"She must be ready to burst," commented Emma with a laugh.
"Benno would have let her out," he said in a strange, distracted voice. "She's off duty. Questing like a normal dog."
Emma glanced up, surprised to find a tiny frown between his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I just feel… different." He shook his head sharply.
"Too much beer. And spicy food. You should have a cast-iron stomach like me."
"Probably." He called Dixie, and they entered the house as the grandfather clock struck two. "Wow! I didn't realize how late it was." He turned to her awkwardly, his fair hair touched with the silvery moonlight filtering through the fan window. "Bedtime."
Emma's heart jumped, but there was nothing provocative in his statement. "Guess so."
They climbed the stairs slowly, Max one step behind her. Intensely aware of him, her body flushed with heat as she neared the top, and her heart began to race. Would he follow her to her room? Would he ask her to come to his? Was he going to kiss her?
"Emma."
His soft call halted her on the top step. She turned to find his face level with hers. His cologne wreathed her senses. Her stomach fluttered. "Yes," she whispered hoarsely.
"There's only one way to end an evening like this," he murmured.
She swayed forward until she could feel his breath caress her mouth. "Yes?"
"Only one way to make it perfect," he whispered.
"Yes?" Her lips were only a hairbreadth from his and her breasts brushed his chest. "Do it. Max," she urged gently.
She jumped back as he let out an ear-splitting Indian war whoop. Then he threw his leg over the banister and shot down the rail, landing with a thump on the polished mahogany floor at the bottom.
Before she could rush down the stairs or even cry out her concern to the vague, sprawled form, a chuckle floated up from the darkness. "Good night, Emma," he called up happily.
"Good night, Max," she called through gritted teeth. "I hope you broke your backside!"
His laughter followed her into her lonely bedroom.
Nine
Max's eyes opened suddenly. At least, he thought they did. He blinked. He was still in bed, right, he asked himself.
A sharp stinging pain in his left cheek brought him fully awake, and he touched the place experimentally. Wincing, he remembered the entire evening in a rush, and his reason for getting the bruise. The troublemaker who'd been at the next table and who'd lewdly assessed Emma should have been strung up by his thumbs, he decided ruthlessly. If he'd been sighted…
He sighed and rubbed his scar. What was wrong with him? How could he possibly have even considered bashing that guy's head in? How could he have lost control like that?
Tentatively he moved his legs and hissed sharply as he felt another bruise on his seat. His neck felt stiff, but his head was still in one piece. It was better than he deserved, he thought as he groaned. He'd happily lost every inhibition he'd ever had, and he almost hated himself for it. Almost.
Oddly he felt lighter, as If some weight had been lifted from his shoulders—and it scared the hell out of him. There was a part of him that was dancing to someone else's tune, to Emma's music, and he didn't like it at all. He marched to his own drummer.
His head throbbed, and he grabbed it with both hands.
"Serves you right," Emma said with a chuckle, and he immediately smelled coffee and bacon. His stomach churned violently.
"Been on the counters again, have we?" His falsely bright tone sounded strained, even to him.
"This was an emergency. I couldn't wait for you."
"You're a bad influence, you know that? You take me to some crazy places." The food odors moved closer, and as she sat on his bed he smelled eggs. He moaned.
"Don't panic," she told him softly and took his hand, pressing a small bottle against his palm. "Take a slug of this."
Max fitted the bottle to his lips, tensing expectantly for the nasty penance of some hangover home remedy. But when the potion hit his taste buds, he was surprised. "Tastes kind of minty," he said as he handed the bottle back. It didn't help, but it wasn't awful. "What's in it?"
"Shhh… three, two. one, now!"
His stomach convulsed once, and he gasped in agony. Then, amazingly, it settled completely. "What is that stuff?" he asked in awe. "I think it cleared my sinuses. Is it your mother's?"
"Yes."
"She'd make a great snake oil salesman. If you can survive that first jolt, it's great!"
