Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  “I don’t care.” She moved from the door, blundering forward and into the foot of his bed. He could see nothing between lightning flashes; that meant she couldn’t see him either.

  Might he, then, pretend? Could he stretch his fantasy to include the idea that Roesch had performed some miraculous surgery upon him, and she might want him as a woman wanted a man?

  She tumbled forward across the bed and fell on him. Lightning flashed again, and he saw her startled face mere inches from his. She shivered, the tremor traveling all through her body.

  “It’s all right,” he breathed meaningless words, patently untrue. It most certainly wasn’t all right. Need surged through him like racing fire.

  “Just hold me, please, Jamie, till the storm passes.”

  He could do that. He could summon self-discipline from somewhere to cradle her in his arms, and nothing else. Sure, he could.

  “The bed is very small.” And he lay barely clad against the warmth, wearing nothing but a pair of trews. He’d left his window open, hoping for a breeze, and could smell both the river and the rain.

  Now, though, Catherine’s delectable scent flooded upon him, making him hard as iron.

  “I don’t mind.” She shifted around, collecting her limbs that had landed atop him, barely missing his balls with her knee. She arranged herself alongside him on less than six inches of mattress and tucked her head into his shoulder.

  “You said I should call if I needed you.” Her voice, more whisper than substance, tickled his ear. He went hot and cold in quick succession.

  “Yes.” What did a man do about a raging erection when the woman he desired more than life clung to him in the dark? He could think of only one thing. But he dared not touch her; he lay with his hands out from her body, motionless.

  “This is better, Jamie. I feel safe here with you.”

  There, she’d said it again. Jamie. Something inside him abruptly melted. He drew a great breath.

  Thunder cracked low over the roof, and she splayed her hand against his naked chest. Intense pleasure met and tangled with the urgency he felt lower down.

  “Catherine,” he began.

  “Cat. Why don’t you call me Cat?”

  “Catherine is such a beautiful name.” Perhaps he could distract himself with inane conversation.

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Beautiful like you.”

  No, that wasn’t good. For one thing, it made her cuddle closer and ask, “You think me beautiful?”

  “You know you are.” That made more than half the problem, didn’t it? And him so ugly people threw stones, and with barely a penny to his name, to boot.

  “So long as you think so.”

  Were those her lips he felt on his neck? No, no, no. Did she forget, lying here in the dark, what he was?

  Only let the lightning flash again and she’d find herself in the arms of the monster. Until then, though, he could close his eyes and pretend.

  “I do believe,” she whispered, “you are one of the kindest men I’ve ever met, and the strongest.” The hand splayed on his chest began to move, scribed a soft circle on his skin. “I don’t mean just these great muscles but the strength that’s inside you.”

  He’d better dredge up strength from somewhere in order to endure this exquisite agony.

  Another crash; she flinched, and his arms moved without his volition to cradle her tenderly.

  “No need to be afraid,” he crooned.

  “I’m not, now.” Her lips moved the inch or two needed to meet his. Light seared in the darkness and exploded behind James’ eyes, spreading straight to his toes with a couple of interesting detours in between.

  “Catherine. God, Catherine,” he breathed into her.

  As she had in the kitchen, she opened her mouth beneath his. At the same time her hand moved downward across the taut muscles of his stomach and, determinedly, south.

  He broke the kiss and managed to gasp, “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t like you to regret—anything.”

  “I just want to touch you. Please, Jamie. I’ve been lying next door imagining touching you.”

  Oh, God, she begged him. What man could resist?

  He said nothing and lay tense as iron as her fingers continued their agonizing movement. They encountered the waistband of his trews and hesitated.

  “How do these come undone?”

  “I don’t think—” A crash of thunder drowned out the rest of his reply. His heart now pounded so loud in his ears he could hear nothing else anyway. This couldn’t be happening. He must be asleep and dreaming.

  “Damn.” She struggled with his laces, got them open at last, and thrust her hand inside.

