He had always cared; he had always shown her sensitivity. He had sensed her fear of heights; he had reassured her. He had known she needed money; he had never—not once, despite everything that she had done—threatened to fire her. And at the restaurant when Adam— Oh, Adam! Where are you?
When Adam had thrown food, Lee hadn’t been horrified. He had understood that bad behavior didn’t make a bad child, just a little boy who was insecure and needed a lot of love.
Adam! It hurt to think of him and to be so helpless, waiting and waiting, praying.
Adam, she thought, I do love you. I’ll get you back again, and I’ll do everything to make you forget that you ever were afraid or frightened or alone…
Love… Such a varied and strange emotion. Love for a child. Love for a man. No, she wasn’t in love with Lee. She could admit now that she liked him, that she cared for him. But she couldn’t risk loving him. He liked children, but that didn’t mean that he wanted them. And he cared for Bryn, but how deeply—and for how long?
She groaned aloud. It hurt to be so torn. So worried about Adam. So alone herself. She needed Lee tonight. Even if she couldn’t hold on to love, she needed to feel it.
No, she had to be hard and independent. She had to take care of herself, because she herself was her only guarantee….
There were no guarantees.
Bryn covered her face with her hands and swallowed convulsively.
Who was she kidding? Herself? No longer. She had always wanted him. She did need him; but most of all, she wanted him.
And maybe she was just a little bit in love with him. Maybe she had known that she would be, even before she had met him. And she had been afraid—of herself, of being vulnerable. Not really of him.
Bryn realized suddenly that the hammering had stopped. She waited a minute, listening to the night. Then she crawled out of the bed and walked to her door, opening it softly.
The hall light was still on, but the downstairs was dark and silent.
Close the door and go back to bed, she told herself.
But she didn’t close the door. She stepped out into the hall.
You know that you want him. Go to him.
Yes, but did he still want her?
She could be hurt again, she warned herself. He could send her away…. He could still be angry.
He might not want her anymore.
She had to risk it. There might be pain in the future, but for tonight…
Her heart thundered painfully in her chest, but her feet started to carry her down the hall. She came to his door and hesitated. It was open. She moved into the doorway, her blood seeming to flame within her veins, and then to freeze with a nervous apprehension….
“Come in, Bryn.”
She realized then that he was sitting up in his bed, casually watching her. His back was straight; the moon bathed his shoulders and caught the golden glitter of his eyes.
He had expected her; he had awaited her. He knew all the moves of the night; he sensed them with an ancient and primitive awareness.
Run, she told herself. This is the greatest danger you have faced. You’ll wind up losing your soul to him.
Her heart continued to beat like thunder. Her body and soul seemed gripped by fear and pain.
But she took a step into the room. Going to him. From the very beginning, she had been compelled to do so.
CHAPTER 9
The room was shadowed in the mist of night, and yet he saw color, enhanced by the gentle beams of the moon. He saw the long and luxurious copper waves of her hair, the dark fringed lime of her widened eyes.
The ivory of her flesh. Of her throat, exposed by the open collar of her shirt, of her supple legs, bared beneath its tails.
Color, and provocative silver mist.
Her form was part substance, part mist, as she created a striking silhouette in the doorway. The moonbeams cut through the shadows, and her slender frame was highlighted as the fabric of his shirt was made translucent. He could see the fullness of her curves, and he longed to touch the deeper shadow where the night conspired to shield her in a cloak of enticing innocence.
She seemed to hover uncertainly, and he thought of her then with a touch of wistful fancy. She was a bit like a beautiful nymph, caught by the silver of the moon. A sweet promise of the night, delicate and breathtakingly lovely. But like a glimmering shaft of moon silver, she would be ethereal. He could not do as his heated passions dictated and bolt to the door to imprison her in his arms; like a mist in darkness she could disappear, and he would hold nothing but empty air….
