by Texas Lover
"Still think of me as a barely weaned pup, do you? Hmm. Then let me show you something that might help to change your mind, darlin'."
He grabbed her hips and hiked them higher. Before she realized his intent, his lips settled on a place she'd only dreamed a man might kiss. Her startled, "What are you—?" fragmented into a high, strangled sound as his relentless, wickedly mobile mouth drove the itchy twitching inside her to a maddening frenzy.
Suddenly she was powerless to do anything more than arch and cry out as lightning splintered through her.
"Sons of thunder." She sank weakly beneath him, and he chuckled. Prowling higher, he planted nipping kisses from her navel to her ear.
"Liked that, eh? Then just consider it a sample—a very small sample, mind you—of what this younger man can do for you."
She shivered, as much from his silky promise as from the tiny jolts of sensation now shooting from her earlobe to her spine. "Wes, please," she moaned, shaking with her need. "Have mercy on me. I want you so much, I can't fight you."
He hesitated, and for a moment, she wished she'd still been too winded to speak sense.
"Rorie." He balanced himself on his arms, separating their steaming lengths, but not enough to keep his heat from lapping over her. "If you want me to stop, I will, but..." He smiled, an odd combination of wistfulness and raw desire. "Don't deny yourself pleasure just because some shriveled, dried-up old wasp in town is jealous of you. We're free, Rorie. Both of us. Who's it going to hurt?"
She swallowed hard at his reasoning. She'd always resented the way Jarrod could sin with whomever he pleased, while she was painted scarlet simply for thinking of the marriage act.
But her husband had divorced her. She couldn't become pregnant. Ethan had ridden off on his cattle drive, postponing the proposal he might never make now that he knew she was barren.
Wes was right. She was painfully, achingly free.
"I..." She bit her lip. "I just want..." Tears welled up so thick and fast in her throat, she couldn't loose another word. There'd already been one casualty, although she couldn't bear to let him know it. She had fallen so hopelessly in love with him, that her heart broke every time she imagined him riding away, looking for a wife who could give him the redheaded children he wanted.
"What do you want, Rorie? Tell me. I'll do whatever you say."
"Oh Wes." A sob bubbled up past the knot in her throat. "I want you. Is—is that wrong?"
His expression grew so tender, so sweet with compassion, that she couldn't blink away the tears that slipped past her lashes.
"No, Rorie," he murmured. "Not between us. It will never, ever be wrong between us."
Easing his body down beside hers, he cradled her in his arms, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. She clung to him, needing his solace, wanting to believe that her love for him would make their union blessed, not profane.
"I would never hurt you, Rorie. Never on purpose," he added, catching her face in his hands and brushing away the last traces of her tears. "I want you to believe that. Do you?"
She blinked. There was something so vulnerable, so needy and urgent, pleading to her from the depths of his gaze, that she nodded yes without a second thought. His breath released in a rush.
"Good. Please try to remember that tomorrow, okay?"
She opened her mouth, but he gave her no chance to respond, much less to question what he'd meant, as his lips stole over hers. Sighing, she deepened the kiss, no longer reluctant to feed the primal hunger he'd restrained so fiercely to pleasure her.
She ran her hands over his back, kneading the taut, thick muscles and delighting in the small, tight curve of his buttocks. He made a throaty sound of pleasure when she gripped him harder, pulling him closer, wedging the hot, sleek proof of his passion between her thighs. When she slipped a hand down his body, she felt his smile against her lips. He wouldn't bear her petting for long, though, and pressed her shoulders down.
"Next time," he promised in a hoarse whisper. "Right now, I'm so crazy hot for you, woman, I might embarrass myself."
He gave her a thoroughly indecent grin, and she grinned back. She couldn't help herself, especially when she heard his breaths go harsh and shallow as she guided him unerringly to his mark. He needed little assistance. Gliding fast and deep, he sheathed himself completely inside her before he shuddered, tensing into rigid stillness.
"Oh God, Rorie, you're so tight."