"Mother would put a hex on me if she found out what I use it for."
"What's it supposed to cure?"
Emma stifled a giggle. "Menstrual cramps."
"What?" His face twisted in disgust.
"Max, you won't grow breasts or anything. It's a calmative, or at least it's supposed to be. Cissy was desperately hung over one morning, and I… experimented."
"Who is Cissy anyway?"
"Cissy is a friend. She's totally outrageous and about a hundred years old. She covers for all of us when we get in trouble. She's a writer, one of the so-called 'lost generation,' and I used to type manuscripts for her to earn money for college. Arthritis, you know. She'll be here in a couple of weeks for a charity ball."
"Her name isn't Chambers by any chance?"
"That's her."
"Good Lord, you know one of the ten best authors in this country, and you call her a writer? Have you no soul?"
"I do. Cissy doesn't."
He grimaced and rubbed his throat. "About this stuff—"
"Don't worry. Mother never puts anything even potentially harmful in her things." She touched his face, and he flinched. "Do you want some ice?"
"No." He pulled the blanket past his waist, suddenly realizing he had nothing on—and she was on his bed. Something twisted like fire inside him. He shifted, the twinge from his backside a welcome diversion from the sensations she stirred with her mere presence. Mixed with the food smells was her unique fragrance, and he halted the deep breath he was about to take to steady his reaction. It would have done anything but steady him.
He felt the pressure of a tray across his lap. The edge of something soft and silky brushed his arm. Hunger flared anew, hunger for something other than food. It quivered in the pit of his stomach, waiting.
"Plate at six o'clock," she said softly. "Orange juice at eleven, coffee at one. Toast to the left of the plate, bacon at twelve."
Max paused, stunned. "How did you know that?"
"Why do you think I was climbing your bookshelf?"
"Oh." He cleared his throat. He'd forgotten all about the manuals Shannon had purchased but never read. "Thanks."
As he ate, she watched him silently. She had tossed and turned all night, burning with images of Max making love to her. At some point she had realized what an idiot she was for getting her hopes up, but she had fooled herself into believing it could happen, that Max would jump into her bed. How could she have been so naive? He would never relinquish the reins of power so easily. Not Max. He would fight her every step of the way. and she couldn't quite understand why. He wanted to control his life, but why did that mean that she couldn't be a part of it?
Then her eyes narrowed, and she saw him as if for the first time. What exactly had happened last night, she wondered. There was something different about him this morning. The barriers were still there, but it almost seemed as if he were holding them in place instead of their being an automatic defense. Never before had she wished harder for her sister Diana's insight. She wanted to know what he was thinking, what he felt.
When she was young, she and Diana used to wander the island, searching for the small animals that inhabited it. Diana had an affinity with them and could coax them into her hand. Patience and love were a potent combination, and the tiny creatures forgot their natural instincts with Diana. Max's face held the same tentative wariness as the little animals, as if a part of him were poised for flight. But only a part of him.
She felt her nipples harden against th
e silk of her new nightgown as she realized what that might mean, and she breathed a silent thanks that she hadn't changed her clothes before she'd made breakfast. Patience and love.
"Emma." His soft call startled her. "I—I don't really want any more of this."
She glanced at the half-eaten breakfast. "I could heat it up."
"No." He picked up the tray and held it out to her. "Put it down, please."
Taking the tray with shaky hands, she put it on the floor and turned back to him. "Would you like anything else?" she asked, her voice a mere thread of sound.
"Yes."
Leaning up, he reached for her hand. She sat beside him, facing him, and gave it to him willingly, her breath catching as the sheet slipped to his waist. Instead of pulling her against his chest as she wanted him to, he merely fidgeted with her fingers, using both hands to stroke and fondle her as if she were a worry stone, angling his head down as if to watch the restless movement. The contact still had the power to rob her limbs of strength.
"Emma, why are you doing all of this? The game, everything."