  James nearly came off the bed. Undeterred, she wrapped her fingers around him and caught her breath.

  “Oh. Oh! Nice.”

  She thought so, did she? Nothing to what he thought! He nearly disgraced himself on the spot, nearly erupted over her gentle fingers. Desperate, he fought for control.

  “It’s so warm. Strength covered over with softness—just like you.”

  “God, Catherine, have some pity.”

  “I had no idea it would feel like this. A big, great thing, isn’t it? Is that supposed to fit inside me?”

  Sweet Jesus, yes. He’d been created to fit inside her, nothing more.

  He laughed unsteadily, and she laughed too; with the laughter still spilling she claimed his mouth again. He’d never imagined laughing with a woman in bed.

  She thrust her tongue inside his mouth; he accepted it gladly. She released his member and seized his hand.

  “Touch me too, Jamie, please.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. No, here.” Unerringly she drew his hand—his maimed hand, no less—to her breast. She wore only a lad’s undershirt and trews similar to his own. But what lay beneath never belonged to any lad.

  He explored tentatively, feeling through the cloth the swell of a small breast tipped with a tight bud. Not satisfied, she made a sound of protest in her throat and guided his fingers up under the fabric.

  He froze in delight, the soft weight of her filling his palm.

  “Touch me,” she begged again.

  Ah, well—she couldn’t see the scars on his fingers in the dark. He brushed his thumb across her nipple, and she moaned. What a miracle she was, her flesh soft and taut all at once, an invitation to his lips. But how could he think such a thing?

  Almost as if she read his mind, she said, “I can think of a better use for your mouth.”

  “Can you?”

  “Please.”

  Was that the only word she knew? Her undershirt now bunched around her neck, she slid up his body and offered herself to his lips there in the dark.

  Gently, not sure of her reaction or his, he latched on to her, trying not to think about the ruined side of his mouth. She must not be thinking about it either, for her hand came up and caressed his scarred cheek, urging him closer, and then she arched into him so her whole breast filled his mouth.

  Ah, but he was dying. And it was worth it.

  “Oh Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.” She kissed the top of his head, his hair, and the side where there was no hair, as well. He could smell the sweet scent of her and feel her heart pounding beneath her breast.

  “Here. Please.” There was that word again, the one he felt sure could make him do damn near anything. She guided his hand again, downward this time, inside her trews.

  He released her breast even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Better not.”

  Again she asked, “Why?”

  “Not right. You’re better than this.” A damning thing to say. He wanted to cut his own tongue out.

  “I can’t imagine better than this.”

  Neither could he; heaven couldn’t be better. Her slender body trembled beneath his hand with what felt, to him, like eagerness.

  She wanted him. Could a man—even he—mistake such a truth?
<
br />   “Catherine—”

  “Here, lower.” Somehow while mostly maintaining body contact she shimmied out of her trews. He already jutted from his, like an airship.

  Dangerous, his mind screamed at him, even as she once more guided his hand down.

  “I love the way you touch me.”

  “Do you?” His head spun.

  “So warm and kind.” She released his wrist when the tips of his fingers touched the hot, damp nest of curls between her legs. He brushed her gently, and she pressed herself against him, breast to his mouth.

  So that was the way of it? He was going to disgrace himself, and no mistake.

  Thunder crashed anew, but neither of them heard it. Catherine moaned her approval as he explored her heat, a man testing the waters, one finger and then two. She parted her legs and arched against his hand.

  “I want you, Jamie. There.”

  He wanted it too, more than breathing. He could almost feel himself sliding into the slick heat of her, the sweet channel even now tightening around his fingers.

  But he said, “No. You’re still a virgin. It shouldn’t be me takes that from you.”

  “Who else?”

  Who, indeed? Any of a thousand other men in the world—men of means with fine suits and fancy steamcars, the wealth to treat her as she deserved.

