by Cait London
He turned abruptly, fearing that in another minute he would—The kitten chose that moment to awaken and twine around Paloma’s boots, mewing. “Oh...” She bent to pick up the black kitten, cuddling her as Rio wanted her to cuddle him.
“She’s hungry.” He opened the barn refrigerator and poured milk into a saucer. “She’s for you.” He’d seen the kitten snuggled and warm at Dan’s barn and she reminded him of Paloma curled against him that rainy night on the mountain.
“Ohhh,” Paloma. crooned as she placed the kitten on the barn floor and it sipped hungrily. She crouched to pat its silky back. “Ohhh... I’ve never had a pet before. I shouldn’t.”
“It’s about time then.” Rio couldn’t resist smoothing her hair, this woman who had missed so much of life’s simple pleasures. She gave him pleasure now, just standing there where he could look at her.
“I’d like to initiate lovemaking,” she said quietly, firmly, studying him from head to toe. “I’m just not certain how to go about securing you, and I’m not certain about the tempo.”
Rio couldn’t help chuckling. “Lady, you do have an interesting way with words.”
“I see. You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? You think you have all the answers.” Still looking at him, Paloma tore apart her shirt. While Rio dealt with the powerful effect of that on his body, she tore open his shirt. “I’ll pay for the clothing later. Why did you have that blanket in your pickup?”
“I had big plans for you and me and a moonlight kiss,” he admitted as the kitten daintily picked its way back to the towel in her box. She curled into a ball and slept.
“I really can’t take her,” Paloma murmured as she bent to pet the sleeping kitten. Then she looked up at him. “Dates are supposed to end with a kiss, right?”
He nodded and prayed the night would end with more, with Paloma locked so tightly to him that their hearts were one. He’d waited a lifetime for her. “It wouldn’t be hard to take,” he said, tossing her a challenge as she stood. “Maybe just a little kiss. If you’ll be gentle with me.”
She stiffened, then studied him. He wondered what she would do next; she looked as if she were weighing options. “You—” Paloma hurled herself at him, locking her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.
Rio reached to cup her bottom, caressing it and drawing her closer, where her heat burned him. He tarnd, holding her and let himself fall backward into the soft hay, arms flung out at his sides. He grinned up at the woman straddling his hips, her hands on his bare chest, leaving the next move to her.
Eight
Paloma tried to breathe, excitement pushing the air from her lungs. When she was six, at her debut performance concert, she’d had to breathe into a paper bag to catch her breath. Now, with Rio beneath her, she didn’t have time. She had to take that challenge now.
When pushed beyond her knowledge, she’d found talking to herself gave her confidence. She’d talked herself through rough concerts, poorly tuned pianos, temperamental musicians and conductors and now... “I’ll have to learn how to do this by myself. I’m good at learning by myself.”
Rio frowned “What was that you said?”
She ignored his question and floundered through her emotions. She looked at her fingertips, digging slightly into his bare, tanned chest. She could either grab his exciting melody or let it slip through her fingers. Clearly aroused, Rio shot her a grin that widened in the shadows. She clamped her thighs to his hips, trapping him. When she moved, his stare shot to her breasts and he breathed unevenly.
She moved restlessly, aware that though she should be acting more feminine, she had never had an opportunity like this: Rio didn’t look as though he minded that she was in the dominant position. He didn’t look as if he minded anything.
He was hers. She could make love to him. To him...not waiting for him to make love to her. Unlike her first and only sexual partner, Rio waited for her to make decisions. “This is interesting,” she whispered. unevenly, stroking the nicely furred surface of his chest beneath her palms, reveling in the texture.
“‘Interesting,’” he repeated huskily, as she shifted again and his eyes jerked once more to the material draped across her breasts.
Following her instincts, Paloma stripped off her shirt. She studied the effect on Rio, who had just jerked beneath her hips. “Oh, my,” she murmured as his hands clamped to her thighs. Yet he waited, letting her make the next move. Games, she thought, wonderful, beautiful games. “Thank you for out date,” she said very formally, tracing his lips with her finger.
He nipped her finger gently. “It was my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, the raw, deep sound curling around her heart.
