Night Hunter

by Vonna Harper

  Once again he acted before she could prepare for it. This time he slid his hands under her hips and lifted, forcing her to bend her knees. Damn him, she wasn’t some hooker he could ride! Yes, her pussy leaked and he’d have to be a fool not to know what that meant, but she was sick and tired of being manipulated. The truth was, she was scared.

  Belatedly realizing she was lying there spread-eagle and gripping the bottom sheet, she tried to draw her knees together. He immediately pushed down on their insides and held her in place. She tried to lift one foot—what for she wasn’t sure—but couldn’t maintain the position. She whipped her head from side to side. His grip on her knees didn’t let up.

  “Don’t! I don’t—”

  He bucked toward her and rammed the head of his cock against her cunt. Silenced, she stopped fighting the pressure on her legs. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she thought of nothing, felt nothing except him against her, determined shaft spreading her outer lips, gliding into her lubricated opening.

  He filled her. Became part of her.

  No you don’t! You might be stronger than me, determined, but I will not, will not… He’d slipped inside her and become part of her. His cock plunged so deep inside that she felt him in her belly. With each thrust, he nearly slid out, paused at her aching clit, rubbed against it, turned flame into conflagration.

  Don’t! Don’t let him…

  Why the hell not? It’s what you want.

  She rode his thrusts with him, cried out in time with his grunts, felt herself climbing higher and higher, ever hotter.

  “Thunder! Thunder, Thunder, Thunder!” she screamed.

  Then she exploded.

  She barely felt his mouth on the side of her neck, wasn’t sure she’d actually heard him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Damn you. You did what you wanted, didn’t ask how I felt—”

  “You got what you wanted.”

  “That’s not the point!” Mala shot back, even though he was right. “Just because you’re turned on doesn’t give you the right to—to jump on me.”

  “You didn’t tell me to stop.”

  “I tried to. Besides, would it have made any difference?”

  When Laird didn’t say anything, she sat up and slid off the bed. Not bothering to look back at him, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She had no idea what she’d do if he came in after her, but he didn’t, which left her to deal with questions. It would have been easier if the only thing she’d had to contend with was trying to figure out him and his actions, but there was also the undeniable issue of what the hell she was doing.

  Laird had had his way with her. Humped her. If one looked at their last coupling from a purely cause-and-effect standpoint, that’s exactly what had happened. However, it hadn’t been rape. In fact it had been far from it.

  Yeah, she amended as she scrubbed at her scalp, it had hardly been that. Rape meant to force one’s will upon another, and he certainly hadn’t had to force anything—because she’d wanted sex as much as he did.

  Well, why wouldn’t she? He was a stud, after all. More than a stud—the most complex and fascinating and overwhelming man she’d ever known.

  In the middle of that admission, she touched the side of her neck. “I’m sorry.” His whispered confession wrapped itself around her and brought her to tears. Why hadn’t she seen it before? He wasn’t fighting her, wasn’t determined to impress her with his control.

  He’d run his lips over her throat in a gentle, maybe loving gesture. No matter what was going on inside him, he cared about her. That care and compassion and his maybe desperate need to hold on to some piece of what he’d once been warred with recent changes. He didn’t know how to tell her this. All he could do was kiss her in the moment of climax.

  If only she had some idea what the future would bring or whether the past would suck him into it.

  If he went back in time, and she couldn’t follow him there anymore, how would she survive?

  “I’m sorry,” she told him later as they were eating the meal she’d thrown together from the few things she’d found in his refrigerator. They were sitting outside in the bolted down lawn chairs watching night steal over the sky. A stiff breeze tugged at their hair. She didn’t care what hers looked like, and his wind-blown appearance only added to his appeal. She couldn’t make herself believe he didn’t know how sexy he looked, but she wasn’t about to admit how turned on she’d become from just looking at his silhouette.

  As far as she could remember, it was the first time they’d simply sat in each other’s presence. She prayed it wouldn’t be the last and that she could tell him how grateful she was because he’d entrusted her with his gentle side, no matter how briefly. “I shouldn’t have touched your necklace.” Even now, it drew her attention.

  He nodded, but continued to study the horizon, his silence reinforcing how little he’d spoken since leaving the Everglades. “I thought—I hoped that not wearing it would decrease its influence over you.”

  “It belongs with me.”

  “I understand that. Believe me, I do.” But that doesn’t stop me from being afraid of what that means. She balanced her plate on her knees and reached over to take his hand. Her heart felt as if it had caught in her throat, making it hard to talk.

  “Laird, I want us to spend the night at my place.”

  “You do not like this?” He indicated the gently lapping water.

  “I love it. But now that I’ve seen where you live, I want you to experience the same thing.”

  She wasn’t sure what impact, if any, her words had made on him because now he was looking at her hand. On her forefinger was a ring she’d made from threads of silver braided together. She’d woven tiny white shells into the braid.

  “You made this?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It is beautiful. The work of a true artist.”

  For the second time in less than an hour she was on the brink of tears. “You mean that?” she managed.

