by Mallory Rush
Her breath caught. She exhaled his name on a trembling sigh as he pushed her breast upward. He kissed her through her shirt, wetting the fabric and puckering her nipple. The blood pulsed hotly through him, expanding his loins in anticipation.
"I've got a bottle of wine," he murmured, skimming his teeth back and forth, while his other hand fit beneath her buttocks and lifted her higher. "A cold front's blowing in, and there's plenty of wood for the fireplace."
He heard her small gasp and exulted in the signal of her escalating need as he rocked into her. Knowing what he did now, he was glad he had waited for her to initiate this. That he could do this to Cammie, that she could want him so much when she had never wanted anyone this way before, was there a happier man alive?
"Yes," she whispered. "Wine, a fire. I'd like that."
"As much as you like this?" Unable to withstand the temptation, and greedy to reassure himself he had the power to woo her body, he pushed up the old flannel shirt she wore, the one he'd outgrown by his thirteenth year.
She wasn't wearing a bra, and the wetness of the shirt had seeped over her areola. The wind whisked around her nipple and she moaned. He blew his warm breath onto her, then bent his head to toy, to kiss, to tease, and at last to open his mouth and take as much of her as he could.
She burrowed her hands deep into his hair, clasping him tight, tighter. She arched her back off the ground, seeking to bring him closer. As her hips strained upward, seeking his heat, he ground himself against her.
His body demanded immediate gratification; his mind rebelled against it. He had never been more frustrated, and yet, he was wonderfully satisfied that tonight would be perfect, unhindered by stray misgivings.
He laved each breast with his tongue while his hands worked the snap and zipper of her jeans. She raised her hips to help him, and he exulted in her lack of complacency, her eagerness to assist as he pushed her jeans aside.
"Just a taste," he murmured, pressing his lips against her stomach, the tip of his tongue dipping into the small, perfect navel. He rubbed his nose against her, inhaling her womanly scent.
"Grant," she whispered suddenly, and he could feel her stiffen. "Grant, I don't think—"
"Shhh. Don't think. Don't think at all, except about us. About how good this feels." Heedless of her small retreat, the faint pushing at his shoulders, he took his pleasure, certain that once she knew how good he made it for her, she would succumb.
And never refuse him again.
He sighed deeply with delight at the same time his breath quickened with the press of his lips into the haven of hers. She was moist in spite of her dwindling protests. As he probed and tasted and teased, he could hear her protests transform into muted moans, until her hands were no longer pushing, but pulling him deeper, closer.
He ached to forswear his patience, to strip right there and pump his body into hers until they were too exhausted to do more than cry their release. But it wouldn't work that way. He could hurt her and destroy this newfound bond that even now he strengthened. And even now he did what he could to make her more ready, to prepare her body and, he hoped, lessen the hurt.
His fingers sought her, learned her, and skillfully stretched until she was no longer moist, but ecstatically wet.
"Please," she suddenly cried. "Please, Grant. I need you... now."
Her body began to tremble, and he gave her what he could. Though what he gave wasn't nearly enough, it sufficed.
"It—it happened," she whispered with awe. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. I prayed so many times, but I never dreamed... never..."
"I'll make it even better. This was only a taste, a tiny taste," he whispered against her ear, lapping at the tears trekking downward. "Tonight, we'll feast together."
"Yes, yes." She sobbed, not completely fulfilled, yet in wonder at the ecstasy she was feeling. "Tonight. Together at last."
* * *
Grant stirred the fire, glad the cold front had given them the excuse to build it. He'd even mulled the burgundy wine. Dinner was over, but the candles still burned.
He'd showered, shaved, put on a fresh set of clothes. He'd never married, having hung on to illusions that had now miraculously come true. A proposal was in the making and a honeymoon imminent.
"Grant?"
Savoring the anticipation, he put aside the bellows, then turned. What he saw was a vision. A woman in silk scarlet and out of a dream he'd replayed too many times to count. It gave him a sense of déjà vu.
