CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION

by Justine Davis

  But he and Linda … and Jenny … had run out of time.

  Casey lowered her head, this time pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was both shy and incendiary.

  What I'm sure of is that for the first time in so very long, I … want. Like I never thought I would again.

  As her words echoed in his mind, he knew that she had spoken for him, as well. And that for the first time in that very long time, nothing else mattered except this growing, burgeoning want, this need that was overwhelming even bitter memory.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

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  Casey knew in the moment when he swept her up in his arms that it was too late to change her mind, even if she'd wanted to. But she didn't want to, and that alone thrilled her beyond measure.

  How lucky could she be, she thought, that the first man she'd craved intimacy with since that ugly day was a man who understood so well what she needed, what she had to have to feel safe—the knowledge that she could say no and he would listen?

  And that he fired her blood as no man ever had didn't hurt, either, she thought with a blush.

  "First door," she whispered against his chest as he started down the hall, forgetting for a moment that he'd been there, the night she'd almost permanently damaged him. He didn't point out her error to her.

  "Good," was all he said, bluntly, as if going any farther would mean too long to wait.

  She felt it, too, that humming need, heating every inch of her body, making her ache somewhere deep and low, filling her with the certainty that this man, only this man, could ease that ache.

  She wondered, in some part of her mind that could still think logically, if she would panic at some point, if she would pull back or, worse, react instinctively as she had the last time he'd kissed her. But he moved with such care, kissing her so thoroughly that her head was spinning before he ever touched her anywhere else. And caressing her breasts so gently, so lovingly, that her knees were weak before he tugged her shirt over her head.

  By the time he unsnapped her jeans, she wanted nothing more than to be naked with him and to see him naked, and she found herself pulling at his clothes with much more ferocity than he was using. He let her push his shirt off his shoulders but refused to hurry the pace.

  "We've got all night," he whispered, cupping and lifting her breasts once more, rubbing his thumbs over nipples already taut and aching for more.

  She cried out at the hot pleasure of it and wiggled out of her bra herself. She leaned into him, thinking she'd never felt anything more glorious than the hot, solid wall of his bare chest against her naked breasts. She heard him suck in a swift breath, and his arms came around to her back, pressing her even harder against him.

  She put her arms around him in turn. Her fingers touched the round scar on his side, and she felt him go still. She kept her hands moving, brushing over the thin lines on his back as she spread her fingers over his skin. She felt the unnaturally smooth hardness of the burn scar beneath the tips of her middle fingers, and he seemed to be holding his breath.

  "Your scars are beautiful," she said, turning her head and pressing her lips to the center of his chest.

  He let out the held breath in a long sigh that seemed to catch in the middle. She trailed her mouth sideways over heated skin and kissed him again, then again, and at last, feeling a bit reckless, she shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to one flat male nipple.

  Clay let out a broken groan, so thick with pleasure that she couldn't stop herself from flicking the tiny nub with her tongue. He groaned again, whispering her name with a needy sound that made her own pulse leap.

  As if by some tacitly agreed-upon signal, they shed their remaining clothes in a hurry. Any thought of panic vanished; all Casey could think of was that he was beautiful. His lean, rangy and thoroughly aroused body seemed the perfect male form to her, and the scars only made him more precious. Someday she would learn the story behind those marks, would learn what ugly part of his life as a cop had caused them, but now all she could do was look at him and be glad he was here and, for the moment, hers.

  "You're sure?" he rasped out, giving her yet another chance to change her mind.

  In answer, and more than a little surprised at her own boldness, she slipped her hand down between them and curled her fingers around hot, erect flesh. He jerked sharply and let out a harsh sound, his eyes closing as he clenched his jaw.

  "Casey…" It came out as a hiss, between gritted teeth. "What about—" She moved her hand lower, and his words were choked off. She could sense him fighting to go on coherently. "You… I can't promise … to stop in time."

  It took her a moment, as she dreamily caressed him, to realize what he was getting at. "It's all right," she said. "Wrong time of the month."

  "Not … safest method," he panted.

  "But better than none," she said, leaning forward to flick her tongue over his other nipple. "And certainly better than stopping."

  He growled something low and unintelligible, and the next thing she knew she was down flat on the bed, Clay on top of her, enfolding her. For an instant the old fear flickered, tried to catch. As if sensing it, he rolled quickly to one side, pulling her with him, then over him. His hands slid down to her hips, but gently, as if he were only doing it to balance her, not hold her there.

  "Whatever you want," he said roughly, "however you want, at the pace you want. No more. No faster. And no is still the magic word."

  He was, she realized, giving her control. Utter and complete control. And in that moment she had no doubt at all that if she said no at the last possible second, he would stop. Despite the rigid hardness she could feel pressed between them, he would stop.

  And the silent cry of her body at the mere idea of him stopping told her worlds about how far she'd come, how much healing had happened while she'd only thought of getting through each day. And told her how much she wanted this man. She felt a rising urge to straddle him swiftly, to take him inside her to fill this hollow ache as fast as she could. A tiny moan escaped her at the thought of him filling her.

