Blue

by Maddie James

  He filled an old pail with water, grabbed his shirt, took one last long look around him, and then went back to Cyan.

  * * * *

  She felt his presence before she saw him. Had she fallen asleep on the blanket? After Devin had left her, she'd rummaged around in the barn and managed to find a couple of half-way decent horse blankets, albeit old and musty, and made a nice little pallet in the stall. She knew that he was exhausted and hurt, and when he came back in, she'd help tend to his wounds.

  He stood over her and she sat up. The last bit of sun crept through the cracks in the barn siding. It would be dusk soon. And they had no lantern. But she could see that he was shirtless, and damp.

  "Let me see you,” she said. “Sit down."

  "I brought you water.” He sat the bucket down on the floor close to her. “If you need something to drink, or sponge off. I can get more from the pump."

  "All you are going to do is sit down here.” And I'm not taking no for an answer.

  Their gazes locked and after a minute, Devin sat on the blanket. Wincing.

  She moved closer. “Tell me where you hurt,” she said softly.

  Devin took a deep breath. “Just bruised ribs. Pretty sure."

  Cyan let her gaze fall to his bare ribs, and firm six-pack of an abdomen, and that beautiful chocolate skin. “We need something to bind them. Make you feel better, at least."

  Glancing around, she realized there wasn't much. The horse blankets were too dense, too difficult to rip. And when she'd been scrounging for them, she'd not seen much else.

  "I'll be fine."

  "No, you won't. Do you have a pocket knife?"

  Devin reached into his pocket and pulled out an old Swiss Army knife. She took it, then rose and wriggled out of her sweats. She didn't look at him but could feel his stare, as she knew he was lying there looking at her in nothing but her panties and shirt.

  She ripped a hole in the legs of both sweats, between knee and thigh, and cut off the legs. After donning the sweats, shorts now, she sat and handed him back the knife. He said not a word, just watched her, as she fumbled with the pieces of fabric.

  "Which side hurts worse?” She finally looked up into his eyes. He held her gaze for seconds too long and Cyan was uncertain how to take his look. So she ignored it. “Which side?"

  "The left is worse."

  "Then the knot will go on the right. Can you sit up a bit?"

  He winced as he pushed up off of his right elbow to a sitting position. Cyan moved closer, beside and facing him. Immediately, she was drawn to the closeness of him. How he smelled; damp and male, steam nearly rising off of him. As she reached under his arms and around his back to position the makeshift bandage, she was so damn aware of his masculinity and the electric charge that seemed to spark off him.

  He didn't move, other than raising his arms slightly, even when she pulled the binding snug around his upper body. Wouldn't show any pain, any sign of weakness. Once, she lifted her gaze from her work and found that his eyes were trained on her face, her eyes, and as they met and held for brief seconds, something more powerful than she'd ever felt before burned between them.

  In time.

  Trust him.

  "How's that?” She finished tucking and smoothing the binding around him.

  "Better.” His gaze was still on her.

  "Good.” She shifted back, glanced down to his thigh. “What about your leg?"

  He grimaced. “Better than the ribs."

  Somehow, Cyan didn't believe him. “There is a lot of blood. I can tell you washed some of it away. Your jeans are stained with it.” She looked back at him. “Have you really looked at it?"

  He shook his head. “No."

  Cyan took a deep breath, and leaned closer to look at the gash in his thigh. “Lay back, Devin. Unbuckle your jeans. They have to come off and I'm going to wash that wound."

  "No."

  She jerked back to look at him. “Excuse me?"

  His brown eyes glistened. “You don't have to take care of me, Cyan. I'm a big boy."

  "And you didn't have to save my life today, either, but you did."

  "That was different."

  "Not in my book. At the moment, there are only two of us here, and it looks to me like we have to band together to get through this thing. I don't think you are in any position to argue with me. Lay back, and let me take care of this.” She carefully began to pull the denim, thick with dried blood, away from the wound.

  "I—"

  Her head whipped back to look at him. “Devin, shut up and do as I say!” She was not in the mood for male arrogance.

