by Robyn Carr
He took a step toward the kitchen. He smiled. “I wanted to meet him. At least get a look at him, see what I’m up against.” He shrugged. “Maybe we could be friends, me and the boyfriend.”
She laughed at him in spite of herself. “Well, that takes balls,” she said. “Why don’t we do this—when I feel like introducing the two of you, I’ll let you know. And since you aren’t going to get a look at him…”
“I brought something. Root beer.” He tilted his head at her. “Was I out of line? Dropping in this way?”
“Absolutely!” she said, her blue eyes widening. “How’d you know where I lived?”
“Annie. And by the way, she’d never heard about this boyfriend, which I find curious.”
“Maybe I don’t tell everyone about him,” she said. “But—your apology is accepted.”
“I’m not sure if I’m sorry yet—since I ended up saving you from what appears to be a very boring night.”
“You should have called ahead, though. You walked right in my house! Now, would I walk right in your house?”
“I believe you have—and I was naked. Besides, I did knock,” he said with another shrug.
She couldn’t argue that—she’d gone into his quarters at the stable without being invited. He looked huge standing there in her small living room—so big, so bronze, his eyes so penetrating, his teeth so white. He looked more like a monument in her little house than he did at the stable with a great big stallion as a backdrop.
“What’s with this music?” he asked. “What are you listening to?”
She sighed and just shook her head. “Don’t you like music?”
“Of course. I like Country.”
“Well, this is a slightly more sophisticated version of ‘my girl left me and my dog died.’ It’s called opera. And I like it.”
“Do you understand it?” he asked.
“The language? No, I don’t speak Italian. But I get what it’s about.” She put down her knife and walked the few steps into the living room. “This is Bocelli singing Puccini. La bohème. I like it loud. Would you like some of my salad and noodles and cheese? Since you’ve so rudely made yourself available?”
That widened his smile. “Yes. Yes I would. There’s probably no meat, is there?”
“No meat, and I’m sure you’ll live. Sit here on this couch, listen to the music while I finish cooking and see if you can absorb a little culture.” She pulled a bottle out of his bagged six-pack and handed it to him. “I’ll be in the kitchen awhile.” She took the rest of the six-pack from him to put in the refrigerator.
“Why do you listen to it?”
“This one in particular? Because I love Bocelli’s voice and the story is tragic and the music is powerful. I love opera. It moves me. This one ends in the woman’s death. Come to think of it, a lot of them end in death, but the power of the music… Just listen. Let it seep into your veins and muscles and… Well, I’ll finish up in the kitchen.”
She pushed him onto the sofa, turned up the volume on her stereo and went back into the kitchen. He could still see her from where he sat, and the view was exquisite. She was standing at the counter beside the sink, her back to him. He twisted the top off his root beer and took a slug. It was hard to imagine a more intoxicating sight than her astride a big horse, but this was it. He was mesmerized. She wore a sleeveless, snug knit crop top that fit like a soft second skin and pants that hugged her hips and fell only to her calf. He’d been right about her arms and shoulders—she was ripped. Even the muscles of her back, visible under the shirt she wore, were defined. And that round, firm, muscled butt? He wiped a hand down the full length of his face. Zow. She said she was into yoga. Could you get muscles like that from yoga? Yes, if you topped it with hauling bales of hay….
She was right about the music. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he could feel it to the marrow of his bones. At times it was melodious and beautiful, then it would rise with the kind of force that suggested going to war or taking a ravishing woman to bed, then become subdued and seductive again.
He smiled. Little Hopi girl was a nerd. She leaned toward the classical. Sitting on her futon, which had a lot of growing to do to become a couch, he felt a long way from home.
Maybe she was a long way from home.
He hoisted his tall frame off the futon. It was only about ten steps to the kitchen. The music was so loud she wouldn’t have been able to hear him, so he put his bottle of root beer down on the counter before he touched her. But she neither jumped nor stiffened; she had either felt, heard or sensed his approach. He had an instinct about her, that she had highly developed extrasensory skills.
He put his hand on her hip. His hand was so large on her small frame that his fingers splayed around to her flat belly. He gave her a second to protest or shove him away and when she didn’t, he put his lips on the side of her neck, kissing, inhaling the scent of her. Sucking gently. Then his other hand found her other hip and he massaged with his palms and fingers, kissing both sides of her neck.
She turned her head so he would hear her. “You shouldn’t…”
“I should…”
“Do not leave a mark on me,” she warned.
“I would die before I would mark a beauty like yours.”
And with that she was undone; she turned in his arms and tilted her face up. “You have to know something. I’m very afraid of you.”
He stiffened and frowned. “Of me? Why?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to hurt me.”
He shook his head gently, still frowning. “Lilly, I’m not going to hurt you. I swear, I’m going to be good to you.”
She inhaled, exhaled with a slow sigh and gently let her eyes drift closed in submission.
He didn’t need any more invitation than that; he lowered his lips onto hers and when she parted her lips slightly, he took full advantage. His tongue entered the soft, slick velvet of her mouth and he moaned. He ran his tongue around her lips, tasting and pulling slightly, then welcomed her tongue into his mouth. He let his eyes open a slit, just enough to see that hers were still closed, her sooty lashes lying on her cheeks. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered into her opened mouth. His large hands pressed against her firm butt, pulling her hard against him, and he devoured her mouth, entering, receding, entering….
