The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  She was an idiot, surely, for sitting here in her newest nightdress and gray silk wrapper, waiting much too anxiously for a man's heartwarming whisper drifting upwards to her eager ears. She was more the fool for thinking that maybe, just maybe, there could be more tonight. It had been so long since anyone had touched her, and tonight she felt as if she'd wither and die if Calvin didn't touch her soon. A kiss, a sweet caress. She wanted to see the passion he shared in his letters.

  Blast him, Calvin Newberry was the most confusing man she'd ever met! One minute he acted like a friendly acquaintance, the next he spouted sweet words to her. One minute it seemed he didn't have a thought in his head beyond farming, and the next he revealed the intelligent, tender man he hid beneath that simple, beautiful exterior.

  Was he really so shy that he couldn't stand to face her? Could he only bare his soul from a distance that made it impossible for her to touch him? What torture this was.

  A nagging, almost painful thought came to her as she watched the deserted lawn below. Maybe Calvin didn't care for her at all. Maybe the letters and the nights spent talking in whispers were merely parts of an elaborate, cruel amusement.

  No. She closed her tired eyes. The letters seemed so real, so ardent. Surely this courtship was not a game. Surely. She'd fallen in love with Calvin, reading those letters. They had to be genuine.

  So where was he? He'd been away from Paris for days, and she'd missed him more than she'd thought possible. She'd missed the soft sound of his Tennessee accent, the loving connection she felt even though he kept himself so far away.

  Perhaps she had shocked him with her boldness, asking him to come tonight, telling him that she would be in the house all alone, and he no longer loved her. Perhaps a shy man had no use for a brazen woman.

  A chill ran down her spine. He'd never actually said he loved her, he'd never actually written those three words, I love you. Oh, but how could she doubt his love when the letters he'd written made his feelings much more clear than the utterance of any word ever could?

  The night was so dark, if he'd been wearing black she wouldn't have seen him. At the edge of the yard she caught a glimpse of a white hat, a shimmer of a butternut duster, and a moment later she saw a dark figure moving slowly, very slowly, across the yard. Head down, every step was slow, and as she watched, he stopped.

  He readjusted the hat on his head, shrugged once as if making himself comfortable in his own duster, and then he just stood there, head down, motionless.

  What made him afraid to face her with his feelings? Perhaps another woman had broken his heart. Had some foolish woman spurned him and made him afraid? Roxanne's unshed tears dried and her heart beat fast with anticipation. She would teach Calvin not to be so shy; she would show him how she loved him until he had no fear of facing her with everything he wanted and felt.

  While he stood there, hesitating, she left the balcony, ran through her room, and darted down the stairs on bare feet. He wouldn't woo her from a distance. Not tonight.

  After an unhurried walk that included several long pauses, Cyrus finally stood beneath Roxanne's balcony. What would he say to her? He'd told Calvin he'd make excuses, but at the moment nothing plausible came to mind.

  What had he done? Dammit, he'd stuck his nose into Roxanne's love life and made a royal mess of things. All he'd wanted was to make her happy, to see her smile and laugh; and he had. But she wouldn't be laughing when she found out that Calvin hadn't written those letters; and she would find out eventually, if things continued. She wouldn't be smiling if she ever found out it had been him beneath the balcony and in the tree, and not beautiful Calvin.

  Maybe if he coached Calvin carefully, she would never know. That would be best.

  "Roxanne,” he whispered, his head lifted to the empty balcony. Once again he would play the part he'd played so well, whisper a few sweet words and then walk away. She was alone tonight, and he wondered if she wanted, expected, Calvin to walk in the front door of the Pierson house and climb the stairs to her bedroom. He actually wondered, for a long second, if he could pull it off, if he could sneak into a dark house and into Roxanne's bed and whisper a few sweet hillbilly words as she opened herself to him. He could almost feel it, her welcoming warmth, her tender arms, her body under and around his. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath.

  As much as it hurt him—and it did hurt him—he knew he wouldn't touch her tonight or ever. “Roxanne!” he called again when she did not appear.

