by Nora Roberts
from her shoulders she was pulling him to the bed.
She was like a whirlwind, hands racing, pressing, tugging, followed by the mad, erotic journey of her mouth. The pressure was building too fast, but when he reached for her she shimmied out of the silk and rushed on.
She didn’t want him to regret wanting her. She couldn’t have borne it. If she was to throw every shred of caution to the winds for this one night, she needed to know that it would matter. That he would remember.
His skin was hot and damp. She wished she could have lingered over the taste of it, the feel of it under her fingers. But she thought men preferred speed and power.
She heard him groan. It delighted her. When she tugged off his sweats, his hands were in her hair. He was murmuring something—her name, and more—but she couldn’t tell. She thought she understood his urgency, the way he pulled her up against him. When he rolled over her, she whispered her agreement and took him inside her.
He stiffened. On an oath, he tried to level himself and draw back. But her hips arched and thrust against him, leaving his body no choice.
***
Her lips were curved when he lay over her, his face buried in her hair, his breath still shuddering. He wouldn’t regret this, she thought, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder. And neither would she. It was more than she had ever had before. More than she had ever expected. There had been a warmth when he filled her, and a quiet contentment when she felt him spill into her. She thought how nice it would be to close her eyes and drift off to sleep with his body still warm on hers.
He was cursing himself, steadily. He was enraged by his lack of control, and baffled by the way she had rushed them both from kiss to completion. He’d barely touched her—in more ways than one. Though it was she who had set the pace at a sprint, he knew she hadn’t come close to fulfillment.
Struggling for calm, he rolled away from her to stare at the ceiling. She’d set off bombs inside him, and though they had exploded, neither of them had shared the joy.
“Why did you do that?” he asked her.
Her hand paused on its way to stroke his hair. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to make love.”
“I did.” He sat up, dragging the hair back from his face. “I thought you did, too.”
“But I thought men liked …” She let her eyes close as the warmth drained out of her. “I told you I wasn’t very good at it.”
He swore, ripely enough to have her jolting. Moving quickly, she scrambled out of bed to struggle back into the peignoir.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“To bed.” Because her voice was thick with tears, she lowered it. “We can just chalk this up to one more miscalculation.” She reached down for her robe and heard the door slam. Bolting up, she saw Boyd turning a key in the lock, then tossing it across the room. “I don’t want to stay here with you.”
“Too bad. You already made your choice.”
She balled up the robe, hugging it to her chest. So he was angry, she thought. And it was the real thing this time. It wouldn’t be the first fight she had had about her inadequacies in bed. Old wounds, old doubts, trickled through her until she stood rigid with embarrassment.
“Look, I did the best I could. If it wasn’t good enough, fine. Just let me go.”
“Wasn’t good enough,” he repeated. As he stepped forward, she backed up, ramming into the carved footboard. “Somebody ought to bounce you on your head and knock some sense into it. There are two people in a bed, Cilla, and what happens in it is supposed to be mutual. I wasn’t looking for a damn technician.”
The angry flush died away from her face until it was marble white. Her eyes filled. Pressing his fingers against his own eyes, he swore. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, only to show her that he’d wanted a partner.
“You didn’t feel anything.”
“I did.” She rubbed tears from her cheek, infuriated. No one made her cry. No one.
“Then that’s a miracle. Cilla, you barely let me touch you. I’m not blaming you.” He took another step, but she evaded him. Searching for patience he stood where he was. “I didn’t exactly fight you off. I thought— Let’s just say by the time I understood, it was too late to do anything about it. I’d like to make it up to you.”
“There’s nothing to make up.” She had herself under control again, eyes dry, voice steady. She wanted to die. “We’ll just forget it. I want you to unlock the door.”
He let out a huff of breath, then shrugged. When he turned to the door, she started to follow. But he only turned off the lights.
“What are you doing?”
“We tried it your way.” In the moonlight, he moved across the room to light a candle, then another and another. He turned over the record that sat silent on the turntable, engaged the needle. The trembling cry of a tenor sax filled the room. “Now we try it mine.”
She was starting to tremble now, from embarrassment and from fear. “I said I wanted to go to bed.”
“Good.” He swept her up into his arms. “So do I.”