  His gaze caught hers and held. Slowly, he reached for his belt, unbuckled it, and then went for the snap of his jeans. Then he lay back, on the right elbow, and slowly lowered the zipper, a half-lazy, bedroom-eyed expression on his face.

  "Have at it, Cyan."

  Something foreign zinged right to her core.

  Shit.

  She moved over him. Ignore the sexual innuendo, Cyan, until you are the one in control. When it's time.

  She smirked, “Lay back, smart ass."

  He did, grinning.

  She reached for the waistband of his pants and tugged. He lifted his hips with a labored exhale, leaning back on his elbows, and she knew she needed to move quickly. He was in pain.

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay."

  But it wasn't. The last thing Cyan wanted to do was quickly remove Devin's jeans. Everything in her wanted to slow down, peel them away, and enjoy the process. But she continued, as quickly and a carefully as possible, because of the wound.

  "Devin, this could hurt a bit. The dried blood has stuck your jeans to the wound."

  "I know.” He winced. “Just do it."

  "I don't want to open the wound up any more than I have to.” She glanced around. The bucket and the other leg of her sweats sat nearby. In a few short movements she retrieved both, dampened the edge of the pants leg, and began to dab at the area of the wound. Once in a while she glanced up at Devin and saw his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, his fists in tight balls.

  "There.” She pushed the jeans to his knees, and then had to remove his hiking boots before she could get them the rest of the way off.

  Devin lay totally back then, propped only slightly against a small mound of blanket-covered straw. She could sense a bit of tension fade away as she glanced back up into his face. She tried like hell not to rake her gaze over his body and linger.

  "I'll just clean it now, see what it looks like."

  He nodded, his right arm thrown over his forehead. The left one he kept close to his injured side.

  Dipping one end of the pants leg back in the water, she dabbed at the wound, cleaned the dried blood away, and examined it. She was no doctor but it didn't look too terribly bad.

  "What's the verdict, doc?"

  "Superficial,” she announced. “If I were an ER doc I'd probably want to do stitches. But I'm not, so I won't. But let me have your knife again."

  His right arm came down, his eyes flew open, and his right brow arched? “My knife?"

  "Yep. Trust me.” Saying those words to him, somehow, felt powerful.

  A few hesitant seconds later he reached into his pocket and handed it to her. After flipping open the blade, knowing he was assessing her every move, she reached for damp sweat pant leg, used the knife to start a rip, and tore the damp part away. She then snapped the knife shut and handed it back to him.

  "For your leg.” She lifted the dry part, and then used it as like an Ace bandage, wrapping his thigh. “No sutures, but this will keep the dirt out right now and keep you from splitting the wound open any further."

  Her hands smoothed the fabric over his muscled thigh and for the first time in a while, she really allowed herself to look at him. Smooth, defined muscles, from shoulders to calves. His boxer-briefs were formfitting, and him lying there somewhat relaxed against that straw, looking into his now lax face, she knew exactly what her next mo
ve would be.

  "Thank you, Ms. Nightingale."

  Her gaze trailed up his chest to his face, where she found a lazy and somewhat confused smile waiting for her. “You're welcome, “she whispered back.

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  Chapter Six

  Her hands lingered on his thigh. Her palms flat against the bandage. And no longer, she realized, could she keep her impulsive desire to touch him—a lot—at bay. Slowly, she slipped her hands downward, closer to his knee, and with light touches, gently massaged. She worked her way down to his calf, repositioning herself for easier access. Touching, rubbing, massaging all the way down to his ankles.

  She moved to his feet then, still hadn't looked Devin in the face, and for the longest time took pleasure in massaging the soles of his feet, pushing her thumbs into pads beneath his toes. At first, he was tense, but as she worked, he relaxed.

  "Cyan,” he croaked, “what are you doing?"

  Slowly, she lifted her eyes to look at him. “Helping you relax."

  He sighed deeply. “I don't need to relax. I need to keep on edge. Better that way."

  Not breaking the connection between them, she leisurely shook her head and breathed, “No, not tonight, Devin. Not tonight."