She ran her hand over the hay beside them, taking a stalk to trace across his chest. “Haystacks look soft but they’re prickly.”
“Blankets help,” he offered, watching her.
“I can do this. I can do this,” she whispered to herself.
“Am I in this conversation?”
“You’re here and you’re now,” she told him.
“I’m definitely here. Whatever you’re debating about doing, just do it,” Rio said urgently.
Because he looked so rumpled and tasty, Paloma dived upon him, and kissed him hard. When he was breathing heavily, she sat up again to study the results of acting on her instincts with Rio. She released the triumphant grin within her The reaction she got from Rio was much, much better than all the demand for encores she’d ever gotten at her concers.
This time his hands went to her breasts. caressing them, and Paloma inhaled sharply, her body responding in moist warmth, aching. Beneath his lashes, Rio’s dark eyes gleamed, waiting. Throwing away all restraints, Paloma dived at him again, this time locking her arms around his neck. He gave her freedom, he gave her heat and tenderness.
She sat up again and wondered at how full she felt, how pleased and warm and feminine. “What was that about a blanket?”
“Getting brave, aren’t you?” Rio smoothed away a long black strand of hair from her breast He sat up, holding her close with one arm as he flipped open the blanket on the hay. Then he gathered her closer to him, bending to sweep his open lips across her body.
Paloma suddenly couldn’t wait; she’d waited for years for this excitement, for this tenderness, for this man. She turned and leaned slowly backward onto the blanket and Rio followed, his weight comforting her. He groaned roughly as she hurriedly tried to undo his jeans and failed. In a quick movement, he freed himself, tugged off his boots and jeans, then more gently eased her from her clothing. Her briefs tore and Rio stopped, looking down at the lacy garment in his hand, tangled with her jeans. He shuddered and searched her expression. “I’m... Are you frightened?”
Putting her emotions above his desire, Rio only endeared himself more to her. She could trust him on this level; on her word, Rio would tether his desire. He strained now to keep himself away, his hard, tall body shuddering over hers. “No. I’m not frightened. This is so real. I’ve had a lifetime of the unreal, too many forced smiles, too much posing as the perfect concept pianist. With you, I feel like...I feel like a woman. Is it so powerful? Your desire?”
“With you...yes,” he admitted unsteadily. His hands trembled lightly on her, tracing her waist, her hips, and flattening low on her stomach. In the glitter of his eyes, she read her own frantic need to become one, to give and to take. She gripped his shoulders, her world turning, heating, and then Rio came into her, filling her, giving her more... She captured him with her arms and legs and instantly the heated contractions began deep within her. Rio cried out harshly, his mouth seeking hers, and his hands lifting her....
The storm happened so fast, and with so much beauty, she felt as if she was whirling through a symphony of sunlight and rose petals. Rio’s shoulders were her safety, his face rough against her skin, her throat, her breasts. The scents of the earth, the hay, blended with the scent of Rio, all so real and fresh and enticing. His skin slid beneath her grasp, cords and mus
cles moving his body against hers. She grasped him tightly, battling yet keeping him until she tasted the fever on his lips and made it hers. Was that high-keening sound hers? Was it her soul flying above her? The cords within her tightened rhythmically as he took her breast into the heat of his mouth. She cried out at the gentle tug of his mouth, her open mouth desperate, tasting his skin, that fine high edge of pleasure almost unbearable as she placed her lips on his shoulder.
Rio surged deeper, filling her again and as she cried out, he thrust wildly one last time, shattering with her.
When the world settled gently into reality, Rio groaned unsteadily, and tried to brace his weight away. She couldn’t have him leave her and tugged him closer, smoothing his tense back, his hard bottom and powerful thighs. He drew her closer, her breasts against his chest, his body still a part of hers. He smoothed her sides, her hips and thighs, his hand trembling. Neither spoke, but after a time, Paloma sensed he was uncomfortable. “What is it?”
Rio inhaled sharply. “I’m disgusted.”
“By me?” Tears sprang into her eyes. Their lovemaking had been so beautiful, or so she’d thought. She’d rarely cried in her life, and suddenly all her emotions were open, revealed. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. In a moment, she’d pull herself together, make light of the moment and hide before she broke into pieces.