Her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, to his head. Her fingers threaded into his hair, moving to the tie that held it back, loosening it. He growled softly; he was already hard. “I could do this right here, right now,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to. I want to go slow with you.”
Her answer was to hum softly and take his mouth again. And again.
He pulled back a tiny bit, enough to look down at her and see her hard nipples pressing against the soft fabric of her top. He slowly moved one of his hands from her butt to a breast, covering it, teasing the nipple gently with his thumb. He chuckled sensually against her lips. “Some things men and women can’t really hide from each other.” His thumb gave her hard nipple another soft tweak. He hated to let go of that breast, but he momentarily removed his hand to reach over and turn off the flame under the boiling water before he returned to it again. The loud music had picked up a drumming beat that he could feel in his veins. He put his lips against her ear and said, “I want to go slow with you, but I don’t know if I can. I’ll try, I promise.”
He felt her small hand slide down his back to his butt, pulling him even harder against her. He let himself enjoy that for a moment, then he whisked her up in his arms. “You’re light as a feather. I’m going to carry you to bed, sweetheart.”
“I haven’t said yes yet,” she whispered in his ear.
He rested her on the counter, put a hand on her breast, ran a thumb over her erect nipple. “I thought you had.”
“That’s just nature.”
“I worship nature. And I’m going to worship you….” He grabbed her in his arms again and carried her through the small house. He passed by the front
door as he went, kicking it closed and throwing the dead bolt, and headed to the bedroom. This was just a cracker box, this tiny house, but it was a house that made sense. It was like her—efficient, compact, suited to her. This was a house made for her, not made for others who might visit it. He silently cursed himself—he had nearly let the memory of Isabel in and that was the last thing he intended. Right now his mind and his body were full of Lilly. Deliciously full.
He set her on her feet beside the bed and pulled her shirt up over her head. It was barely tossed aside when his mouth found that nipple and drew on it. “God,” he said. “God.”
Her hands were opening his shirt as she thought, This is going to happen, ready or not. She had spent about two seconds thinking about how long she had waited to bring a man into her life, her body; she remembered how afraid she’d been. But when Clay touched her she was done with that. Her body responded instantly with hard nipples and a wetness between her legs. And she thought, oh, hell, as she unbuttoned his last button.
“Do you have a condom?” she asked.
“Exactly one,” he said, unlatching his belt. “Believe it or not, I didn’t plan this. But when I’m close to you, Lilly, I don’t want a breath of air as much as I want you. I don’t know if this has ever happened to me before.”
“Bull,” she said, slipping her small hands along his hips to lower his pants. And then she had a look at him, hard and erect, and said, “Oh, my God.”
He put his hands on her hips, his fingers slipping under the soft fabric of her pants, and gently slid them down. He looked down at her as he did so. She was bare. Not just bare, but bare. No pubic hair at all. A Brazilian wax, it was called, and it almost brought him to his knees. He wanted to kneel before her and put his mouth right on her, but he promised slow. If he could.
He reached for her hand, holding it while she kicked off those soft, lightweight trousers and climbed onto the bed. He had to sit down to remove his boots, the pants that had gathered around his ankles, and fetch that condom that went with him everywhere. He put it on the dresser beside the bed, one square little package. Then he reclined beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Problem is,” he said, his hand lowering to her soft, hairless center, a finger slipping in to find her already wet and ready, “I think I might come right now. The good news is, I’ll be ready again before you know it, and I can keep you busy until that happens….” He applied that finger to her clitoris, making her gasp and squirm.
“Do you have to talk?” she asked him, reaching her lips to his.
He laughed softly. “I have to talk about what’s happening with us. It’s like magic.” Then his lips were on her breast, his fingers in her, rubbing her, invading her. He moved to her mouth, back to her nipple, to her mouth, her other nipple, and all the while his hand was working its magic, fingers in and out, palm or thumb massaging her most vulnerable spot. She stiffened, threw her head back, groaned deep in her throat and he said, “Let it go, baby. Come for me.” She grabbed his shoulders and obliged.
The tenor singing in the background reached some kind of emotional crescendo and the sound throbbed through Clay’s body as Lilly’s sweet center clenched him; her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nipple puckered in his mouth and she came. And came. And came. It lasted so long, he lost his breath. The second it seemed to begin to let go of her, he kissed his way down her body and put his mouth on her, licking, kissing, sucking. She still quivered there; she’d loosened his long hair and it fell in a canopy around her hips, her fingers threaded into it at his temples. She came again. Above the loud, thrumming music he heard her cry, “Oh, God, oh, Clay!” And he lost it. He went off like a rocket, pressing his throbbing erection against her leg, letting it come and licking her until they were both complete.
She had cried out his name. Maybe, if all his wishes came true, it was more than just sex for her. He’d hoped to perform better, but the second he had her on his tongue, there was no help for it.
