by Natasha Deen
“We may as well go home.” She dusted the dirt from the back of her skirt as she headed down the steps. “It’s just for a few hours, anyhow.” When Nate froze, she turned to him. “What?”
“You don’t know? It’s the entire night. Pops booked a hotel room. We’re alone in the house.”
Her libido kicked into over-drive and her brain slammed on the brakes. “What?”
He stomped away. “You heard me. We’re all alone in that house for the night.” He whirled to face her. “Alone. You, me, and nothing but the memory of that stupid scrap of fabric you women call a nightie to keep me company.”
“Hey!” She ran to keep up with his angry strides. “This isn’t my fault. I didn’t tell them to do this!”
He spun around and glared at her. “They’re your family.”
“Give me a break, and stop glowering at me. Do you think I’m happy about this?” Her footfalls made the gravel crunch and the pebbles spit out from under her shoes.
“Nothing can happen between us—too much has already happened between us.”
She rolled her eyes and tightened her lips so she didn’t swear. “I know that—I get it.”
He jabbed the button of the car remote and the doors chirped open. “Yeah, well, tell that to my—” Nate wrenched open the door. “Do you have any idea how badly I want a night alone with you? How impossible and stupid a wish it is?”
Her breath caught at the flash of want and need in his eyes.
“You are everything I ever wanted, and I can’t have you. Now—” He swore low and vicious. “Now, I’ve got an entire night with you.” He leaned against the hood and rubbed his eyes. “You, the bed, the baby-doll, and my fantasies.” He glared at her. “Get in.”
She did.
He went around the car and opened the driver’s door.
“I can book you a room at the hotel.”
“No you can’t,” he said grimly as he climbed into the seat next to her and slammed the door closed. “I tried. Your grandfather has already arranged for the hotel manager to not give me anything. And apparently, he’s changed the locks on the door of the bunkhouse.” His black gaze bit into her. “We’re stuck together tonight. There’s no getting around that.”
Well, happy birthday to me, Aya thought as he started the car and pulled out of the parking spot.
****
The car ground to a halt in front of the house. Mason gripped the steering wheel, his fingers dug into the rubber, holding onto it like a vehicular lifeline. He feared letting go, because if his hands were freed, they’d do something stupid and impetuous, like pull Aya close and run themselves down the length of her sumptuous body. And then he’d be lost in the bliss that was the woman beside him. He’d forget restraint and the future, only to wake up with the stark reality of his coming betrayal.
“We’re here.”
She didn’t move.
“Aya?”
Nothing. She continued to stare ahead. It had been the same thing the entire ride home. She’d remained silent, gazing out the window and letting the breeze trail her hair against her cheek. Not that he’d been great company if she’d actually decided to talk. Still...he reached out and touched her hand.
Her head turned in a slow, smooth motion. In her eyes, he saw hope, regret. “Would it be so bad? You and me, for just one night?”
The air left his lungs in a painful woosh. “The night would be heaven; the day after, hell.”
She turned her hand, so it lay palm-up, against his. “You don’t know—”
“I do.” His answer came out rough and harsh. He clenched his jaw together, swallowing his frustration with himself, the situation, and tried for a patient tone. “There are things about me that are best left unsaid. You’ll find out eventually, Aya, and you will hate me.” He wrenched his hand away. The feel of her, the softness of her skin, the hardness of her delicate bones, the intimacy of their contact all underscored the uselessness of his feelings, the discord of truth and hope.
“You can’t be sure I would hate you.”
“This conversation is pointless.” He felt dead inside, desolate and alone. God, he needed her. He loved her—and loved her enough to keep her away. “Nothing can happen.”
She moved faster than he’d thought possible, and before he could even comprehend that she had moved, her lips were pressed against his. Soft. Warm. Aya.
“Aya,” he said when she broke the embrace.
She pressed her lips to his again, and he told himself she couldn’t possibly be asking for what he thought she was asking for. In his mind, Hyde howled against restraint and cursed Mason’s reservations. Jekyll cheered the hesitation, but when Aya slipped her sweet, pink tongue into his mouth, it left them all speechless.
In the vacuum of silence swooping into his brain, his heart’s desires screamed loud and clear, Kiss her, you fool!
He did.
Days of holding himself back, nights spent fantasizing about her, the past hour with the memory of the scrap of lace in the gift box—the unending torment of loving her and keeping himself away—poured out of him and found freedom in the kiss. Her warmth enfolded him. The scent of her, citrus, tangy, perfect, filled his senses as her wicked little tongue danced in his mouth, tempting, seducing, undoing his ebbing restraint with every flick, each lick. At the point when all that was left of his resolve was a taut, breakable thread, sanity seeped into his blood, ice-cold and full of the future’s dire predictions.
His fingers wrapped around her arms and he gently pushed her away, his entire body feeling as though it was being rend in two. “We have to stop. This can’t happen.”
Fire danced in her eyes. “Why? Because you insist on holding me to some future event? You’re judging me—”
“I’m protecting you.”
She shook her head. “You’re protecting yourself.”
The unfairness of her words stabbed him. “I am not.”
