Caught by Surprise

by Deborah Smith

  She leaned back, tingling all over, her mouth widening into a circle of stunned happiness. Never had she felt so wanted. Never had she felt so wonderfully female.

  Her eyes burned with tears of delight. “Make love to me right now, right this second.”

  He held out one big hand. It was shaking. “Come here.”

  Brig still wore his jeans and one boot. It didn’t matter to either of them as she grasped his hand, and he pulled her onto his lap. She wound her arms around his neck and cried out raggedly as his open jeans allowed his hard flesh to thrust against her, seeking entry.

  Brig rolled her onto her back, and she felt the hot, pulsing length of him between her thighs. “Fast,” he promised. “But gentle.”

  That was the way they joined together, her body rising to meet his as he pressed carefully into her sleek, tight welcome. He cupped her head into the crook of his neck, and she kissed his moist skin. Millie inhaled the distinctive scent of him, male flesh, sweat, and arousal.

  It sent passionate shivers through her and made her legs struggle to open wider, as if she could take still more of him inside her body. She cupped her feet to the backs of his legs and rode his swift, pounding movements. He gathered her hips in his hands and lifted her to meet his thrusts, then called her name with the broken tone of a man who clung to the last shred of restraint.

  That loving sound catapulted her into a dimension where his movements merged with the sensations swirling deep within her womb. Clutching his shoulders, Millie arched her head back and moaned repeatedly as desire exploded in second after second of pleasure.

  He raised his head, and through a haze of passion she caught the look in his half-shut eyes—wild, possessive, primitive. The wildness reached out to her like a heated caress, and she writhed under him, losing herself again.

  “Oh, love,” he groaned, the sound husky and tender. “Take me with you.”

  He brushed a kiss across her mouth, shuddered violently once, then again. His body bowed over her, and she felt the sensual twist of his lips as pleasure shot through him. For one breathless instant she and he were locked in the stillness of shattering emotion, knowing only each other and the sharing of ecstasy.

  Millie’s body hummed with a joy so exquisite that it was almost unbearable. She shut her eyes and felt the harsh trembling of Brig’s hands as he cupped her face between them. His mouth brushed over her cheeks and forehead, setting off pinpoints of sensation on the tingling skin. He took her lower lip in his teeth and nibbled carefully. Her mouth felt deliciously swollen.

  “You taste like sex and love,” he whispered. “I’ve never tasted anything so good.” His body relaxed heavily on hers. With a sigh, he lowered his head beside hers and nuzzled her neck.

  Millie gloried in the feel of his hot, satiated body pressing firmly into hers, his masculine flesh still inside her and far from soft. His jeans were nearly off his hips, and she managed to draw her legs back far enough to hook her toes into the waistband. With careful little shoves, she pushed his jeans down to his thighs.

  He raised his head and gave her a sexy, crooked grin. “Those are fantastic toes you’ve got. You see? Toes are handy in bed.”

  She nodded. Millie studied the glowing affection in his eyes and knew that she returned it. Her throat tight with emotion, she whispered, “I love you, Brigand.”

  His grin faded into a look so serious that she was afraid for a moment. Was her announcement too soon, or too unexpected?

  “You realize,” he told her in a deep, firm voice, “that this complicates things.”

  Her eyes widened in concern, and a sinking sensation nudged at her stomach. “I thought you knew. You acted as if you knew.”

  He nodded, his mouth a tight line. “Oh, I knew. But hearing you admit it makes a difference.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice airy.

  “Because now I expect you to say it all the time.” He lifted a hand and wagged his finger at her in mock warning. “In bed, out of bed, on the telephone, in public …”

  “You horrible tease!” As relief sleeted through her, she smacked his bare back with the palm of her hand. “I thought you were upset!”

  “I’ll be upset if you don’t say it again!” he yelled boisterously.

  Suddenly giddy, she bent her head back and shouted, “I love you!”

  “That’s ‘I love you, Brig’!”

  She shouted louder. “I love you, Brig!”

