A Hasty Wedding

by Cara Colter

  "Funny, isn't it?" he said softly. "When I heard that door click closed, I swore that would never happen to me again. That feeling of being trapped, of being totally in someone else's power, is terrifying. But somehow having my mother's full and undivided attention made it all worthwhile. Or maybe I never got good at thinking an action through to its consequence. Maybe I'm still not that good at that."

  And the way he was looking at her, she knew he was talking about this. The motorbike ride and the dinner. Had either of them thought where this was leading?

  In her wildest dreams, she had.

  "I've heard you say it to the boys in The Shack a million times. Think it all the way through. Right to the end."

  And as soon as she said those words, it was like it was on the table between them. The need and the passion.

  The way this evening was going to end.

  His hand covered hers, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, long and slow until it felt like her blood was coming to a slow boil, and her skin would melt away from her body. Nothing had ever interested her less than dessert.

  Without another word, he got up and helped her into her jacket, his hands lingering on her shoulders. He paid the check, and they left.

  Night had fallen, the stars hanging in the sky, huge and bright.

  "Put your hands in my jacket pockets," he said.

  But she didn't. She slid her hands around him and right between the snaps on his jacket, so that her hands rested right under his rib cage and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the heat of his body.

  He turned and gave her a look that was part pleasure and part pain, and then he stoked up the big bike and they headed back down the road where they had come.

  Only everything was different now.

  The road was only a path to somewhere else, necessary miles that had to be covered. The path ended at her cabin door, where a light left on burned softly within.

  The words had dried up between them.

  She took his hand to lead him up the stairs, but he pulled her into him, carefully unbuckled the helmet, slid it off her head, dropped it to the ground, and did the same to his.

  His hands on either side of her face, he guided her lips to his, and tasted her with a savage hunger. One powerful leg nudged between hers, and she wantonly pressed herself into the steel of his thigh.

  "Are you coming in?" she whispered breathlessly.

  "Unless you're planning on doing it out here," he said. She knew what her eyes said, as they lingered on his face with hunger.

  He scooped her up and went up the steps, while she kissed his chin and his chest and anything else within range of her lips.

  "Give me the damn keys," he growled huskily.

  Laughing as he balanced her weight and managed the door, she allowed herself to revel in his strength, in the feel of steel-hard muscles supporting her thighs and shoulders.

  He finally kicked the door open, went unerringly to her bedroom door, partly ajar, and shoved it open, too.

  He dropped her on the pure white bedspread, looked down at her while she gazed helplessly up at him, unaware how sensual was the contrast between her pristine white eyelet spread and the black leather jacket she still wore.

  He was everything men had ever been. He was a hunter and a warrior and a pirate and a king. His breath was rising raggedly, swelling his chest. He gazed at her with tenderness and wanting and power and passion.

  He was every man who had ever come to a woman and laid his weapons and his power at her feet.

  She opened her arms and he came to her, holding the majority of his weight off of her, while he tasted the softness of her eyelids, the tip of her nose. He nipped the lobes of her ears and ran his tongue, like a sword of intense fire, down the tender curve of her neck.

  His questing mouth was like an exquisite form of torture.

  "Blake." She whispered his name, and heard the shocking urgency in her voice. She wanted to beg him to kiss deeper, hold harder, move faster.

  He put a finger to her lips, silencing her, and continued his slow, torturing nuzzle, his lips on her breastbone, his eyes suddenly intent on her face.

  His hand slid underneath the opened black leather jacket to the button of her jade green blouse, and he stopped, gazed at her, teased the button with his fingertip, a small smile on his lips, the question in his eyes.

  "Yes," she said hoarsely in answer.

  He flicked the button free, his eyes still on her face, touched the pale skin beneath it, lightly, ever so lightly, with the tip of his finger. And then he dropped his head to where his finger had been, and touched the silken flesh between her breasts with his lips, and then his tongue.

