“This is lovely,” Marion murmured, her voice low. “I love those old gas lamps.”
Robin uttered a noncommittal sound, then squeezed her hand and quickly drew around to face him. “Forgive me, Marion.”
She blinked, confused, but before she could frame another word, he tipped up her chin, then framed her face with his hands and settled his mouth firmly against hers.
He staggered from the impact. The balls of his feet tingled and the sensation swept from one end of his body to the other, then made the return trek, leaving a trail of goose bumps down the back of his wobbly legs. His hands vibrated strangely, a buzzing radiating out from the center of his palms into his fingertips. His breath momentarily refused to move in and out of his paralyzed lungs and every nerve ending in his body sang from the contact.
Holy hell…
A brisk wind picked up, ruffling his hair, swirling dried leaves around the patio floor at their feet in a mini tornado, as though Mother Nature herself was affected by their energy, the sheer power of their connection.
A startled little moan issued from Marion’s throat—the sweet sound of surrender—then she grabbed hold of his lapels and clung to him. Her mouth was hot and lush, her tongue tangling around his as though she’d been waiting for this as well, as though she’d been as desperate to taste him as he’d been to taste her. He wanted to lick her from one end to the other, feast on her with his mouth and his hands.
If kissing her foot had been a medal-worthy act of restraint, then dancing with her without kissing her—or hell, backing her up against the friggin’ wall, for that matter—had required Herculean strength.
And he wasn’t that sort of mythical hero.
Robin fed at her mouth, savored the plump fullness of her bottom lip, the feel of her gloriously rounded breasts against his chest. He shaped her ripe body more closely to his, followed the line of her spine, her hair a pleasant weight on the back of his hand. The permanent hard-on he’d been privy to for the past hour threatened to leap right out of the top of his pants, and with every savory stroke of her tongue against his, he burned even hotter. Lost just a little bit more control.
As if he’d ever had it to begin with, he thought helplessly. As if he’d ever had any control where Marion was concerned. Laughable. Insane. This was Marion, after all.
His Marion. His lady in red.
The only woman who’d ever gotten under his skin, wormed her way into his locked-down heart. A niggle of alarm surfaced at the thought, but he quickly squelched the sensation, determined to enjoy the moment—enjoy her—at last.
Breathing heavily, he broke away from her intoxicating mouth and trailed kisses along her jaw, along the sweet shell of her ear, and then down the swanlike column of her graceful throat, then followed the neckline of her dress along the tops of her decadent breasts with his tongue, a daring letter M.
She inhaled sharply, a gasp of pleasure, and held on to his shoulders, her fingers digging desperately into the muscles there. Need hammered through him, pummeling away at the last fleeting vestiges of his restraint. He backed her up a few steps, drew her deeper into a shadowed corner. A place for darker, sinful deeds. She clung to him, held fast, and with every pass of his lips over hers, every invasion of his tongue into her greedy mouth, he wanted her more.
Needed her more.
His dick rode high on her belly and she squirmed against him, a silent plea for release. She pushed her hands past his shoulders, around his neck, then framed his face, holding his jaw while she tasted him, her fingers reverently stroking, mesmerizing his senses. There was something intangible in her touch—something potent but unrecognizable—that just did it for him. Always had.
It drove him mad, eroded reason, robbed him of good sense.
And he wanted to take her—right here, right now. He wanted to back her up against the wall, lower her onto his aching dick and exhaust himself in her heat. He wanted to feel the rosy bud of her breast pucker in his mouth while he pushed into her, wanted to feel her hot feminine walls tighten around him, cling to him.
“Do it,” Marion breathed brokenly, her voice low and smoky.
He rocked against her, desperately looking for any sort of relief, any sort of reprieve, wishing to God he’d waited until they’d at least made it to the car before kissing her. He’d planned on waiting until he drove her home—it was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all—but obviously that had been an ill-conceived idea.
“Do it,” she repeated, her icy heavy-lidded gaze finding his, her lips swollen from his kiss. “Whatever you’re thinking.” She tore at the buttons on his shirt, baring his neck. “Do it now, Robin, and to hell with the consequences.”
Clearly she had better insight into his head than he did hers, because she knew damned well what he was thinking, what he wanted. But the time to puzzle over that inequitable situation wasn’t now.
She licked a trail up the side of his neck and hissed a sigh into his ear, one of the single most carnal sounds he’d ever heard. It slithered into his blood, that sibilant breath, and snapped the final thread of his admittedly thinning control.
With a guttural growl, he lifted her up, hiking her dress up in the process, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, then found his mouth once more. “I’m clean,” he rasped. “Tell me you’re protected.”
She had to be. He couldn’t wait, he had to have her.
“Clean and protected. We’re good, Robin, just please—” Her kiss was desperate and demanding, mindless and insistent. A whine of a zipper and a quick nudge of her panties later, he slipped between her hot, weeping folds and thrust into her tight, welcoming heat.
Holy mother of…
He locked his knees to keep himself upright. Sensation rocketed through him, sending flames of heat licking through his veins. He shuddered, held her tighter, trying to absorb every iota of feeling, take it all in and savor each mind-blowing part of it. She sucked in a harsh breath, the sound echoing against the night, and instinctively tightened around him, claiming him, admitting defeat, owning her own need.