  His sex was still deep within her. With a gentle thrust, he demonstrated what had been happening to it while they yelled at each other. Millie’s back arched, and he chuckled happily as he slid a hand between them to caress her breasts.

  She groaned in exaggerated dismay. “You have a way with words, mate.”

  “Then listen to this.” He bent his head next to her ear and murmured in a husky tone, “I love you dearly, Melisande. I’ve been waitin’ all my life for you, you wild little woman.” His fingers feathered over one of her taut nipples, spreading the moisture that came from both his skin and hers.

  Millie’s fingers dug into his shoulders. He moved against her, igniting new desires with every rocking motion of his hips. “Say it again,” she ordered huskily.

  “I love you.” He laced the words with so much tenderness that she cried out. “Now you say it,” he told her.

  She began to smile. “I love you.”

  He smiled back. Their eyes met and held. There was no more need for words.

  So this was life with Brig McKay. Over the next few days he lounged around her cottage, writing songs, talking long-distance about business, watching television. He shocked her by washing dishes and straightening the house, and she realized that he was much neater and more organized than his image made people believe.

  And he cooked. Strange concoctions, and hardly good for her waistline, but wonderful. He made stew, or he barbecued ribs on the grill on her back porch, or he built monstrous deli sandwiches with four kinds of meat and two kinds of cheese.

  He taught her to pluck a few chords on his guitar, but eventually pronounced her “more beautiful than musical,” and took his guitar back. She promised to practice.

  And they made love. Sometimes it was so slow and spiritual that they lay in silent, peaceful wonder afterwards. Other times it was as bawdy as a wrestling match—no holds barred, no referee, furniture and clothing beware. In between, they shared the growing, precious knowledge that they enjoyed being quiet together for hours at a time.

  Millie’s father had donated great-great-great-grand-mother Melisande’s diary to the state historical society, but he kept a carefully photocopied version for the family. Brig was curious about it. He stretched out on the couch one night, wearing nothing but jeans, and she sat on the floor close enough for his hand to stroke her hair. Millie opened the diary and cleared her throat.

  “Melisande wrote about how she and Jacques fell in love. She was amazingly frank. I’m going to paraphrase this, because otherwise you’d have trouble making sense of her grammar. English was her second language, and it shows.”

  “Have trouble with it meself,” Brig commented dryly.

  “Your other talents compensate quite well.”

  He arched a brow wickedly. “Liked me beef log tonight, did you?”

  Chuckling, Millie began to read. “ ‘This great, hulking brute hair the color of onyx had, by this time, held me prisoner on his ship for ten days. He was so fierce, so determined that I should fear him, that during our first days together I was terrified. But by now, I knew better. I had seen his kindness to his crew; I knew he was honorable, even though he stole me from my wedding.’ ”

  “She didn’t want to marry the other guy, right?” Brig interjected.

  “Right. It was an arranged marriage. Jacques told her the kidnapping was for revenge—her Spanish fiancé had Jacques’ father killed.” Millie turned a page in the diary and continued reading. “ ‘A man without honor would have used me as a man uses a woman, but Jacques St. Serpris did not.
From the first night of my capture, when I tried to thank him, he warned me not to stir passions he kept under poor control. I learned later that he made me fear him in order to protect us both. He was a pirate, and I, a lady of genteel means. The two should not blend, n’est-ce pas?’ ”

  “Damn, you Surprises are all hung up on this incompatibility thing,” Brig interjected wryly. “It’s a bloody wonder the family survived.”

  “Be quiet,” Millie said, amused. “We manage. Listen to this. On my eleventh day with him, his ship was attacked by a Spanish galleon from the West Indies. Jacques shut me in his cabin and gave me a pistol to protect myself. The fighting became fierce outside my door, and I waited with a great deal more bravery than I thought possible. Jacques had taught me to recognize my strengths. When the cabin door burst open, I had my pistol aimed for a killing shot.’ ”

  “Typical Surprise woman,” Brig commented. “Shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Sssh. ‘Jacques stood there, bloody, wounded, barely able to keep to his feet. He had been defending me outside the door. He stared down at me and knew that I could easily take revenge for all the fearsome treatment I’d received from him. But I searched my soul and understood that I had become his prisoner in a new way. When I lowered the gun and went to him, crying out my concern, he was shocked. “I waited for you to kill me,” he said. And I answered, “Dear man, would I tear out my own heart?” ’ ”

  Millie lowered the diary and swallowed hard. She gazed at Brig and found his eyes full of fascination. Almost on cue, both of them exhaled. “That part always makes me want to cry,” Millie told him. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “What a woman. You get it from her. God, every bit of it.”