  "Yes."

  The whisper came from directly behind him. She stood close, too damn close. As he stood there, frozen to the spot, soft arms encircled his waist.

  "'The face of all the world is changed, I think ... ‘” she whispered.

  "'Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul,'” he finished the verse in a low tone, automatically, and with just a touch of the hillbilly in his voice. Roxanne answered by squeezing him tight.

  Calvin was solid and warm in her arms, and Roxanne took a deep breath and sighed with contentment. She'd dreamed of this, of holding him tight and pressing her body against his. He stiffened considerably, and she wondered again who had hurt him. He'd spoken, only once, of numbness and pain. Someone had broken his heart, and all she wanted to do was fix it. She wanted to fix everything for him.

  "I thought you weren't coming,” she whispered.

  He took a deep breath she felt and heard. “I almost didn't. Roxanne, we can't...."

  Her arms encircled him gently, and she rubbed her hands across a tense, taut chest and belly, barely touching him. He shivered in her arms. “We can do whatever we want,” she whispered. “What I want right now,” she took a deep breath for courage, “is for you to kiss me."

  "I ... I.... “he stammered.

  "There's no reason for you to be shy with me,” she said softly. Her hands stilled on his chest. “You were so open in your letters, so ... so romantic and dear.” She began to slowly step around him, her heart beating so hard and fast she was sure he could hear it. His hat covered his head, the collar of his duster was turned up, and as she turned she caught just a glimpse of his jaw before he moved.

  He turned slowly, just as she did, keeping his back to her.

  "Come inside with me,” she whispered. “I'll light a few candles and pour us some wine, and—"

  "No,” he said huskily.

  She became very still, and her hands dropped. His no sounded so insistent, so final. Her heart died a little, and she chastised herself for making a fool of herself over this handsome, shy man.

  "I've made a terrible mistake,” she said, horrified by her blunder. “I thought you ... I thought you cared for me, that you wanted me, but apparently you don't."

  With what dignity she could muster, she walked away.

  She didn't get far before Calvin stopped her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and propelled her beneath the balcony, into shadows so deep she could see nothing at all. His arms encircled and entrapped her, her breasts pressed against his hard chest, and she felt his long, strong legs brushing hers.

  Without a word he gave her the kiss she craved, clamping his mouth to hers and teasing her lips with his tongue, brushing it lightly and tenderly over her bottom lip. Her lips parted, and she drew in a heated, anxious breath. He tasted mildly of whiskey, and the smell and touch and taste of him overwhelmed her senses until she reeled. Her heartbeat increased; she melted against him.

  One hand crept up her back and to her neck, fingers spearing through her hair, while the other continued to hold her tight. Trapped here in Calvin's arms, caught in his insistent embrace, she knew a moment of perfect happiness.

  His mouth devoured her, hungry and demanding. His tongue slipped through her parted lips, danced with her own exploring tongue, and then plunged deep. The kiss was everything she'd known it would be, and more.

  No man had ever kissed her like this before, demanding, insistent, hungry; as if he wanted to devour her alive. Her entire body tingled in response, a pleasant se
nsation that threatened to overwhelm her. The heaviness in her loins beat in a resounding, demanding rhythm.

  The rhythm and the demand continued even after Calvin took his lips from hers.

  "Don't want you?” he whispered in a voice that was so husky and distraught it sounded not at all like the happy-go-lucky deputy. He pulled her against him so she couldn't help but feel his insistent arousal. “I want you more than anything. I would give anything to have you. But I can't,” he took a deep breath, “have you."

  All was dark here, so dark she couldn't see anything. Her eyes drifted shut. Ah, she didn't need to see. She felt Calvin's warmth, his body against hers, and she needed nothing else. “Why not?"

  There was a long pause before he answered. “You don't love me."

  She smiled in the dark. Her suspicions were correct. Calvin hesitated not because he was unsure of his feelings for her, but because some woman had broken his heart and he didn't quite trust anyone; not even her.

  "Are you the man who wrote me those wonderful letters?"

  "Yes,” he breathed.