“I’ve had enough humiliation for one night,” she said between her teeth.
She saw something in his eyes, something dark, but his voice was quiet when he spoke. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
Though she held herself rigid, he lowered her gently to the bed. With his eyes on hers, he spread out her hair, letting his fingers linger. “I’ve imagined you here, in the candlelight, with your hair on my pillow.” He lowered his lips to brush them across hers. “Moonlight and firelight on your skin. With nothing and no one else but you for miles.”
Moved, she turned her head away. She wouldn’t be seduced by words and make a fool of herself again. He only smiled and pressed his lips to her throat.
“I love a challenge. I’m going to make love with you, Cilla.” He slipped the strap of the peignoir from her shoulder to cruise the slope with his mouth. “I’m going to take you places you’ve never even dreamed of.” He took her hand, pleased that her pulse had quickened. “You shouldn’t be afraid to enjoy yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re afraid to relax, to let go, to let someone get close enough to find out what’s inside you.”
She tried to shift away, but his arms wrapped around her. “We already had sex.”
“Yes, we did.” He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other. “Now we’re going to make love.”
She started to turn her head again, but he cupped her face with his hands. When his mouth came to hers again, her heart leaped into her throat. It was so soft, so tempting. As his fingertips glided across her face, she gave a strangled sigh. He dipped into her parted lips to tease her tongue with his.
“I don’t want—” She moaned as his teeth nipped into her bottom lip.
“Tell me what you do want.”
“I don’t know.” Her mind was already hazy. She lifted a hand to push him away, but it only lay limp on his shoulder.
“Then we’ll make it multiple-choice.” To please himself, and her, he ran a trail of kisses down her throat. “When I’m finished, you can tell me what you like best.”
He murmured to her, soft, dreamy words that floated in her head. Then he drugged her with a kiss, long, lazy, luxurious. Though her body had begun to tremble, he barely touched her—just those fingertips stroking along her shoulders, over her face, into her hair.
His tongue slid over the tops of her breasts, just above the fringe of black lace. Her skin was like honey there, he thought, laving the valley between. Her heart jackhammered against him, but when she reached out, he took her hands in his.
Taking his time, his devastating time, he inched the lace down with his teeth. She arched up, offering herself, her fingers tensing like wires against his. He only murmured and, leaving a moist trail, eased the other curve of lace down.
His own breathing was short and shallow, but he fought back the urge to take greedily. With teasing openmouthed kisses he cir
cled her, flicking his hot tongue over her rigid nipple until she shuddered and sobbed out his name. On a groan of pleasure, he suckled.
She felt the pressure deep inside, clenching, unclenching to the rhythm of his clever mouth. Building, layering, growing, until she thought she would die from it.
Her breath was heaving as she writhed beneath him. Her nails dug hard into the backs of his hands as her body bowed, driven up by a knot of sensation. She heard her own cry, her gasp of relief and torment as something shattered inside her. Hot knives that turned to silky butterfly wings. A pain that brought unreasonable pleasure.
As every muscle in her body went lax, he covered her mouth with his. “Good Lord. You’re incredible.”
“I can’t.” She brought a hand up to press a palm to her temple. “I can’t think.”
“Don’t. Just feel.”
He straddled her. She was prepared for him to take her. He had already given her more than she had ever had. Shown her more than she had ever imagined. He began to unlace the peignoir with infinite care, infinite patience. His eyes were on her face. He loved being able to see everything she felt as it flickered there. Every new sensation, every new emotion. He heard the whisper of silk against her skin as he drew it down. He felt passion vibrate from her as he pressed his mouth to the quivering flesh of her stomach.
Floating, she stroked his hair, let her mind follow where her body so desperately wanted to go. This was heaven, more demanding, more exciting, more erotic, than any paradise she could have dreamed. She could feel the sheets, hot from her own body, tangled beneath her. And the shimmer of silk as it slipped slowly, slowly away. His skin, dampened from pleasure, slid over hers. When her lips parted on a sigh, she could still taste him there, rich and male. Candlelight played against her closed lids.
There was so much to absorb, so much to experience. If it went on forever, it would still end too soon.