  He shifted beneath her, as if the sound had made it impossible for him to stay still. Her legs parted, slipping down on either side of his narrow hips. The movement brought that most intimate part of her tight against him, and with a little shock she felt her own heat, her own wetness; there was no doubt her body was ready.

  And she'd never once thought of Jon herself. If it hadn't been for Clay being so careful, making it so clear that she was in control, she doubted it would have occurred to her at all. They'd told her it would take time, but that eventually she would be able to disassociate the act done in love from the act done in violence, but she'd had her doubts. So it was with pure joy that she let herself savor her own response and the wonder of it. That response was fired to an even higher pitch by the look of intensity, of urgency, on Clay's face. It was in direct contrast to the taut stillness of his body.

  She realized then that his hands had left her hips and were knotted in the coverlet beneath him. She felt a little thrill of feminine power that he was having to fight so hard … and a flash of pure gratitude that he was able to.

  She reached out and touched him, running her hand from the sprinkling of dark hair at the center of his chest down to the narrow path over his belly. She stopped below his navel, just before the band of hair broadened again, and felt another thrill at the ripple of clenching muscles she felt beneath her fingers and the low sound he made.

  "Casey," he groaned, "it's been too long. Don't put so much faith in my willpower."

  "All right," she said, her voice so husky it surprised her. "If you stop being so careful."

  He went very still, his eyes searching her face.

  "It's all right," she promised. "I'm all right."

  It was, it seemed, all he needed to hear. And he took her at her word. He sat up, lifting his knees at the same time to cradle her in the curve of his body. His hands went to her waist, then slid up over her ribs t
o cup her breasts. Casey leaned forward, pressing herself into his hands, wanting, needing, more. And then Clay lowered his head, capturing one nipple and drawing it into his mouth.

  She cried out at the burst of hot, fiery sensation. He repeated the action with her other breast, at the same time slipping a finger between them, probing, until he found the small knot of nerves that made her gasp. He began a slow circular caress. Her back arched involuntarily, and this time she cried out his name.

  "Please, Clay," she moaned. "Now."

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  His voice was tight, harsh. And as he reached for her waist, his hands trembled slightly. He lifted her, and she helped him, drawing her knees up under her. She felt the touch of blunt male flesh, probing, and instinctively reached down to guide him.

  He groaned at the first moment of entry, and Casey held her breath at the slow, sweet invasion. He stretched her exquisitely, reawakening flesh that had not forgotten its true function, to be joined in pleasure, not pain; in gentleness, not violence; in desire, not hatred.

  At first she settled down on him inch by inch with languid pleasure. But after a moment it wasn't enough. She needed more; she wanted all of him, and she enveloped him in one sharp, breath-stealing movement that made them both gasp.

  Clay fell back on the bed, his hips lifting slightly, driving himself in to the hilt. Casey opened to him even more, wanting to feel him so deep inside her that she would never be the same. She wanted every trace of the ugliness erased, and she knew Clay could do it.

  And suddenly she didn't want to be in control. Didn't need to be in control. She knew this was different, that this was what it was supposed to be, and most of all that Clay wouldn't hurt her.

  She was beyond words, but she stretched out on top of him, then slipped to one side and tried as best she could to show him what she wanted even as she lamented the loss of the intimate contact

  Clay lifted his head to look at her, his eyes betraying uncertainty over what signal she was sending. "Casey?"

  "Please."

  It was begging, pleading, and she didn't care. She only knew she needed him to take the lead now, that it was the only way to vanquish the last of her nightmare memories.

  He moved then, rolling onto his side, sliding one leg over her. Then he stopped, as if waiting for some sign of panic from her. Instead, she slid her hands down his back, grasping his hips and urging him over her, parting her legs for him. He responded to her silent request quickly, slipping between her thighs and thrusting back into her swift and hard, as if he'd felt the same loss she had.

  "Yes," she whispered fervently, complete again.

  Her hands moved again, downward, until she could cup the taut curves of his buttocks, urging him even deeper. With a low growl he began to move then, fast, driving, pumping, until Casey amazed herself once more by arching up to meet him, wanting it harder, faster, and feeling as if her body would turn itself inside out if she didn't get it.

  She heard him groan, saw him bite his lip until she was surprised it didn't bleed. He probed between them with one hand again, found that hotly aroused spot and caressed it anew as he continued to stroke her clasping flesh with his body.

  Casey heard a low, continuous moan and barely recognized it as her own. Clay uttered a panting guttural sound at the depth of each stroke. She looked up at him, saw his face drawn tight with need and urgency, and no sign of his own haunting memories. She had a moment to realize that their coming together might be exorcising some ghosts for him, as well, but then sensation began to build unbearably, billowing out in hot, swelling waves.

  She felt it seize her, inexorably, powerfully. Her body tightened, as if it wanted to hold him forever. She cried out at the strength of it, arching her hips upward one more time as the feeling swept over her.

  Through the haze of pleasure she felt him grab her shoulders as if to brace her, and then he drove into her hard and deep once, twice more. Then he shuddered, uttering her name in a harsh cry, grinding his hips against hers, burying himself deep, as if he wanted to climb inside her and stay.