  "Are you the man who spent an entire night sitting in that tree and talking to me about the past and the future?"

  Another affirmative breath of air touched her ear.

  She slipped her arms through his duster and around his waist. “Then you're the man I love, the man I will always love. If I didn't know it before you left town, I know it now. You put your heart in those wonderful letters you wrote, you made me long for you in a way no man ever has.” She found his mouth and kissed him, swift and deep, trying to tell him with a caress what he meant to her. He answered her kiss with a searing demand of his own, a sway of his tongue, an insistent brush of his lips. She came away breathless.

  "If I move too fast it's because you touched me so with your words.” Her smile grew into a wide, unrestrained grin. “You make me impulsive."

  "We can't—"

  "Just kiss me and hold me, that's all I ask.” She wanted more, she wanted it all; this man inside her, his hands on her naked body. Her desire was shocking and wicked and impetuous, but it wasn't wrong. Where love was concerned, it couldn't possibly be wrong. But if Calvin wasn't ready for more, she would do her best to be satisfied with his arms around her and a thousand or so kisses. She would show him how she loved him until he was no longer afraid.

  "That's all you ask,” he whispered, and then, after a moment's hesitation while his mouth hovered over hers, he kissed her again. For a disturbing second, she thought of Cyrus ... and then with a flick of her tongue she put the sheriff from her mind.

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  Chapter Twelve

  It was like a dream, where he could touch and hear and smell and taste, but not see. Roxanne's mouth fastened to his, her lips parted, her tongue boldly teased and tasted his. He answered with a delving swirl of his tongue and she moaned, a small catch coming from her throat, a soft sound that signaled a sensation so deep and fine it couldn't be contained. With her body pressed completely and warmly against his she shivered in his arms, telling him that she wanted what they couldn't have as badly as he did.

  It would be best to break away, to quickly blend into the night's shadows and disappear without another word. But Cyrus knew too well that this opportunity would never come again, that he would never hold Roxanne this way again, so he planned to realize a few of his fantasies.

  As he kissed her senseless, his hand slipped through the opening in her wrapper and settled over a linen-covered breast. Warm, soft flesh filled his hand, and his palm brushed against a nipple that instantly hardened. Roxanne didn't protest his audacity, but moaned in pure pleasure, a soft, deep moan against his mouth. He raked his palm over the hardened nipple, stroked his thumb across the giving flesh of her full breast, and she arched into him with a quick intake of breath. She came apart in his arms, losing herself to the sensations of touch.

  When the pull of her wrapper impeded his progress, he reached down and blindly, unthinking, untied the sash. It fell open, giving him freer access. His unimpeded hands raked over her ribs, and came back up to her neck, brushing lightly over pebbled nipples as he explored the wondrous curves of her body.

  He could feel Roxanne weakening, her knees shaking and her arms trembling. She was soft in his arms, unresisting, boneless. If he let her go now she would surely sink to the ground. Taking a single step, he pressed her back against the wall of the house. Dammit, they both needed a little support right now.

  As he stroked her long throat with his thumbs he leaned forward to kiss her again. He could touch her all he wanted, he could kiss her, but there couldn't be anything more. No matter how badly he wanted her, there couldn't be anything more. A few whispered words, a couple of letters, a kiss or fifty, somehow they were all right.

  But to bury himself inside her, to make love to her, was not allowed. As if in protest, his hips and his erection ground against her. Her legs parted slightly, and he pressed his manhood against her mound.

  Her hands had been wrapped snugly around his waist, but boldly they began to wander as his had. Her fingers raked across his chest, flickering over his nipples beneath rough cotton. She seemed determined to touch him everywhere, to explore his body with her delicately curious hands. A palm against his ribs, fingers trailing over his chest, mere fingertips against his hip, he allowed her to touch him as she wished ... until those hands crept up and toward his face.

  It wouldn't do for her to touch his face, to run those inquisitive fingers over a scarred cheek.