She froze, afraid to move. Her husband had complained about many things regarding her body, but never of... of discomfort.
Then again, Jarrod had been smaller in every conceivable proportion compared to Wes. Maybe she and her Olympian young man weren't quite as well-matched as he had first thought. Her spirits sank.
"Am I... hurting you?" she asked.
"Hurting me?" Dragging a whistling breath into his lungs, he threw back his head and laughed. The sensation of his mirth rolling through her was the most delightful intimacy she'd ever known.
"No, lover," he said, "you feel like velvet heaven. I was worried I might be hurting you. I, er, gather it's been a while since you've had a corruptible young man?"
She flushed from head to toe. Still, there was so much warmth glowing in those dancing, loving eyes that she could only nod.
"Give me your hand then."
Uncertainly, she obeyed, and he kissed it, twining his fingers through hers.
"Now make love to me," he whispered.
Holding her hand as if they were sweethearts, he moved inside her, slowly at first, watching every nuance of expression on her face. The great care he took to please her touched her almost as deeply as the light that poured from his eyes into the very heart of her soul. He murmured tender words to her, calling her every endearment he must have known.
Bearing the soft, shy core of his own secret self, he confessed in a raspy whisper, "I've never been with a lady before. I just want to love you right, honey, so you'll always come back for more."
But soon even he grew too winded to speak. His heart beat with a musical frenzy that matched the dizzy drumming of her own. A glittering white heat spiraled through her, coiling tighter and faster inside her female essence. Time and place and questions of the mind spun far away, leaving only an age-old knowledge and the faith of a loving heart. It was as if they were meant to be, always had been meant to be, and heaven and earth and all the stars were there to help them know it.
Suddenly, she felt the hard, fierce grip of her lover's hand, the hot, swift throb of life. Then came an explosion of meteoric force, catapulting her into space, leaving her to streak and smoke across the ebony night to the sun-bright source of all creation.
At last she collapsed beneath him, kissing him, holding him, communicating all the wonder of their journey with a touch. She knew a feeling unlike any she had known before. It went beyond the realm of satisfaction.
For the first time in all her thirty years, Rorie felt complete.
Chapter 14
He never should have done it.
That's what Wes told himself as he watched the sun's first rays creep past the chinks in the wall and streak Rorie's hair a tawny shade of gold.
He never should have made love to her. Especially the second time.
The first time had been almost forgivable, considering how she'd broken his heart into pieces with her tears. He'd always been as worthless as a four-card flush when a female started bawling.
It just wasn't fair that a woman who loved children as much as Rorie did couldn't bring a few little ones of her own into the world. As mothers went, she had to be the best he'd ever seen. And as fathers went...
Well, even a blind man could see her orphans were a sight better off without Jarrod Sinclair.
Wes scowled at the thought of Rorie's ex-husband, a man he'd never met but downright loathed. In fact, Wes wasn't sure who he despised more: Jarrod Sinclair or Bill Malone.
Shifting carefully, he gazed down at the woman lying so trustingly in his arms. An unbidden wa
rmth—a soft, sweet swell of caring—surged through him. That's when he knew he was staring down the barrel of a real dilemma. Whatever had happened to his motto, "No ladies, no complications"? Whatever had happened to his brain?
As best as he could figure, it had gone stone-cold dead about one o'clock that morning. That was when Rorie had sheathed him inside a scabbard of silk. She'd been as slick and tight as a virgin, minus the awkward barrier. The fact that she'd proved herself an agile and versatile lover, once she overcame her initial reluctance, didn't surprise him in the least. He'd always suspected that girl had a fire banked inside her.
What did surprise him, though, was the power of their lovemaking. To describe it as earth-moving didn't do it justice. There'd been something soulful, something downright spiritual, in fact, about gazing into her luminous eyes and feeling his heart float away.