She was real. A woman of soft, warm flesh and vibrantly flowing blood. And his heart longed to reach out to her as much as his hands. But his instinct to hold back was also real. He had to allow her to come to him. He didn’t understand why she was afraid, only that she was. And that she had to take the first steps herself if he was ever to truly hold her.
And so after his inital invitation, he sat silently, waiting. Scarcely breathing. His pose was relaxed, but within he trembled, desire and tenderness combining to flow explosively through his system.
She started to walk to him. Slowly. And with each step she became more real. He heard the soft whisper of her breath. The subtle scent of her perfume wafted over him like a tantalizing caress.
At the foot of the bed she stopped, her eyes beseeching him. Her lashes fell, and she bowed her head slightly. Soft tendrils of silken hair fell about her features to cloak them in a copper enigma.
“Lee?” she murmured, and there was pleading in her quiet tone.
He leaned forward, determined that when he reached out, it would not be for an illusion. “Let me see your eyes, Bryn,” he told her. She lifted her head once more, tossing back her hair with a gesture of defiant bravado. Her eyes met his.
“I have to know,” he told her, and his voice came out far more harshly than he had intended. “Are you here because you’re frightened?”
“No,” she said softly. “Would it matter?”
He smiled. “No. Not tonight.”
And it was true. He had let her slip through his fingers once; tonight, no matter why she had come, he had to have her. But he also had to ask her.
And now he felt that he had forced her to come far enough. He could feel that she stood there, quivering, and that she could come no farther unless he did reach out to her.
He tossed his sheet aside and stood, and she saw that he was naked. Her eyes ran inadvertently over the length of his body and then met his once more. He started walking toward her, as slowly as she had come to him.
He paused, a hair’s breadth away, not touching her. His voice was still harsh. “You don’t owe me anything, you know,” he told her.
“I know,” she said simply.
His hands moved out to encircle her neck, his thumbs absently massaging her cheeks. And then they moved, sliding beneath the collar of the shirt to mold her shoulders and collarbone. His further advance was restricted by the buttons, and he withdrew for a moment, staring at her as he opened the first button, then following the movement of his fingers with his eyes until he reached the last.
His hands slipped beneath the collar of the shirt again. This time they followed the slopes of her shoulders, gently parting the shirt and forcing it to whisper from her form to the floor.
He stood back once more, making no aplogy for the long, silent assessment he gave her. Bryn stood still, her chin lifted as she tried not to shiver beneath his golden gaze.
And then she felt his arms about her. Strong and tender. He was still silent as he lifted her, staring into her eyes as he carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. His length slid along hers, and when the warm, callused touch of his palm caressed and held her hip, she at last sighed and slipped her arms around his neck. His lips touched hers, lightly, and then they were gone. He leaned upon an elbow, one hand upon her, a rough-haired leg angled over her softer one.
She saw his eyes, and she saw a million things in them. Tenderness.
Caring. Empathy.
And a raw streak of desire. Glittering golden heat and a savage intensity tempered only by the streak of tenderness…
Bryn felt herself shudder. But she didn’t want to look away from him. His hunger seemed to warm her. To reach inside of her. To build a pulsing need deep within her that flowed through her heart and her limbs. Hot, sweet fire, centering low in her belly, spreading, burning with a wild thirst…
His hand began to move, running lightly, caressingly, along her hip. His palm and fingers were rough, made hard by the force with which he beat his drums, yet his touch was like a brush of soaring wings, evocative and thrilling. Bryn caught her breath as she felt his hand move upon her, exploring her, knowing her with this new sense as he had with his eyes: thoroughly.
He drew soft circles over her belly with the heel of his palm, circles that climbed steadily higher so that she ached with anticipation. But his hand stopped below her breast, and he lowered his head to tease its crest with the tip of his tongue. She swallowed back a little cry. She longed for him so badly.