  “You mean a great deal to me,” he whispered. “I understand what is important to you, at least some things.”

  Speechless, she stared at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “I—I need to hear that,” she admitted.

  Instead of saying anything, he reached out and caressed her neck where his mouth had briefly rested.

  Shaking, she pulled off her ring and slid it onto his baby finger. “I want you to have it.”

  He wiggled his fingers until the dying sunlight glinted off the silver.

  “That’s what I’d like you to see,” she hurried on, glad to have a reason, any reason, to get him into her domain. To build on the connection, openness, and understanding they’d begun. “I have my studio there as well as the pieces I haven’t sold or placed in stores. Maybe you don’t care. A lot of men, well, they don’t understand how much satisfaction I get out of creating jewelry.”

  “But it’s important to you that I do?”

  “Yes, it is.” Maybe it’ll help keep you here.

  They left after dark and, although she would have let him if he’d offered to drive, Laird still showed no interest in getting behind the wheel. He’d needed her to remind him to bring along personal items and a change of clothing. What she didn’t bring up was what they were going to do tomorrow or the things they might say to each other. In the back of her mind was the hope she could get him to talk to his brother and thus continue the transition back to the real world, but the only thing she was sure of was that she had to take it only one step at a time.

  As she drove, she asked about his boating business, but because his answers were so brief, all she really understood was that he’d started by offering to taking people to his favorite fishing spots. As word of his success grew, the transition from hobby to business began. He loved spending his days watching the multitude of sea birds and creatures that lived in the shallow waters. He was less enthralled with some of his customers and considered b
oat maintenance a chore better done without thinking about it too much. Some day he’d like to have a sailboat but didn’t regret spending money on a motorcycle instead. When she reminded him that neither of them had seen the motorcycle since the crash, he shrugged.

  By the time she reached her small, older place inland, she’d run out of things to talk about related to how he made a living. She thanked him for his honesty and been rewarded with a small smile. Hoping he cared, she explained that thanks to a small inheritance from a grandfather, she’d been able to make a down payment on what had been a mother-in-law cottage behind a larger house until the previous owners had succeeded in getting a zone change. The cottage consisted of two bedrooms and a single bathroom in addition to a small living room with one wall that was all windows. She’d wanted it because the garage had been converted into a workshop.

  After a cursory tour of the house, she took him into her workshop with its multitude of plastic containers filled with the shells she’d collected while walking the beaches, engraving tools, casts, soldering equipment, buffs, pliers, and carving tools, to say nothing of semi-precious stones. He looked both at home and like a stranger in her domain. To her surprise and gratitude, he asked how she created her work.

  “It’s in my head,” she explained. “I don’t always know it’s there until I start looking at various materials and playing at ways to put them together. Like the ring you’re wearing.” She indicated it, but with her awareness of him in the crowded space on high alert, she didn’t touch him. “I was watching some children playing a few weeks ago and noticed this blond girl with the longest, neatest braids. I wanted to duplicate that.”

  He stared at a tray filled with feathers while she struggled with the notion that he was too large and wild for the confined space. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a long, lacy white feather.

  “It’s from a snowy egret. I got permission to scrounge what I could find at the wildlife rehabilitation center. Many years ago, the demand for egret feathers to decorate women’s hats nearly made the birds extinct. I occasionally incorporate one into a necklace, but they’re pretty fragile.”

  “You could use imitation, plastic, maybe.”

  “It wouldn’t speak to me.” She looked up at him, her attention catching, as she knew it would, on the necklace he now wore on the outside of his faded T-shirt. The leather was dry, almost brittle. Whatever its original color, it had nearly been bleached white.

  Suddenly, she was struck by one of the flashes of inspiration she’d long encouraged. Barely noticing that Laird was watching her, she grabbed one of the sheets of paper she kept in her studio and began sketching a bracelet that bore a striking resemblance to his necklace. She worked for maybe ten minutes, occasionally erasing and refining but always with the same basic goal. Finally she straightened and held the paper at arm’s length.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He stepped to her side and studied the drawing. Their shoulders touched, testing her vow to keep her hands off him. She was so aware of him, super-charged. “That is it,” he said at length.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes.” He leaned toward her, shared his heat with her. Once again she had to struggle against tears.

  “That means a great deal to me,” she admitted.

  “You are a remarkable woman,” he said. “Talented in ways I did not expect. I’m still wrapping my mind around everything I’m learning about you.”

  She’d had her creations praised by some of the state’s harshest critics, but no other praise meant as much as his simple approval. The bracelet she could hardly wait to get started on wouldn’t be an exact duplicate of his. Rather, she envisioned a slimmer, lighter version. She intended to use soft, white leather as the base, but instead of fastening ordinary shells to it, she’d choose a variety of colors ranging from palest green to violet.

  “Yours is masculine,” she explained. Just like you are. “Mine will be feminine. And in the pouch—what about a small silver arrowhead?”

  “Why that?”

  She ran her fingers over the sketch. “The Seminole gave me the idea. I want to honor them.”