He turned her face to his. “Stay with me. I can feel you sliding away from me, from this. I wanted to love you slow and give you everything a woman should have. Instead I acted like a half-grown, woman-hungry boy taking my own pledsure.”
He wasn’t disappointed in her-he’d wanted soma shivered with happiness. “Along the way, you pleased me, too. There, there,” she whispered and smoothed his rumpled hair. “You’ll do better next time,” she teased.
He made growling, disgruntled male noises against her throat. “You like doing that, don’t you? Getting to me.”
“I’m comforting you,” she protested righteously and patted his bare bottom. Rio was definitely a man of enticing textures and form.
“Uh-huh, right,” he said in a disbelieving tone. He wrapped a strand of hair around his finger and brought it to his lips. His toes played with hers. His wicked, leering grin delighted her.
She laughed then, feeling wonderful and feminine and day sired. In another heartbeat, when he turned to look down at their bodies, hers pale against his, she stopped smiling. “Yes,” she whispered as his black eyes returned to hers, his big trembling hand sweeping slowly down her body.
Rio caressed Paloma’s soft bottom curled into his body, spoon-fashion. With early dawn creeping into his home, he had the woman he wanted in his bed. He bent, inhaling her fragrance, just there at the soft curve of her throat. Last night, after he’d carried her from the barn to his house, Paloma had fallen asleep in his arms before he could tell her that he loved her. He’d told her with his body, and with his vows that first time in the cabin, but he hadn’t said the words that were so important to him. He’d awaken her this morning—he leisurely caressed her breast and nibbled at her throat—and they’d settle the wedding date. After that, if she traveled, he’d wait for her. She was in his bed, and she was his as much as he was hers. He smiled against her neck, his body already aroused and waiting. “Oh, Paloma...” he crooned, letting his hand roam lower.
She flipped over too suddenly and their heads bumped. Rio rubbed his and eyed her as she stared at him, rubbing her own. “Do you know how to mix adobe? Do you know the recipe?” she asked in a tone that was not loverlike at all.
“Oh, some straw, some mud,” Rio floundered, then recovered. “Let’s talk about us, sweetheart.” Expecting to wake up to a future with Paloma, he’d come in second to mixing adobe mud! Rio grabbed the sheet as she started wrapping it around her. “Where are you going?”
“Up the mountain. I’ve got to get my things and set up living quartets in the store. I’m going to put new filling between the logs and learn how to make adobe bricks. Let go of this sheet!”
“That’s called chinking logs and mid-May isn’t the time to make adobe bricks. You do that in the summer when the mix can harden in the sun. Damn, slim. I had plans. I thought you could live here. With me. I thought we—oh, hell, you could live in the loft if you wanted, I wouldn’t bother you. But you are not staying at that store.” He tossed away the sheet as she had tossed away his dreams. He was wounded and nettled and this wasn’t how he’d planned the morning. Rio rubbed his hands across his stubble-covered jaw and mourned the scrapes on Paloma’s fine skin. She elegantly gathered the sheet around her, sarong-style, and Rio resented the shield to her body. He hurled out of bed, the width of it spanning between them. “If that’s what you want, I’ll fix you breakfast and saddle the horses.”
It wasn’t what he wanted...
“If it’s important to you, I’ll think about your offer,” she said after a long uneasy silence as she looked away from his body. “I’m taking a shower. By myself. And make that one horse. I’m going alone. Will you please watch my kitten?” She began to collect her scattered clothing and in a moment the shower sounded.
“‘Alone,’” he muttered as he waded through the dreams she had just shredded. He stalked into the bathroom and ripped open the shower curtain. He stepped into the shower with her, scowled at her shielding hands, and quickly finished, stepping out He wrapped a towel around his waist and slammed the bathroom door behind him.
“You’re angry, and people just don’t take showers together,” Paloma said as she sat at the table Rio one day hoped to fill with their children. “I’m not good at this. I haven’t had another person in my life and it’s confusing me,” she said quietly, logically. “You’re a distraction. I came here to resolve problems, not create them.”