  “Every bit of what?”

  “Your fightin’ spirit. Your strength. Your loyalty. Straight from Melisande to Melisande.”

  Millie touched the diary’s pages reverently. “I admire her so much. She was the kind of woman who inspires men.”

  “And I’d say you’re the same.”

  Millie’s heart skipped a beat as she gazed up into Brig’s solemn eyes. “No,” she murmured. “I terrorize men.”

  “Do I look scared?”

  “Not yet.” She lowered her eyes and stared moodily at the diary.

  Brig grimaced. He knew arguing would do no good. Nor would any of his heartfelt words. She knew that he loved her, but she would always hold part of her trust back, afraid that he loved her in spite of her unconventional nature, rather than because of it. He would have to convince her of the truth slowly and subtly.

  Brig got up, stretched, then strolled to the far side of the sturdy oak coffee table by the couch. He sat down cross-legged, facing her, and put his elbow squarely in the center of the table. “Enough of this romantical history. Let’s arm wrestle.”

  She looked at him in amazement. No man other than her brothers had ever asked her to arm wrestle. She liked the idea. She slapped her elbow onto the table and smiled wickedly. “You have to take a handicap, of course. Otherwise I won’t have a fair chance. I’m the first to admit that you’ve got more muscles than I do.” Her eyes twinkled. “Over the past few days, I’ve noticed little differences like that.”

  “Let’s see. I’m nearly a foot taller than you and seventy pounds heavier. But then, you’ve got sharp fingernails, and you wear perfume, which is likely to distract me. Nope. We’re an even match.”

  “Bullfeathers. How about I use both hands?”

  “Aw, all right, you little sissy.”

  She anchored both hands to his. Their eyes met, sturdy blues teasing determined greens. “You say go,” he told her.

  “Give me a second to adjust my grip.… Go!”

  “Cheat!”

  She levered all one-hundred-and-five pounds into her sneak attack, and the veins stood out in his forearm as he struggled to keep her from thumping his hand down. She didn’t play coy, straining prettily with no intention of trying to beat him. She tried like hell.

  He slowly got his hand back to center, but by now she was half-lying, half-crouched on the floor, her bare heels sliding on its cool, flat tiles as she shoved against his superior strength. The well-honed muscles in her thighs showed below her white shorts, and her breasts strained wantonly under the white T-shirt she wore without a bra.

  Brig felt distracted, but he tried to keep up appearances. “How you doin’, little girl?” he taunted.

  “Eat my dust, you cheeky dill.”

  “Never shoulda taught you how to talk Aussie.”

  She was soon sleek and glistening with perspiration. Her breath came in tiny pants. Her fingers grasped at his hand rhythmically. Her nipples were dark, upthrust imprints on the T-shirt.

  Brig groaned. She didn’t fight fair.

  He felt the blood pounding low in his groin and wondered how he had enough concentration left to put up a show of winning. Hell, he wasn’t winning, he was just holding his own. Of course, he wasn’t trying too hard. The view was distracting, but worth preserving.

  But he had to give the battle his best effort, because if he let her win, she’d sense his fakery. Caught between Millie’s pride and a hard place, he thought wryly. A very hard place.

  “Let’s call a draw,” he ordered between gritted teeth.

  “Quitter!”

  “Don’t want to break your spirit.”

  “Don’t want to admit defeat,” she countered.

  Shock tactics. They were his best choice. “Don’t want to go off, and I will if I don’t stop starin’ at your fan-tas-tic norks.”