  He grabbed her hands firmly, manacling her wrists, and pressed them against the wall she leaned on. Lowering his head, he kissed her neck, trailed his tongue over the indentation at the base. God, she tasted sweet on his tongue. Sweet and salty. Her breasts heaved with every breath she took, and she inhaled and exhaled as if each breath was an effort, as if her body were at war.

  He lowered his mouth further, and captured a linen-covered nipple in his mouth. Through the damp fabric he tasted her, drawing her nipple into his mouth and suckling gently, taking wet linen and tender flesh on his tongue and between his teeth. Roxanne, warm and soft and willing, moaned aloud and shivered deeply. He wondered if she hurt with wanting as much as he did.

  No matter how much it hurt, he wasn't about to stop. This was all he could ever have of her, and dammit he wasn't going to walk away ... to run away ... when he could hold her for a while longer.

  "I can't take this anymore,” Roxanne said breathlessly.

  "Yes, you can,” Cyrus whispered in a very un-Calvin-like voice. She seemed not to notice as he turned his attention to her other breast and repeated the slow, sweet ritual. Tasting, sucking, nibbling. Drawing her into his mouth and pressing his tongue against her pebbled nipple. He released the grip on her wrists and settled his hands on her body, touching warm flesh through thin linen, raking his fingers across curves and valleys, memorizing every line.

  His fingertips learned every angle, his palms raked over warmth and softness that arched against the gentlest pressure. When he laid his lips over hers again he felt the gentlest tremble imaginable, an uncontrollable quake that worked its way through Roxanne's body, and then his.

  Her hands roamed as his did, feathering torturous caresses over his shoulders and his arms, his chest and his back, constantly moving, constantly exploring. Their movements made their coming together a dance, a sensual waltz without any music but the beating of their hearts and the rhythmic unison of their sighs.

  She rocked and swayed in his arms, leaned against and into him as if she were completely, totally his. Hard and aching, he felt as if every brush of her body against his swollen manhood would send him over the edge. Still, he needed more.

  Inch by inch, he worked the hem of her nightdress up, crushing the linen in his fists as his fingers reached for another handful, doing this again and again until the legs brushing against his were bare. Roxanne didn't protest. In fact, she was so lost in the long, deep kiss they shared he wasn't sure that
she realized what he was doing.

  Maybe he'd suffer all night, all his life, but there was no need for Roxanne to suffer, ever.

  She twitched when he laid his hand on her mound, but just a little. His palm rested against her, warm and solid, sure and strong until she relaxed, accepting his presence there. She plunged her tongue deep into his mouth as if she were asking....

  He slipped his fingers lower to touch her intimately, to caress and tease. Her thighs parted in response. She was wet, wet for him and only him. She melted, soft and silky as his fingers smoothed over her flesh, and for a moment he actually considered ... no, that couldn't happen.

  So he stroked her with fingers that were at first easy and then more forceful, caressing and pressing, loving and insistent. Already she shook, losing control as the rhythm of her desires took over. She moved against and into him, rocking forward, closer and closer, the demand in her mouth and her hands and the body that rocked against him. When he slipped a finger inside her and the release claimed her, she cried out and shuddered, her entire body shaking, trembling in his arms.

  And then she was still, curled up against him, wrapped around him.

  "That was.... “she took a deep, apparently difficult breath. “Oh my—"

  Cyrus silenced her with a soft kiss. He could leave her now; he didn't want to go. There was no reason for him to stay; he didn't want to go. He would hold her a while longer, that's all, make memories to savor for a lifetime, because this would never happen again.

  When he finally began to draw away, Roxanne stopped him. She held him fast with long, slender arms, crooked one bare leg around his denim clad one so that his arousal pressed against her.

  "Love me,” she whispered.

  "Roxanne...."

  She slipped her hand between their bodies and laid her palm over his engorged flesh. “You can't say you don't want me,” she whispered.

  He swallowed hard. “No, I can't."

  "I fell in love with you as I read your letters,” she whispered, and her hand began to move, to stroke gently until all rational thought was gone from Cyrus's mind. “I dreamed about this, about kissing and holding you and touching you and ... and I even dreamed about having you inside me. Love me,” she whispered again.