In answer to her need his hand closed over the swelling mound, and the demand of his mouth grew harder, tugging, nipping, sending currents of ecstasy sweeping through her. Her fingers tensely gripped his back. His body moved against hers like a rhythmic liquid fire, and she whimpered a soft cry of complete surrender to his desire, and to her own.
She nipped gently at his shoulder, bathing the tiny hurt with the tip of her tongue, washing it in a rain of passionate kisses. She moaned and arched to him as his lips moved across the valley of her breasts to render the same exquisite care a second time. And now, as his lips hungrily teased and assaulted the hardened crest and aching mound, his hand ran free again, exploring the angle of her hip, the flatness of her belly, the soft copper sheath of feminine hair, the slight swell of her thigh….
Then suddenly he rose above her. He watched her as he wedged his knee between her thighs, his arms holding his weight from her as he slid his length firmly between her legs. His features were tense and strained with passion; his eyes glittered with a pure golden fire. And yet there was still something controlled within them; he held himself above her, waiting….
He groaned, a harsh, guttural sound, eased his weight against her and caught her head between the rough grasp of his hands, his fingers entwining in her hair as his lips caught hers in a demanding, all consuming kiss.
His ardor was a delicious tempest. For one brief moment she was frightened, as one was frightened facing the swirling winds of a storm, or the soaring fall of a roller coaster. Already he had taken her past reason or thought, swept her into a realm of intensity from which there was no return. One step further and she would be completely his; with such a man it would mean total abandon. The heights of ecstasy would be hers; his passion would be wild and as demanding as it was giving.
The risk of pain would be as great as the thunder of joy.
His mouth moved against hers; his kisses roamed over her cheek and fell to her throat. But then she found that he was looking at her again, and that his golden eyes burned into hers with a ruthless and questing brilliancy.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered huskily.
“I don’t know,” she told him, her breath mingling with his, their lips almost touching.
“I want you…so much,” he said. A shudder raked the length of his body. She knew that he wanted her; the potency of his male desire was hard against her thigh, taunting her, frightening her, thrilling her. The length of his tightly sinewed body thrilled and excited her. She was touching him, yet she wanted to touch more and more of him, to run her fingers, her lips over the clean-muscled bronzeness of him.
“Can I have you?” he asked softly, almost whimsically. And she knew that he, like she, wanted everything that could be given. In the most gentle terms, he asked for what he could easily take: submission to his will in the most primal roles of man and woman.
Bryn couldn’t answer him. She locked her arms about his neck and tried to bury her head against his shoulder. He laughed softly and nuzzled his mouth against her ear in a sensuous whisper that sent the fires flaring through her again.
“Have me, Bryn. Touch me, know me, love me….”
His words trailed away as he rubbed his body along hers, sliding lower against it. His hands moved over her, their caress firm now, the power of his desire unleashed. His mouth covered her, his tongue, his kisses laved her, loving her with a wild, erotic passion she had never known. The winds soared as she had known they would; he was the driving tempest of his drums, and she was lost to the sheer force of primal rhythm.
She cried out when his kisses moved to her thighs, and her nails raked over his shoulders; then her fingers dug hard into his hair. The sensuous pleasure was so great that it was almost pain. Yet it did not stop there. His hands slipped beneath her, firmly molding the lush curve of her buttocks, arching her to his whim. His intimate caress was more than she could bear; she began to writhe and moan in an utter and splendid abandon.
Yet still he did not grant her mercy. She felt his triumph, his pleasure in her, and she cried out his name in a broken plea. He came to her then, holding her, caressing her, entangling his hands in her hair and whispering her name over and over. She moaned as she swept her fingers over his back, trailed the tips over his hard buttocks, pressed him from her so that she could hungrily shower his throat and chest with the damp caress of her tongue.
He shifted, wedging her thighs farther apart, and she touched him, her inhibitions swept away as if by the rush of the wind. She gasped with wonder at the heat and strength of him, shuddered as he moved with a swift, driving thrust and took her completely, sending the force of himself, the tension, the vibrancy, the unleashed power, into her, to become a part of her.
