It's just lust, she told herself yet again, desperate this time to believe it. She didn't want to be soul mates, didn't want to believe in some everlasting love that existed in 1896.
He moved closer in a ripple of water, his gaze fixed and measuring on her face.
"It's just lust," she muttered softly, tilting her chin. And there was one certain way to prove it.
Chapter Twenty
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She was going to kiss him.
She didn't want to kiss him; Killian could see the reluctance in her eyes. He could see, too, the cold glint of determination in her gaze. She was going to kiss him to prove something.
He couldn't wait to see what it was and how far she'd go to prove it. He backed up a little and sat down on the edge of the pond, scooting back to dangle his legs in the water. All of a sudden he wished he was naked, instead of clad in wet, clinging drawers. At his movement, she paused for a second, frowning. Then she tilted her chin again and muttered something about lust.
"Stand up," she said in a throaty voice.
"You sit down."
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly moved closer to him. Through the cool water, he felt the heat of her leg. In a quick movement, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her on top of him.
She gasped and started to pull away.
"Don't," he whispered.
She froze.
He sat perfectly still, waiting, smiling.
She didn't move, just sat there, straddling him, her knees in the dirt, water streaming down the sides of her
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face, breathing quickly. Then, slowly, she glanced down at him.
The look in her eyes almost stopped his heart. She was leaning slightly backward, a curly lock of black hair blocking one eye. The other was fixed on him, and he could have lost himself in the dazzling gold and green and gray lights of her eyes. He saw more in that instant than he'd seen altogether before this moment. He saw the dark, rich lashes that ringed her eyes and the tiny network of lines that bespoke long, lonely years in one so young. He saw pain and something else, something he hadn't seen in her eyes before and never expected to see.
It was almost desire.
Before this instant he wouldn't have recognized almost desire; it seemed a contradiction somehow, an impossibility. But now, looking up into Lainie's eyes, he saw exactly that. It was a look he hadn't seen in years�since the night he'd first taken Emily. The look of a woman who didn't know exactly what she wanted, but wanted it nonetheless.
The look of a virgin.
Sweet Jesus .. .
She leaned toward him slowly, and as she came close enough to feel his breath against her face, the desire faded from her eyes, turned almost to fear. Her breathing sped up. Her fingers tightened around his. She shifted her weight, and the movement of her nearly naked body against his sent a thousand shards of sensation shooting to his groin. He felt himself swell, strain against the soaked, twisted fabric of his drawers.
When she was but a hair from him, she puckered her lips and closed her eyes.
The kiss was quick and chaste and over almost before it had begun.
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She pulled back quickly and let out a shaky, laughing breath. "Nothing," she said with a broadening smile. "No fireworks or shooting stars. Nothing. I didn't feel anything at all. I guess it wasn't lust after all. Phew."
She grinned suddenly, then bit down on her lower lip, as if she were uncomfortable with the smile but unable to control it. The gesture made her look impossibly young and breathtakingly beautiful.
She shifted her weight, settling more heavily atop him. He could feel the hard, rounded curves of her bottom pressing into his lap, rousing him.
He groaned. She seemed completely oblivious to the havoc she was wreaking in his body.
She smiled down at him, eyes sparkling, teeth clamped down on her lower lip like a schoolgirl. Then she started talking, babbling about something.
He stared up at her, mesmerized. The water had softened her hair. Damp, glistening curls lay across her forehead and above her ears. Silver beads of water streaked down the sides of her face. Her hazel eyes were bright, unshadowed by the angry darkness that so often touched them, crinkled in the corners by her smile. Everything about her seemed suddenly softer.
It was the first time he'd seen her smile, he realized, and he was stunned by the transformation. She looked heartbreakingly young and innocent and lovely. And she had no idea how woefully inadequate that kiss had been.
He leaned toward her.
The steady stream of her dialogue dwindled into silence. A frown tugged at her thick eyebrows. She drew slightly backward. "What are you looking at?"
