Call of the White Wolf

by Carol Finch

  She ached for something she didn’t fully understand, ached with a compelling desire that longed to be explored and fulfilled. She was lonely for John’s companionship, especially when she knew their days were numbered. She wanted to experience that heady feeling of heightened awareness that consumed her when she was with him. He made her feel alive, feminine. The responsibility she’d undertaken didn’t seem so overwhelming, the chores so tedious when he was around. She simply felt differently, looked at life differently when he was here.

  What was her life going to be like when he left? Would she regret that she’d never expressed her love for him? Would she regret that she’d bypassed a few stolen moments of being held in his arms? Which would be worse? she asked herself as she stared into the night. To forever wonder what she’d missed, or to actually know the intimate pleasures and be tormented by what would never be again, once John rode out of her life?

  Tara smiled sadly as she stared heavenward, watching the clouds part and the stars wink down at her. She’d been wishing upon stars since she was a child, wanting more from life than she’d received, wanting to matter to someone, to be loved and needed. Now she had all those things, yet something was still missing, and the man who held the key to her secret fantasy lay asleep in the barn. He was a good, noble and honorable man, despite the world of violence and turmoil where he resided.

  Her lonely soul called out to him across the distance that separated them. Tara wondered if he could feel this nearly unbearable wanting that consumed her, wondered if he could hear her calling silently to him in the night.

  John flounced restlessly on his pallet in the hayloft. He should be sleeping, because he’d mentally listed a dozen tasks he wanted to undertake the following day. But thoughts and visions of that green-eyed elf kept dancing in his head. This mental tug-of-war was frustrating the living hell out of him. He told himself to stay put, not to yield to the reckless urgings of his body, not to enjoy the pleasures he and Tara could offer each other. Resolutely, he reminded himself that he’d held out this long without succumbing to this constant need for Tara. He reassured himself that he could endure.

  One more week of strenuous chores would be all the rehabilitation he needed before he resumed his search for Raven and the ruthless renegades that terrorized the territory. When he returned to his life outside the canyon…John grimaced, then rolled to his side and stared out the open loft window. When he left Tara, the simple joys and pleasures he’d discovered would be beyond his reach. Maybe he’d reward himself for his hellish job by stopping by every now and then to check on Tara and the children. He’d surprise them with gifts, make repairs and improvements, give Tara some time to herself—and feast his hungry eyes on his forbidden fantasy.

  John rolled to his left side to stare at the wall. One week of heaven in Paradise Valley left, he reminded himself. Yet it wasn’t exactly heaven when he wanted Tara like hell blazing. Just the prospect of holding her in his arms was enough to make his body clench and harden.

  “Damn it,” he muttered in frustration. He needed another cold bath in the spring, because that dousing of rain just wasn’t cutting it tonight.

  John climbed from his pallet, then swore ripely when he konked his head on the rafter. Well, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe a smack on the head would knock some sense into him, because after tonight, all the reasons he had listed why he shouldn’t take advantage of a beautiful woman who mattered to him as no other female ever had didn’t seem to amount to a hill of mesquite beans.

  Tara wasn’t as skilled at hiding her emotions as John was. He’d had years of practice not reacting, and his instincts were sharp enough to sense the answering need in her when she stared too long at him. So why was he being so damned noble? Because, damn it, he felt noble where she was concerned. She brought out the best in him, while setting fire to every masculine need he possessed, plus some he’d never encountered before she’d come along and turned his body into a raging inferno.

  Frustrated as hell, John snatched up his breeches and stabbed one leg, then the other into the garment. He desperately needed a cold bath, or at the very least, a long walk in the cool night air. He descended the ladder and headed for the barn door, feeling his way along the stalls.

  He’d swing by the back of the cabin, just to make sure Tara was asleep. He’d stare at her for a few minutes and imagine what it could be like between them if he wasn’t who he was and didn’t have the plight of the Apache riding on his shoulders—not to mention the problem of chasing down his bitter adopted brother, who was on the rampage.

