COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  But now, staring at the moonlit sea through the small porthole, she made herself face the truth. She would not have stopped him, not when his fingers merely brushing her cheek set her on fire, not when his mouth on hers made her feel that way, not when the feel of his aroused body pressing against her made her ache so fiercely in some hot, swirling place she'd never known existed deep inside her.

  He had wanted her. She might be naive, but she could hardly not have noticed. Or was she too naive? Had he not wanted her, but just … wanted? Her cheeks flamed once more.

  When the sound came, she knew as soon as she heard it that it was what had awakened her. A small, nondescript sound, low and barely audible. She froze, listening, but heard nothing other than the pounding of her heart.

  After a moment she swung her bare legs over the edge of the bunk and hopped down to the teak planking. She tugged at the sweatshirt she'd washed that afternoon and put on to sleep in, pulling it down where it had been pushed up to her waist in her restless sleep. Quietly she padded toward the sound. She paused as she passed the galley, listening once more. Still nothing. She hesitated. If it had been only Con, she would wind up embarrassing them both. But if not… She made herself move.

  She checked the main hatchway and found it locked and secure, as they had left it. She hesitated again. She was barely three feet from Con's cabin; she could just peek around the corner and make sure he was all right, that he hadn't become ill again.

  He was asleep. A sleep as restless as hers had been, judging from the tangle of covers. Her throat tightened as her eyes followed the edge of the blankets as they slanted down across his chest, belly and legs, baring his right side to her and leaving her no doubts that he was naked. The only break in that sleek expanse of skin was the puckered ridge of the scar marking the wound that had started him on a long, hard road.

  With a sudden rush of tenderness and longing that startled her, she wished she could have known him then, before that bullet had destroyed what innocence he might have had. She wished she could have known the boy he'd been; maybe it would help her to understand the man he'd become.

  He stirred, and she hastily backed up a step, flushing with embarrassment at just the thought of being caught watching him. She turned to go.

  "No."

  She nearly ran; there was no mistaking that the sound had come from him. Only the recognition that it was the same sound that had awakened her stopped her.

  "No."

  His head tossed on the pillow as the single word came again. A low, mumbled protest, a harsh, whispered syllable made ominous by its very quietness.

  She couldn't just walk away and leave him in the grips of what was clearly a nightmare, no matter what her common sense might tell her. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she stepped through the small doorway and across to the bunk. She wetted her lips to say his name, but her throat was oddly dry. She reached out to gently shake him. She had forgotten what had happened the last time.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

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  Before she had time to think, she was wedged between him and the hull of the boat, her wrist once more in that iron grip that she had felt for hours after the first time he'd tossed her. This time his reaction was immediate; he released her and backed away. But there was no apology this time, just the steady, burning gaze of blue eyes that were unreadable in the dim light.

  She'd been startled this time, but not frightened; in fact, she felt a little foolish for having fallen victim to his lightning reflexes twice. She tried to speak, to make light of it, but her mouth had become as dry as her throat under that unrelenting stare. Unconsciously, her tongue crept out to wet her lips.

  "Oh, God."

  Con gave a low, husky groan and reached out to pull her to him. All his hours of self-lecturing went up in smoke at the first taste of her lips; all his resolve disintegrated in the first second he felt her begin to yield to him. After the first startled moment she went soft and warm, and he pulled her closer.

  He should be angry, he thought. Angry at her for coming to him like this, angry at himself for not being able to resist the temptation. And angry at the fates that had thrown him together with the one woman in the world he'd ever met who could do this to him without even trying. Could do this to him by just … being.

  But anger was the last thing he was feeling. His senses were too full of the soft sweetness of her, his every nerve sizzlingly aware of the feel of her body pressed to his. It was just a kiss, he told himself. Just a kiss? How could just a simple kiss be so sweet, so painfully sweet?