She was his now, he knew. Much more his than she had been when he had been plunged inside her. Her body was like a wish, long and slim and pale in the moonlight. Her breath was quick and quiet. And it was his name, only his name, she spoke when he touched her. Her hands flexed on his shoulders, urging him on.
He slid down her legs, taking the silk with him, nibbling everywhere as he went. The scent of her skin was a tormenting delight he could have lingered over endlessly. But her body was restless, poised. He knew she must be aching, even as he was.
He stroked a fingertip up her thigh, along that sensitive flesh, close, so close, to where the heat centered. When he slipped inside her, she was wet and waiting.
The breathless moan came first, and then the magic of his hands had her catapulting up, over a new and higher crest. Stunned by the power of it, she arched against him, shuddering again and again as she climbed. Though her hands clutched at him, he continued to drive her with his mouth, with his clever and relentless fingers, until she shot beyond pleasure to delirium.
Then her arms were around him and they were spinning off together, rolling over on the bed like lightning and thunder. The time for patience was over. The time for greed had begun.
He fought for breath as her hands raced over him. As she had the first time, she ripped away his control. But now she was with him, beat for beat and need for need. He saw her eyes glow, dark with passion, depthless with desire. Her slick skin shimmered with it in the shadowy light.
One last time he brought his mouth down on hers, swallowing her stunned cry, as he thrust himself into her. On a half sob she wrapped her arms and legs around him, locking tight so that they could race toward madness together.
***
He was exhausted. Weak as a baby. And he was heavy. Using what strength he could find, Boyd rolled, taking Cilla with him so that their positions were reversed. Satisfied, he cradled her head and decided he very much liked the sensation of her body sprawled over his.
She shuddered. He soothed.
“Cold?”
She just shook her head.
Lazy as a cat, he stroked a hand down her naked back. “I might, in an hour or so, find the strength to look for the blankets.”
“I’m fine.”
But her voice wasn’t steady. Frowning, Boyd cupped a hand under her chin and lifted it. He could see a tear glittering on her lashes. “What’s this?”
“I’m not crying,” she said, almost fiercely.
“Okay. What are you?”
She tried to duck her head again, but he held it firm. “You’ll think I’m stupid.”
“Probably the only time I couldn’t think you were stupid is right after you’ve turned me inside out.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Spill it, O’Roarke.”
“It’s just that I …” She let out an impatient breath. “I didn’t think it was supposed to be that way. Not really.”
“What way?” His lips curved. Funny, but it seemed he was getting his strength back. Maybe it was the way she was looking at him. Dazed. Embarrassed. Beautiful. “You mean, like, good?” He slid his hands down to caress her bottom casually. “Or very good? Maybe you mean terrific. Or astounding.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Uh-uh. I was hoping for a compliment. But you don’t want to give me one. I figure you’re just too stubborn to admit that my way was better than your way. But that’s okay. I also figure I can keep you locked in here until you do.”
“Damn it, Boyd, it’s not easy for me to explain myself.”
“You don’t have to.” There was no teasing note in his voice now. The look in his eyes made her weak all over again.
“I wanted to tell you that I never … No one’s ever made me …” She gave up. “It was terrific.”
“Yeah.” He cupped a hand on the back of her head and brought her mouth to his. “Now we’re going to shoot for astounding.”
Chapter 9
Cilla wrapped her arms across her body to ward off the chill and stared out over the pine and rock. Boyd had been right again. The view was incredible.
From this angle she could see the jagged, snowcapped peaks of the circling mountains. Closer, yet still distant, she caught the faint mist of smoke from a chimney. Evergreens stood, sturdy winter veterans, their needles whistling in the rising wind. There was the harsh whisper of an icy stream. She could catch glimpses of the water, just the glint of it in the fading sun.
The shadows were long, with late afternoon casting a cool blue light over the snow. Earlier she had seen a deer nuzzling her nose into it in search of the grass beneath. Now she was alone.
She’d forgotten what it was to feel so at peace. In truth, she wondered if she had ever known. Certainly not since earliest childhood, when she had still believed in fairy tales and happy endings. It had to be too late, when a woman was nearly thirty, to start believing again.
And yet she doubted things would ever be quite the same again.