  With a flame leaping in his eyes that he leashed in the unhurried touch of his hands, he slowly undid each of the buttons on her blouse, anointing with his lips the tender flesh he exposed before moving on to the next button.

  Holly had never felt such exquisite agony as this slow, painstaking uncovering.

  The blouse was undone. Never taking his eyes from her face, he placed his hands on either side of the placket, and tugged it gently open. Finally, when she thought she might scream with wanting and frustration, his gaze dropped, heated, to what he had uncovered.

  He tugged the sleeves over her shoulders, pulling both the blouse and the jacket free, dropped them carelessly to the floor. He shrugged off his own jacket before he ran a fingertip over the lacy cup that held one breast and then the other, and then he touched the place where her tender flesh mounded over the top of her bra.

  She was gasping at each new path of fire his fingertips forged over her skin, but he would not be rushed in his lazy exploration of her. He could not know this was her first time, and yet he seemed determined to make it an experience that would last forever, be unforgettable.

  He bent over her and ran his hot tongue down a line from just below her breast to her belly button. He stopped there for a moment, kissed, probed that slight hollow with the spear of his tongue, then kissed a tantalizing line at the waistband of her jeans.

  He paused again at the snap, looking at her, his eyes dark with wicked amusement at her longing, but his own ragged breathing revealing he was not nearly as calm or in control as his slow exploration of her might have her believe.

  His hand rested, heavy and warm, on the fabric below that snap. When she thrust herself into the hand, he smiled, flicked the snap open, eased the zipper down, ran fingers over lace, like a pianist doing feather-light scales. And then, while his mouth breathed fire onto that same lace, his hands took purchase of the fabric at her hips and tugged.

  The jeans slid off her and hit the floor.

  "Your turn," he said huskily, drawing a circle on the skin of her inner thigh with his fingertips.

  "My turn?" she said. She didn't even know she got a turn, let alone what she was supposed to do with it.

  "Take my shirt off, Holly."

  He leaned over her, and stilled her fingers when she shoved the first button through the hole and made her way to the second one.

  "Slowly," he commanded her, even though his arms trembled from holding himself above her.

  She was trembling now, too, as her fingers found each button, as she did as he had done and kissed the flesh that she exposed, touched it with her lips and her tongue, felt the exquisite warmth radiating from him, felt the muscles of his chest, the corded muscles on his belly.

  She wondered if it was possible to faint with wanting.

  The buttons finally all open, she drew the shirt away from him, and touched and kissed, and touched some more. She found the hard nub of his nipple, touched it, squirmed beneath him so that she could reach it with her tongue. She circled it, flicked it, and then gently nipped it.

  For the first time, he groaned. And then he knelt over her, his blue-jean clad thighs on either side of her stomach, and shrugged off his shirt.

  She stared at him, her senses feasting on the masculine perfection of his body. But when she rea
ched to touch him again, he caught her hands and guided them to the snap on his jeans.

  She undid the snap. Her fingers trembling, she touched his zipper, eased it down, felt the heat and hardness beneath her fingertips. He shoved the blue jeans down, moved to the edge of the bed and tore them off his legs.

  He stretched out on the bed beside her, unselfconscious in only navy blue jockey shorts, the white band brilliant against the faint copper tones of his skin. She thought he looked like a swimmer—broad shoulders, flat stomach, narrow hips, long, strong legs.

  He was on his stomach, propped up on his elbow. He reached out with his free arm, his hand flat, and caressed her skin with his palm, from her breastbone to her belly button. She shuddered, his hand the quake, her body the aftershock.

  "I love the way you feel," he whispered. "Soft. Sacred."

  Sacred. That was the word, exactly, that described what was happening between them, the unfolding of this great and powerful intimacy that had celebrated man and woman since the beginning of time.

  Lost in that power, Holly Lamb became everything she had never been.

  She had been shy, now she became bold.

  She had been cautious, now she became adventurous.