  And then it wasn't a simple kiss anymore. He took her mouth hungrily, urgently, all the smothered need boiling to the surface. He plunged his tongue into her honeyed warmth, unaware of the low sound he made when her tongue danced up to tangle with his, eagerly this time. Her hands were at his nape, her slender fingers tangling in the thick, dark hair, pulling him closer.

  Shiloh had never known she could feel a kiss in so many places. This one sent fire racing to the outer limits of her body, then returned it to settle in that deep, secret, newly discovered place in the pit of her abdomen. How could something be so sweet, so satisfying, yet still make her want, make her need … what? She didn't know; she only knew that if she didn't get it, these flames would consume her.

  Her hands slid from his neck to his shoulders, and the feel of that sleek skin beneath her fingers, stretched taut over hard muscle, sent another ripple of heat through her to add to the blaze. She couldn't stop the little moan of pleasure that escaped her.

  Con heard it through the haze that was sapping his sanity and felt the fiery touch of her fingers on the skin of his back. He groaned, low and deep, and thrust his tongue deeper. God, she felt so good, tasted so good; she was all soft, smooth fire, and he had to have more even if it burned him. His hands slid down her back to the edge of the sweatshirt, then up under it. The hot, living silk of her skin did incredible things to his fingers, sensitizing them to the point of near pain, and he had to wait a moment before he could move.

  Shiloh's gasp at the feel of his hands on her skin was lost in their kiss. She wanted them everywhere, those strong, supple hands, wanted them everywhere with an urgent need she'd never experienced and didn't try to understand. She'd given up trying to understand any of this; she could only feel, and she didn't care.

  A little moan of protest rose from her when his lips left hers, but it changed to a gasp of pleasure when he pressed his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, then down the long lines of her neck. Her head lolled back, offering that slender column to him, while the rest of her body tried to seek the hot caress of his hands. The effort made her twist in his arms with an innocent sensuality that brought another groan from deep within him.

  Con's hands slid up her slender back beneath the bulky shirt, then, irresistibly, around to where the full swell of her breasts began. Just that slight curve, that beginning of womanly flesh, ripped at him, made his body surge to raging fullness. Every muscle clenched, as if all of them were connected to that hot, aching tightness between his legs. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, feeling the pulse pounding beneath his lips.

  "Oh, yes…"

  It was barely a whisper as Shiloh arched to him, at the same time letting her hands slip down the hard muscles of his back. She tightened her grasp urgently, pressing him closer even as she knew it wouldn't be enough. She wanted more, so much more, more than she had ever wanted. It didn't matter why it had to be him; all that mattered was that only he could rouse this need in her, and only he could ease it.

  Con heard her breathy sigh, and heat shafted through him. She moved, the soft fullness of her breasts pressing against his chest. Even through the sweatshirt he could feel her nipples, twin points of searing heat. In that moment he would have given his life to feel them naked against his skin, and his hands went unstoppably to the hem of the shirt. He tugged at it almost angrily, wanting to be rid of the barrier. He wanted her naked with him; he wan
ted to see, to touch, to stroke. He wanted her beneath him, on top of him; he didn't care, as long as it was naked skin to naked skin.

  When she realized what he was doing, Shiloh felt a split second of surprise that she wasn't trying to stop him. Then she nearly laughed; the calm, reasoning Shiloh who would have done that had gone up in flames at the first touch of his lips. She wriggled free of the offending sweatshirt.

  "Oh, God."

  She heard his low, huskily whispered words, saw his eyes on her breasts, and her nipples tingled, hardened. She should have felt shy, she thought, but instead she felt only pride that her body could bring that look to his eyes. Had she been able to speak, she would have begged him to do more than look; she wanted those hands that had left that trail of fire on her back to touch her warm, waiting flesh.

  Even as she thought it, he moved. His hands came up slowly to almost reverently cup those firm curves. The blood that had been pulsing through him hotly at the sight of her nipples rising to his gaze, turned to molten lava at how they tightened to pebble hardness at the first touch of his hands to their lush fullness.