"Are you real?" he asked, his voice almost cracking with urgency, with too many years of anticipation. "Or am I going to wake up and discover this really was too good to be true?"
Panic surged within Cammie, tempting her to delay. Turning her back to the old ghosts, she walked bravely forward, not stopping until she was less than an arm's length away. She notched her chin higher, internally challenging the demons.
"Why don't you touch me and see?" she asked. The words hadn't come easily, but still she had said them and was proud for that.
Grant held his hand over her right breast, not touching, but hovering close enough for her to feel the heat, feel her breast tauten and strain toward him.
"Once I touch you," he said, "I won't be able to stop. I want to feel you, I want to taste you, and I want to hear you cry out my name. It's driving me mad; I've needed you for so long. I want to make sure you realize that from here, there's no turning back. Tell me you understand that."
She swallowed hard. "I understand."
"And you want me too."
In answer, she stepped forward, bringing his palm flush against her breast. She covered his hand with hers and pressed. Her flesh seemed to burn through the silk, hotter than the fire crackling in the hearth.
She heard his indrawn breath, matching hers. His eyes narrowed, while his features blended into a mixture of self-control, limitless love, and a rapacious hunger that was frightening in its intensity.
"Touch me," he commanded in a hoarse voice. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Just do it and don't ever stop."
The second her fingers began to work the buttons of his shirt, he slipped a thumb beneath each lacy strap and nudged the gown off her shoulders.
"I want to touch you," she said. She pushed aside his shirt, but hesitated at his belt. "It's still... not easy. Even when I want you as much as I do now."
"Practice," he murmured wisely, while shifting the fitted bodice down to her waist. "It'll never become easy unless you do. And besides, you're doing a wonderful job. No woman's ever had this kind of hold over me, Cammie. Just looking at you half-dressed is more arousing than any act of sex I've ever indulged in."
"Then at least I'm not the only one," she said, peeking from beneath lowered lashes. Wanting no secrets, she rushed on. "I have a confession to make, Grant. I—I saw you that night, climbing out of the hot tub. I ran away, but not before it was too late. I wanted you then. It appalled me, but I couldn't help myself."
"Thank God," he said, then added with a chuckle, "When we get back, I think I'll have that hot tub enshrined."
"I don't think you were alone that night. You were aroused."
He furrowed his brow, remembering. "No, I wasn't alone. But it was because I couldn't have you that I went to someone else."
"I hated her," Cammie confessed quietly. "I hated her for having you when I couldn't."
"Jealous, were you?" he prompted with a satisfied smile.
"Insanely." Encouraged, she reached for his belt with shaking hands. "There have been a lot of women in your life, haven't there?"
"Too many. And all the wrong ones." He guided her hands to shed the last of his clothes. The makeshift bed of blankets on the floor welcomed them as Grant led her down. "Only you were the right one. They simply helped numb the void. Without you, Cammie, I'm empty inside." He leaned over her, cradling her face between his hands. "Fill me," he whispered urgently, "while I fill you."
"Yes. Oh, yes," she said, and reached for him, suddenly more afraid of the emptiness without him than she had ever
been of taking his forbidden offering. Nothing existed except the awful need, except the two of them and the craving to become one.
Work—gone. Parents—gone. The future could take care of itself. Nothing mattered but this man she loved more than any person alive or dead; this man, whose masterful hands helped her thrust the last of her fears into oblivion.
As he touched her intimately, plied her flesh with loving, agile fingers, with his clever mouth and tongue, she thrashed against the silk nightgown, its encumbrance unforgivable for keeping even a fraction of their bodies apart.
Finally, naked, entwined, they sought the secrets of each other's skin, nothing hidden or left untouched. She stroked him as he caressed her, marveling in the length and breadth of his body, delighting in his whispers of encouragement and groans of delight.
How long they wrestled and fondled, she didn't know. She only knew that if he didn't take her at last, she would go mad.
"Don't wait," she pleaded through kiss-swollen lips. "If you wait, I'll die."