Robin drew back and thrust again, a masculine groan of satisfaction as he pumped into her, silently punishing her for ever trying to avoid him, for keeping him at arm’s length, for refusing to let him close. He pounded harder, his hands anchored on her ripe ass. He chastised her with each frantic plunge into her soft body for painting her house pink, for not wanting to let him walk her to her door, for not wanting to let him into her home, for not wanting to let him pick her up tonight.
What had he ever done to deserve that? Robin wondered as she tightened around him, bent forward and nipped at his shoulder. He hadn’t realized how much her stonewalling had bothered him until right now, until he was dick deep inside of her and everything seemed to matter.
Most especially, her.
The feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her. She was everywhere, invading his senses, his very cells, changing his chemical makeup. He lowered his head and suckled her breast through the satin fabric of her dress, teasing the taut nipple with his tongue, and she fisted around him, triggering the first flash of his own release. He shifted, seated her more firmly against him and pumped harder, determined to make her come while chasing his own reward.
She worked herself against him, sucked at his neck, her breath coming in little mewling puffs, her hands tunneling through his hair. He squeezed her ripe ass and a strangled cry broke from her throat, every muscle in her body froze except for the ones convulsing around him, squeezing violently.
He came hard.
A guttural growl dredged from the primordial depths of his soul emerged from his mouth as he poured himself into her, each bone-racking pulse more devastating than the last. It was almost more than he could take—almost too good, if that were possible—the feeling shattering through him. It simultaneously energized and weakened him, made him want to beat his chest and roar, robbed his breath then restored it, as though she was the key to his very existence, the key to…everything
.
And she was, Robin thought in a blinding moment of insight as the last twinges of release melted though him.
She was.
His breath ragged, his gaze sought and found hers. Satisfaction and awe glinted in the pale blue depths along with something else, that perpetually hidden other he could never quite discern.
She smiled then, her wicked mouth curving just so, and his chest squeezed with some unnamed emotion. Sated and momentarily satisfied, he bent forward and kissed her. He smiled against her lips. “The next time we do this, I promise it will be in a proper bed.” A novel change, for sure, though there was something to be said for the night air and the moonlight.
She chuckled low, the sound intimate. “Excellent. How about mine?”
The invitation was issued lightly, but he recognized the significance. His gaze searched hers, pleasure swelling through him. “Yours it is, then.”
For now, Robin thought. But he was going to want her in his, as well.
8
WELL, SHE’D DONE IT, MARION thought, hours later as she lay curled up against Robin’s bare chest. Half a dozen frilly pillows lay forgotten on the floor of her bedroom, the red cape—which he’d insisted she put back on later—spread over them. Contentment and anxiety jockeyed for top-billing, but she ignored them both and focused instead on the warm wall of man beside her.
Tawny curls covered his chest and arrowed down his muscled abdomen, his skin a natural gold. His scent curled into her nostrils, that exotic patchouli and sandalwood fragrance that complimented his own natural aroma. She breathed him in, absently swirling doodles around his belly.
There were many valid reasons why being with him—letting him in—was not a good idea. The money issue, Michael’s death, his grandfather’s part in the loss of her brother, and her own mother’s objections, for a start.
But lying here with him now, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear, it was easy to forget that their relationship, if that’s what this was, would be fraught with complications. She didn’t want to think about those things. She just wanted to be with him. And why not? Why shouldn’t she let him care for her?
Because he did. She knew it.
He cared for her in the same mindless, unwilling, terrifying, inexplicable, uncontrollable way she cared for him. He was as drawn to her as she was to him. She could read it in his eyes, which were, upon closer inspection, not quite as happy and irreverent as he’d like the world to believe.
And the most heartbreaking part? The thing that really made her ache for him? Robin didn’t recognize affection, genuine love born out of warmth and regard. There’d been one blinding instant in their mad coupling against the hotel wall when she’d kissed him, stroked his face, her feelings pouring out of her fingertips, and the flash of uncertainty—the lost, quizzical look in his troubled eyes—would have driven her to her knees if he hadn’t been holding her.
But why would he know anything about that sort of sentiment? Other than his father, there’d been precious little love available to him. Odd, how she used to think that money fixed everything—that if she just had enough, everything else in her world would be perfect. She pressed a kiss against his chest.
Clearly that wasn’t the case and he was living, breathing proof of that. Actually, the closest thing Robin had ever had to a mother was her own, and she’d forsaken him after Michael’s death.
Marion’s heart constricted as an unpleasant insight surfaced—she’d done it, too. Other than that one night a decade ago when she’d let her feelings override her misplaced bitterness, she’d done it, too.
And she had been doing it, even now.
Self-preservation? Most certainly. Fear? Yes, a good portion of that, too. But of what? Him? When he’d never done anything but try to be close to her, to be good to her. He’d been paying for his grandfather’s greediness for far too long, Marion realized. And if he’d proved anything to her over the years—and more recently—Robin Sherwood was a lot of things, but selfish wasn’t one of them.
