Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  He heard her tiny gasp as his hardness sank into her tender places, and he reveled in the way she pressed back, arching her spine, flattening her breasts against his chest. This was a woman who knew what she wanted, not some calf-eyed virgin who needed him to figure out what pleased her. Not that he'd ever had a virgin before, he reminded himself dimly, sliding a shaking hand beneath her buttocks, tipping her hips and rubbing his ache into the sweet, steamy heat that promised blessed relief. The worst he'd ever allowed himself with a virgin was a fondled breast. He would never have dreamed of grinding his arousal into an innocent's skirts—or jeans.

  Bailey whimpered, squeezing her knees to pull him lower. He obliged with a heady rush. Moving his hips in a teasing rhythm, he tickled her ear with his tongue, sucking the velvet hollow until she squirmed. He liked the way her nipples jutted past the wilted lace of her chemise and burrowed into his flesh. He liked the clinking when her buckle scraped his; the crashing of her heart against his ribs; the ripping of her breath below his ear. But what he liked most of all was the dampness that sizzled, growing ever hotter between them.

  Her willingness to be mounted was a dangerous enticement. He found himself peeling the muslin from her flushed and puckered breasts. She helped him, rolling the tangled undergarment past her waist and kicking it from her feet. Then she reared up, clutching his belt. His pulse careened at her eagerness. As wildly as he wanted to oblige, he still worried about his technique. He wanted to satisfy her too, not just quench his own desire. So, brushing her hands away, he pushed her shoulders down and fastened his mouth to her nipple.

  His name tore from her lips. His nerves fired at the sound, and his pecker chafed against its denim prison, straining to be free. He didn't know how much longer he could withstand the way she writhed and mewed before he started tearing at the buttons on her fly. She'd twined one hand through his hair, tugging it mindlessly in her rising ardor; the other she used to torment him, squeezing his buttocks, scratching his back. With each foray to his waistband, she grew increasingly bolder, working her fevered hand beneath his belt, trying to stroke him. When she succeeded, loosing a throaty growl, he gave up any hope of a tame mating.

  "Bailey." He grabbed her wrist, halting the explorations that were costing him his sanity. "Know this." Drawing a shuddering breath, he caught her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. "A man can't stop after a certain point. And I'm at that point now."

  A vein hammered in her throat. He watched her eyes for any hint of uncertainty. They'd turned so darkly blue, he could see his reflection, see his own primal urgency like a feral mask upon his face.

  She licked her lips. "It's about time," she whispered hoarsely. "I passed my point when ye stuck yer tongue inside my ear."

  He should have blushed, but instead he grinned. He couldn't help himself. She was shameless, God help him, and he thrilled to the prospect of riding her out, wet and wild as she bucked beneath him.

  "Wrap your legs around my waist," he commanded.

  She obeyed, and he rose on all fours, his mouth feasting on hers. With a surge of power that made his head spin, he heaved himself to his feet and strode to the bed. She clasped him tighter, riding higher on his hips, and her spreading female parts bumped in rhythmic invitation against his sensitive head. It was more than he could bear.

  He toppled, tearing at her buckle even as he pressed her to the sheets. Panting, she was quick to imitate him. The rational part of him that still remained thought it right and just that he was having the same frenzied effect on her that she'd been having on him for what seemed like forever. He assured himself he would spill his seed so there would be no danger, no regrets, no scandal for her to shoulder. She would be safe, and none of the voters need ever know he'd had this ruinous, one-night affair.

  She was swollen, wet, sensitized to his slightest caress. To find her so ready, so eager beyond his bawdiest fantasies, fanned his hunger to a ravenous pitch. He didn't waste much time on fondling; he gripped her hips, dragged her lower, and plunged into the creamy fire of her core.

  The yelp that tore from her throat nearly shattered his eardrum.

  For a moment, an awful, heart-gutting moment, he froze, his fogged mind trying to make sense of her pain. Thinking perhaps that his weight was too great, he shifted. She whimpered, her body growing tauter than a bowstring when he repositioned himself inside her.

