Tides of Love (Garrett Brothers Book 1)

by Tracy Sumner

  Her body bloomed in response to the unfamiliar fullness, each petal unfolding. The sharp pain quickly subsided, outweighed by pleasure. She smiled and gazed into his face. A muscle in his jaw jumped, a circle of white surrounded his mouth. He tilted his head and swallowed hard, obviously controlling his reaction.

  Her hands skimmed his back, coming to rest above the rounded crest of his bottom. Tentatively, she moved her hips, a fresh torrent of desire claiming her.

  His lids fluttered, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since he'd made her his. "Are you all right?" He pressed a feather-soft kiss to her cheek.

  Amazed by the gratifying completeness, and so all right she could not believe it, she nodded. Grasping his waist, she made an impatient movement he could not help but understand. "But I think you need to... work harder... to win this bet, Professor."

  He laughed and complied, the muscles in his buttocks bunching as he withdrew so far she feared he would pop out. "Yes, ma'am," he said, before claiming her lips and doing a gradual, glorious slide back.

  Tender movements became fierce, amused expressions resolute. Restraint broken, he set a furious, steady pace, surging into her, each stroke seeming to touch deeper than the last. She rose to meet him, lost in a tide of tactile awareness. Whiskers scraping her cheek... teeth closing around her inflamed nipple... muscles, damp and hard, flexing beneath her fingertips... hips bumping, bruising and rough. Savage and untamed, fighting for subsistence, for the most basic gratification. And every place she hungered, he found: touching, licking, driving, tensing.

  He raised her knee to his waist. She lifted her leg, locking her ankles behind his back, marveling at the wonderment of him thrusting, filling her completely.

  "Ma chere fille." Low and ragged, the once-loved designation brought her closer, ever closer to the edge. For the second time.

  "I'll be there, with you. Always," he whispered next to her ear.

  A swift crest, a headlong dive. Harder, then harder again. The wind whipped the blanket against their hips, sand pricking their skin. She searched, thrashing and whimpering. He answered, his finger finding the nub of flesh he had teased before. Keeping his pounding rhythm, he touched her there, purposely.

  And she exploded.

  "Thank God, only so long I could think of fish," he said over the odd ringing in her ears. The ground shifted, and she arched into him, digging her heels into his calves, clasping him to her. Heartbeat to heartbeat, slick skin to slick skin. They fought for the same air, not enough for both of them it seemed.

  As she drifted back, he called her name, his body shuddering. Driving deep once more, he buried his face in her hair and gathered her close, panting. For a long moment, they lay silent and dazed, limbs tangled in an intimate, damp jumble. Tremors shook him and passed to her.

  He lifted his head, his gaze feral. A bead of sweat crossed his cheek; a rapid pulse beat at his temple. She smoothed her finger over the bulging vein, swept the drop of moisture away with her thumb. He leaned into her touch, his lids fluttering, the scarred one drooping. She smiled. She hadn't noticed before, but his nose was peeling, and his cheeks were freckled from the sun. The dark circles beneath his eyes attested to his lack of sleep.

  Had she ever looked at him this closely? Would she ever again?

  He released a weary sigh and rolled to his back, pulling her with him, pressing her into his side. He brushed her hair from her brow and laid a soft kiss on the crown of her head. "Better than candy," he murmured and yawned.

  Fulfilled, she snuggled against him, the muscles beneath her cheek relaxing as he slipped into sleep. The arm around her went slack, the other lay across his belly, his slim, well-shaped fingers splayed wide. She searched for his hand, linking their fingers. Automatically, his tightened in possession.

  Forever.

  She would treasure what they'd shared forever, even if it had been the biggest mistake of her life.

  Because, how long would it be before Noah began to regret?

  16

  "It is thus quite intelligible that a world of animals may live in the dark abyss."

  ~ C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  Contentment. Completion. The first of either Noah had truly felt in twenty-seven years of living. Before this night, how could he possibly have understood what holding the woman of his dreams as he made love to her, her tremors of release shaking him to the core of his being. He had never even slept in the same, well... never spent the entire night with someone.