  Lost in thought, John veered around the corner of the barn and slammed headlong into another body. Self-preservation prompted him to thrust out an arm to ward off the anticipated attack. He realized a second too late that it was Tara. His flying elbow caught her in the solar plexus. She moaned, dragged air into her lungs and staggered clumsily. His hand shot out to steady her before she plunked into a mud puddle.

  “What the hell are you doing out here, Irish?” he demanded.

  She couldn’t reply. She was still having trouble breathing. John whacked her between the shoulder blades.

  “Is something wrong with one of the kids?” he asked in concern.

  She shook her head. Tangled red-gold strands cascaded over her shoulders and back. She wheezed some more, then tried to clear her throat.

  “Something wrong with you then?” he quizzed her. When she bobbed her head, he frowned worriedly. “What’s wrong, Irish?”

  When she could finally speak she lifted her face to his quizzical stare and said, “I’m tired of wanting you and doing nothing about it. The ache just gets progressively worse. I’ve thought it over and decided I’d prefer to love you and watch you ride away than never know the pleasure of desire at all.”

  Despite the darkness, broken only by a sliver of moon and a smattering of stars, he could see her eyes flickering with unmistakable need. It was like staring at his own tormented reflection. And suddenly, it was John who for the life of him could not seem to draw breath.

  Chapter Ten

  “Irish—”

  Whatever halfhearted protest John tried to formulate died the moment her dewy, soft lips skimmed over his. The impact of her lush body gliding against his had the same potent effect being shot had. Quite simply, her kiss blew him away.

  Instincts as old as time immemorial swamped him. Before he realized it he was dragging her tightly to him, holding on to her for dear life. His answering kiss wasn’t chaste or the least bit gentle. It was like a blazing fire that consumed all in its path. He plundered her mouth, wondering if he’d alarm her with his hungry need, but she seemed as greedy and impatient as he was. The voice of reason tried to intrude, but when her roaming hands glided down the taut muscles of his back to settle on his hips, desire became so powerfully intense that reason got burned to a crisp.

  “John, I want you. Teach me to please you,” she whispered when he finally let her come up for air.

  He stared down into her enchanting face, searching the depths of her gaze. “You’re sure? You know I—”

  Her fingertips grazed his lips; her gaze locked with his. “Tonight is separate from our lives, from responsibilities and obligations,” she murmured. “It’s separate from our past and future. All I ask is for you to make love to me now, in our private space out of time. I ask nothing more.”

  John, who was a damn sight more worldly-wise than she, couldn’t come up with even one sensible reason to deny her, to deny himself this moment out of time in Paradise Valley. When she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him again, the world spun away and there was nothing left in his universe except Tara and his smoldering need for her.

  His knees threatened to buckle beneath him. His heart slammed into his tender ribs—and stuck there. “Ah, Irish,” he whispered unevenly. “I can deny you no more than I can halt the sunrise, and I’m damned tired of denying how much I want you.”

  When she smiled up at him, his legs wobbled again. Determ
ined to make it into the barn loft before he collapsed, John clutched her hand and led the way to the ladder. As they ascended into the loft, he kept telling himself he was being visited by a lifelike dream, that Tara hadn’t really come to him, asking for nothing more than a night of passion.

  He wished he could make love to her on a feather bed rather than a straw pallet. He wanted this night to be everything she could possibly imagine it could be. Determined to fulfill her every expectation and fantasy, John vowed that he’d touch her with all that was tender and gentle.

  His thoughts scattered like buckshot when she stood uncertainly in front of him, wearing that flimsy gown, her hair drifting over her shoulders like a silky golden cape. He suspected her only experience with lust had come at the hands of that lecherous Texas rancher and the drunken prospectors who accosted her in town. Yet she had the courage to seek him out, unsure what to expect from him. John was humbled by her unwavering faith in him, by her unfaltering belief that he wouldn’t hurt her as she’d been hurt before.