"We'll die again and again," he promised, his teeth clenched with the effort of restraint. "We'll die the little death together when I bury myself inside you and we're finally one."
Quickly, he sheathed himself. She regretted even that between them, and told him so.
"I hate it too," he whispered roughly. "Because I want it all. I want you to feel me hot and surging, coming inside as deep as I can reach."
"Reach now," she begged. "Don't stop until you're home." Shamelessly, beyond caring, she spread her legs and guided him to the threshold of her entry, knowing there would be pain, but none that could rival the agony of his absence.
Sliding his hand between their bodies, he stimulated her with slow, sensitive caresses, while he eased himself inside, just the smallest bit. She arched up for more, but he held back. She panted his name and quivered, while he whispered sex words, love words, to stoke her spiraling hunger.
Would be never appease her? she wondered dazedly. Was it some kind of torture he was bent on administering? With a growl that was animalistic, so primal it surely hadn't come from her, she sank her nails into his back and was rewarded with an answering, hoarse groan.
"You want me. You need me."
"Yes, yes," she chanted. "More than anything, yes."
"And you're in love with me."
"I do love you, Grant. You know I do."
"Say you're in love with me. Forever in love."
"I'm in love with you, Grant. Madly, passionately. Yes, forev—"
The words caught as he thrust into her. He sealed his mouth over hers, swallowing her sharp cry as if it were his own. The emptiness was suddenly too full, and her body jerked in protest.
"Easy, easy," he whispered. "Hold tight to me, and I promise to make it right."
He soothed her, held her captive with his weight, with his kisses, until her body miraculously adjusted to make a perfect fit. Then he began to move with slow, expert strokes. Gradually, when she was sure this was only becoming better, the pain a wondrous precursor to ecstasy, she began to move slightly with him.
Grant murmured his praise and increased her pleasure. When she thought it could never be better, it suddenly was. He was entering her fast and deep, and she was rising, endlessly rising to greet each powerful thrust, riding with him on a tidal wave that cast them both higher, far from reality.
She looked up into his face, and saw his eyes were slitted with passion, every muscle strained, taut. There was the smell of fire, of musk, of sweat... and then her world broke apart, flinging her in so many directions that she thought she must have died and this was paradise. She called to him and he joined her, pulsing with life, with love, and, as they rocked complete in each other's arms, with the joy of ecstasy's laughter.
* * *
Somehow they made it to the bedroom with the wine. He hadn't carried her—they had remained mated each step of the way. Their endless coupling was a ballet of epic proportions. Tender, ravenous, sensual, erotic, a hedonistic indulgence of the senses that must have been blessed by heaven but was so marvelously, deliciously wanton, it had to be sin.
The wine was long gone, and so were her inhibitions. They had no secrets left, and there was no room for regrets.
Gazing at his sleeping form, Cammie offered a prayer of thanks. Her heart overflowed at the sight of him, the beauty that was Grant. He was a modern-day Adonis, externally more beautiful than any man had a right to be. But that wasn't his real allure. It was him. What he was inside, which far exceeded the outside package.
His parents were exceptional people. They had to be to have given birth to and raised such a man.
Cammie sighed and her brows drew together. It was the first time she'd let herself think about them, about the issue that remained unresolved between her and Grant.
They had two more days together to discuss what they should do. She didn't want to taint the wonder of the night by concerns that wouldn't go away, but could wait. Just as she thought she and Grant should wait, make sure this was forever, before risking the family balance.
Snuggling deeper into his embrace, she pushed the unwanted thoughts aside and pressed a kiss against his neck. Before she could whisper "Good morning," he rolled her onto her back, holding her hands high above her head.
"For being in such a deep sleep," she said, "you sure are a quick riser." She giggled as his beard scratched her chin, then he lowered to nuzzle a plump, ivory breast.
He nudged her hips with his and growled, "I rise a lot quicker than you think, young lady."
She gasped as he thrust inside her and then lay very still.
"Is that safe?" she asked, noticing she was sore but most definitely accommodating. He fit tight, perfect, secure.