  She was so beautiful, he thought numbly, unable to believe the feel of that soft yet firm flesh rounding into his palms, more than filling them with their abundance. And the way she had responded just to his look… He hadn't even touched those rosy crests and they were already hard and peaked. He heard an odd, choked sound and was only aware it had come from him when he realized he was shifting his hips, trying to ease that pulsing, pounding pressure.

  He was afraid to let his fingers stray to those enticing, begging peaks. He was on the edge already, and it had been so long, the thought of embarrassing himself completely wasn't out of the realm of possibility. But then she moved, arching her back as if offering them to him, and he was lost.

  A sharp little cry of surprised pleasure broke from her as his fingers caught and caressed her tingling nipples. Oh, God, she hadn't known it would feel like that, hadn't known it would send little rockets of flaming sensation to that growing pool of heat expanding inside her.

  At the sound he buried his face in the valley between her breasts, but his fingers never stopped moving, flicking, tugging gently, until she cried out again, then again.

  "Con. Oh, Con."

  Con shuddered. He'd never heard his name spoken like that before, and it echoed sweetly in his ears. He lifted his head to look at her, to see the green eyes wide and hot with passion, to see her lips parted with her rapid breathing. Keeping his eyes on her face, he lowered his head to one breast, capturing the nipple between his lips and flicking it with his tongue.

  What he saw in her face then, the pure, shocked pleasure, the flame that leapt in the green depths before the thick lashes lowered and her head fell back, sent an explosive burst of heat racing along nerves that were already strained to the breaking point.

  He'd never realized, never known, that giving pleasure could bring so much pleasure. Just knowing that he could do this for her, that she was letting him, did more for him than any of the casual encounters he'd had in the past. If he died right now, which at the moment seemed entirely possible, he would die having felt more than he ever had before.

  When his hot, wet mouth left her breast, Shiloh couldn't suppress her moan of disappointment. But again he turned it to pleasure as he nuzzled her other breast and his lips found the taut, puckered flesh that eagerly awaited him. She gasped as he suckled it, tugging it deep into his mouth, making her arch once more, thrusting her throbbing breasts up to him.

  "Yes," he murmured against her skin, his hot breath feathering over her in a shivery caress.

  His hand slid up to her other nipple, still wet and tingling from his mouth, and his fingers caught and rolled the erect tip with slow care. She was writhing now, her hips beginning to move in a rhythm as old as time. Shiloh thought she was going to fly apart as she moved involuntarily, desperately, striving for something she wasn't sure she could reach. She clutched at him, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing left on this whirling flight.

  "Please," she gasped without knowing what she was pleading for. She only knew that if she didn't get it, she was going to shatter into a million pieces.

  That tiny whispered plea broke Con. He was about to explode, and if he didn't ease this hammering need right now, he truly would die. He kicked away the tangled covers, then tugged at the pale blue scrap of lace across her hips, the last barrier between them. He could feel the heat of her as he slid her panties down the trim curve of her hips, and when his fingers brushed the reddish brown curls and found them damp with her own need, he groaned harshly.

  She did want him. His last shred of sanity vanished with the knowledge that she was hot and wet and ready, and he couldn't wait any longer. He had to have her, had to bury himself in that waiting heat. The part of his mind that would have wondered at this mindless creature he'd become, this new and strange being who was shamelessly admitting a need that was so much more powerful than himself, had been reduced to barely glowing coals by green-eyed fire.

  It was the same part of his mind that would have noticed her slight awkwardness as he pressed her beneath him and slipped between her thighs. Would have noticed the touch of apprehension in her eyes at the feel of his hot, rigid manhood against that silken skin. He could feel the heat radiating from her, and it drew him inexorably forward until the tip of his hardened flesh was probing her velvet softness.