  He moved closer, vowing to teach her passion tempered with exquisite tenderness. It’d likely kill him to proceed at an unhurried pace, since he was accustomed to nothing more than quick physical release in the arms of an experienced woman. Certainly, there’d never been emotional attachments before.

  There definitely was now, much as he’d battled to prevent it.

  Suddenly John felt ill-prepared for this unprecedented encounter. Violence he understood all too well. Gentleness was unfamiliar. He was stunned to realize he had almost as much to learn about lovemaking as Tara did.

  Well, damn. If that didn’t beat all!

  “John, are you laughing at me?” she asked when he smiled in ironic amusement.

  “No, Irish, I was just thinking that you probably should’ve waited until a better tutor came along. I’m not what you’d call a ladies’ man.”

  “No?” She grinned impishly.

  “Not even close.” He grinned back at her, and the apprehensive tension streaming through him began to subside.

  When her gaze drifted to his lips, and she looked as if she was starving for another taste of him, John lost all interest in conversation. He took her by the hand and drew her down to the pallet. She snuggled trustingly against him, and the innocent movement of her body gliding against his was like an erotic caress. Sweet mercy, this woman was more sensuous than she imagined herself to be. She’d be a devastating seductress if she discovered how much power she wielded over him.

  John tipped Tara’s head back and found himself tumbling into the depths of her cedar-green eyes. What he’d previously predicted would require conscious effort suddenly became amazingly simple. He didn’t have to caution himself to be gentle with her; it just came naturally when he reached out to touch her. He slipped his hand beneath her gown, marveling at the silky softness of her skin beneath his questing fingertips. Her sudden intake of breath, her ragged sigh of pleasure and the sensual promise in her gaze were all the encouragement he needed. He angled his head to take her mouth beneath his, and traced her parted lips with the tip of his tongue. He nipped at her bottom lip, tugging at it in the same way the erotic sensations were tugging at his male body.

  He lifted his hand to graze her beaded nipple, and then he rolled the delicate bud between thumb and forefinger. Her body arched upward, testifying to the pleasure he was bestowing on her. Intrigued by her responses to him, he drew the skimpy gown upward, then lowered his head to suckle her breast.

  “John…?” she gasped, then melted in his arms.

  “Yes?” He smiled against her scented skin, then took the dusky crown into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, kneading her plump breast with a gentle hand. She writhed and squirmed and made such unbelievably sweet sounds that he smiled all over again.

  “What are you doing to me?” she asked dazedly, then moaned when he turned the same dedicated attention on her other breast.

  “Whatever pleases me,” he murmured. “And everything that pleases you, Irish. You are pleased, aren’t you?”

  Her response was another breathless moan that inspired him to summon more fascinating sounds of pleasure from her. He wanted her pliant in his arms before the inevitable moment when he hurt her unintentionally. Determinedly, he vowed to bring her to the epitome of mindless desire before he glided over her luscious body to take intimate possession.

  While he focused his kisses on the creamy mounds of her breasts, his hand swirled over her flat stomach. When his hand splayed over her inner thigh, he could feel the heat of her desire beckoning him closer. Yet he only stroked her sensitive flesh, again and again. From breast to knee he caressed her, teased her, aroused her until she arched helplessly toward his hand, all but begging him to touch her as intimately as he had that night he’d allowed ardent desire to carry him away for a few mindless, incredible moments.

  He tested her with his fingertip and felt the liquid fire of her response burning him like a brand. But it wasn’t enough to appease this greedy need that roiled through him. He wanted to taste her need for him, to taste every satiny inch of her, to know her by touch, by heart, by the very essence of what she was and what she’d come to mean to him.

  He shifted beside her, still holding his palm against her, then nudged her legs apart with gentle pressure from his elbow. His lips drifted over her thigh as he teased the hidden secrets of her body with deliberate, unhurried strokes of his thumb and fingertip. He explored her, aroused her until she was chanting his name with every gasp of breath.

