“Take off your trousers,” she said, her voice nearly as rough as his. She licked her lips as he obeyed her, hungering for every inch he revealed. It was quite a few inches.
The core of her shook with her need for him. He was muscle and sinew, molded into a man, living, breathing brawn. She went to him, lifting her hands to run them over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest, her skin crackling at the nearness of him. They both gasped when his erect member brushed against her belly.
She wrapped her fingers around it, his breath hissing at her touch. It was silky smooth, yet hard at the core.
He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as if he were in agony.
She knew he wasn’t—it was being held so intimately by her that made him so. She stroked him from root to tip, the thrust of him against her hand making her belly clench and her breasts tighten.
She caught up one of his hands with her free one and set it against her breast, her nipple hardening at the rough press of his fingers.
All she had to do was give permission, and he went to work pleasuring her. His thumb rubbed in slow circles, the sensations spiraling out from that one point to drive her hips into his, trapping her hand, still wrapped around his member, in the heated skin between them.
He lowered his lips to hover above her breasts before whispering, “May I?”
“Yes.”
He planted an open-mouthed kiss on her bosom, sighing as he did so. When he tugged her nipple into his mouth, it was her turn to sigh. His tongue darted out to circle and taste as he kissed and nipped, before lavishing her other breast with the same attention.
She swayed against him, her legs threatening to give out. But he was ready, scooping her up and carrying her with gratifying ease to the sofa, the corded muscles of his arms tight around her, so tight she knew he would never drop her.
He set her down gently, the fabric rough against her sensitized skin as she sank into the cushions. His hands roamed every inch of her as his mouth trailed down her torso, pausing to kiss and bite around her navel, making the center of her pull toward him, seeking… something.
“Precious Isabel mine,” he whispered, the words a brand against her skin. “Tell me what you want.”
She threw her head back and lifted her hips. “Kiss me…”
Her words failed her. She had no name for the place begging for him, knew it only as a dark seething need at the center of her. She lifted her hips again and whimpered, reaching for some name, any name, so he would release her from this jagged peak.
“Here?” he asked as he cupped her between her legs.
The pleasure that exploded nearly made her sob. “Yes, oh yes.”
He arranged her, kneeling between her legs, and then his mouth was upon her. It was both relief and torment, easing her ache even as he drove it higher.
He was hesitant at first, but she directed him with her sighs and moans, and finally her words, where and how to lick and kiss and suckle, until she was at the very peak, and just one more touch…
She came undone with a cry, pleasure singeing her to her toes.
When she came to herself again, she looked down at him, still kneeling between her thighs, his power hers to command, and his eyes darker than the blackest part of night.
“Now,” she said.
He would do anything for her.
Her limbs were languid with her climax and the musky taste of her was sharp in his mouth. Yet she was as regal, as imperial as ever.
When she said, “Now,” he knew exactly what she wanted.
When she commanded, it was his pleasure to obey.
He lifted her from the sofa, switching their positions so she was astride him. Her knees sunk into the cushions as the velvet of her inner thighs slid along his. The curtain of her hair brushed his knees. The head of his member was at the very gate of her, her soft folds slick with her desire and his loving.
He gripped her hips, holding her and himself in this moment, thanking God he would remember it always.
She rolled her sex against him, gripped his arms, and said again, “Now.”
He thrust home, giving them what they both needed. She was tight, yet yielding, so, so slick, and just… right. Almost too right to bear.
He took a shuddering breath—too close. He was too close.
He searched for his self-control, that iron grip that had taken so many years to perfect, but she moved against him, and it slipped right past his fingertips.
He drove himself to the hilt, her head falling back as he did, a moan leaving her beautiful lips.
My heart.
He withdrew, inch by torturous inch, savoring the slide of their most intimate parts against each other, before thrusting home again.
My love.
One last thrust and his climax was upon him, his member pulsing as he spilled his seed within her.
“My Isabel.”
He let his forehead fall against hers, savoring the aftermath of release for just a moment. The entanglement of their flesh, for just a moment. The painful pleasure stretching his heart—for just a moment. A moment was all he needed to remember, forever.
He lay back, pulling her close, wishing there were something at hand to cover himself with. He must appear a perfect ape to her, covered in hair and scars, better seen through the bars of a cage.
He ran his hands through the fall of her hair, still awed by the length and amount. However did she manage to pin it up as she did? It was more than enough to cover the both of them.
Setting his chin on her head, he closed his eyes, reveled in the feel of her against him. He was wrung out, shipwrecked on some strange shore, sputtering water and trying to find his bearings.
After all those years of avoiding emotions, to spend a night luxuriating in some of the strongest ones was nearly overwhelming.
He held back a yawn, forced open his eyes. Overwhelming and exhausting.
He didn’t dare sleep. He had to return her to her room. They were risking discovery.
If he were a normal man, a better man, he could marry her and spend the rest of his days—and nights—by her side. Exactly like this, her limbs twined with his, her hair covering them, their hearts sounding in the same rhythm.