  He liked it; he liked it a lot.

  He smiled, amazed by his stupidity. By believing he could reason his way out of loving her. He gazed at the sapphire blaze streaking the sky and realized Elle was no longer chaste.

  Then, neither was he.

  Since he awoke to find her draped across his chest, her breath teasing his skin, her hand clutching his, he'd struggled to remember a time before her.

  A bit panicked, the answer struck hard.

  Ten years ago, he left more than two loving brothers.

  He stooped to grasp a conch shell, dusting off bits of sand. What if he had returned to find her married to Magnus Leland? A cinnamon-headed child bouncing on her hip, another man's child suckling at her breast. Another man. Noah flung the shell into the waves.

  She was his; he would waste no more time on regrets and fear.

  It wasn't entirely his fault, he reasoned. He'd always been rather possessive of her, fiercely protective and unable to shrug off the sense of responsibility. In some fashion, he had recognized the bond between them.

  But Elle recognized the love.

  Dammit, at seventeen, how could he know that he would never find another woman to match her, that she would be the one to fill the emptiness inside him? With all of Elle's foolishness and flippancy, chasing him down the street on a daily basis, he hadn't dared lower his guard long enough to find out.

  Now, he would put the past behind him. Forge a solid relationship with his brothers, with Rory. Let the wounds of distrust heal. Take a chance on the future. Take a chance on love.

  Love.

  Water lapped at his ankles as he walked forward. The wave retreated and coquina shells pricked the pads of his feet. Why hadn't she told him she loved him earlier? How many years since he'd looked into her vivid green eyes and known for sure? Perhaps she had confused her fondness for a childhood friend. He had certainly accused her of that enough times.

  He dropped to his haunches, his trousers getting soaked to the knee. He thought women always said those words after coupling. During, maybe even. Elle hadn't said anything remotely maudlin. Of course, he might have missed three little words, if she'd whispered them, or mumbled them against his neck or something.

  He drew his hand across his whiskered jaw and sighed, his skin scented with almond and honey and woman. He sought to disprove the cold lump of suspicion collecting in his gut, the familiar fear of rejection, yet he could not.

  Caleb's betrayal still stung. Of course, Noah was the fool; he should have stayed and let his brother beat him to a pulp, if necessary. They could have solved the problem a week later, not ten years.

  "Noah?"

  He wrenched around, landing flat on his bottom.

  Elle stared, wide-eyed, for all of ten seconds, then she slipped her hand over her mouth and burst into laughter. She wore her shift and nothing more. Moonlight flowed through the thin material, silhouetting her body well enough to stir parts of his he had thought were satisfied.

  He shoved to his feet, his trousers, minus underclothing, sticking to his legs like wet parchment. "You think scaring the life out a person is funny, huh?"

  She shook her head, yet choked for breath, the laughter still bubbling.

  He took a step forward. She took a step back. She broke into a run, and he was right behind her.

  They stumbled up the beach, a faltering gait in the sand. He caught her about the waist, swung her off her feet, and against his chest. "Forfeit," he said, recalling a c
hildhood game.

  She giggled in delight, this woman who never giggled. "If you remember correctly, Professor, I never yield. You'll have to torture me first."

  Her playful tone sent desire straight to his loins. He hardened against her bottom. "What kind of torture do you have in mind, sweet?" He seized her shift and tugged it to her hips in bunched fistfuls.

  She gasped, not able to form a coherent response when his fingers teased, delving into the patch of curls at her apex, spreading, exploring, penetrating.

  "Is this adequate punishment?" He found a bare spot on her shoulder and sucked.

  Her head lolled forward, then back. She sighed in reply.

  He settled her atop the blankets. Her shift fluttered to the ground; his shirt and trousers followed. Passion clawed at him, a ravenous beast demanding nourishment.

  He fell to his knees; she spread her legs. Hip to hip, chest to chest, he entered her in a sure, swift stroke. Uninhibited, they mated like animals in the dawning light.

  Animals.