"Not too smart probably, but for a minute, I think we're safe. Be still, don't move. Just let me feel myself inside before I wake up and have to act rationally."
"I don't want to act rationally," she whispered impulsively. "I want us to make love again and again and never stop."
"For a lifetime and more," he concurred. His eyes bored into hers, serious eyes that matched a serious voice. "Cammie Walker, I want you always. In the good times and the bad. I want to—"
They both stiffened at the sound of a car pulling up close to the cottage. Within moments there followed a loud thud of a shutting door. For a split second they stared wordlessly at each other.
Familiar voices outside had Grant rolling off her, automatically reaching for a nonexistent pair of jeans. Cammie sprang off the bed, frantically scrambling for a robe when all she could find was the discarded wine bottle. Her scarlet nightie lay in a heap with Grant's clothes in front of the fireplace.
"What are we going to do, Grant?" she asked urgently.
He was already headed for the small living room, and in seconds flat was throwing on his pants. The red nightgown sailed in her direction just as she heard a knock on the front door.
Grant tossed the discarded blankets into her room, then leaned in as his gaze traced her nude body, which was shaking, and not from the cold.
"You get dressed," he said calmly. "I'll make coffee for Mom and Dad, and get them ready to hear the news."
"What?" she croaked, fumbling around for anything besides the incriminating gown to wear. "What news?"
"Why, about us, of course."
Chapter 11
"No!" She shook her head emphatically while she scrambled through a drawer. She jumped into a pair of sweatpants so fast, he thought her life must have depended on it. "Grant, no. It's too soon."
He heard the jangle of a key being fit into the lock, but chose to ignore it. Cammie's opposition was far more disturbing than being discovered.
"What do you mean it's too soon? There'll never be a good time, Cammie. The sooner we set the record straight, the better."
"Not yet! Grant, please. I'm begging you—"
"Knock, knock." Edward called. "Anybody home?"
Cammie's pleading eyes were the last thing Grant sa
w before she lunged forward and shut the bedroom door.
His heart sank, an iciness wrapping around it at her rejection. Oh, how he hurt. It was too deep, too deep.
Drawing on more self-control than he knew he possessed, he forbade himself to kick open the door and drag her out half-dressed to confront the final obstacle.
He turned, his mouth set in a grim line—the closest he could get to a smile—just as his parents entered the cottage.
"Well, if you don't look a mess," his mother chided as she scanned the untidy room. "Looks like y'all had a party and forgot to invite us along. Really, Grant. Sleeping till noon? You and Cammie must have been enjoying yourselves last night."
"Oh, yeah," he said as raw emotions twisted through his gut. "We had a ball." Rapping sharply on Cammie's door, he called, "Hey, Cammie, wake up. The folks are here. They want to hear all about the good time we had last night."
With a jovial laugh, his father added, "Next vacation, we'll join you. Guess we got here late, but better late than never, right, Dotty?"
The door behind Grant cracked open and Cammie peeked out, her face pale and anxious.
"Hi, Mom and Dad. Guess we slept late. As soon as I'm dressed, I'll meet you in the kitchen."
"Cammie," Dorothy said with maternal alarm, "you look ten times worse than Grant. You're not ill, are you?"
Before Cammie could retreat, Dorothy hurried forward to put a hand against her forehead.
"No fever," she concluded, clucking her tongue while Cammie began to look even worse.
"No, no, I'm just tired," she muttered, glancing nervously at Grant. "I'll be fine as soon as I take a shower and drink a cup of coffee."
Grant glared accusingly at her, and she quickly dropped her gaze.
"I'll fix you kids something to eat," Dorothy said, and headed for the kitchen. "I do declare, children. We leave you alone for a week and you wear yourselves out. Is that any way to spend your vacation?"
"We wouldn't have spent it any other way, would we, Cammie?" Grant said.
"No." she said in a faint voice that made him want to shake her.
"So how many fish did you catch so far, son?" Edward asked as he and Grant followed Dorothy. "Did Cammie beat you as usual?"