He had kept his promise. He had taken her places she had never dreamed of. In one exquisitely long night, he had shown her that love meant you could accept as well as offer, take as well as give. She had learned more than the power of lovemaking in Boyd’s bed. She had learned the power of intimacy. The comfort and the glory of it. For the first time in years, she had slept deeply and dreamlessly.
She hadn’t felt awkward or uncomfortable on waking with him that morning. She had felt calm. Wonderfully calm. It was almost impossible to believe that there was another world apart from this spot. A world of pain and danger and fear.
Yet there was. And it was a world she would have to face again all too soon. She couldn’t hide here—not from a man who wanted her dead, nor from her own miserable memories. But wasn’t she entitled to a little more time to pretend that nothing else mattered?
It wasn’t right. On a sigh, she lifted her face to the dying sun. No matter how she felt—or perhaps because she had come to feel so deeply—she had to be honest with herself, and with Boyd. She wouldn’t let what had started between them go any further. Couldn’t, she thought, squeezing
her eyes tight. It had to be better to let her heart break a little now than to have it smashed later.
He was a good man, she thought. An honest one, a caring one. He was patient, intelligent and dedicated. And he was a cop.
She shivered and held herself more tightly.
There was a scar just under his right shoulder. Front and back, she remembered. From a bullet—that occupational hazard of law enforcement. She hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t, how he had come by it, when it had happened, or how near death it had taken him.
But neither could she hide from the fact that the scars she bore were as real as his.
She simply could not delude either of them into believing there was a future for them. She should never have allowed it to progress as far as it had. But that was done. They were lovers. And though she knew that was a mistake, she would always be grateful for the time she had had with him.
The logical thing to do would be to discuss the limitations of their relationship. No strings, no obligations. In all likelihood he would appreciate that kind of practicality. If her feelings had grown too far too fast, she would just have to get a grip on them.
She would simply have to talk herself out of being in love.
He found her there, leaning out on the railing as if she were straining to fly out above the pines, above the snowcapped peaks. The nerves were coming back, he noted with some frustration. He wondered if she knew how relaxed she had been that morning when she had stretched against him, waking gradually, turning to him so that they could make slow, lazy love.
Now, when he touched her hair, she jolted before she leaned back against his hand.
“I like your place, Slick.”
“I’m glad.” He intended to come back here with her, year after year.
Her fingers danced over the railing, then groped in her pockets. “I never asked you if you bought it or had it built.”
“Had it built. Even hammered a few nails myself.”
“A man of many talents. It’s almost a shame to have a place like this only for weekends.”
“I’ve been known to break away for more than that from time to time. And my parents use it now and again.”
“Oh. Do they live in Denver?”
“Colorado Springs.” He began to massage the tensing muscles in her shoulders. “But they travel a lot. Itchy feet.”
“I guess your father was disappointed when you didn’t go into the family business.”
“No. My sister’s carrying on the family tradition.”
“Sister?” She glanced over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” He kissed her lips when they formed into a pout. “She’s a real go-getter. Tough, high-powered businesswoman. And a hell of a lot better at it than I would have been.”
“But aren’t they uneasy about you being a cop?”
“I don’t think it’s a day-to-day worry. You’re getting chilled,” he said. “Come on inside by the fire.”
She went with him, moving inside and down the rear steps into the kitchen. “Mmm … What’s that smell?”
“I threw some chili together.” He walked over to the center island, where copper pots hung from the ceiling. Lifting the lid on a pan simmering on the range, he sniffed. “Be ready in about an hour.”
“I would have helped you.”
“That’s okay.” He selected a Bordeaux from the wine rack. “You can cook next time.”
She made a feeble attempt at a smile. “So you did like my peanut-butter-and-jelly special.”
“Just like Mom used to make.”
She doubted that his mother had ever made a sandwich in her life. People who had that kind of money also had a houseful of servants. As she stood feeling foolish, he set the wine on the counter to breathe.
“Aren’t you going to take off your coat?”
“Oh. Sure.” She shrugged out of it and hung it on a hook by the door. “Is there anything you want me to do?”
“Yes. Relax.”
“I am.”
“You were.” Selecting two glasses from above the rack, he examined them. “I’m not sure what has you tied up again, Cilla, but we’re going to talk it through