"You." He reached out; his fingers curled around her upper arms, squeezing gently, kneading the tender flesh.
"Wh-What are you doing?"
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'Touching you."
The last remnant of her smile faded. She was left staring down at him through huge, unblinking eyes, her front teeth clamped nervously against her full lower lip. "I don't want you to touch me."
He gave her a slow, mocking smile. "You should have thought of that before you started this."
"Maybe I didn't think it through well enough." She pulled back, tried to get away.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Do what?"
He let his gaze slide slowly from her face, down the soft swell of her barely-covered breasts to the vee between her legs. "Wiggle."
She froze. Her naked thighs tensed atop his. "Let me go," she whispered.
"I don't think so." He looked up. "You kissed me. I think I deserve the same opportunity."
His hands slid down the slick, wet softness of her arms. The necklace glowed with an eerie lavender light against her flesh, accentuated the paleness of her skin. He touched it, wondering at its magic, then brushed one finger across the tiny blue-tinged hollow at the base of her throat.
Her nervousness was a living, breathing force between them, a tangible presence as real as the water and sandalwood scent of her skin or the heat of her legs against his.
He kept his gaze fastened on her face, her eyes. His fingers, roughened by years in the saddle, trailed a teasing pattern atop hers. He felt the silky-soft flesh, the puffy, raised lines of her veins.
She shivered, made a quiet, gasping sound at his touch, but didn't draw away.
Finally he released her gaze. Glancing down, he
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plucked up her left hand, turned it over, and rested it in his, studying it. Her pale, pliant fingers lay open to him like the petals of a single, perfect rose. He trailed a fingertip along one of the creased lines in the soft center of her palm. Her flesh twitched beneath his touch, her fingers instinctively curled inward; he felt their velvet pads against his little finger.
"Are you finished looking at my hand?"
He glanced up, saw the anger in her eyes, and felt a smile start. "Your hand? Yeah, I guess I'm through."
She yanked her hand from his and shoved it behind her back, then tried to scoot off him.
He tightened his hold and held her in place. "You started this," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm going to finish it."
"I didn't start this"
He caught her gaze and held it. One eyebrow arched slowly upward. "Are you that innocent?"
She sighed. "I was never innocent. What do you want from me, Killian?"
"A kiss."
She gave him a skeptical look. "That's it? Just one kiss?"
"One real kiss. Not that half-ass nun's peck you gave me last time."
"I don't want to kiss you."
He smiled up at her, moving his hands slowly up her arms. She blinked, swallowed convulsively.
"One kiss .. ." he promised.
"So what. Fine." She stiffened. Her lips folded together in a colorless line.
Gently he pulled her toward him. Their lips touched, briefly at first, no more than
a caress. He felt her sharply indrawn breath, felt the shiver that moved through her body.
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"Lainie . . ." He whispered her name, only that and nothing more, and then his mouth slanted over hers, claimed her. His tongue slid along her taut lips, urging them to open, to allow him entry.
She made a tiny whimpering sound and tried to draw back.
He forced himself to slow down, to be gentle. Squeezing his eyes shut, he eased the pressure of his kiss. The move surprised her. Her lips parted slightly, softened. A relieved breath slipped from her mouth to his.
This time he kissed her with gentleness, almost lovingly, in a way he hadn't kissed a woman in years. Maybe in a lifetime. His lips covered hers. The tip of his tongue caressed her lips, then eased between them and tasted the sweet moistness of her mouth.
Her tongue touched his, whether by accident or design, he didn't know, didn't care. At the cool, moist contact, desire pulsed through his body, swelled and ached. The intensity of his response caught him off guard. He hadn't felt anything like it in years, hadn't known true desire in ages. He'd forgotten how consuming it was, how hot. He moved uncomfortably on the hard ground, feeling the firm, round pressure of her bottom on the hardness between his legs.
Shaking, he drew back.
