Maggie's Man

by Alicia Scott

  Her lips settled on his and she thought he tasted sweet.

  With a groan, his lips opened and succumbed. He suckled her lower lip hungrily and she opened her mouth for him, pressing against him and knowing what she wanted.

  At the last minute, his hands gripped her face fiercely. He dragged back her head until he could find her eyes. She was dazed and hungry, already reaching for him. But his eyes were bright, deep and compelling.

  "Do you understand what you are doing?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you understand I have nothing to give you?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't need like other people need, Maggie. You can't reform me, you can't save me, you can't own me. I will keep you hostage even after this moment, but I will also definitely let you go once we reach Idaho. You can go on your way. I will go on mine. But I am not one of your lost causes, Maggie, understand that. I've made my choices, taken my chances, and I'm willing to pay for them. Just don't ask me to pay for your choices—I don't do that.

  "That's the way things are," he warned.

  "All right."

  "None of that is going to change because of one moment of passion," he continued.

  "I know," she said, but she thought that he was lying. Because this wasn't just one moment and it would change everything.

  His nostrils flared. Some of the composure seemed to leave him, and now she could see the sweat on his cheeks and the raw need burning in his eyes.

  "I've never forced a woman, Maggie. I swear on my mother's grave I've never forced a woman. But it's been a long time and I want you … God, I want you like I haven't wanted anything. Once we start, I don't know if I can stop."

  For the first time, she hesitated. She was afraid. She was an inexperienced virgin and he was a man who'd been around the block, a man convicted of murder.

  Yet she trusted him. There was absolutely no rational basis for it, and that should scare her because she knew she could be overly sentimental. But Cain wasn't emotional or rash. He was the first man—the first person—she'd met who was clear, concise and upfront. He didn't use guilt or badger or yell or any of the other games her parents had so excelled at. He accepted her as she was. He gave her options and respected her power of choice. He treated her like an intelligent woman. He trusted her word.

  She took a deep breath. She looked him in the eye because he'd always granted her the same courtesy. And abruptly, her hands reached up and gripped his face. "Will you answer one question for me?" she whispered intensely, her eyes searching his gaze.

  He hesitated only for a second. "Yes. For you."

  "Did you kill Katherine Epstein?"

  His gaze was so steady, so true. "No, Maggie, I didn't."

  "I knew it," she whispered triumphantly and kissed him hard.

  Chapter 10

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  Her mouth opened for his immediately. She'd tasted his tongue before and she wanted to taste it again. She wanted him to consume her, wanted to feel the softness of his lips, the warm, sure strokes of his tongue. He surprised her though. She thought he would be rough and eager, tearing at the few remains of her clothes and claiming her with a wild, reckless passion that would never give her time to think.

  Instead, his hands remained on her face, his fingers tangled in her hair. He held her head steady, and instead of being frantic and clumsy, he explored her thoroughly, as if he'd just been granted a special gift and he wanted to know everything about it.

  His lips were soft, soothing. He tasted her lips gently as if they had all the time in the world and at this moment he wanted to simply sip and savor her flavor. Next his mouth brushed her cool cheek, the corner of her eye. He kissed her lashes, and the feel of his lips against her eyelids made her smile. He touched her brow, her hairline, her chin.Then his fingers moved slowly, splaying in her damp hair, rubbing her scalp luxuriously. They found the hot, swelling lump from her unfortunate encounter with the dashboard and lingered lightly.

  "Does it hurt?"

  "No," she whispered, her large blue eyes still mesmerized on his face. "Kiss me again."

  He smiled. "Greedy, definitely."

  "Yes."

  His mouth moved deeper this time, his hands slanting her head so he could delve into her, explore the corner of her lips, the fullness of her lower lip, the moist recesses of her mouth. His tongue grazed over her teeth and she shivered at the new sensation. Then he stroked her, sure, strong, and knowing, and her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him close.