He’d made it his mission to right her wrongs, to collect each and every one of the outstanding pledges left owed to the clinic. And tonight, when he’d told her that if anyone was unkind to her they’d answer to him… The gravelly warning in his voice—for her, on her behalf—had touched her so deeply, her throat had momentarily closed. She’d never had a champion. She was so used to fighting her own battles, it had simply become second nature. And strictly speaking, she didn’t need anyone to fight her battles for her, but it was nice to know that he cared enough to stand in the gap for her.
“I would have increased your budget, or helped solicit donations. Whatever would have made you happy,” he’d said.
Her happiness, her feelings, what mattered to her.
She swallowed tightly. She could do a whole helluva lot worse than letting Robin Sherwood care for her. She’d do good to remember that.
Lord knows there were so many other things about him that she wasn’t in danger of forgetting. The heat in that wicked hazel gaze when he looked at her, the angle of his head as he bent over her foot, the taste of his shoulder as he pistoned in and out of her, his warm, hard body surrounding hers as she convulsed around him, the look in his eyes as he laid her down on her bed—proprietary, victorious and endearingly uncertain. The exact curve of his best smile, the slightly lopsided grin that somehow managed to hook her heart and tug every time he aimed it at her.
A line emerged between her brows as a thought suddenly struck. “Right before you kissed me tonight, you asked me to forgive you,” she said. “Forgive you for what?”
He chuckled softly, his fingers slipping idly down her arm. “For not having the patience to wait until I walked you to your door to kiss you,” he said. “Believe it or not, I’d had good intentions. I was going to behave like a proper gentleman on our first proper date.”
She laughed. “I guess that makes me a proper tramp, then, since I gave it up so quickly, huh?”
Gave it up, hell. She’d practically demanded it. Do it, Robin, whatever you’re thinking. She’d known exactly what he was thinking—what he’d wanted—and knew that he’d been struggling with his conscience, trying to be considerate of her feelings. Little did he know that her feelings had mirrored his own and were equally depraved.
He turned and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Ha. Trust me, sweetheart. Nothing about getting you into bed has been easy. Hell, you didn’t even want to let me into your house,” he said, laughing softly. “I had little hope of ever making it into your bed. But I should warn you, now that I’m here, I won’t be easily ejected.”
She hugged him closer, nuzzled her nose against his chest and slipped a foot along his calf. “No worries, you’re not in any imminent danger of that.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Were you really okay with leaving the military?”
Though she hadn’t notice a limp, the scars had been hard to miss. His right thigh was covered in them, angry red lines, puckered skin. If this was the result of healing, then she could only imagine what the original wound had looked like.
“I was surprised when I heard that you were coming home,” she continued, feeling him still beneath her. “I figured you’d go into an instructor’s position, perhaps take over some supersecret circle of specialized Rangers or something.” He’d always been so proud of his military service, seeming to think it was the best way to honor his father’s memory.
He released a small breath. “It took me a little while to get used to the idea,” he admitted. His voice was measured, quiet, as though he hadn’t talked about this before. “I’d built a family there—apart from John and his father, I mean,” he added. “I appreciated the structure, the rules and regulations, the commitment to a common goal, a common good. I enjoyed the physical challenges and found the study of military tactics fascinating.”
She was sensing a but…
“But war is
hell, Marion. Death and destruction, broken bodies and buildings, ravaged land. I’ve lost more friends than I care to count.” He paused, swallowed. “If a soldier ever tells you he’s not afraid of dying, then that’s the one person you don’t want beside you. Because you need to be afraid, dammit—that fear is what keeps you alive.”
Marion’s heart squeezed, touched that he’d share this with her.
“After the hit to my thigh, when it became clear that I was no longer going to be able to do the job I’d been trained for, I decided it was time to come home. I wanted to put down some roots—my roots, in my own place,” he said. “That was important. Everywhere I’ve ever lived has belonged to someone else—my grandfather, private schools, the military. I’d never had anything that was just mine.” He chuckled uncertainly, as though he’d revealed too much, described a character flaw. “Does that make sense?”
Marion released a slow breath. “More than you can imagine,” she told him. “How do you think I ended up here? I’d lived at the cottage on the estate, then in a college dorm, then with Mom until three years ago because she didn’t want to be left alone. This was my first place and I was determined that it was going to be all mine, without thought or regard for anyone else who might ever live in it with me. That’s why it’s pink, that’s why there’s no spare room, that’s why there’s no double vanity. It’s mine.”
She felt him grin. “I did wonder about the pink,” he admitted. “Such a girly color.”
She laughed. “Newsflash—I’m a girl.”
He reached over and slid a thumb over her nipple. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’m not in any danger of mistaking you for anything else.”
A delicious shiver worked its way through her and she turned and kissed his chest, inched up, sliding deliberately toward his mouth. “Good to know.”
He gave her a squeeze, drawing her more fully up against him, the hot hard length of him pressing against her. “Spend the day with me tomorrow,” he said, his voice warm and low, rough with longing and something else. Uncertainty, maybe? “Come to the farm.”
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The EqualizerGod's Gift to Women Page 7