Such a wondrous image.
But he wasn’t a better man. This was the best he could achieve and it still wasn’t good enough.
He could never have her for the rest of his days; tonight would have to suffice for a lifetime. Tonight was a sin, yes—but a small one compared to shackling her to a man such as himself.
No matter how carefully he controlled it, the blackness at the core of him, the darkness that had been a gift from his father, never went away. He could hide it—and had hidden it for thirteen years—but it was always there. Waiting for him to stumble.
It waited even now, coiled around his heart, slithering in his ear. Let them come, let them discover you—then she will be yours.
He mustn’t listen—he’d stumbled enough tonight. It had been a transcendent, freeing experience, but there were always consequences when he let his self-control lapse. If he left behind his iron reserve, let himself walk into the sunlight of her affection—how long until he found himself in the darkness once more?
He savored the scent of her, the catch of her hair against his chin, her ear against his heart, for one more moment. “Isabel,” he called softly. “You must return to bed. Tomorrow… the trial…”
“Getting rid of me so soon?” The gentle amusement in her voice made him want to weep.
He didn’t tell her that surrendering control to her had been the greatest relief. Relief and release all at once. He could simply experience each sensation and not worry if it were right or wrong.
“We have to get you to bed,” he said again. Or else he might keep her here all night. “Remember tomorrow. Remember to be soft.” He ran his hand down her back. “Supple.” Another stroke. “Pliant.”
“So I’m to be a willow now, bending and weeping with the breeze?�
�� Her usual sharpness was creeping back.
She was no willow. She was more like a mesquite tree, slender and smooth in all its parts and searing in its brilliance when it bloomed.
“No.” He couldn’t ask her to be what she was not. Couldn’t ask her to hide what he loved most about her. But McCade could not be allowed to escape. “Remember, you’re playing to the jury, not winning a game of chess. Terrifying brilliance won’t serve you well there.”
She stroked her hand down his chest as if she enjoyed it, as if there weren’t scars marring the journey. He felt each and every collision as her fingers met the evidence of his nature.
“You think me terrifyingly brilliant?” she asked.
He did. He wanted to gaze on her brilliance for the rest of his days, until he was blind from it.
Blind. His mother was half-blind, and all because of his father.
After the events of tonight, he could be a father…
His blood reversed course, his heart straining from it.
That could not happen—that must not happen. He shoved the thought of a child away, along with his feelings for her, forcing his frigid calm to descend upon him once more. It took several breaths, but his reserve still came when it was called. Just barely.
“You know how intelligent you are,” he answered severely. “Now put on your nightgown and go back to bed.”
She reared back, studied him.
He held himself steady, refusing to flinch, even as her expression closed.
“I see,” she said, acid etching the words. “Sebastian is gone, and the marshal has returned to take his place.”
“I am always the marshal. I have to be.” Almost as coldly spoken as he felt.
He rose, setting her on her feet. Refused to give in to the urge of his fingers to clasp her close again.
She sent him a slicing look, then pulled on her nightgown.
His iron self-control rattled against his heart as she walked to the door without a word, then shut it quietly behind her.
Rattled hard, but held.
Chapter Eighteen
Isabel hadn’t yet testified and things were already going terribly wrong.
She hadn’t even left the house.
Sebastian was leading her down the hallway, having found her at the breakfast table. Not that she had been able to do more than prod her eggs into her toast and back again. Even when she’d been afflicted with the grippe, her stomach had never rolled so queasily.
“Where are we going?” she asked, the question only slightly louder than their footfalls on the carpet.
There was something different about him. It wasn’t simply that she knew now what lay beneath that fine suit, the wildness he hid beneath it. He was as still as ever, but it was the stillness of wire strung too tight.
If she plucked him, he might snap.
Or it could be her own tension pulling her nerves to unnatural thinness. She was certainly carrying enough anxiety for the both of them.
“To the library.” His voice at least was as mellow as ever. “We must ensure the dog won’t attack you.”
“What?” Her stomach rolled as she stopped dead in the hallway. She was about to sit in that witness box, in front of twelve hostile men, and convince them she was telling the truth—and he wanted her to face that dog?
He must have gone mad.
“No, I don’t need to be introduced to the dog again.”
She peered at him more closely. His expression had gone beyond impassive, all the way to drawn, the color of his skin matching that of his eyes, the lines around his mouth deeply grooved.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked.
“No. Of course not.” Impatience sharpened the words.
She might have felt sorry for him, considering how terrible he looked, but it was no less than he deserved. He should be regretting how summarily he’d dismissed her after… well, after everything they’d shared.
And yet her heart panged at the sight of his distress. It evidently was not quite as put out with him as her rational mind was.
They’d reached the library, and he turned away to open the door.
She placed a hand on his forearm. It stood pale against the darkness of his suit as he held himself in wait before the door. She noticed a small speck of lint, just to the side of her hand—the tiniest mote marring the perfection of his sleeve.