  His mouth left her, but before she could protest, he trailed warm kisses down her throat, tickling, quivering kisses that spiked goose bumps along her flesh. His hands moved, his broad palms curving around to support her lithe back. He bent her toward the steering wheel and she surrendered willingly, offering him her pale throat, delicate collarbone and gently rounded breasts.

  The steering wheel was cold, her hair wet on her shoulders, the air damp and frigid. But his mouth was hot, hot and soft, and she felt it acutely, focusing on it as his lips moved across her chilly flesh.

  His tongue nuzzled her pulse, which beat blue and rapid at the base of her neck. He nipped her throat and tasted the creamy expanse of her shoulder. And then his mouth trailed down to the rising swell of her petite breasts.

  For a moment, she was self-conscious. She opened her eyes, looking at his bent head, the tousled mass of his golden hair, the look of rapt concentration on his face.

  "It's not much," she whispered.

  "What?" he murmured. His tongue traced the edge of her bra. Her whole body shuddered with the impact.

  "I used to…" It was very hard to think. "I used to do that 'I must, I must, I must increase my bust.'" She rowed her arms weakly. "You know, from Judy Blume." She looked down at her ironing-board chest. "It didn't work."

  For his response, he settled her back against the steering wheel and brought his hands around to cup the high, delicate crests. "Maggie," he said with complete, husky sincerity, "you are perfect."

  "Oh," she said dumbly and felt her eyes suddenly fill with tears. "Don't stop," she whispered abruptly, her voice frantic and desperate and raw in the rain-filled hush of the car. "Please, just don't stop."

  "I won't." And his hands moved suddenly, one slight twist and the frivolous material fell away. Her breasts were bare and beautiful, creamy white mounds topped with pale pink nipples. His mouth closed around her, sucking as gentle as a babe and the sensation ripped through her as fierce as a lion. She cried out his name shamelessly. She buried her fingers into his hair and held him against her breast. If he left her now, she knew she would just die.

  Now she could feel the flame. It was inside her, low and bright in her belly, and with every tug of his mouth it grew bigger and fiercer, heating her veins, boiling her blood. She was a wanton, she was shameless. She would dance the lambada in only a black lace shawl to keep this man with her, to run her hands through his hair, to dig her fingers into his shoulders, to listen to his low, steady baritone.

  "Please," she whimpered. Her head thrashed from side to side on the steering wheel and she no longer cared. His mouth increased its pace, laving her left breast, suckling hard and the darts of passion sparked hot and mad through her blood.

  Her hips found the tempo on their own, her prim plaid skirt tangled around her waist, her bare feet digging into the seat beside his thighs as she arched herself against him. She heard his groan, she heard his ragged breath and then his hand slid abruptly between her thighs, cupping her mound.

  "Maggie, you are so wet," he muttered, and his fingers slipped inside her plain white panties and plunged into her without further preamble.

  She cried out. She arched her entire body, lifting off the steering wheel, her fingers digging into his scalp, her neck cording with unbelievable tension. The flame was so big now. So big it was consuming her and she'd never felt such heat, such fire. It was bigger than even she was, and when she lost her last grip on reason the conflagration would combust within her, annihil
ating her, reducing her to ash. And she was terrified and yet already inflamed and wanting the holocaust more than she'd ever wanted anything.

  "Take it, Maggie," Cain whispered thickly. "It's all right. I've got you."

  She fell apart. The desire burst within her and she fell into a million dazzling pieces, weeping, moaning and clinging to his sweat-streaked torso as if he was her last hope on earth.

  Immediately his hands moved, curving around her shoulders and scooping her against his chest. He rocked her small shuddering form against his large, solid body, stroking her cheek and murmuring sweet words of nonsense as her senses blew away like confetti and her body disintegrated to ash.

  I love you, she wanted to whisper, she wanted to weep. I love you with my whole big, generous heart. Just hold me like this. Just hold me close to your heartbeat and never let me go.

