by Diana Palmer
Her reaction was unexpected and violent. She shivered and cried out, and then suddenly arched up toward his lips as he made a slow suction that caused unspeakable responses in her untried body.
“No...nooooo!” she groaned as she felt the tension grow to almost painful depths and then, suddenly, snap. The pleasure was unlike anything she’d ever known in her life. She shivered and shivered, her short nails digging into his shoulders as she held on and convulsed with ecstasy.
He felt her body contort, felt the shudders run through her as he satisfied her with nothing more than his mouth on her breast. His hand went to her hip and ground it into his while he continued the warm pressure of his mouth on her damp flesh. He wanted her. He’d never wanted anything so much!
She was lost. She couldn’t even protest. The pleasure swept over her in waves, like breakers on the ocean, on the beach. She arched her back and shuddered as her body gave in to him, hungered for him, ached to have more than this, something more, anything....
Finally, he lifted his head and looked down at her. She lay shivering in the aftermath, tears running down her cheeks. She wept silently, her eyes wide and wet and accusing.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. He kissed away the tears. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”
She sobbed. She felt as if she’d betrayed everything she believed in. If he hadn’t stopped, she wouldn’t have been able to. She was embarrassed and humiliated by her own easy acceptance of his ardor. He was a womanizer. God only knew how many women he’d had. And she was so easy...
She pushed gently at his chest.
He let her go, very slowly, his eyes riveted to her taut breasts, to the red marks on the one he’d suckled so hard.
She tried to pull the bra over them, but he prevented her with a gentle movement of his hand. He wasn’t looking at her breasts. He was looking at the scar. He traced it, noting the ridge that was forming.
She drew in a sharp breath.
“It was deep, wasn’t it?” he asked softly.
She swallowed. He didn’t seem repulsed. “Yes.”
He traced it tenderly. His finger moved down over her breast to the hard nipple and caressed it. He loved touching her. It was surprising.
“I’ve never had a virgin,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize how exciting it would be.”
She flushed. “I’m...not perfect physically,” she choked, remembering the hurtful things he’d said in her boss’s office.
He looked into her eyes with regret darkening his own. “Here,” he said quietly. “Show-and-tell.”
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it away from his broad, muscular chest. He pulled her up into a sitting position on his lap and drew her fingers to the worst scar, where a long, deep wound went just below his rib cage on the side near his heart.
“This was deep, too,” she said softly, tracing it.
He nodded. “He came at me with a sword, of all things. I drew him in and guided the blade where it would do the least damage, before I killed him.” His eyes were narrow and cold.
She shivered. She could never kill anyone.
“He’d just raped a young woman. A pregnant woman,” he said quietly.
Her expression changed. Her eyes went back to the scars. “These are...strange,” she said, tracing several small round scars below his collarbone.
“Cigarette burns,” he said with a faint smile. “I was captured once. They tortured me for information.” He chuckled. “They got my name, rank and serial number. Eventually they got tired of listening to it, but my squad came and rescued me before they killed me.”
“Wow,” she whispered.
He cocked his head and studied her. “You are...unexpected.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I am?”
His eyes went down to her bare breasts. He drew her against him, very gently, and moved her breasts against his bare chest. She moaned. He bent and kissed her, hungrily, urgently.
“I want you,” he murmured.
His hands were on her breasts again, and she was dying for him. She wanted that pleasure again, that he’d given her so easily, so sensually, with just his mouth. But with a harsh moan, she dragged herself away from him and pulled her T-shirt across her bare breasts like a shield.
“Please,” she whispered when he started to draw her back into his arms. “Please. I’m sorry. I can’t. I just...can’t!”
She looked as if he’d asked her to go through the entire catalog of sins at once. Probably she felt that way. She was a person of faith. She didn’t believe in quick rolls in the hay. She was innocent.