  "Bailey..." He could hardly hear his own voice above the sawing of his breath. Blinking back the haze of liquor and lust, he focused on her face, so pale it made the white linens look colorful. She was biting her lip, her eyes nearly black with shock. Or was that fright?

  "God in heaven," he choked, the specter of suspicion taking on an ugly, concrete shape. "You're a virgin!"

  Confirmation was etched into every trembling line of her body.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

  His voice exploded with his outrage, and she shrank, cowering beneath him. "I—I did," she retorted tremulously. "I told ye I'd always wanted ye to be the one. I thought ye understood...."

  I knew ye were the one to wait for. Her confession finally sank into his brain, taking on an ominous clarity, one that the moonshine had blurred.

  Merciful God. He hung his head, squeezing his eyes closed against the truth. What have I done?

  Her hips eased higher in a tentative, conciliatory way.

  "Don't move!" he snapped, clutching great handfuls of the pillow, dragging breath after sobering breath into his lungs. Reeling with guilt, dizzy with desire, he feared he would never be able to rein in his need if she started moaning and writhing like she had on the floor.

  "Zack..."

  He shuddered, fighting every screaming impulse to push deeper. Half in, half out, he could go either way. And either way was a direct path to hell.

  "Zack," she repeated brokenly, "please. Don't hate me."

  He ground his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly shut. He couldn't brave the pain in those indigo pools. He couldn't face the consequences of his loutish stupidity just yet.

  "I wanted my first time to be special," she whispered. "I've waited so long, and—and I've dreamed of this so often. Please don't leave me like this...."

  Her words trailed off into a sob, and he almost cried himself. He remembered a time long ago when he'd had dreams about love, about holding a special someone through the night. But Caitlin had used him, and Marybeth had jaded him. The occasional companionship of whores had left him cynical and aloof. He knew what it was like to have his heart carved out and his innocence stripped away.

  He couldn't do that to Bailey.

  Hugging her instinctively, protectively, he touched his lips to the salty dampness on her cheek.

  "I don't hate you," he murmured, stroking her hair, cradling her hips. God, she felt so fragile. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

  Bailey swallowed, afraid to breathe when Zack nuzzled her mouth, sipping the tear that had pooled in the corner of her lips. She really had thought he'd understood when she'd spoken of her virginity, but she'd also figured there was nothing she could do to prove the truth if he chose not to believe her. After all, she'd been riding horses, climbing trees, and falling off both of them most of her life. The chances of her virginal barrier still being intact had seemed a long shot.

  That's why she'd been so surprised. That's why she had cried out.

  In truth, she hadn't expected the twinge of pain either. Caitlin had described mating with Teddy in glowing, blissful terms; she'd never once hinted there might be anything unpleasant about the act. "If you love the man, Bailey, it's sheer heaven," Caitlin had confided. "You have to try it. You have to find your special one."

  Well, Bailey had thought she'd found him... until now.

  Confused, disappointed, she tried to understand what had gone wrong. She'd enjoyed touching Zack, holding Zack, and she'd desperately wanted him to enjoy it too. According to Caitlin, though, the ultimate joy was the copulation itself, so Bailey had rushed eagerly to that end.

>   But in mating, as in every other area of her life, being female had proved a liability. Why couldn't God have made her a man?

  "Bailey, honey," he whispered, his breath caressing her cheek. "Don't cry. I'll make this right for you."

  She nodded bravely, but she felt like crawling under the bed. When Zack had kissed her in the stream, turning her playful chase into a passionate possession, she'd thought he'd finally given her the sign she'd been waiting for. When he'd carried her upstairs on the pretext of changing her clothes, he'd only confirmed for her fogged mind that he wanted her and that he meant to have her. It had been a dream come true.

  But now he was upset with her. He'd probably never want to mate with her again. Considering how she was lying beneath him, bleating like a wounded ewe, she couldn't blame him. God, she hated tears. Why couldn't she keep them from trickling past her lashes?