  Little echoes of sensation rippled through her, and she felt small tremors going through Clay as he collapsed, panting, atop her. For a long moment they lay there in silence, heartbeats gradually slowing, breathing deepening.

  When Clay finally spoke, it was an oath delivered in low, awed tones that warmed Casey to the core. She held him tight. And suddenly she didn't want to hear any more, didn't want to discuss what had happened between them, didn't want it to be changed somehow by words. She knew all that would come, knew that they would pay for the incredible pleasure they'd had with an unavoidable complicating of their lives, but she didn't want to face it now.

  Now she wanted nothing more than to let this lovely, languorous feeling steal over her until sliding into peaceful, dreamless sleep was not only possible but inevitable.

  Almost as soon as the thought formed, it was reality, and that coveted, sweet sleep was upon her.

  * * *

  The shrill ring of the phone startled him awake. For a moment Clay thought he'd dreamed it, both the phone and the night spent in Casey's loving arms, exploring sensations he'd never known were possible so often that he couldn't help thinking he'd made a sizable dent in those years of abstinence. But he could feel the soft warmth of her snuggled against him. He fought off the knowledge that he had to face the aftermath of what he'd done last night, clinging for a few precious moments more to the fierce sweetness they'd found in the dark.

  That such fierce sweetness and the gentle, healing power he'd found in her arms could come from only one source was something he didn't dare think about, and that source was something he didn't dare name.

  The ring came again, and he wished uselessly, he who had long ago given up on wishes, that it would simply go away and let them stay in this warm cocoon, with reality held at bay for at least a little while longer.

  Casey said nothing, although he knew she was awake; he'd felt the change. The phone rang again, but she made no move to answer it.

  Sleepily, he shifted against her, wondering if, now that they were awake anyway, she was too sore to take him again. He wanted a replay of that, of her taking charge, controlling her movements and his, taking him deep with a fearlessness that thrilled him more than he would ever have expected, even knowing what it meant, what memories she'd had to fight to become so eager with him.

  His body was quickly rousing at the thought when she finally reached for the phone. Odd hour for a phone call, he thought. Did she get emergency catering calls? Maybe that nervous bride she'd told him about, who'd changed her mind three times about the wedding cake, was changing it again?

  And then he came abruptly, sharply awake as he realized Casey had gone stiff. He lifted his head to look at her.

  "No," she whispered. "No, it can't be you."

  The vicious laugh was so loud that even he could hear it. But Casey wasn't laughing. In fact, she was terrified. He could feel it in the rigidness of her body, hear it in the shakiness of her breathing.

  He moved instinctively, without thinking. He took the receiver from her and held it to his ear. He heard the voice, low, raspy and ominous-sounding.

  "You think I'd let you get away with stealing my life from me? I'm coming after you, bitch, and you'll find out what I did to you that night was nothing. I'll show you what you are. I'll beat you to a pulp before I screw you this time."

  "Thanks," Clay said into the phone. "You just gave me enough to throw your sorry, cowardly ass back in the slammer."

  He heard the quick intake of breath on the other end. Then the phone was slammed down sharply, as if the man had panicked at the sound of Clay's voice.

  Clay waited to be sure he was gone. Then he leaned over and hung up the receiver and took the shaken Casey in his arms. He held her, willing his body to forget the idea it had roused to moments before.

  He waited, silently, for her to explain.

  * * *

  Cha
pter 14

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  Casey buried her face against Clay's chest, avoiding looking at him. She'd been too shaken to protest him taking the phone from her. Realizing it really was Jon who'd been calling her all along made her queasy, in part because she realized how desperately she'd been trying to convince herself that it wasn't him.

  Clay waited, and she knew he expected her to say something, to explain. But she couldn't seem to speak, couldn't find words. All she wanted to do was cry because such ugliness had shattered the sweetness of the night. She'd found a joy with Clay that she'd never expected to feel again in her life; to have it tainted by Jon Nesbit filled her with both anger and despair, and it was not a pleasant combination.

  "It was him, wasn't it?" Clay said softly. It wasn't really a question, but Casey nodded mutely. "I assume he's why you've been jumping every time the phone rings. How long has this been going on?"

  "A … awhile," she managed to say.

  "Did he just get out?"

  "I … don't know. I didn't want to believe it was him, so I didn't check."

  "You said he got four years. Means he'd be up for parole about now."

  "I … don't know. I didn't want to know. I wanted to believe he'd never get out, that I'd never have to deal with him again. I told myself it couldn't be him."

  "Who else did you think it could be?"

  "I … anybody. He didn't say anything to make me think it was Jon, and his voice was … raspy, unrecognizable, not like Jon's at all, so I thought it was a stranger, just some guy who got my number from my ads, or the sign on my car." It sounded so silly when she said it out loud, now that she knew the truth. "But it's Jon. I know it is now. He … said something that only Jon would know."

  She cringed inwardly as she waited for him to ask what Jon had said; she didn't think she could repeat the crude words, the words that reminded her so bitterly of her humiliation and degradation that day years ago. Especially after the long, tender night she'd just spent with Clay, who had changed sex back into something beautiful, instead of the ugly weapon it had been turned into for her.