  Millie understood enough Australian slang to know that she’d just received a glorious, if somewhat earthy, compliment. Her mouth gaped and her grip faltered. Whump. He won easily, before she even noticed.

  Gulping for air, she withdrew her hands. A proud glow came into her eyes. “You think I’m sexy when I arm wrestle?” she asked in amazement.

  He was breathing hard himself, so he simply nodded. Even though one corner of his mouth teased her, the desire in his eyes was utterly sincere.

  Millie stood up, poised on the balls of her feet. His gaze became predatory. His eyes never left hers as he slowly rose to a crouching position, his hands flat on the coffee table. She watched the muscles tightening in his powerful torso. Her heart thudded in anticipation.

  Millie spun around and raced for the kitchen. She heard the lithe padding of his bare feet as he leaped after her. She heard a living room chair scrape back harshly as he shoved it out of his way. She opened the door to the back porch, and he was right behind her.

  She nearly knocked the outer door off its hinges in her hurry to leave the porch. Millie ignored the steps and bounded gracefully to the grassy earth. She flung her arms high with victory. Brig grabbed her around the waist, and they went down on the soft ground in a heap.

  It was all over in a matter of seconds. Their clothes lay scattered within throwing distance of their naked bodies. The white light of a huge summer moon cascaded over them, casting erotic shadows on the contrast between male and female. The night animals ceased speaking in the forest around them, enthralled, perhaps, by the low, intriguing sounds of laughter and passion.

  Humming. He was humming against her stomach. Millie woke up as the husky vibrato in Brig’s throat sizzled through her belly, warming her. She was smiling as she opened her eyes to the morning sunlight that streamed across the bed. A breeze from the open window flickered over her bare skin, and she realized without looking that the only thing covering her body was Brig. He had both arms around her hips.

  With a sigh of delight, Millie lifted a hand and wound her fingers into his hair. Their life together would be perfect if it could just stay like this. “G’moming, love,” she whispered.

  His voice rumbled against her navel. “Since it’s your day off, I figured I’d sing you awake slow.”

  “How about a duet?”

  He chuckled. “Aw, me little Melisande, you’re as pretty as a canary, but you sing like a buzzard.”<
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  When she laughed, he pressed his mouth to a tender spot several inches below her navel. Millie stopped laughing and made a soft whimpering sound. “I had a different kind of duet in mind,” she murmured.

  “Now that sounds promisin’.”

  He moved upwards slowly, kissing as he went. As he settled his body between her legs, she smiled at his half-shut eyes and sleep-rumpled face. “There is nothing sexier than the way you look in the morning, sir.”

  Brig winked. “You should see yourself.” His eyes roamed over her greedily. “About this duet …”

  “I can’t sing, but I have other talents.”

  He stroked one of her breasts. “Show me what that mouth of yours is good for then.” Millie cupped his face between her hands and drew him to her for a long, intimate kiss. “Oh, I like this kind of talent.”

  Millie arched against him, seeking the hardness that kept nudging her. “Let’s start the concert.”

  Some time later, when the concert had ended, she ventured the opinion that their duet rated a standing ovation. He dutifully got out of bed and applauded. Then he bowed to her return applause and lay down again.

  Millie pulled a sheet over him as he burrowed into a pillow and yawned lazily. “After a performance like yours, you deserve a nap,” she said. “I’ll fix breakfast.”

  “Grand idea, love.”

  “I thought you’d think so.”

  Millie put on a faded print sundress that flopped loosely around her body. Barefoot, she went into the kitchen and started a pot of water, then walked outside to pick flowers from a bed at the edge of the yard.

  A battered blue van pulled into the driveway and stopped. Millie left her flowers in a pile and straightened warily, eyeing the unfamiliar vehicle. Two scruffy-looking men got out and ambled toward her.

  Millie bent quickly and scooped up several hard clods of dirt. “Get off my property,” she hissed.

  One of the men laughed. “We want breakfast,” he told her in a commanding tone.

  “Bacon and eggs, toast, grits,” his companion instructed.