  When his tongue glided over her velvety heat, daring to touch her more intimately than he’d touched any other woman, he felt the sweet pressure of her feminine body contracting around his lips and fingertips. The wonderment of her uninhibited response, the taste of her passion for him, unleashed the ravenous desire he was trying so hard to hold in check. His body tightened with a pulsating pleasure that strung every nerve and muscle as taut as barbed wire. He was burning with her, vibrating with need, aching to become the white-hot flame that blazed inside her.

  “John…please!” she gasped, clutching at him in frantic desperation. “I want you…now!”

  He knew that as well as she did, but the realization that he could touch her so intimately with lips and fingertips and bring her to lofty heights of passion beguiled him. He loved looking at her exquisitely formed body, loved watching her writhe and coil when waves of ecstasy crested over her. He felt empowered when she reached for him in urgent need.

  When she half collapsed, breathing heavily, struggling to recover from the wild crescendo of desire, he began his amorous assault on her body all over again. With each flick of his tongue, the gliding motions of his lips and the penetrating strokes of his fingertips, he could feel her body convulsing, bathing him with her hot, sultry responses. John steeled himself against the nearly overwhelming need to take possession of her quivering body.

  “You’re killing me,” she rasped, clawing urgently at his shoulder. “John, do something to make the empty ache go away!”

  He came to his knees, cursing the fact that he’d been so utterly fascinated by the pleasure he received from arousing her that he hadn’t doffed his breeches. Tara was staring at him as if she wanted to gobble him alive, and he couldn’t wrest himself free of these blasted breeches fast enough to satisfy either of them. When she reached down to help him shed his clothes, he swore he was about to explode prematurely. He surged above her and he buried himself inside her with one frantic thrust. Her hiss of pain, the tension suddenly holding her rigid, made him curse his hungry impatience.

  “I’m sorry, Irish. I intended to tell you this might hurt a bit, but I’m afraid I got sidetracked,” he whispered huskily.

  He held himself perfectly still, letting her adjust to the unfamiliar pressure, knowing for certain that the lecherous Texas rancher hadn’t ravaged her completely—thank goodness. And for every terror she’d suffered at that bastard’s cruel hands, he’d replace that memory with one of exquisite rapture
and devoted tenderness. Slowly, he withdrew, denying his male body the satisfaction it craved. Ever so gently, he glided forward again, filling her, teaching her the cadence of passion.

  She moved with him, matching his desire with each penetrating thrust, until need, intense and demanding, overtook them and they moved together in perfect rhythm. The gentleness John had vowed to maintain for Tara’s sake abandoned him. He plunged into her, retreated, then drove hard and fast and deep again. His hands clamped around her hips, rocking her against him as the breathtaking throes of passion consumed him. Her breathing hitched. Her nails scored his shoulders, marking him as hers for life everlasting.

  And then a tidal wave of pleasure plummeted him into the dizzying depths of desire. He gathered her in his crushing embrace when unmatched pleasure vibrated through him, leaving no part of his body, mind and soul untouched or uneffected by their tempestuous union.

  Suddenly, John found himself wondering just what the hell he’d been doing all his life, in the arms of nameless, faceless women from his past. Whatever it was, it was nothing compared to making wild, sweet love to Tara. She unchained emotions inside him that he hadn’t been aware existed. Indescribable sensations tumbled forth like a wellspring, leaving him at utter peace with himself for the first time in his memory. It was as if he’d been reborn, reinvented, recreated, and he was absolutely certain he was never going to be the same again. Making love to Tara was a milestone, a reckoning, an epiphany.

  His breath ragged, his body spent, John held Tara close to his heart. Even when she squirmed beneath his heavy weight, and he realized he was probably squashing her, he was hesitant to let go and risk losing the incredible closeness and intimacy of this moment that joined his soul to hers.

  Ah, walking away would be a thousand times more difficult now than before he’d made love to her. He wondered, having known her purity and sweetness, if he’d lose that razor-sharp edge that kept him alive in his dangerous profession. If so, he’d be a dead man walking.