“Now I’m a problem. Oh, well, hell, then,” he said airily as he stood to dump his pancakes into the trash, just as she had discarded his dreams.
Her luminous blue eyes pleaded with him. “Thank you for yesterday. It was the most beautiful day in my life.”
Rio noted her tentative soft tone, but because he was aching, he slammed a harsh “Thank you, dear” back at her. He was feeling surly, he’d pushed too fast and hard and knew it. When it came to Paloma, he wanted everything. He had to give her space and yet every instinct in him said to keep her close and safe. She hesitated a moment, then stood stiffly and winced as if pained. Rio snared her wrist, horrified that he’d hurt her. “I hurt you. I am sony.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I felt like a woman. I felt needed and...and cherished, if you will. I’ve discovered that I need that raw reality. That I am a woman, not a machine. Exactly how do you feel?”
Rio looked into Paloma’s curious eyes. She wanted reality, did she? His thumb rubbed the silky skin of her inner wrist. “I feel as if I’d like to keep you in bed all day—make that a week. I’d like to hold you against me, hold your breasts in my hands...I’d like to kiss you where I’d like our baby to rest one day. I’d like to wrap your hair around me, feel your hands shake as they touch me, feel your fingers dig into my shoulders as if I’m all you want in your life. I want to hear your breath coming short and fast as we make love, hear those sounds deep in your throat, hear you cry out as you hold me deep and safe and warm. Then I’d like to hold you in our bed—with a marriage certificate framed over it. I’d like to hold your hand when our grandchildren come to visit. That’s how I feel.”
He brought her palm to his lips and released her, standing back. If she were frightened or feeling pushed or boxed into a relationship, he didn’t blame her. He probably terrified her; he certainly terrified himself. She could leave at any moment, and he’d slide into a cold, lonely ache. He slid his hands into his back pockets to keep from reaching for her. Would she stay? Would she face what they’d found together? “The thing about a strong woman like you is that you could pick up at any time and leave. You could make a home for yourself, if you wanted. But I’m hoping you’ll stay with me.”
“Good
ness,” she said after a long silence, the pulse at her throat fluttering. She straightened her shoulders methodically, as if she would do what was necessary despite her feelings. Then she turned slowly and walked out the door. Rio stood at the kitchen window, brooding as she came out of the barn cuddling her kitten, nestling her face against its soft fur.
He certainly had different plans for this morning; but at least she had promised to think about his offer.
Through the window, she waved at him and Rio groaned. She needed time, and he needed her. For a man who had found the woman he wanted, waiting wasn’t easy.
“Thank you.” Paloma studied Rio, who had just reached to tug the chisel out of her hand; he shoved a bouquet of roses at her. Rio’s stormy look settled around the shadows of the store. He glanced at the floor, littered with crumbled cement and old adobe that she had chipped from between the old logs, wanting not to patch it but to fill the gaps with new material.
After a week of Rio’s tense silence, Paloma was physically tired but happy. She ached for his arms, yet she had to complete the journey by herself, settling her feelings about Boone. She lacked experience in soothing the rumpled emotions of a man; she wished she could bandage his injured pride as easily as she had bandaged his arm. His glare at her was steady and not encouraging; clearly he waited for her to make the first move to mend what ran between them. When he slowly took in her bib overalls and T-shirt, he shook his head. “These roses remind me of you, all those long stalks and pretty soft petals.”
“Why, thank you again,” she managed, unused to such compliments.
“It’s just how I think of you, even when you’re standing here, sopping with mud and your hair in pigtails. Paloma, you make me feel like a cradle robber. You look like an innocent with my overalls rolled up at the cuffs.” He bent on one knee to roll up a cuff that had slipped, and stood to straighten a denim strap. Though he wasn’t happy with her coming here at dawn every morning and back to his house to flop into bed, Rio had taken care of her. He’d pushed pasta and salad and canned soups into her, and ignored her grumbling. He’d shoved her into the shower, washed her dirty clothes and laid out clean ones for morning. And before dawn, when she strutgled out of his bed, there was Rio, standing in his jeans, flipping pancakes for breakfast. His sleeping bag was rumpled in a corner. When she was ready to ride her motorcycle into town, Rio jerked open the door for her.