Ordinarily he didn't get so fanciful about coupling. His need for physical release was as necessary—and just as cyclical—as his need for food. Fortunately over the years, he'd learned to live with his hunger, since a Ranger's life didn't lend itself to regular female company, and he'd become resigned to feeling lucky if he found a woman once a week to bed.
Maybe that was why he'd been happier than a pup with two tails after making love to Rorie. When she didn't flee back to the house in shame, he'd started jabbering like a magpie. Lord, the things that had come out of his mouth. He'd told her about Zack and Aunt Lally, even a little about Fancy and Cord, and about the pranks he'd played back in the good-old days, before he had to leave the ranch forever. She'd listened so patiently, stroking his hair and smiling, that he'd blurted out what surely must have been another of his sins.
"You know the first time I wanted you, Rorie? It was Monday afternoon when I rode into the drive, and I saw you standing there so brave and fierce and hopelessly outgunned with that old unloaded six-shooter."
"That six-shooter was too loaded!"
He laughed at her indignation and pulled her closer as she tried to wriggle away. "Mercy me, it's a good thing you didn't shoot your foot off."
She gave up her struggles and glared at him in mock ire. "So you've been plotting the demise of my virtue all week, then?"
"Well now, there's a loaded question." He nibbled on her earlobe. "Lucky for you I'm not the kind to carry tales when I get fresh claw marks on my back."
"Wes!"
She heated like a furnace in his arms, and he chuckled at her rush of embarrassment, loving the paradox of the reserved schoolmarm by day, and the mewling wildcat by night.
"So tell me, darlin'. When's the first time you wanted to make love to me?"
"Wescott Rawlins, you are insufferable!"
She squealed when he snaked his tongue into her ear.
"Kind of makes you sticky warm all over, doesn't it?"
Her laughter was a husky, thoroughly female sound. It licked over him like tongues of fire and stirred more than just his pecker. Its joyful, carefree nature stirred his heart.
"Oh, very well," she said. "If you must know, the first time I wanted you was..."
"Well?"
She shoved his shoulder. "I'm thinking!"
"Hell, woman, you've only known me for a week. How much time do you need?"
"Your language, sir!"
He felt laughter ripple through her before she coughed delicately, as if to hide her mirth.
"Now, let's see. Where was I? Oh, yes. I suppose the first time I wanted you was when you were wrapping your arms around me, showing me how to shoot that impossible whiskey bottle."
"You mean it took a whole day?" His show of disappointment wasn't entirely pretense. "You didn't want me the first time you saw me?"
She stroked his chest soothingly, as if smoothing ruffled feathers. "Technically, I do believe the time between Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning can't be considered a full day."
"Damnation." He pressed her down, sinking into her tantalizingly lush breasts and concave belly. "That does it, woman. You're in a heap of trouble. Say your prayers, 'cause in about fifteen minutes, you'll be on your way to heaven."
"Fifteen minutes?" She took his flagging manhood in her hand and began coaxing it to full mast. "Why wait so long, lover?"
Wes grinned unabashedly at the memory.
Then the magnitude of his blunder sank in, and he winced, stifling a groan. God, he was a jackass. It had been bad enough making love to a woman of principle—a woman of expectations—just one time. He'd gone and done it twice, and under false pretenses, yet! He worshipped the ground Rorie walked on, and he adored her orphans, too, but he wasn't ready to give up his badge. Not now. Not even for them.
Rorie, Rorie, I'm so sorry. I swear I'm not like Bill Malone....
She started to stir, as if she'd heard him. A feeling of impending doom squeezed his throat. His mouth grew so dry, he tasted ashes.
How had making a simple confession become so complicated? So painful?
She smiled shyly at him. Dawn had turned the ivory of her cheeks to pale amber, echoing the deeper, richer hues of sunlight in her eyes. Just to be touched by the warmth of her gaze made him ache with longing in ways that transcended physical desire. He'd seen Fancy look at Cord that way, and not long ago, he'd thought he would have given his life to see Fancy look at him that way too.