  Something Noah had never in his life thought to compare himself to.

  Elle fished a threadbare sailor's cap from Noah's satchel and settled it over his face. He'd already blistered his skin, trudging around the island in improper attire.

  She threw his shirt across his chest and watched it rise and fall on a long breath. He was exhausted, his cheeks dotted with stubble, dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair hung past his ears, far longer than usual. A memory of her nose embedded in the thick strands as he plunged into her curled her toes into the sand.

  Nonplused, she concentrated on the break of waves on the shore; the call of seagulls in search of food; the rustle of sea oats on the sand dune behind her. Even after a hurried swim, she could smell the scent of their joining on her skin. Even after washing her mouth with salty water, she could taste him. Sliding Noah's satchel to the side, she slumped against the dune and groaned at the tender friction between her thighs.

  They had made love three times. Once while waist-deep in the ocean. An hour ago, no more. How could she want him again so soon? How?

  Juste Ciel, she had not expected this.

  It's not as if she hadn't understood the mechanics of copulation. An indistinct, yet defined, sense of what happened between a man and a woman in a darkened bedroom. He positioned his sex accordingly; she complied, stiff and sacrificing beneath him. This information circulated at every sewing bee and quilting circle, crossed every coverlet at every church picnic. Naturally, the married women stopped talking the minute she, unmarried and ignorant to the reality of wifely duty, entered their line of sight.

  Until her engagement to Magnus Leland.

  She had no mother, and they felt obliged to educate her.

  Mrs. Scoggins explained in shadowy terms how thinking of household chores made the act go quicker. Widow Wynne listed excuses she once used to avoid it altogether. Jewel Quattlebaum detailed the necessary pain involved in a reporter's concise, unemotional manner. Lillian Quinn's description was the only one that sounded more pleasurable than tooth surgery.

  Thankfully, lovemaking was nothing like those descriptions. Love made it truly wonderful. She reached out, needing to touch him. A muscular arm lay folded over his belly; the other stretched from his body, fingers nestled in the sand. Her breathing accelerated. She had touched much of him, with her hands, and later—at his urging—with her lips and her teeth. His sex's rigid shape was gone for the moment, but she could still see a firm outline beneath clinging cotton.

  She had not imagined that circumspect Noah Garrett, the first to hesitate and weigh all the options, would take her with such confidence, such lewd boldness? As if he knew exactly what she needed and held no misgivings about giving it to her.

  This excited her—in a secret place Noah had brought to life—to picture him, staid and fussy, buttoned up and pressed down, precise speech and polite bearing, panting and plunging into her, passion stealing air from his lungs, rational thought from his mind. She was amazed to find she could set him aflame, that she could shatter the composed facade he presented to the world.

  She slid her hand closer, just one touch. Sighing, she forced her arm to her lap. He needed sleep. And she needed to conclude if this night had changed her plans for the future.

  Leaning over him, she rolled his cuffs past his ankles, shading more of his skin.

  She loved him, but he had not said he loved her.

  Luckily, she hadn't admitted it, either.

  Did he love her? She traced a faded scar on the sole of his foot. Indefinable lights, tender sparks of emotion flared in his eyes more than once last night. Especially the last time they made love. They left the water still joined, and he brought her on top of him in the sand as they attained bliss.

  If there were the slightest chance he loved her, she would forgo the scholarship, and persuade Noah to take her with him. She remembered seeing a university in Chicago on the list of those offering women's programs.

  Her hand stilled. What if he didn't want a wife who attended university? What if he didn't want a wife at all? Perhaps making love meant next to nothing to him.

  She sat back on her heels. She could go with him anyway, make a life with him, somehow. She preferred this choice to the wretched one of never talking and laughing with him again, never being intimate with him again. Maybe a modern relationship was called for in this situation. Like Caleb and Christa had. Except, Caleb had asked Christa to marry him on more than one occasion.

  She pulled her watch from her pocket and checked the time. Another half hour, and she would wake him. She glanced overhead: the sun was a bright, blinding ball in the sky. Looking at Noah, she noted that his cap shaded his nose and cheeks, but not his lips. Red and swollen, they looked well loved.