This was not good.
“Sebastian.”
He turned to her slightly, but kept his gaze averted.
This was bad.
Perhaps she should not have been so eager to turn him upside down. Perhaps he couldn’t handle hanging from his heels as well as she could. Perhaps he was unable to prevent all the things he kept inside from falling out.
Or perhaps she was placing her own anxiety on him. It was only a speck of lint. But it produced a most perfect horror in her, as if his very skin had been marred.
His unnatural demeanor today, the speck on his normally spotless suit—she feared he was coming undone, and she so desperately needed him to be whole.
Mother of God, she must regain control of herself.
“Why do I need to see the dog again?” She forced her voice into pliancy, but kept her hand upon his arm.
He took a ragged breath before looking at her with haunted eyes. “Junius must come inside today since our mothers will be alone. I can’t have him hurting you.”
That was reasonable. The dog was inside, as it usually was, and Sebastian was going to ensure the dog knew she was no threat. Then the dog would be no threat to her.
It was all so reasonable—so why was she having such a time convincing herself? Perhaps because she kept seeing that gaping mouth snapping toward her, the teeth attempting to sink into her flesh, the savage surprise of it…
She plucked the lint from his sleeve, flicking it to the floor as quick as she could, hating the fibrous pebble of it between her fingers.
“Thank you,” he said gravely.
She inhaled deeply, reaching for steadiness. If she couldn’t handle seeing a dog, no matter how vicious, she’d never handle the jury.
“Very well,” she said. “Let’s say good morning to Junius.”
When they entered the library, Junius was stretched before the fire, looking like a rather ugly rug. He thumped his tail at Sebastian’s approach, but made no move to rise.
“Junius.” At Sebastian’s call, the dog came to his side. “Hold a fist out to him,” he prompted Isabel.
She didn’t want to. The dog was peaceful enough, watching her with soft eyes as he sat next to his master—but what if he transformed before her, turned savage again?
“He won’t hurt you,” Sebastian said. “I promise.” His gaze was pleading—as if nothing mattered more to him than that she should make peace with the dog.
She curled her fingers into her palm and offered her fist, her trembling held within her grip.
Junius stretched his head forward, his nose brushing gently across her skin as he sniffed. His breath was hot, his exhales forceful. After a few moments of investigation, he drew his head back…
And thumped his tail on the floor. He opened his jaws, gave her hand one quick lick, then lay back at Sebastian’s feet.
He hadn’t hurt her. He’d even… licked her.
All of her tension drained straight away. She’d faced the dog dead-on—and been perfectly fine. What a bit of fuss for nothing.
Her relief was reflected in Sebastian’s expression. “Of course he didn’t snap at you,” he said. “Of course he didn’t.”
He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe it, though.
She set her hand on his sleeve once more, right over where the bit of lint had been. “Are you reassured now?”
He put his hand over hers—such a heavy, comforting weight. “Yes. And now we must get you to your next trial.”
Perhaps… perhaps after all this, once the trial was finished, they might look anew at what was growing between them. Perhaps, o
nce the weight of the circumstances surrounding them was lifted… perhaps there was a chance for something more.
But such questions must wait until after the trial. The rest of her life must wait until after the trial.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Isabel held her hands stiffly in her lap on the witness stand, resisting the impulse to wipe them on her skirt like a sticky-fingered child. She drew careful, shallow breaths, willing her face into a mask of serenity as she watched the prosecutor in front of her.
She hadn’t felt this nervous on her first day of teaching.
She’d just turned eighteen then. Butterflies had fluttered through her as she looked out at the young faces she was meant to instruct, the stick of chalk gritty in her clammy hand. Every face had been turned toward her, watching, waiting, expectant. She hadn’t been certain she was up to the task.
She wasn’t certain she was up to the task now—if she’d had a piece of chalk in her fist, it would crumble to dust.
The faces of the jurors looking back at her were hardened in a way her pupils’ never had been. Skepticism narrowed the men’s eyes and pinched their mouths.
She had to erase that skepticism, much as she’d clean a blackboard. Only then could she write the truth upon it.
One last steadying breath and she was ready to answer the prosecutor.
“Sheriff Obregon and I were out for a drive that Sunday. He was my fiancé,” she explained.
Mr. Halstead was rifling through some papers, obviously uninterested in her answer. “And what happened then?” he asked the stack in his hands.
“The Carey brothers and Mr. McCade came out from behind a stand of trees. They had their pistols drawn.” Be soft, she reminded herself as the muscles surrounding her spine tensed against her will. Supple. Pliant.
She only just kept herself from glancing over at Sebastian.
“Mr. McCade said he was going to teach Sheriff Obregon a lesson.” She decided to leave out the part about punishing Joaquin for being Mexican. The jurors didn’t look as if they’d be very sympathetic to her people. “Mr. McCade fired first and killed the horse.”
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