He felt oddly ashamed. He buttoned his shirt while she fumbled her bra closed and put her shirt back on with tattered pride. As cold reality set in, she was horrified by what she’d let him do. All her principles had flown out the window the minute he touched her.
“I see,” he said quietly. “You believe it’s the road to hell. And I don’t believe in anything,” he added coldly.
She met his eyes. “You don’t really even like women, do you?” she asked perceptively.
His smile was icy. “She said she loved me,” he replied. “We were married for all of a year when she became pregnant. But by then there was another man.” His eyes closed, and his brows drew together in pain at the memory while Carlie listened.
“It was almost two days after the wreck before they found the bodies. They thought they could have saved the child, a boy, if they’d found them just a little sooner.” His face contorted. “I killed them all...”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “You couldn’t hurt a woman if you tried.”
He looked at her with narrow, intent eyes. “Really? I scared you to death in your boss’s office,” he reminded her tautly.
“Yes, but you wouldn’t have hurt me. It was the association with the past that frightened me, not you,” she repeated softly. She touched his cheek, drew her soft fingers down it. “Some things are meant to be. We don’t make those decisions. We can’t. God takes people away sometimes for reasons we can’t understand. But there’s a reason, even if we don’t know what it was.”
His face hardened. “God,” he scoffed.
She smiled gently. “You don’t believe in anything.”
“I used to. Before she destroyed my life.” His eyes were dark with confusion and pain.
“You have to accept the fact that you can’t control the world, or the people in it,” she continued quietly. “Control is just an illusion.”
“Like love?” he laughed coldly.
“Love is everywhere,” she countered. “You aren’t looking. You’re living inside yourself, in the past, locked up in pain and loss and guilt. You can’t forgive anything until you can forgive yourself.”
He glared at her.
“The key to it all is faith,” she said gently.
“Faith.” He nodded. His eyes were hostile. “Yours took a hike when I started kissing your breasts, didn’t it? All those shiny ideals, that proud innocence, would have been gone in a flash if I’d insisted.”
She blushed. Her hand left his face. “Yes. That’s true. I never realized how easy it would be to fall from grace.” Her wide, soft eyes, wounded and wet, met his. “Is that why you did it? To show me how vulnerable I am?”
He wanted to say yes, to hurt her again. But suddenly it gave him no pleasure. No woman had ever reacted to him that way, been so tender with him, so patient, so willing to listen.
“No,” he confessed curtly.
That one word took the pain away. She just looked at him.
He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm hungrily. “I’ve never told anyone about my wife, except Grier and you, and one other person.”
“I never tell anything I know,” she replied huskily. She searched his dark eyes. “Ever
.”
He managed a smile. “You have a gift for listening.”
“I learned it from my father. He’s very patient.”
He touched her soft mouth. “The angle of that wound is odd,” he said after a minute, staring at the T-shirt. “Was the attacker very tall?”
“Not really,” she confessed. “He reached around my father to do it.” She shivered. She could still feel the pain of the knife.
“He’ll never do it to anyone else,” he assured her.
“I know. He died. They said it took a long time.” She touched the scar involuntarily. “I’m sorry that his life took such a turn that he felt he was justified in killing people.”
“He was an addict and they offered him product,” Carson said coldly. “It works, most of the time.”
“I’m sorry for him, for the way it happened. But I’m not sorry he’s gone.” She grimaced. “My dad wouldn’t like hearing me say that.”
“I won’t tell him,” he said gently. He looked down at her with faint possession. “Don’t beat your conscience to death over what happened,” he said quietly. “Any experienced man can overcome an innocent woman’s scruples if he tries hard enough. And if she’s attracted to him,” he added gently.
She colored even more. “Yes, well, I...I didn’t mean...I don’t...”
He put a finger across her mouth. “It’s an intimate memory. For the two of us. No one else will ever know. All right?”
She nodded. “All right.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “Keep your doors locked when your father isn’t here,” he said.
The tone of his voice was disturbing. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She just sighed. As she started to speak, there was a terrible rapping sound against the side of the house.