  He slipped a hand between them. She tried not to shy away from his gentle probing, even though embarrassment, not pain, made her cringe. She was afraid to look at him, much less touch him, and when he turned her face toward him, she wished the mattress would open up and swallow her whole.

  He smiled, though. It was the most tender expression she'd ever seen. Probably the saddest too.

  "No turning back, remember?"

  A sweet, slick warmth dampened his fingers. She could feel him gently rub it over their fused flesh, each patient touch spreading a little more of the lubricant. With a start, she realized that silky libation was coming from her.

  "Wh-what are you doing?" she asked anxiously.

  "What I should have done from the beginning," he murmured, his head lowering and his lashes fanning down over the molten fire in his eyes.

  His tongue traced her lips, wooing an invitation, and she gave it hesitantly, not exactly sure what was required of her. Should she try to move? He'd told her not to. Or maybe she should simply be honest and tell him something was wrong. Her body hurt. That meant he mustn't be her special one, so he should stop now.

  He didn't give her long to ponder such things, though. With a coaxing, snaking motion, he made space for his finger inside her. She gasped, unprepared for the ripple of pleasure that accompanied his bold petting. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her thighs trembled, spilling wider, welcoming the unfamiliar touch with an eagerness that seemed to come from some ancient source of knowing that she'd never tapped before.

  "Relax," he whispered, his voice a husky caress against her lips. "I won't let it hurt anymore. I promise."

  Another ripple, much stronger this time, shot through her, drawing her hips up, arching her back like a bow. He slid smoothly to the center of her being, and she gulped as wave after wave of sensation washed over her. When he started to withdraw, a dizzying moment of disappointment threatened, but he plunged in again, deliciously slow, his finger still milking sweet cream from her core.

  Her senses began to spin. She moaned, and he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, mimicking the primal ebb and flow of the tide he was raising between them. She clutched his shoulders, needing an anchor, a mooring, as he lured her irresistibly into the undertow.

  "Bailey." She could barely hear his voice above the sawing of her breath. "Honey, I'm sorry. I want to go slow. I'm trying, but..." He groaned, and the sound was an exhilaration that danced down every nerve. "God, I want you so much."

  She rocked beneath him, knowing not what she did or how she did it, only that it felt good—so good that she wanted more. And more. She bucked harder, and he thrust deeper, clasping her hips in an intractable embrace, digging his fingers into her hair. She squirmed, liking the way his chest pinned her, loving the way his arm trembled as he tipped her higher, rode her faster, pulled her to him with an urgency that made her female places twitch. She was racing the tide, swimming madly after some elusive thing that kept bobbing out of reach. It was so close, so excruciatingly, tantalizingly close....

  Suddenly the wave crested. She gasped his name, locking her ankles over his buttocks. He cried out a warning. The thunder of sensation crashed through her, drowning out all sound, sweeping her into a swirling abyss, a bottomless, glittering ocean of ecstasy.

  Zack sank helplessly, racked by spasm after spasm of a rapture so profound that for an endless suspension of time, he couldn't think. He couldn't worry. He couldn't feel anything except a blissful oneness with the woman who had wrapped herself around him, burying him deep inside the first volcanic explosion of her core. His heart melted in that fiery union, rushing out with hers toward some boundless, radiant sea, where lovers basked in the perfection of their united spirits.

  But the lava flow was cooling. Shock waves tremored through his limbs, and piles of ash fell thick upon his tongue. Good God, how could he have let himself get trapped in the throes of his desire?

  Sickness clutched his stomach. Withdrawing shakily, he propped himself on an elbow and squeezed his eyes closed, gulping steadying breaths. Panic was insidious, though, creeping ever closer on silken tendrils of fear to suffocate his reason.

  He knew that when he opened his eyes, his world would be changed forever. The nightmare would begin, not end, when dawn tinged the eastern horizon.

  She might be pregnant.

  "Bailey," he whispered anxiously, his mind reeling from the ramifications of moonshine, lust, and sentimental lunacy. "We have to talk."