  And then she began to cry in earnest, big, silent tears she couldn't explain. She'd just never realized how empty she'd been, how cold, how barren, how lonely until he'd wrapped his arms around her and told her she was perfect. It meant so much to her, this man, this moment, this feel of her cheek against his chest.

  She wanted him as she'd never wanted anything. She wanted to sleep curled in his arms, she wanted to wake up with his body already hard and earnest inside her. She wanted to scrub his back in the shower and she wanted to watch him eat breakfast. She wanted to know everything he feared and everything he hoped. She wanted to sit with him in front of winter fires and listen to his low, steady voice tell her about his dreams. She wanted to bear his children and suckle his son at her breast.

  "Maggie, are you all right?"

  No. How can I be all right when I want something I can't have? She'd been so careful not to want too much in her life. So careful not to dream too grand because she'd lived through her parents' marriage, and she knew what could happen to dreams.

  And now she no longer cared. She was a Hathaway Red. She wanted it all.

  She pushed herself up on his lap, wiping at her cheeks with her shaking hand. She couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm … I'm sorry. I … I bet, I—"

  "Maggie." His fingers curled around her chin and raised it slowly. "Don't apologize."

  "Okay," she said and felt her eyes well up again. His green gaze was so steady, so true, and his callused thumb brushed her cheek, as soothing as a kitten's lick.

  He was shifting restlessly in the seat. She glanced at his lap, and realized belatedly that he was still hard, still hungry. She didn't ask and she didn't hesitate. She reached down her hand and found him through the wet, clinging fabric of his jeans.

  His head fell back against the top of the seat. His green eyes narrowed to feral green slits and his breath grew ragged.

  "I want you," she whispered fiercely, her hair wild and fiery around her pale face. "I want to feel you with my fingers, to hold you, to cup you. I want you inside me. I want … I want everything." Her hands were already working the stubborn buttons.

  "I want that, too," he murmured thickly. "Definitely."

  Abruptly his hands gripped her face and he brought her lips to him fiercely. This was hard, this was earnest and primal. She wasn't glass anymore and he seemed to know it.

  He split her lip. She liked the taste of blood. He bruised her shoulders with his grip. She wished he would hold her even tighter.

  Her hands were fast and furious on his lap, tugging and pulling at the wet, unyielding denim. She could feel the straining desire of him, huge and hot. She should be afraid, because she was small and petite and he clearly wasn't, but she didn't care anymore.

  He consumed her mouth, a huge biting kiss that she returned just as voraciously. The rain thundered around them. The tiny car rocked with the fury of their movements. The denim, however, continued to thwart her fingers and Cain struggled just as badly with her skirt and panties.

  He drew back long enough for a gulping gasp of air. "The back seat," he suggested harshly. "More room."

  "Okay." She tumbled between the front seats instantly, falling into the back seat and reaching for his hand.

  He'd just risen, when he suddenly stiffened. He was no longer staring at her, but out the windshield.

  "Cain!" she demanded without a single shred of pride.

  "Headlights," he said. "Headlights."

  Her mouth opened, her blue eyes widened and the slow sinking feeling in her stomach took her from high to low in one sickening lurch. "No," she whispered bleakly.

  For one moment, he turned back. His jaw worked, his eyes softened. The headlights drew nearer. Big, high headlights, the kind that might belong to a semi.

  Cain's shoulders squared. His face settled into the smooth, composed lines of resolve. And without his ever saying, Maggie knew the moment had come and gone.

  He reached beside her and picked up the baseball cap and his discarded T-shirt, which was still wrapped around the gun.

  At the last minute, she grabbed his arm. "Don't you hurt anyone," she said harshly. "Don't do that."

  He pulled his arm away without any effort. "You trust so little," he said quietly and popped open the door. "Get dressed."

  He stood up in the rain, pulling the T-shirt over his bare chest and the gun tucked in the small of his back. He settled the cap over his forehead and began waving his arms.

  She watched him for a moment and saw the headlights slow.