  She had never taken risks, and now she felt prepared to risk it all.

  "Blake," she whispered, her voice ragged with need, her patience spent. "I want you. I want you now."

  He smiled, lifted his weight on top of her and settled it. And then he kissed her. There was nothing sweet in his kisses now. The tender exploratory nature of them melted like sugar into hot water.

  The mouth that claimed hers was hard, commanding, urgent.

  His hands on her body became less tender, and more possessive, a man claiming what was his, claiming what was being offered to him, saying a resounding yes to the gifts of the universe and the mysteries of life.

  He undid the clasp on her bra and watched, his eyes dark, his mouth unsmiling, as her breasts sprang free. And then his lips and tongue rained fire on her, nipping, kissing, licking, tenderness giving way to raw need.

  She arched into the fiery hail of his lips. A sound came from her own lips, a sound that welled up from within her. It was a sound of need and desire and pleasure and pain, those things so related that they were no longer separate.

  He slid her lace panties over a slender hip and slid down the silken length of an unresisting thigh. She wriggled them the rest of the way down and tossed them on the floor with her toe.

  She was naked beneath the man she loved.

  His hand caressed the soft flesh of her inner thigh, tangled in the curl of her hair, stroked the place between her legs that had turned silky with moisture.

  She was crazed. Her nails bit into his shoulders, and she pulled herself hard against him, loving the scrape of her breasts against the springy hair on his chest. Her body took on a life of its own, writhing, bucking, begging.

  And then the last barrier, his undershorts, were gone. He paused for just a moment, protecting her, and then holding himself up again over her body, his elbows locked and his arms trembling, he nudged her legs apart and slipped inside her.

  She was taken aback by the sudden pain, and she saw him stop, saw the shock on his face as he registered what had just happened.

  He looked, for an awful second, like he was going to withdraw from her.

  "This is what I want," she said, her voice fierce. "It's my choice."

  He lowered himself from his elbows, gathered her to him, whispered in her ear that she was beautiful, and then, gently, he pushed and pierced the silken thread of her innocence.

  When she cried out, he stopped, brushed the hair from her eyes, kissed her cheeks, and then slowly, thrust again.

  Like that, the pain was gone, and she was lifted up to a different plane. A wild throbbing began at her core, and instead of retreating from him, she met him. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, and found her legs wrapping themselves around the hard curves of his waist.

  They rode the crashing waves in perfect unison, until they crested.

  An explosion went off inside of her, tiny like the first small pop of a firecracker on the Fourth of July. But the one that followed was more intense, and then came another, until they were coming so rapidly, one on top of the other, each explosion more powerful than the last, until with an exultant cry of fulfillment, she went limp in his arms.

  When she dared open her eyes, he was staring at her with absolute and utter amazement. His smile was slow and sexy and warm, as he brushed the sweat-drenched hair from her forehead.

  He gathered her to him and rocked her, as her joyous tears began to fall.

  Twelve

  The tears chased down her cheeks, streaks of silver in the moonlit room. Blake kissed them away. They tasted of salt and dew and softness.

  "I'm so sorry," he whispered, agonized. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "Hurt me?" She hiccuped and laughed. "I'm crying because I'm happy."

  He tilted his head back and looked at her, saw the glow in her eyes, the high color in her cheeks, the smile, and he knew it was true. She was happy. Deliriously, blissfully.

  "I've never heard that line in real life—that people cry when they're happy," he admitted, smiling. "I thought it was something Hollywood made up."

  "It's like there's so much emotion in me right now, my body can't hold it. The tears are the overflow valve. Pure paradise. It's too big to keep inside of me." She sighed and leaned her head against his chest. Her hands, almost unconsciously, moved over the muscles in his chest and arms, giving him the heady feeling she could not get enough of him.

  "Nothing," she murmured, "could have prepared me for this experience. I mean, I've read about it and seen a whole lot in movies, but nothing can come close to experiencing what that's like. No wonder I was a virgin so long. I had no idea."