  Barely a hint of light was left in the barn, but enough that Cyan could see exactly what she was doing. She straddled his legs as she smoothed her hands upward. When she reached his thighs, she carefully avoided the injured one, but took great pleasure in kneading the taut muscles of the other one.

  "Relax, Devin,” she breathed. “Let me."

  "Cyan..."

  She ignored him. Slipped a finger beneath the leg of his boxer-briefs and he jumped. Physically, his body jerked slightly forward, and his cock started a deliberate rise. Cyan moved her hand up under the boxers, along velvet skin, in the crook of his hip and leg, warm and moist, and touched coarse, wiry pubic hairs. He started to protest but she moved quickly over him, straddling his pelvis now, and leaned in closer. Her lips were inches from his. Her crotch tingled with the closeness of his arousal.

  "Let me,” she breathed again.

  "Bad idea,” he murmured back. “Bad, bad idea."

  She shook her head and put a forefinger to his lips. “I don't think so, Devin.” His lips so fascinating to touch, so smooth, firm. Cyan took a moment to trace them tenderly with the pads of her fingers, her thumb, and then moved in closer, to cup his face in her palm. Then gently, softly, touched her lips to his.

  She'd never kissed a man before. Not like this. Led too sheltered a life. Only played with the sons of her bodyguards, kissing games, nothing like this. Nothing.

  The touch of him, his moist lips still at first, as she rained tiny, feather-soft kisses on them. She wanted more, and then reached out with her tongue to trace both lips with the tip. The heady sensation of desire welled up inside her and was almost more than she knew how to handle.

  "Cyan...” Devin hissed.

  He growled and then his right arm came around to claim her, pulled her closer, and his chest swelled against her as he dragged her to him. The kiss deepened, tongues parried, breathing heavy with long pent-up sighs. Cyan was lost. Lost. And she didn't care.

  He broke away and pushed her back before she had time to comprehend.

  "Bad idea.” He managed to get the words out, a little more forceful this time.

  She rocked back on her heels, still straddling him, feeling his struggle within, from head to gut, from brain to cock.

  "You're wrong. It's a very good idea, Devin."

  "Give me one good reason why we—"

  Still breathing heavily, she interrupted. “I'll give you two. One, because we both want it, whether our heads want to admit it or not, we do. Despite all the other shit surrounding us. You can feel it, I can feel it. And two, I need for you to take my virginity."

  He studied her, looking up, bewilderment on his face. “Cyan, I'm not going to take that from you."

  "I want you to."

  "No, I can't."

  "Please, Devin. Let me get rid of this thing that haunts me, the thing that makes people stalk me ... or one of the things, anyway. Please take it away because I don't want it anymore. I don't want to think about the possibilities of my first time being like what I almost experienced this afternoon. Please, help me. Do this."

  He shook his head. “I can't, Cyan.

  "I trust you, Devin. Help me."

  She could see the internal struggle. Feel it. Sense it. Knew there were probably many things about the idea he was wrestling with. And she prayed he'd do what she wanted, needed for him to do. Even though every consequence attached to it scared the hell out of her.

  Placing her hands lightly on his chest, she leaned forward somewhat, while moving her crotch down more firmly over him.

  "Cyan...” he warned.

  "Devin,” she breathed, begged, looking into his eyes, “you saved me this afternoon, please save me again tonight. Kiss me."

  His eyes grew full with emotion and she sensed that it was difficult for him to rein it in. With his right hand, he reached up to her face, and smoothed a few errant pieces of hair away from her forehead. His gaze played over her, taking in each feature as his fingertips explored, touched, caressed. Her breathing deepened as he smoothed a thumb under her eye, where she suddenly realized it was moist.

  "Don't cry, Cyan,” he whispered. “I won't hurt you."

  She nodded. “I know you won't."

  A slight small broke across his lips. “I'm more afraid you will hurt me."

  She pondered that, not sure if he meant physically, or otherwise. “I'll try my damnedest not to."

  "I know."

  They were speaking in metaphors.