She had never known there would be anything like this. It was the excitement, the demand, the thrill—and the wild beat of his thundering drums. It was gentle, it was rough, savage and sweet. It swept through aeons of time, and yet it was over too quickly. The pinnacle was the most pure physical rapture she had ever known. She had twisted and turned and abandoned herself completely; she felt windswept and ravaged….
And absolutely delicious.
And when he had withdrawn from her, she still felt a part of him. As if she would be his for all the days of her life.
He moved away, easing his weight from her. She curled against him, the damp copper tendrils of her hair waving over his chest as she burrowed against it. He was silent for a long time, but she knew that he lay awake, his head propped on the crook of his elbow as he stared into the night.
After a time she felt his fingers idly smoothing her hair. “What happened to you?” he asked her softly.
Bryn felt the first twinge of remorse for her abandon. “What do you mean?” she asked tensely.
He chuckled softly. “Don’t go getting rigid on me. I can’t remember ever enjoying such pleasure with a woman as I have with you.”
“And there have been plenty, I take it?” Bryn snapped acidly, her nails inadvertently digging into his flesh.
He chuckled softly and grabbed her hand. “Ouch! There have been a few, but not the scores you’re trying to credit me with. And I was asking the questions, remember.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bryn muttered uneasily, glad that her face was shielded from him by the tangle of her hair.
“Yes, you do. You were afraid of me. Before I did more than shake your hand.”
Bryn shrugged. “You must know you make women nervous. You have an aura of leashed energy and…sexuality.”
“Sexuality shouldn’t be frightening.”
Bryn bit her lip, then shrugged against him. He would probe at her until she answered him. “I was engaged once.”
“Ah…and so all men become the enemy.”
“No, not all men, and not the enemy. I just decided that I had to be careful for a while and avoid a certain type.”
She could sense his frown. “What typ
e is that? Don’t tell me you were engaged to another musician?”
Bryn hesitated. What difference did it make if she told him or not? She rolled away from him, her arms encircling her pillow as she leaned her cheek against it. “No. I was engaged to a man named Joe Lansky. He was—is—a football player.”
“Joe Lansky?” Lee whistled softly. “Big stuff with the NFL.”
A surge of unease settled over her as he said the name. “Yes. He enjoys his share of fame. You know him?”
“We met briefly once. In L.A., at a benefit dinner. He seemed a decent sort.”
“Oh, Joe is decent. He just…doesn’t care much for children. Other people’s, that is.”
“Adam threw rice at him too, huh?”
“No, peas.”
Lee laughed and swept her back into his arms despite her indignant protest. He kissed her on the nose. “I’m awfully glad you and Joe broke it off, Bryn,” he told her huskily. “But I’m sorry that you compared me with him. Why did you?”
Bryn remained stiff against him. “You’re both accustomed to fame and easy adoration.”
“He cheated?”
“My fault, according to him. I couldn’t be with him, and his groupies could.”
“I see,” Lee told her, and she felt a tightening of anger in his hold. “You assumed I jump into bed at any invitation?”
“Not exactly,” she murmured.
“Then what, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Bryn exclaimed, trying to break the hold that kept her crushed against him, face-to-face. “I’m grounded in reality, and superstars live in a fantasy world.”
“That’s absurd. You’re categorizing people. Just because Lansky broke it off with you—”
“Joe didn’t break it off, I did,” Bryn said wearily, rather than defensively. “He wanted me to drop everything and be at his beck and call. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to do that. And I think a regular man would have difficulty dealing with the package of commitments that come with me—much less a quote unquote ‘idol.’”
She couldn’t fathom his dark expression. “Quote unquote ‘idols’ are made of flesh and blood. The usual stuff. They bleed and hurt and fall in love. But if you and Lansky couldn’t deal with your commitments, be glad you discovered it before you married him.”
Night Moves (60th Anniversary) Page 16