  She sighed dreamily, curling into a ball like a contented kitten.

  "Dammit, Bailey..."

  Her fingers wrapped around his, and he tensed. He wanted to rage. He wanted to vent his guilt and frustration, accuse her of tricking him, blame her for the mistake that would cost him his dreams of a legislative office and, even more importantly, a happy, loving marriage. But it was already too late.

  She'd fallen fast asleep.

  Chapter 10

  Bailey woke to a golden stream of sunshine that couldn't begin to compete with the warmth in her heart. She stretched luxuriously. Zack. Dearest Zack.

  Never had she realized what a man's touch could do. Never had she dreamed that being a woman could be so... heavenly. Caitlin had failed to do mating justice. Joining herself body, heart, and soul to Zack had been an indescribable sensation. She felt gifted. Blessed. There simply was no better way to describe being in love.

  Sighing happily, she reached for the pillow next to hers, only to find it empty. She opened her eyes. "Zack?"

  A shadowy figure moved, blocking the sunshine that had waked her with its cheerful welcome. "You'd best get dressed," he answered grimly.

  Pulling the sheet to her chin, she sat up and squinted against the glow that blazed around him. His appearance matched his tone. Pale and haggard, as if he hadn't slept a wink, he stood stiffly at the foot of her bed, his mud-splattered shirt tucked neatly into jeans that seemed to fit a little tighter after their soaking in the spring. She didn't spend more than a heartbeat admiring his virile silhouette, however. With his arms folded and his jaw squared, he looked about as friendly as a hanging judge.

  "Get dressed?" she repeated, not quite able to hide her disappointment. She'd been hoping for a repeat of last night's wild ride, but she would have settled for a cuddle beneath the covers. Right now, though, she'd sooner cuddle with a grizzly than Zack.

  "That's right. The sooner we get to town and get this over with, the better."

  Even against the backdrop of sunshine, she could spy the muted fury burning in his eyes. She winced, raising a hand to her head. Suddenly, it felt as if it were being bludgeoned by a blacksmith's hammer.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "A preacher, Bailey," he said irritably. "I'm taking you to a preacher."

  She caught her breath. Stunned, excited beyond words, all she could do was stare while her midsection tied itself in knots. He was talking about her secret dream. Zachariah Rawlins, her lifelong infatuation, the one man for whom she would actually have considered wearing a dress at the altar, was proposing marriage—not very graciously, mind you, but he was offering to we
d her.

  There was just one little problem with this dream come true.

  "You don't want to marry me, Zack," she whispered.

  "I don't have a choice."

  She flinched, his words cutting deep. Some starry-eyed part of her had apparently hoped for a denial, but his hard, flat tone left no room for doubt. It hinted at rage, maybe even hatred. Her chin quivered at the thought, but she quickly controlled it.

  Damn him. And damn his arrogance.

  "You always have a choice, Zack," she said in resignation. Pulling the sheet across the mattress, she wrapped it around her nakedness and stood. Marrying Zack now, when he so clearly resented her, was out of the question. She adopted her crispest businessman's voice.

  "Look, Zack. I don't want to argue with you. Last night was special to me, and I don't want to ruin its memory by saying good-bye with hard feelings. We shared a moment that I'll never forget. But that's all it was. A moment. Just because you deflowered me doesn't mean I have to turn my life upside down for you."

  "What?"

  If she hadn't forced a smile, she might have cried. He'd been so busy playing tragic and noble that he hadn't once bothered to consider she might refuse his offer.

  "You don't love me, Zack."

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  His vehemence came like a bolt out of the blue. She blinked. Here she was, staunchly ignoring every female impulse to marry him now and worry about making him love her later. Instead, she was taking the logical route, the male route, and setting him free. The least he could do was be grateful.

  Then again, she supposed nobility of character prevented men like Zack from showing relief when they were saved from the bonds of matrimonial servitude. As she recalled, Nick's outrage hadn't been quite as believable, God bless his philandering soul.