  “You don’t just give something like that away to any man you meet.” To any monster. “You’re frightened and lonely and not thinking straight.”

  “You’re right, I’m thinking only of you—you, you, you, Jamie Kilter, and how I want it to be you.”

  “So you say. Heat of the moment.” It felt blindingly hot, cooking him from the inside out. He opened his eyes, which he’d shut against a combination of ecstasy and pain. Lightning flashed, and he caught a glimpse of her lying there in his bed, hair ruffled, breasts bared, trews down around her knees, and his fingers—his scarred fingers—still inside her. His cock screamed for release.

  Could she see him too? Ugly mask of a face, half-bald head, sweat glistening on his chest? The lightning flashed again, and he saw that she gazed into his eyes.

  “Damn your honor anyway, Jamie Kilter.” She took him in both hands and he very nearly came. “You know that thing the revolting Boyd wanted me to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t imagine doing that with any man, but I can now. Will you let me?”

  “God, Catherine! Do you know what you’re saying?” Shut up, his cock screamed at his brain. Just shut up for once in your damn life.

  She began to move over him, and his fingers slid out of her. Warm and beguiling, her scent rose to enfold the both of them. She kissed his chest and then licked it. He twitched like a man on the rack, and she moved lower, paused to lave his belly button, and followed the trail of hair on down. When she touched him with her tongue, his member spasmed.

  “Umm,” she said appreciatively. “Nice.”

  Tentatively, she fitted her soft lips around him, very gently took him into the hot cavern of her mouth. The last of his sense and coherence flew from his head.

  Experimenting and totally without guile, she worked her way up and down the length of him with her tongue. Lightning showed him the incredible sight of her ruffled head bent over him, and his balls contracted.

  Did she know what was going to happen next?

  “Catherine, no.” Frantic, he pulled her from him. “You don’t want—”

  “I do. I want you.” She took him into her mouth again just as his last shred of control broke. He fountained into her on a fabulous rush, equal parts pleasure and shame. He felt his hot seed flow over her tongue and flood her mouth, and expected her to pull away in disgust.

  Instead she went very still, barely breathing. He feared the worst until he felt her scouring him with sweet, little licks of her tongue.

  “Astounding,” she told him. “That was astounding. Kiss me.”

  She clambered up his body the way a kitten might climb a tree and fused her mouth to his. He could taste himself on her tongue, tangy and wild.

  “Oh, Jamie, I’ve never felt anything like that. Oh, thank you.”

  She thanked him?

  “I’m on fire for you,” she said. “On fire.”

  She drew his head back down to her breast. This time she didn’t have to persuade him to put his fingers inside her.

  He’d never made a prostitute come. Those couplings were swift, businesslike deals with no resemblance to this. Men talked, though, and he’d heard that a woman could come just like a man. But he’d not been with a woman caught in the throes of passion.

  Now, with his mouth at her breast and his fingers inside her, he felt it happen: Catherine shook and writhed beneath his touch and tightened around his fingers in a glorious rush of heat.

  “There now, there now,” he murmured when she stopped quivering. He gathered her against him. With the passion spent, he had to be prepared for her to realize what she’d just done, and with whom.

  Instead she settled against him with a sigh. “That was—well, there are no words, are there?”

  “No words.”

  She snuggled closer, and her hair brushed his cheek. “I think I’ll just stay here the night. You don’t mind, do you?”

  James didn’t mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Sweet Mary and all the saints! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Cat pried her eyes open and shifted herself against the glorious length of Jamie’s body, much of which lay beneath her. Last night’s storm had moved on, and sunlight streamed through the open window, bathing the small chamber in brightness.

  Tate Murphy stood in the open doorway of the room looking like wrath incarnate.

  Reluctantly, she lifted her cheek from Jamie’s chest, which felt warm and slightly sweaty and smelled like heaven. Somehow last night the scent of him had got inside her—maybe when he released himself into her mouth. She didn’t think she could live without it now.