He kissed his way up her body, ended on her lips, lay on his side and pulled her against him. He was breathless; she was flushed. He kissed her cheek, her lips, her ear. He whispered, “I didn’t even know I liked opera.” And she laughed, digging her fingers into his hair and pulling his mouth onto hers again.
Nine
Clay found a large, soft towel in Lilly’s bathroom and cleaned her up with smooth, gentle strokes. He tossed the towel on the floor, pulled back the covers on her bed and they both climbed in.
“You look awfully comfortable,” she whispered, snuggling up next to him.
The opera in the other room had ended, finally. At least they could talk in the hushed tones of lovers now. Clay’s laughter was deep and playful. “I can honestly say that I’m more comfortable than I’ve been in a very long time. And I think there’s even more comfort to be found—just give me time.”
She combed his long hair with her fingers and said, “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I couldn’t resist you,” he said. “I’ve known since the second I saw you that I wanted this with you. This and more. As we got to know each other better, the hunger grew.”
“I don’t even know how you ended up in my part of the world. I know you and Nate are old friends, but I’m sure there are lots of old friends. Why are you working and living here?” she asked. “Just because of your sister and Gabe?”
“There’s more to it than that, but that’s a lot of it. I was adrift in Los Angeles. It wasn’t the place for me—never was. I’ve worked with Nathaniel before, when he was in Southern California, before his father retired and left the practice to him. I was looking for a way out of L.A. so when he called it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And…” He paused. “Lilly, I was married. We divorced two years ago, but it didn’t give me much distance from my wife. I worked for her family. It was important that I break away from that relationship.”
“You almost sound as though you’re confessing something,” she said. She smoothed the long, dark hair over his ear. “It’s not a crime to be divorced. A lot of people have been married before. I’m sorry if it was painful for you.” And more quietly she added, “And for her.”
“The marriage was her idea. The divorce was inevitable and also her idea. We were too different—an heiress and a common Navajo farrier. I thought I could take care of her in spite of that. About some things I can be so naive.”
She smiled at him. “There’s nothing common about you,” she said. “Did it break your heart? The divorce?”
“Hard to tell,” he admitted. “My heart was at war with my pride. I felt like I had failed her.” He gave her a kiss. “But I’m done talking about that. I’d rather talk about us.”
“Is there an us?”
“Oh, you know there is. Unless you’d like to talk about him. The boyfriend.”
She couldn’t help herself; she laughed softly. “It’s not at all what you think, Clay, or I wouldn’t be with you like this now. About us…?”
He took her small hand and pulled it to him; he was already becoming aroused again. “Just the beginning of us.”
She reached past his shoulder to the bedside stand and lifted the little foil package. “It would be a bad idea to forget really important things,” she said, ripping it open and taking it upon herself to apply the condom.
At her very touch he let out a breath. He raised himself over her, covered her lips with his, even as he separated her legs with his knees and teased her very center with the tip of his sheathed penis. He held his weight off her as he probed her. “We’ll get to all the other things later. There’s nothing at all complicated about this. I need to be inside you.”
And she needed him there. She already felt a lovely, satisfying intimacy with him, but there was a need deep inside her that she’d ignored for so long, that need to be possessed. She didn’t answer him, but simply tilted her hips toward him and he lowered himself carefully. Slowly. Gently. She was so small and he was so big; it brought tears to her eyes as he moved within he
r with such caution and care.
“Are you okay, Lilly?” he whispered. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
As she shook her head, a tear loosened and rolled into the hair at her temple and a little squeak of emotion escaped her. “Please,” she said softly. “Oh, please, Clay. I want you. All of you.”
He growled with passion so hot, he trembled to control himself. With his hands on her hips, his lips on her lips, he moved inside her with precision, deep and strong. After the first few strokes a rhythm took over and her hips moved against his. He was astonished at her power for one so small, so sweet. He felt her hands on his hips, pulling him into her; he had to grit his teeth to hang on. Waiting for her was going to be difficult, even when it wasn’t the first time tonight—there was such a force in her supple little body. “Lilly,” he said in a drawn-out whisper. “Oh, my God, Lilly…”
“Yes,” came out of her like a hiss. “Yes!” With her hands plunged into his long hair and gripping him, she led his head downward, his mouth to her nipple, and he went there willingly. He sucked hard, pulling that erect little knot into his mouth, and he pumped into her with gusto, rubbing his shaft against her clitoris as he penetrated her as deeply as her body would allow. “Oh, my God, yes…” she said. And he felt it begin in the deepest part of her core, gripping him with hot, wet, desperate tightness. She dug her heels into the bed and pushed against him, locked onto him. Her legs came around his hips to hold him there and she shattered. It was a small but powerful explosion of ecstasy that grew and grew; she held him inside her, held his head to her breast, and she clenched him in spasms of pleasure.
Clay held on for a moment, enjoying her orgasm, then he let go and throbbed with his own release. He heard her again, in the faintest, weak whisper. “Yes… Oh, yes…”
He couldn’t even force himself to leave her body so he balanced himself above her. He gently stroked her face. Her eyes were closed and there was a small smile of satisfaction on her lips. “See?” he whispered. “We can do it justice even without opera.”