She sat as stiff as a nail, angled forward for the kiss, her eyes squeezed shut as if to block the reality of what had just happened. Tiny droplets of water clung stubbornly to the tips of her lashes. "Open your eyes, Lainie."
A heartbeat passed, then two, and then slowly she opened her eyes. Their gazes met, held, and for an instant Killian's world shifted. He felt as if he were falling into the warm, hazel pool of her eyes. He found
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himself thinking about things, wanting things he hadn't wanted in years, maybe forever.
Then he saw the sadness in her eyes, and he felt as if he'd been punched. His sudden optimism started to dissolve, slip through his rough, old man's fingers. Desperately he tried to reach for it, tried to hold on to something so ephemeral and fleeting, he couldn't begin to give it a name. "One more," he asked quietly, hearing the sharp edge of panic in his voice and not caring at all. For the first time in years, he felt an honest-to-God emotion in his soul, something that wasn't bitter or angry. He felt the desire, almost a need, to connect with this woman, to make her feel some portion of what she'd made him feel. And it scared the shit out of him to think that he would fail.
"See me this time," he said, gently brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. "One more kiss . .."
She stared down at him, unblinking. Her lips were parted slightly, still moist from his kiss. The breath that squeezed past them was rapid, shallow.
Her face filled his vision, became his world. The soft, pliant feel of her bare skin beneath his fingertips taunted him with excruciating images of other parts of her body, equally soft, equally pliant.
"One more ..." She said the words softly, as if she were pondering them. Her eyes fixed on him, the dark gray-green pools huge and glassy against the heated flush of her cheeks.
He couldn't speak for wanting her. His lips tingled with the memory of her touch. Anticipation tightened every nerve until it was all he could do to sit still and wait. But he knew that this time it had to be her decision, or whatever this moment could mean would disappear.
Slowly, as if it were somehow against her will, she leaned toward him. Their gazes held, unwavering, until
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her face blurred before him, became a smear of pale skin and dark hair and green eyes.
Her lips touched his, a butterfly-fast landing, and then drew back. A low, frustrated groan wedged in his throat, burned for the release he wouldn't allow. His fingers splayed out, pressed against her back.
He angled toward her. She met him this time, kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with the first taste of passion. Her mouth formed to his, her tongue touched his in a lick of fire.
He clutched her to him, needing her suddenly, feeling and stroking and touching her. The kiss deepened, turned hot and wanting. It consumed him, overpowered him until he couldn't breathe, couldn't feel or hear anything except the exquisite pressure of her body against his and the pounding of his own heart. She made a soft, mewling sound of need.
The thought of it, of her wanting him, aroused him like nothing ever had before. One hand slid around her body, moved up to the cottony edge of her undergarment. He felt her flinch, felt the puckering formation of goose bumps on her stomach. Still kissing her, he moved his hand upward, cupped one small breast.
She stiffened but didn't draw away.
His thumb breezed across her nipple, brought it instantly to hardness. At the feel of it, pebbly and straining, he groaned. His other arm slid down from her back, moved around to her chest.
Suddenly she slid off of him and scrambled backward, splashing into the water.
He frowned at her, confused. "Lainie�"
"We can't do this," she said breathlessly, lurching to her feet. "It's not right."
He was breathing too hard to speak for a moment, but when he looked up at her and saw the blatant fear
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in her eyes, the need drained out of him. Without its heat, he felt cold, empty. He sighed. "It felt right. You know it did."
She paled. Swallowing hard, she clambered out of the water and grabbed her clothes, clutching them to her chest.
"That's the problem, isn't it?" he said softly.
Without another word, she spun away from him and disappeared into the night's darkness.
He closed his eyes, bowing his head. A deep, weary sigh escaped him, hung limp in the night air. He could hear her, running again, hard and fast and thoughtlessly.
"Don't go," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him, knowing she wouldn't listen if she had.
For the first time in years, he felt lonely.