  She took his words as permission, so she lowered her lips to him and kissed him again. And he took her kisses hungrily. Powerful, explosive, his kiss rocked her to her core. And she realized she needed to slow down, just a little, and get a handle on just what she about to do.

  So she finished the kiss, measured and lazy, and then guided her lips slowly down his chin, neck and chest. His hands played over her face, her back, grasped the hair at the back of her head. She smoothed her palms over the planes of his chest, her moist kisses on a lazy trail south, as she backed down his body. She relished in the deep even breaths he took, exhaled, lifting and lowering his chest in even rhythm. In acceptance. And it thrilled her.

  She lingered over his navel, tonguing, dipping, laying flat over him, his legs spread to cradle her there. She dipped lower with her tongue, pulled the edge of his boxers down, and licked. She moved back, on her knees now, and pulled the boxers over his hips, which he kindly lifted to ease her way. His coffee-colored cock, hard and long and thick sprung to attention, let loose of its bondage, and Cyan quickly removed his underwear, fascinated by what she saw.

  It forever erased the ugly image she'd seen earlier in the day, the angry red cock of the man who nearly violated her. Gone.

  Devin's cock was beautiful. Strong. Massive. Powerful.

  Hers.

  Something primal and basal ached deep inside her.

  With a sigh, she looked into Devin's face and he held her gaze.

  "Too much?” he whispered.

  Slowly, she shook her head. “You're beautiful,” she gasped, reaching forward. “May, I..."

  Devin leaned up on his good elbow and grasped her hand. He slowly pulled her closer and placed her small, white hand around his thick, chocolate cock. Chocolate. Lickable. But she didn't dare. Not yet.

  Did she?

  She would touch. He moved her hand softly, with feathery strokes over him, and soon, his hand fell away and Cyan relished in the feel of his firm, velvet flesh ... of the sensitive tip ... of the powerful surges that coursed through him over and over. Soon, she learned his reactions to her touches, swirls, tickles, and liked the fact that she was learning how to please him.

  Mesmerized, she took him into both of her hands and stroked. Not daring, probably tentative
ly, but when she looked up in Devin's half-closed eyes, his head leaning back against the straw, she knew she must be doing something right.

  Impulsively, she moved over and touched the tip of her tongue to his cock's head. Slowly, she swirled her tongue once around it and then Devin reached for her, pulling her up to his lips, and kissed her again.

  "Not tonight, honey,” he breathed through their kisses, “I won't last. And our mission here is you, not me.” He paused, pulled back to look into her face. “Take off your bottoms."

  Cyan rolled to her side and quickly removed not only her bottoms, but her shirt and bra. Wearing nothing but her sapphire.

  "Come here."

  He pulled her back up, straddle him. “I'm more than ready, as you can tell, but you're not."

  "But I—"

  "Trust me."

  She did.

  He moved her lower until her bottom just barely grazed his upright cock. She rested against it and could feel the sensuality of him resting against her ass, nestled up close to her.

  "I've only got one good hand, Cyan, so you'll need to hold yourself up a bit. Here, brace yourself by putting your hands on my shoulders."

  She nodded and did so. And he then slid his right hand between them, palm face up, cupping her mound, touching her intimately as she'd never been touched before.

  "I'll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop."

  Cyan had no earthly idea why she would ever tell him to stop, but dropped her head in quick nod of agreement.

  He massaged, played, spread her lips apart, rimmed her opening with his finger. Cyan felt an urge to move closer into him and braced herself more fully into his shoulders. He grasped and tickled and teased and then she felt him insert a finger. In. Out. Slowly. Methodically.

  Heaven.

  Her eyes closed. All she wanted to do was feel.

  "Okay?"

  "Yes..."

  "Good."

  She could barely hear him. He increased the pressure inside of her. “Two fingers, Cyan. That's all I'll do. You're small, tight."

  He stroked. She felt herself grow moist, hot, expand a little at his touch. “That's good, right?” she whimpered.

  "Very."

  "Good."

  Something foreign welled from deep within her. Pleasure. Excruciating. An urgency. A need. Something more. She didn't care. She felt like a woman. Like she was supposed to feel. Like this was what she was made for.