  He looked strong in the night, relentless and ready to do what he had to do. He turned his emotions on and off so well. She just ached. Her body ached, her heart ached, her hands ached to reach for him. She didn't know how he pulled himself together so fast. Maybe women with foolish, generous hearts weren't meant to be able to do the same.

  She reached for her silk blouse, drawing the damp fabric over her shivering shoulders with thick, trembling fingers. She didn't bother with tears and she didn't bother with regret.

  She simply began buttoning the blouse and whispered, "Maggie, be strong."

  Mike Jeffries was a big man. The I'm a Harley Hog Man print on his T-shirt was stretched to the point of near illegibility, and the navy tattoo on his upper forearm bulged to previously unknown dimensions. He sported a blond, handlebar mustache and sideburns Cain thought had gone out of fashion sometime in the seventies. All in all, he looked as if he could give Cain problems if he so chose.

  Cain had pumped some iron in his time, sure. He was smart as well. But this truck driver appeared to consume a whole steer in a single sitting.

  On the other hand, prison had been educational: It had taught Cain not to look at a man's biceps so much as look into a man's eyes. Mike Jeffries had clear eyes, smiling, benevolent eyes as he opened the passenger door and called out, "Looks like you could use some help, mister."

  Cain eased his hand away from the gun nestled in the small of his back. "Yes, sir. Our car went off the road."

  "Our?"

  Cain looked at the man once more. Life didn't play fair. It routinely gave a man five seconds to size up friend or foe and make crucial decisions. And indecision was the worst choice of all.

  "My wife," Cain supplied steadily.

  Mike Jeffries simply nodded, no calculating look appearing on his face, no sudden flush of lust darkening his eyes. Of course, the giant hadn't seen Maggie yet. That long red hair of hers had probably broken more than a few hearts.

  Or maybe it was simply the way she moved, the way she spoke. Every act earnest. She did nothing halfheartedly. She tried and she persevered, more than any person he'd ever known.

  As if she were reading his mind, the back door of the car popped open and she stepped out. Both Cain and Jeffries turned toward her.

  She stood straight in the pouring rain, the slashing drops instantly molding her deep red hair to her pale, oval face and slender shoulders. She was small and delicate, yet remote and ethereal in the dark storming night. It was as if the entire rage of nature didn't affect her, didn't touch her, because she willed it that way.

  Cain had thought she might look hurt after his
abrupt departure. He thought she might sulk. He'd forgotten just how resilient she was.

  Instead, in a small endearing motion that impacted him far more than any tantrum would have, she carefully checked both ways of the empty road, and then crossed right toward him, her footsteps direct, even and without hesitation.

  He found himself holding out his hand. He found himself wishing the semi had never arrived and he could have stayed with her in the back seat of the car, tasting her skin, listening to her soft cries, feeling her body contract around him.

  And afterward, he would have liked to hold her a long time, listening to her soft voice proudly tell stories of her family while he stroked her long, red hair.

  He forced himself to turn back to Jeffries and the matters at hand. The bigger man's eyes were still clear. That was a good thing, because maybe Cain was capable of murder after all.

  "I'm heading to Burns," the driver said. "Then I gotta pull over and get some rest."

  "How far is that?"

  "Oh, 'bout another forty miles. Or I can drop you in Riley ten miles from here if you'd like."

  "No, Burns would be great if it's not a problem."

  "Nah, hop right in and get outta this rain. I got some towels in the back and a thermos of hot coffee if you'd like. Shoot, I've never seen two people so wet."

  "Ugly night," Cain commented softly.

  "Sure is. Sure as hel…heck—my apologies, ma'am—is."

  Cain decided he liked Mike Jeffries then. Still, he positioned himself between the driver and Maggie on the seat, handing her the towel first as the semi lumbered to life and slowly eased forward into the rain.

  "Could you tell me the time?" Cain asked, turning his torso to shield Maggie from the other man's gaze as she went to work drying her hair and her clinging blouse.