  Cupping his hand around her chin, he forced her to look up at him. Sexual heat radiated from him, but she fought its dangerous impact. Not only wasn’t there room for sex in here, she was suddenly afraid of the loss of control that happened whenever he made his physical demands on her.

  “What?” she asked when he only stared at her.

  “I’m trying to decide,” he said, “whether you would be of use to me in the Everglades. You would…” Releasing her chin, he trailed his fingers over her throat and down to her cleavage. His fingers were like fire, a flame that turned into wet heat between her legs.

  “You would what?” she heard herself ask.

  “I have needs.” He possessively palmed her breast. “You would fulfill them.”

  “That’s all?” she stammered. “You want a sex partner?”

  Instead of answering, he flattened her breast against her ribcage. The pressure spread throughout her, but centered in her cunt. Robbed of breath, she tried to back away from his strength and dominance. His expression unreadable, he reached down and forced his free hand between her legs. She leaned away from him, but a wall stopped her retreat. Arms heavy and limp at her sides, she struggled to keep her eyes open, and her mouth closed. Her thoughts went no further than the hand covering her breast, the other now locked over her cunt.

  “You are mine,” he growled. “You will never forget that.”

  Because the air-conditioning in her place couldn’t keep up with the worst of summer’s heat, Mala had taken to sleeping on her back porch under a large ceiling fan. Once Laird had released her and stalked out of her studio, she’d panted her way back to self-control. She’d briefly entertained the notion that she should throw him out on his ear. After all, he had his nerve thinking of her as his possession. But, damn him, he was right! She couldn’t fathom long, frustrating nights without him. Besides, he’d become someone she didn’t believe he had any control over.

  Once she’d reconciled herself to how much a part of her he’d become, she told him about the back porch option, then added that he could blow up a spare queen-size mattress she kept around for guests.

  They were already on the porch sipping iced tea, not touching, not even that close. She’d put on a shift that ended at mid thigh, but although she wore panties, she hadn’t bothered with a bra. Or maybe the truth was, only finding the real him again mattered.

  She’d thought he’d be exhausted after the day he’d had. Although she hadn’t been able to do anything about her awareness of him, she could barely keep her eyes open. But the more night enveloped them, the more restless he seemed. He’d sit for a few minutes, then stand and stalk barefoot from one end of the netting-encased porch to the other, looking for all the world like a trapped animal. His cut-off jeans and ragbag-ready shirt only made him appear more uncivilized.

  “What is it?” she asked when he began yet another circuit.

  “They need me.”

  Suddenly chilled, she pushed herself to her feet. In truth, all she wanted was to lie down and go to bed—with Laird beside, or inside, her. But his simple, inescapable comment made that impossible.

  “Who?” she asked because she had no choice.

  “My people.”

  His people. “H-how do you know? Maybe—it’s been a long, exhausting day.”

  He pressed his hand to his chest. The gesture flattened the pouch against his throat. “I feel it—here.”

  She stood beside him and wound her arm around his waist. As she expected, that was all it took for her desire to return. Wrapped in with longing was the fear he might disappear.

  “What does it feel like?” she managed.

  “Warmth. And Osceola’s tears.”

  Osceola, she remembered, had been the Seminole’s bravest and most famous chief, but beyond that, she knew pathetically little about the man.


  “You feel his tears?”

  “He placed this around my neck.” Laird fingered the necklace.

  He couldn’t have! she wanted to scream. He’s been dead for decades. “Did—did he say anything?”

  “Soon he will no longer be able to lead. He has already felt the chains and bars of prison.”

  “But—”

  “That imprisonment lasted only a few days before he was freed and became head war chief.” Laird spoke unemotionally as if reading from a text. “He now hears the footsteps of the American troops even in his sleep. Soon he will have to meet with the enemy to negotiate for the freedom of one of his chiefs. He has no choice, but his freedom is at stake. He does not trust their general. He needs someone to take his place.”

  “He—he’s chosen you?” She felt dizzy.

  “Yes.” Laird pulled free, then pressed his hands over his eyes. “I look at my chief and see an ill man.”

  My chief. She might not have been particularly interested in history, but she did remember that Osceola had been sick when an artist had come to the prison where he’d been placed and painted a portrait of the chief—and that Osceola had died shortly after posing.

  “Laird? Do you believe he’s alive right now?”

  Laird straightened and stared at her. “Now and then are like a river to me. Sometimes it flows one way. Then I step into the Everglades and much changes, but the river still flows.”

  Although she wasn’t sure she understood, she didn’t ask for further clarification. After all, her own perception of reality had undergone a profound change.

  “You can’t go to him tonight,” she insisted. The longer she kept him from the Everglades, the greater her chance of breaking the tie—maybe. “Tonight is for us.”

  She waited, hoping he’d take the hint, but he only continued to study her—or maybe he wasn’t thinking of her at all. Wishing someone somewhere had developed guidelines for keeping a man from being sucked into the past, she took his hands and placed them at the sides of her neck.