  “Tate,” Jamie said groggily. He stirred and all sorts of interesting muscles flexed. “She was frightened of the storm last night, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Tate’s eyes bulged. “I suppose that’s why she’s lying there bare-assed and you with your trews wide open.” Hastily he shut the door behind him. “Sweet mercy, was the girl a virgin? Roselyn will have my hide for this.”

  Cat blushed and slewed around till she could pull her trews up over her buttocks. Unfortunately that displayed her mostly-naked breasts, till now pressed into Jamie’s side. Fresh from the ministrations of his mouth they felt swollen and tender, but she pulled the undershirt down over them anyway.

  Jamie sat up. The morning light showed his scars mercilessly and also revealed that they spilled over onto his right shoulder and down that side of his chest. She’d been unable to see any of that last night, and she didn’t care now. All she could think about was taking him in her mouth again.

  Big strong man.

  And that made her blush harder.

  She glared at Tate indignantly. “How dare you come in here without knocking?”

  “I did knock and call. I went to your door first, Miss Delaney, and became alarmed when you failed to answer. I became further alarmed when I saw your room was empty, and I came here to ask if he knew where you were.” Tate concluded scathingly, “Clearly, he did.”

  “Well you’ve found me now, so please leave while I make myself decent.” Cat climbed from the bed and lifted her chin. “We are both adults, and this is none of your concern.”

  Tate scowled. “I came to tell you my man’s returned from Toronto with news. As I feared, it isn’t good.”

  Cat’s heart sank. “We’ll be right down.”

  Tate went out, and she turned back to look at Jamie. He sat upright in the bed, head hanging and hair covering one side of his face.

  Softly she asked him, “Are you all right?” He didn’t look happy. Had she done something wrong last night, made some gaffe? Had it
been scandalous for her to do, with him, what Boyd had wanted? Did he now think less of her for it?

  Swiftly he tied up his trews, slid off the far side of the bed, and turned away from her. She saw that the scars continued down the right side of his back, as well, all the way to the shoulder blade.

  But oh, what a body the man had! Wide without bulk at the shoulders, and with those sleek, slender hips. The muscles of his arms rippled when he moved.

  “Jamie, are you angry with me?”

  He gave her a single look out of eyes blue as a summer sky. “No. How could I be? Are you upset about…upset with me?”

  She returned swiftly, “How could I be?” She ached to go to him, wrap herself around him like a vine, and kiss him till she couldn’t breathe. But something in his stance warned her off, and real life—not what they’d shared here in this room last night—beckoned.

  Tate had word of Becky, and not good.

  “Come with me,” she beseeched.

  He shrugged into his shirt, back turned to her, and then into trousers. Despite her worry, she couldn’t help but watch appreciatively.

  “Yes, if you like.”

  “I do. But I must go wash and dress properly first. I probably look a fright.” She fished shamelessly for a compliment. She longed for him to tell her he thought her beautiful. He didn’t speak, though, just shot her another look over his shoulder. But the expression in his eyes stole her breath.

  Surely he still admired her. Or did he despise her now for last night’s behavior? Maybe he thought her a tramp for putting her mouth on him, and enjoying it.

  She couldn’t bear it if she lost his respect, couldn’t bear it if she lost him.

  She slipped out of the room and into her own, praying no one saw her, and stood for a moment struggling to get hold of her emotions. Everything, everything had changed.

  ****

  Bucky LaPlatte was the man who’d been sent to Toronto; he knew Canada well. He sat in Tate’s office wearing a guarded look on his dark Gallic face when James filed in behind Catherine. Tate, who’d already heard Bucky’s news, looked grim.

  “Sit down, please, Miss Delaney. Bucky, here, knows who you are.”

  James drew out the chair for Catherine and remained standing behind her, arms crossed on his chest. He felt all too aware of her now, as if some connection had forged between them in last night’s darkness. Every time she moved he noticed. When he heard the sound of her voice, his groin tightened.