“What else do you call it? You’re making a decision for me—you’re taking away my right to make a choice. Tell me,” she said softly, “and let me decide if I would hate you.”
“I can’t. I promised your grandfather I wouldn’t—not until the end of the month.”
He yanked the seatbelt out of its holder and stormed from the car. A few seconds later, as he headed up the porch steps, he heard the slam of the vehicle door, then Aya’s light, rapid steps as she came after him.
“He knows?”
“Yes.” Mason thrust the key into the lock and shoved the door open.
“What does he think about your secret?”
He laughed, low, hollow. “He thinks tonight is the perfect opportunity.” Mason glanced at her. “If you and I...connected, took the relationship to the next level, he figures it’ll help.”
She pulled off her sandals, the look on her face contemplative. “He’s usually right about these things.”
“Not this time.”
“Spencer says I should share my feelings with you, and take the opportunity presented because it’s the right thing to do.”
He snorted. “You’re taking love advice from a nine-year-old?”
“He’s smarter than both of us put together.” A small smile touched her lips. “Besides, he’s throwing my words back at me, and I’d be a crappy mother if I didn’t live up to the lessons I’m teaching my kid.”
He was drowning, going under and sinking with the weight of her logic and his needs, but honor dictated he stay afloat. “You know enough. Denis asked me to come here. I’m here to make sure this farm is sold to Mason St. John.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “So?”
“Isn’t that enough?” He didn’t just feel desperate, he was desperation, itself. He needed her to release him from this torment—hungered for her to break down his reservations, to make the decision he could not.
“No.”
She stepped to him, latched her fingers in the loops of his jeans and pulled him toward her. Then she rose on tiptoes and pressed her mo
uth against the pulse point at his neck. Her kiss seared his skin, branded his soul. His reservations and principles trembled under the sweet onslaught of her mouth against his skin.
He threaded his fingers in the shining tresses of her hair, his touch sliding downward until it rested against the column of her neck and the frantic beat of her pulse. The feel of her undid him, the way she molded to his body, all her soft curves connecting with the hard lines of him.
Before, he’d been drowning. Now, he was swept under the sensual waters of her, and he had little desire to come up for air. And in the temperate ocean of her, where the only sound was the thud of their hearts beating, he heard the soft voice of logic and sanity calling to him, telling him to give it one last effort. “You need a forever man, Aya. You deserve one. I can’t guarantee eternity.”
Desire made her pupils large and her gaze unfocused, dreamy. “I don’t want your guarantees. I just want tonight.”
He groaned, low, tortured, and pained. He closed his eyes and brought his forehead to hers. “Don’t say that. I have no resistance with you.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job.”
“I’m clinging by my fingernails, and the only thing stopping me is knowing the look on your face tomorrow, when you realize what you’ve done.”
“The look of bliss?”
He nipped at her ear. “Regret.”
She pulled away, and he opened his eyes. Her frank gaze flooded him.
“I’ll never regret tonight.” She smiled, mischievous, sexy. “It’s my birthday. You’re supposed to give me what I want.”
“Don’t—”
“Spend the night with me. Share my bed,” she whispered.
Her need and desire made her cheeks flush, her eyes sparkle. She leaned into him and flicked her tongue along his lip.
Mason hissed at the touch and everything crumbled, save one repeating thought: I love you. I’ll love you forever.
He closed his mind to logic, closed his thoughts to the future, and lifted her into his arms.
Chapter Ten
Aya wrapped her legs around Nate’s waist, her arms around his neck. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and let him carry her to bed.
“We’re going to my room,” he said. “Where we don’t have to worry about stray bits of glass.”
The smell of him, the way his hips bumped against her as he moved, and the feel of his clothing under her fingers wove an erotic spell that glass—shattered or otherwise—couldn’t break. He inebriated her, drugged her. She wove her fingers into the thick strands of his hair, put her lips to the column of his neck, and savored the taste of spice and sex, seduction and promise. She felt him shudder, heard his soft groan.
He tipped her. A brief moment of weightlessness, then her back met the mattress. In the early evening light, she saw his eyes, soft yet fiery, protective and predatory. She shivered, knowing he would possess her, and care for her, all at once.
Nate bent over her, the bed sagging under his weight as he reached for the hem of her V-neck blouse. He trailed his fingers underneath, and Aya trembled at his touch, at his closeness.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The buttons of his shirt gave way to her searching hands. She pushed it aside, and reveled in the way the crisp curls of his black hair twisted around her fingers.
He nipped at her ears, nuzzled her neck, and her eyes rolled back in pleasure. Nate breathed her name, and her stomach dived at the longing in his voice. Her mouth found his, and in her kiss, she poured all her love, yearning. He met her emotion for emotion, their tongues tangled in a language that needed no words.
Nate pulled away, gazed into her eyes, and smiled. “You have no idea how much I want you, long for you.”
He straddled her, half-naked and all male, the sinews of his muscles rippling in the setting sun, the etched perfection of his form pulled desire taut, until the invisible line stretched from her brain to her groin, and back.
She rose, yanked her blouse off and said, “Show me.”