  When they got home, she would make a baking-soda paste for his skin and spread salve on his chapped skin. She snapped her fingers. Maybe he carried medical supplies in his satchel.

  She searched the shallow outside pocket. Two pencils, a metal measuring tool. In the larger section, she found a notebook and a leather-bound manual of some sort.

  Normally not a meddlesome person, she took the notebook out, wanting only to read what he'd been studying the last two days. A garbled scrawl detailing migration habits for a fish she'd never heard of. On another, a rough sketch of the beach and back bay, marked off in specific sections, with complex names attached. She leafed through sheet after sheet of scientific terms, facts, and figures.

  Wishing biology had been a part of her study plan at university, she turned a page and froze.

  Outcome: mind free of Elle Beaumont was written in block letters and underlined.

  Twice.

  Her jaw dropped as she skimmed the lines of text. Work longer hours. No more kissing. No more touching. No more daydreams. Eating dinner or repairing shutters is forbidden. A circled notation reminded him to ask Caleb to mow her grass. She dug her toes into the sand, a furious quiver working its way down her legs. Obviously, he intended to share this list with her now that they had privacy to discuss the situation.

  His lust, hell, her lust, had simply derailed his plan.

  A sharp wedge of pain drive the breath from her body; she doubled over and sucked in air. A dull buzz sounding in her ears, she placed his satchel beside her and laid the notebook on top. Dazed, she covered him with the blanket, knowing he would swelter, but at least his skin wouldn't crisp.

  She trudged toward the water, readied the skiff for sail, and found the strength to shove it through the bucking waves. She licked her finger and held it into the wind. She could make it to the dock in less than fifteen minutes, pack a bag, and have Stymie shuttle her to Morehead City in time for the four o'clock train. She would send a telegraph to Savannah and ask her to meet the train in New York City.

  I'll be here, with you. Always.

  Disbelieving, Elle tugged the lines taut and sailed from one dream and toward another.

  For six months after leaving Pilot Isle, Noa
h slept in deserted rail cars and abandoned shelters, curled into a ball, fearful and tense. The dreadful experience had honed his instincts, razor-sharp, and when he woke, he realized instantly.

  She was gone.

  He blinked into muted light, flipped his sailor's cap from his face, and swore. Blessit, he was burning up. Shoving the thin blanket from his body, he rolled to his knees, praying Elle would be sitting beside him, a smile of happiness, of acceptance, on her lovely face.

  A bead of sweat coursed down his check, another down his chest. He shook his head and calmed his breathing. Think, Noah, think.

  That had always been easy before.

  He stumbled to his feet, his stiff trousers crinkling. For a step or two, he followed the set of petite footprints, remembering his first day back on Devil and the picnic they had shared. He felt for his spectacles. No pockets. Hell, he didn't even have his shirt on.

  He squinted, glanced anxiously around him, and turned a full circle. Where could she—

  Two things struck.

  His skiff, although he couldn't see clearly, no longer appeared to be on the shore. And his satchel lay in a spill, his notebook sprawled open beside it. He dropped to his haunches, and brought the paper close to his face. Dear God, he thought, the notebook sliding from his fingers. In the distance, the harsh grunt of a white ibis filtered through his bafflement.

  Hadn't she known? Hadn't she trusted him? He had begged her to, told her he would be there for her. His list... it didn't mean anything. Nothing at all. Just an asinine way to try to expunge her from his system. Blessit, he loved her. Didn't she understand? Did she imagine he'd ever had a night like this one with another woman?

  Impossible.

  He tipped his head back and located the sun. Elle couldn't have left more than three hours ago. Four at most. He would straighten this mess out: tell her he loved her and explain the silly damned list. Plan in mind, he set about folding the blankets, spreading his campfire ashes, packing his satchel. Slipping his arms through his sleeves, he lifted his wrist to his nose, and inhaled deeply. He hoped he could persuade her to stay at the coach house tonight.