floor, chilled and needing Mariah’s warmth, subconsciously seeking just a few more moments of sleep and peace before the realities of the day sank in. Mariah snuggled backward into him, and his body woke up.
He knew he had to leave her alone. Not for any profound emotional reason—it was too late for that now—but because she would undoubtedly be sore this morning, tender in places she hadn’t known she’d had. He steeled himself against the fresh need that twitched and the ever-present guilt. Then she gave a soft, groaning sound that sounded like, “Cold,” and sat up to reach for the wood stove.
It took her maybe thirty seconds to take two small logs from the pile of wood beside it, and less than a minute to push them inside. Another fifteen seconds passed while she settled them and irritated the lingering embers with a poker. Less than two minutes from the time she’d sat up, the fire was burning again and she’d closed the metal door.
It was plenty long enough.
He watched her with his breath hanging halfway in his chest, enjoying the bending curve of her spine and the way her skin pulled into goos
eflesh, knowing she would welcome his body heat. Her bare bottom had been aimed in his direction as she kneeled and leaned forward. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back to him. She turned as he did and sprawled over his chest.
“How long do we have before you have to go to school?” he asked, his voice like sand with sleep and wanting.
Faint color touched her face, her beautiful face. “Time enough,” she whispered.
“Good. Good.” He caught her mouth again, forgetting whatever resolve and solicitude he had ever tried to possess.
She was amazed, thrilled, that he still seemed to want her this morning. That he would give her more memories to squirrel away. Briefly, with the thought, a cloud seemed to move and blot out the warmth of his touch. But, then, his hands moved to her breasts and there was only sensation again, and such a feeling of goodness inside, swelling to fill her.
This time, today, she would be able to touch him. The night before she had felt as if she were freefalling, tumbling faster and faster without knowing exactly what would greet her when she landed. Excitement still arced inside her now, but his touch was slower, less driven, allowing her more time to melt and explore.
She ran her hands over his chest, delighted with what she found. He was so big, so strong. A fine mat of golden hair covered his skin and she threaded her fingers through it, brushing a thumb over his nipple. She sucked in her breath in surprise when it puckered just as her own had. She did it again, then used her mouth, gasping when he caught her to stop her.
“You keep pushing me,” he growled. “You make it so hard to keep control.”
She smiled. “Good.”
Her hands moved downward. And she was amazed all over again that he wanted her so much, so quickly, even though she wasn’t blond and polished or dressed in the finest fashions. She allowed herself to think once, longingly, of a lifetime of this, of waking every single morning to find him hard and eager, of sharing this with him every dawn. Then she pushed the dream away angrily, because in her world after dawn came cows and milking and plowing pastures, things this man wanted no part of.