Her heart thudded painfully, then settled back to its normal rhythm. "I wanted to understand why you were hiding."
He frowned, puzzling over her words. "I don't hide, Emma. I just don't like crowds. I don't like knowing that any moment I could trip, or run into someone, or… or lose myself."
"You don't like to make a fool of yourself, is that it?" Emma watched as something flicked across his face. It was gone in an instantly, it was more to it than that, she thought, sighing with a silent nod. "Most people make fools of themselves at one time or another." She said tiredly. "Welcome to the real world from the queen of fool makin'."
She said blood rushing to her face. "And I've done it again."
"What?" he prompted her and patted her gently on the cheek.
She kissed his palm. "I want you, Max. I want you so badly, I can't see straight."
"Emma—"
"And I wanted you last night, too, and I'm not ashamed of it." Her breath left her in a rush at the wonder on his face. "But the silliest thing," she went on, "is that I'm afraid you'll hurt me."
"I'll never hurt you, Emma. I swear it."
"Then you'd better kiss me soon, or I promise that I'll hide your cane and tie Dixie to a tree!"
His hand curved around the nape of her neck, and he pulled her to him, feathering exploratory kisses on her face until he found her mouth. He kissed her deeply, with a burning hunger that sent Emma's mind spinning into oblivion. His tongue plundered her mouth, searching, running over her lips until her entire body flared and her toes curled.
She leaned against him, weak with her need for him. Her hands pressed against his chest, her fingers moving restlessly over the coarse hair. She found a hard nipple and rubbed it lightly as she caught his groan in her mouth.
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from him, his face swept with confusion. And passion. And something else—a heartrending, reluctant surrender. She swallowed any protest that she was about to make.
"I can't fight you anymore. You know that."
"Good," she whispered.
"I can't protect you."
"Yes, you can." She blushed. "Check the drawer in your right-hand nightstand. I put them there last night before we left."
His face darkened. "Did you think I couldn't handle it myself?"
She chuckled. "You were running from me like a jackrabbit with its tail on fire, Max. I didn't think you'd think of it."
"Oh." He smiled ruefully, but he still held back.
She was going to have to convince him, but it didn't seem as difficult as she'd once thought. "I'm not asking for the moon, Max."
"Just me."
"Just you." Her hand moved to his face. "Just now." She ran her fingers over his strong chin, his finely sculpted brows, traced the scar on his forehead. He shuddered and his hands loosened on her shoulders. "As much as you can give." She leaned over and pressed a kiss in the center of his chest. "No strings, no regrets." She worked her way up to his chin, touching her tongue lightly to it. "Just let me love you. Max." Her murmuring lips pressed against his. "Let me love you."
He sighed and returned her kiss gently at first, but as her mouth brushed and teased his, the kisses grew feverish in intensity. His hands slid to cradle the satin at her waist, moved back to her shoulders, and slipped the twin straps of her nightgown down. "Oh, Emma," he whispered against her mouth, "are you sure?"
Her body responded to him, swelling with startling immediacy. "I've never been this sure about anything in my life," she murmured, and kissed him again tenderly.
He bent to kiss the smooth skin of her shoulder, his breath warming her. Moist lips burned her flesh, imprinting her with his memory forever. It tore at her soul that she would leave one day, but they had the present, and that was enough. For now.
His mouth worked up toward her neck, and she tilted her head, allowing him access to her vulnerable, erotic places. He nipped the tender chord there, and she moaned softly as a tingling warmth coursed through her, flooding her with tiny golden pinpricks of sensation. He cupped her head in one hand, and without releasing his teeth's hold on her neck guided the straps completely down her arms.
A small chill struck her bared breasts, which were swollen with her arousal. His hand caressed and teased one hardened nipple. He sucked at her neck again, and sensation crashed through her body. Paralyzed with a fierce, aching desire, she was helpless as he continued his sensual assault. Every nerve ending in her body was aware of his touch.