  "You should have told me," he said, gathering her to him, secretly thrilled that she had had no idea and that this gift had become his.

  "Really? Exactly how do you broach that subject? 'Blake, while I'm filing under V, I've suddenly recalled my virginity'?"

  He laughed. "How about 'Blake, take it easy. I've never done this before.' Actually, I think I probably should have guessed. Maybe even had guessed, and then in the heat of the moment, managed to forget."

  "How embarrassing. You guessed? Do you want the whole humiliating truth? I'm a wallflower. I've never even had a boyfriend, let alone been intimate before."

  He didn't think she should find that truth embarrassing. It certainly wasn't her fault that the male populace was completely blind when it came to most things that mattered. The fact that she had never had a boyfriend rather endeared her to him, made him feel protective and possessive in ways he had not felt either of those things before.

  "I just might have changed a few things, if you'd warned me," he reassured her.

  "Exactly!" she said. "And I wouldn't change one single thing about what just happened between us."

  "Come to think of it, neither would I." He kissed her again, tasted the sweetness of her lips. "They were wrong," he told her, "Every one of those guys who passed you by was wrong, and I'm so glad. I have a feeling you're going to show me all kinds of things I've never known before."

  "Me show you? You're going to show me all kinds of things I've never known before," she said, tracing his lips with her fingers. "Riding the motorcycle was a first, too."

  "Which was better?" he growled.

  "The motorcycle," she said, deadpan, and then cracked up laughing at the look on his face. He liked her laughter so much, it was a temptation to tickle her or pull faces just to keep her laughing. But he had a better idea.

  "Are you ready for another first?" he asked her softly.

  "If you stay here tonight, and I fall asleep in your arms, that will be a first," she said, with a certain bewitching shyness.

  "Oh, you're stuck with me for the night," he told her, and didn't add at least. He didn't want to scare h
er away.

  He wagged his eyebrows at her, leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, "I bet you've never showered with a man before."

  Her eyes went very wide, and her shyness seemed to deepen. She blushed crimson. After all they had just done together!

  "Come on," he coaxed. "You have no idea how much fun a shower can be."

  "Blake," she pulled the covers right over her head, "I'm not sure I'm ready for that. I mean, it's dark in here at least."

  "I know," he said, pulling the covers off her head, "I don't see the darkness as a good thing. I want to see you. All of you. And touch you."

  "Oh, God," she moaned, and tried to get back under the covers.

  "I want to cover you with soap and run my hands all over you," he told her, not letting her burrow out of his sight.

  She couldn't hide the fact she was intrigued. "Maybe I'll do it. Under certain conditions. Can I keep my eyes closed?"

  He sighed patiently. "No. How would you see me, all of me, if your eyes were closed? Plus, you might get soap in my eyes."

  He remembered thinking over dinner that she had been blushing like a bride. He'd been mistaken. This blush was a bridal blush. She was shy and excited and exhilarated, and maybe a little ashamed of that glorious vessel that was her body.

  She probably thought her thighs were too fat or her breasts were too small, and that wouldn't do at all.

  He couldn't wait to convince her how perfect she was. He tugged her hand and flipped the covers back.

  She squeaked and tried to get back under them.

  "You're beautiful," he assured her. "Come on. Take a risk."

  She snatched back the sheet. "Do you have any idea how many of those I've taken in the last few weeks?"

  He smiled. "Great. That means you're getting good at it." He kissed her hand. "Come on."

  She hesitated, debated, finally smiled. "All right."

  He knew this was a fragile thing she was giving him, her trust. She hung behind him as he led her across the darkened bedroom to the ensuite. When he let go of her hand to switch on the light, she snatched a big white towel and wrapped it around herself.

  He pretended to ignore her, adjusted the water, stepped under the hot spray. And then he reached out, yanked the towel away and took her hand and propelled her into the shower. He held her hard against him, as the water cascaded around them.