  She was so ready, as ready as he was, and he could almost feel that slick, wet heat surrounding him already. He wanted to go slowly, to savor every moment of her body's acceptance of him, yet he wanted to bury himself in her with one fierce thrust that would take his breath away. But he didn't dare, for he knew he was much too close, and that the moment he was fully inside her it would be all he could do to hold back…

  Something was wrong, and the fact was beginning to penetrate the thick haze of pleasure that clouded his mind the way a cool breeze cleared smoke. That breeze fanned the embers of the part of his mind that could still function, and a tiny flicker of reason returned.

  He was meeting resistance. She was so slick and wet it should have been easy, he should already be deep inside her, he should…

  Like a jagged bolt of lightning, the realization hit. He froze, every muscle taut and bulging, every vein standing out with the strain. As if some other part of him had been registering it all along, he saw in his mind the uncertainty with which she had moved to accept him, saw the apprehension that had shone faintly in her emerald eyes.

  A harsh, ragged groan ripped from deep in his throat, and with a greater effort than any he had ever made in his life, he pulled back. His body screamed in protest, his throbbing shaft demanding her heat, his mouth crying out to be returned to her breast. He hung there a moment, suspended above her, trembling with the force of the conflict. At last, in agonizing slow motion, his mind won and he rolled away to collapse on his back in a shuddering, aching heap.

  It wasn't going to stop. He was going to lie here for the rest of his life in this throbbing, hurting puddle. He groaned inwardly, wishing he had died. And thinking that if he could ever move again, he might just help that wish along a little.

  He didn't know how long he'd lain there before the sound reached him. He'd shut his eyes and tried not to hear anything, but this sound was unavoidable. He made himself look.

  She was huddled in the corner of the bunk, curled in on herself like a mortally wounded animal. And she was crying. Not wild, hysterical sobs, but a quiet flow of tears that was infinitely more disturbing. She'd been through hell, she'd been frightened, attacked, chased and shot at, and never once had she let it overcome her. Yet now she was crying.

  "God, Shiloh, don't!" He pulled her trembling body into his arms. "It's all right. I … stopped in time. You're still … intact."

  She was suddenly a wild thing in his arms, thrashing, pushing, kicking until she was free. She crouched on her knees before him, an odd combination of wildness and pained conf
usion flashing in her eyes.

  "Is that what you think?" She dashed the tears from her cheeks in an abrupt, jerky gesture. "That I was crying because I … I thought I wasn't a virgin anymore?"

  He looked at her blankly, confused. His body wasn't confused; the sight of her, her emotions robbing her of any awareness of her own nudity, her hair tousled from his hands and her bare breasts heaving with the quickness of her breathing, the nipples still taut and erect and glistening from his mouth, was almost too much for him.

  "Do you think I cared about that? That I'm some stupid little girl who didn't know what she was doing?" She took a rapid, gasping breath, and despite her efforts her voice broke. "I was … crying because you … started again, and then … like on the beach…" She lowered her eyes as the tears began to slip silently down her flushed, damp cheeks once more. "I thought you … wanted me, but—"

  A short, sharp sound came from him, making her look up. "But nothing," he said hoarsely, his voice tight with self-condemnation. "I wanted you so badly nothing else mattered. Not that you're Linc's baby sister, not that you could have gotten pregnant … and it damned near didn't matter that you're a virgin." He took a short, harsh breath. "Damn it, you should have told me. I would have stopped. I never would have started."

  "It's not something you advertise. And I didn't care."

  "Well I do!" He groaned under his breath. "Great," he muttered. "I nearly rape the sister of damn near the only friend I've got, never even think about protecting her—"

  "It wasn't rape." Her voice had gotten stronger, steadier. "And besides, I couldn't have."

  "What?"

  "Gotten pregnant." He stared at her, bewildered. "It's a … hormonal imbalance, the doctor said. If I ever want to get pregnant, I'll have to take something."

  That she was talking so matter-of-factly about what he had nearly done enraged him for some reason. "It doesn't make any difference. I didn't know that, and I almost—"