His feelings for Fancy were one of the main reasons Wes had left his family behind. Oddly enough, though, those feelings paled compared to the turmoil he felt when he thought of leaving Rorie.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked in a voice molasses-thick with sleepiness.
"Not long." He winced inwardly. That had been another lie. He was getting too damned good at them.
An awkward silence settled between them. He could feel the nervous flutter of her heart. A flush tinged her breasts a primrose pink beneath his gaze. Whether she wanted to be or not, she was too damned tempting lying there against him, her leg twined carelessly with his and her nipples innocently brushing his arm with every breath she took. He could feel their tenderness begin to harden, even as his pecker did. He had to clench a fist to keep from petting her, tasting her, making love to her in ways that might shock her ladylike sensibilities and yet were guaranteed to take her to the pinnacle of paradise.
She stirred uneasily, dropping her gaze from his. "Shae will be hitching the wagon for, um..." her voice stumbled over the words, "church soon, so maybe I should get dressed."
He heard the unspoken question "Do you still want me?" in her words, and he half smiled at the bittersweet irony. Another ripple of desire swept through him, drawing him as taut as a bow, but he dared not act on it. Not when his lies still lay between them, and the clock was ticking off the minutes until someone else told her the truth. He knew his confession would put a wedge between them, but he was just optimistic enough to hope it would forge a bridge to bring them back together again.
"Stay awhile," he murmured, at last working the words past the lump in his throat. "We... didn't get to learn about each other quite the way I would have liked last night."
Her color heightened in the most endearing way—it was so easy to make her blush.
"Wescott Rawlins, you are incorrigible."
"Would you have me any other way?"
Glib words had always rolled easily off his tongue. He found them coming to his rescue now, steering him clear of the painful task that lay before him.
She laughed, rising on an elbow and shaking her head. A stream of hair spilled across his chest and shoulder, like honeyed shafts of daylight.
"God made you to torment me, I fear."
He fidgeted at her playful tone. As much as he would have liked to deny it, she was in for a bout of hurting because of him.
"I prefer to think God made me to... protect you," he finished carefully.
No longer able to resist the tiniest indulgence, he touched a gleaming strand of her hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, marveling at its silken texture between his thumb and forefinger, savoring its el
usive perfume of spring and woodsy wildflowers. Releasing a long, steadying breath, he dared to open his eyes once more. She was watching him with a mixture of shy pleasure and concern.
"Wes, I thought we had settled that last night. You were going to stop crossing the Dukkers so I could stop worrying about you being ambushed. Like Gator was."
He frowned. "No, we did not settle that last night. Sometimes a man has to—"
"—do what a man has to do," she chimed in. "Yes, I know. I've heard that before. Every widow in this country has heard that before."
"You' re not a widow," he pointed out.
"Nor do I wish to be."
He flinched. Damn, there were those ladylike expectations he'd been worrying about.
"Rorie, you're not... I mean, you don't want..." Hellfire. All he had to do now was blurt out the rest: You don't want me, sugar. I'm a Ranger, and I'll always be under the gun.
But he couldn't say it. Not that way.
She was gazing at him expectantly, not to mention a tad coolly, and his heart kicked hard against his ribs. This was only a preview of her upset, and already he didn't like it.
Sitting up beside her, he combed rough fingers through his hair.
"Rorie, honey, look. You and I, we never did start off on the right foot. I mean, that first day when I rode in here, and you were waving that Equalizer at me—well, those weren't the best get-acquainted circumstances, you have to admit. We never got to sit down, you know, just like regular folk and talk.
"Then things got kind of muddled," he rushed on, "downright tangled, in fact, and they just kept getting worse, so that every time I tried to do what I should have done in the first place, there was always something getting in the way." He glanced toward her uneasily, saw her perplexed frown, and gulped a bolstering breath. "What I'm trying to say is, Rorie, I, uh, have to let you know that I'm a—"
A loud thump came from the wall of the barn, then the scraping of wood on wood was joined by tuneless whistling. Rorie grew white and scarlet by turns.