Max groaned and let his hands roam. His hot arousal throbbed against the cool sheets, but he wanted to memorize her, taste every part of her sweet body. Her scent melted his mind, wrapping him with steamy images of pleasure. Doubts, guilt, everything but worshipping this slender body was pushed far away. He had burned for so long, but he wanted to remember the experience for the rest of his life. He wanted her to remember.
Forcing a calm he was far from feeling, he pulled back. His trembling hands pushed her nightgown to her waist, then slid higher, caressing the soft curve of her rib cage, moving over the gentle swell of breasts. Erect buds dared his exploration again, and he brushed against the sensitive nipples. Her mewing cry sent a flare into his brain, a rocket into his hammering heart. He drew her to him, bending his head to taste first one nipple, then the other. Spicy, cool, she was like a spring day, an oasis in hot sensuality.
Coherent thought flew as his tongue devastated her body. Emma tore away from him with an impatient growl and scrambled out of her nightgown, slipping between the now-warm sheets beside him, pressing the length of her body to his in a contact that only shadowed the joining she needed so much.
"I want to take this slow," he said with a groan as she pushed him back against the pillows, burying her face in his throat.
"Next time," she promised huskily, her tongue savoring the hollow. "I need you now."
"I know." He burled his fingers in her hair, tugging gently and pulling her up. She lost herself in the tawny depths of his eyes, and he brought her to him once again. "Soon."
Her mouth closed over his with subdued fury. He returned the hot demand of her lips with a fire that nearly reduced her to ashes. Rolling her swiftly, he brought her underneath him, ravaging her mouth with his tongue, liquefying the ashes. His hand moved to her breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Hard against her thigh, his body sent a cry of desire into her. Her love answered his growing need.
Writhing mindlessly against him, she touched him everywhere, his strong shoulders, corded neck, firm buttocks. She raked her nails across his back in a last, almost desperate urge to become one with him.
He took a hard nipple into his mouth and let his hand move lower, over the flat belly to the curly mound of hot silk at the apex of her thighs. She called out her need to him, shooting liquid heat into his loins. Still he held back, determined to give her pleasure. But when her hand closed over the pulsing shaft of his manhood, he gr
oaned, his fragile control nearly broken. He guided her breast into his mouth again, and quickly reached into the nightstand drawer.
Emma almost cried in relief as he levered himself over her. He was driving her frantic with need. Hollow, empty, she parted her legs eagerly for him, and he entered her with a single bold thrust. Her body took his full length joyfully, uniting them in physical oneness, and she called out with the sheer pleasure of feeling him deep inside of her.
"You're so tight," he said, moaning. "So hot and so tight."
It wasn't enough. The emptiness opened again, tying her into knots of agony. "Please," she whispered. "Max, please."
He moved inside her, pulling out until she almost wept with loneliness, and she wrapped him with her legs. But he filled her again. And again. Her body moved with him, rocked with him in a single, sensual rhythm. Thrust for thrust, faster and faster they danced, until she climbed to a place past words, past thoughts, past knowing anything but him, his body, his soul. They were no longer simply woman and man, but became a tight knot of sensation that coiled, tighter and tighter, until it shattered into a blinding shower as she sobbed out his name.
Sweat beaded his brow, but he didn't pause in his feverish movement, and the knot pulled again, her need built again. She cried out as the second climax rocked her body, but this time he shuddered into her, his own triumphant cry joyfully mingled with hers.
They held each other, spent, panting, as the spasms of pleasure eased, as their single heartbeat slowed. Then he kissed her tenderly, so tenderly she ached from it, and she couldn't help the single tear that trickled down her face into the fringes of her hair. He brushed it away from her temples, and he paused as he touched the dampness.
"Emma?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with agony. "Honey, did I hurt you? I'm so sorry. I didn't know it had been so long for you." He hadn't been careful enough. Lord! She was so fragile! He'd never forgive himself if he'd caused her pain. He wouldn't allow her to regret this incredible union.
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