Lonely.
She'd made him feel something, something he'd thought impossible for a man like him.
And she had felt something, damn it. He was sure that she had. But he was afraid that it wouldn't matter to her, that she'd never give either one of them the chance to feel it again.
And God help him, he wanted to feel it again, wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tightly, to give her a safe place in the world.
The realization stunned him.
He frowned. Jesus, he was a forty-three-year-old outlaw with nothing to offer a woman except a lifetime full of regrets and lost chances, and yet... unbelievably, he wanted to change. For Lainie, because of her. He wanted to change.
If only she'd give him the chance.
Chapter Twenty-one
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She would never kiss him again. No matter what. She didn't care if they were soul mates or blind dates or dying of hypothermia. She would never kiss that man again.
She swiped at her mouth, but it didn't help; she couldn't wipe her lips enough to erase the memory of him. She felt him beside her, around her, inside her, felt the lingering memory of his touch; the scent of him clung to her clothing and haunted her.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
It shouldn't have meant anything, that kiss. She'd kissed a thousand men in her lifetime, maybe more. She knew what a kiss was�and what it wasn't.
For years she'd kissed any man who looked at her twice, who wanted to kiss her. She'd thought that something magical would�could�happen with one of the men, just one. That one night, one special, never-to-be-forgotten night, she'd kiss the right man and she'd feel something. She'd feel ... connected, a part of something besides herself, maybe even normal.
But it had never happened. Kisses had always been like sex for her�cold, wet couplings that went on in dark, forgotten places with men whose names she could never recall. None�not one man�had ever really aroused her, had ever made her feel anything except a
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vague, queasy sense of selling herself short, of giving her soul to the lowest bidder and walki
ng away with less than nothing.
Dead ends. Dark alleys. Utter and debilitating loneliness. That's what kisses had always been, been for so long that she'd forgotten until this moment that she'd ever wished for anything more. Suddenly she remembered what she'd tried so hard to forget. She remembered sitting in that horrible room, so stark and white and cold and smelling of antiseptic and Pine Sol, staring through the iron bars, wishing�Oh, Jesus, wishing she'd had even one good memory to counteract the horror, to make her believe again in white knights and happy endings___
And now, finally, here it was.
When he'd kissed her, she'd felt as if she'd finally come home, as if all the frightened searching of her life, of her heart, had been for this, for the feel of his hands on her body and his lips on hers.
Jesus, it was frightening.
"Idiot." She spat the word. Her lips trembled, her eyes ached, and the need to cry swelled in her chest like a hot, smoldering stone.
Soul mates. Lovers. The words came at her hard, knocking the breath from her lungs with their poignant intimacy.
What if, what if, what if ...
She stared back at the pond, at the man sitting hunched beside its moonlit glow. She tried to tell herself that none of it mattered. What she felt, what he felt, what they might or might not have once been to each other; none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but Kelly and getting home.
But deep down, she couldn't make herself believe it this time. Deep down, she knew that that kiss mattered. Perhaps more than any other single moment in her life.
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* * *
"Lainie?" Killian's voice floated through the darkness, reaching out to her.
"I can hear you."
"It's dangerous out there. Come on in."
She glanced back, saw him standing alongside the fire. One side of his body was splashed with golden light, the other half was sheathed in shadow. At the sight of him, so tall and broad-shouldered and strong, she felt an almost overwhelming sense of loss. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and let him kiss her again.
"I think it's more dangerous with you," she said softly.
He took a step toward her. A twig snapped beneath his heel. "I won't try to kiss you again."
His quiet promise should have surprised her. She wished that it had. But instead, she'd expected it, known somehow that he didn't want to hurt her.
// only he knew how easy it was ...
She pushed tiredly to her feet. There was no point in hiding out here in the darkness. She had to face him sooner or later, had to figure out a way to wrench some honest strength from her too weak soul. They still had five days�and nights�together. She couldn't avoid him forever.
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