His irises darkened, his pupils enlarged. He stared at her breasts, encased in her blue lace bra. “Shouldn’t we take this slow, easy—it’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”
Aya reached behind her, unsnapped the clasp and sent the bra sailing to the floor. “Too long. Show me.”
His eyes widened as he followed their trail, and widened further when his gaze made contact with her breasts. “Right.” He grinned. “Whatever you want, Birthday Girl.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist. With the smile still on his lips and painted with a sexy, heart-kicking lift of promise, he dipped his head and caught her breast in his mouth.
She gasped and arched, the silvery rasp of his tongue even more pleasurable because it was him, her Nate, the man of her fantasies, and the one she’d love forever.
His gentle sucks turned to an intense suckling, and emotion burned away at the lust he created. She moaned her pleasure, whispered his name, and pressed into him. He pressed back, hard and ready. Aya fumbled with the buttons of his jeans.
He grabbed her fingers. “Let me help.”
With a flick, he loosened the button-fly denim, and with a smooth, fluid movement sent it sailing to join its counterparts. Her gaze travelled the length of his long, muscular legs, drinking in the sight of his tanned skin, the crisp curls of hair, and to where the evidence of his desire for her stood. Hard. Ready. Wanting.
His dark chocolate gaze bore into her. “Are you sure?”
She smiled at his tenderness. Reaching up to cup his head in her hands, she kissed him, long and deep, and whispered, “Yes.”
He reached under the pillow and pulled out a box of condoms. Laughing, he shook it. “Destina gave this to me yesterday. I thought she’d lost her mind—”
Aya giggled and her kiss halted his words. When they came up for air, she said, “This really isn’t the time to talk about my grandfather’s girlfriend.”
He laughed sheepishly. “I’m nervous. I can’t believe this is going to happen—you and me.” Twilight highlighted the soft, gentle look in his eyes. “I never thought it would happen. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She brushed her tongue against his bottom lip and felt him tremble at her touch. “Show me.”
He sheathed himself, and with infinite care and gentleness, slid into her. Slow, easy. Nate. She shuddered at their joining, trembled at the knowledge of his possession.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
Rather than answer him, she began to move, to rock her hips and slide him deeper inside her. He groaned, and words became unnecessary as their bodies began to move in perfect harmony. The music of their love-making surged and rolled, soft, easy, then rose to a crescendo as passion and pleasure overtook them and carried them to the final, mind-shattering climax.
****
Mason lay in the quiet dark of night, hating himself, and loving Aya. Of all the stupid, rash things he’d done in his life, this was conceivably the dumbest. What had he been thinking?
Aya moved against him, her warm body pressed into the hollow and grooves of his fetal position, and he remembered exactly what he’d been thinking. He pulled her close, feeling the softness of her hair against his chin, the smooth, round curves of her bottom against his groin.
It’s just a name, he wanted to tell her, a mindless arrangement of letters and syllables. I’m the man you love. I’m a good person—ignore the previous weeks of deception.
Self-hate, raging and sudden, drenched him in a hot-cold sweat. He pushed away from Aya, pushed away from the fantasy she’d forgive him, and recoiled from the memories they’d created together. But it was too late. The psychic images stole upon his synapses, etched themselves in his neurons, and thus embedded, began to torment with the reality of what he was going to lose.
He rolled out of bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. Not tonight. Not ever again.
****
Aya awoke the next morning to find Nate’s side of the bed empty. She reached across, laid her ha
nd on the pillow. Cold to the touch. The fragile, delicate hope that Nate stayed through the night broke under the evidence of his absence. Nevertheless, she pulled the pillow close, held it tight, and breathed in the faint scent of him.
After a few moments, she set it aside, pushed away fruitless dreams and “if only” fantasies, shoved the blanket aside, and rose to meet the day...and the aftermath of her actions.
The early morning air hit her naked body with an icy slap. Hurriedly, she went to her bedroom where she stepped into a pair of pajamas, a top, and yanked on her bathrobe. In the hallway, the scent of coffee and toast rose to her. She went into the kitchen and found Nate at the table, a cup in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He glanced over and her stomach dived with nervous tension.
“Good morning.” He said it with an easy nonchalance, as though the night before had never happened. “Coffee’s on the pot, and I made some eggs to go with the toast.”
“Thanks.” She crossed the floor and helped herself.
“I started on the chores. Pops said they’d be home by eleven. He and I plan to take a ride around the property and take care of the fences.”
She looked back and saw him watching her.
“Unless there was something else you wanted us to do?”
There was no innuendo in his words. There was nothing—no humor, happiness or emotion—at all. He sat there, effortless, easy...and completely distanced from her.
“No, your plan’s fine.” She sat down at the table. The toast tasted like dust, the coffee like acid-burning sludge. Aya forced the bite down. “Nate...shouldn’t we talk?”
His gaze looked through her. “Talk about what?”
“Last night.”
He snapped the newspapers in front of his face; the air cracked with the finality of the gesture, the symbolism of the barrier between them. “And what should we say—thanks for the memories?”
She flinched at the deadness in his voice. “No—” Her fingers curled around the top of the newspaper and pulled it down. She caught the fleeting look of despair in his eyes, before resignation quickly masked it.