Carson was on his feet at once, his hand on the hilt of the big bowie knife.
“That’s just George.”
He scowled. “Who?”
“George. He’s my red-bellied woodpecker.” She grimaced. “I put nuts out for him at daylight every day. He’s telling me he’s hungry and I’m late.” She laughed. “Listen.” There was another sound, like something small bounding across the roof. “That’s one of the squirrels. They let George do the reminding, and then they queue for the nuts.” She listened again. There was a loud cacophony of bird calls. “And those are the blue jays. They fight George for the nuts...”
“You know them by sound?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course.” She got up, frowning slightly. “Can’t everybody identify them from the songs they sing?”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe this.”
“You can help me feed them if you want to. I mean, if you don’t have something else to do,” she added quickly, not wanting him to feel pressured.
But he wasn’t looking for a way out. He just smiled. “Put on a coat,” he said.
She pulled her ratty one out of the closet and grimaced. “This is what it’s best for,” she sighed. “Feeding birds.”
“You should buy a new one.”
She gave him a world-weary glance. “With what?” she asked. “We just had to fill up the propane tank again because winter doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. New things are a luxury around here.”
He was estimating the age of her shoes and jeans. The T-shirt appeared new. He cocked his head. It was black with writing—it had a picture of a big black bird on it. Underneath it read, “Hey, you in the house, bring more birdseed!”
He chuckled. “Cool shirt.”
“You like it? I designed it. There’s this website. It has nice T-shirts for a reasonable price and you can design your own. This is one of the grackles that come every spring. I haven’t seen one just yet.”
She led the way, picking up a container of birdseed and one of shelled nuts on the way.
“The pecans came from our own trees,” she said. “The farm produce store that sells them has a sheller you can run them through. I did enough to last several weeks.”
“Back home, we have ravens,” he told her, his hands in his jeans as he followed her out to the big backyard. Towering trees gave way to a small pasture beyond. “And crows.” He pursed his lips and grinned. “Did you know that crows used to be white?”
“White?”
He nodded. “It’s a Brulé Lakota legend. The crow was white, and he was brother to the buffalo. So he would warn the buffalo when the people came to hunt it. The warriors grew angry that they couldn’t get close to the buffalo, so one of them put on a buffalo skin and waited for the crow to come and give its warning. When it did, he caught it by the feet. Another warrior, very angry, took it from him and dashed it into the fire in revenge. The crow escaped, but its feathers were burned. So now the crow is black.”
She laughed with pure delight. “I love stories.”
“Our legends fill books,” he mused. “That’s one of my favorites.”
That he’d shared something from his culture with her made her feel warm, welcome. She turned to look for the woodpecker. He was clinging to a nearby tree trunk making his usual lilting cry. “Okay, George, I’m here,” she called. She went to a ledge on the fence and spread the nuts along it. She filled the bird feeder. Then she motioned to Carson and they moved away from the feeder.
A flash of striped feathers later, George was carting off the first pecan. He was followed by blue jays and cardinals, a tufted titmouse and a wren.
She identified them to Carson as they came in. Then she laughed suddenly as a new birdcall was heard, and started looking around. “That’s a red-winged blackbird,” she said. “I don’t see him.”
“I do know that call,” he replied. He shook his head, smiling. “I’ve never known anyone who could listen to a birdsong and identify the bird without seeing it first.”
“Oh, I can’t do them all,” she assured him. “Just a few. Listen. That one’s a grackle!” she exclaimed. “Hear it? It sounds like a rusty hinge being moved... There he is!”
She indicated a point high in the bare limbs above. “They’re so beautiful. They’re so black that they have a faint purple tinge, sort of like your hair,” she added, looking at it in its neat ponytail. Her eyes lingered there. He was so handsome that she thought she’d never tire of watching him.
He smiled knowingly and she flushed and averted her eyes. He was wearing that incredible fringed jacket that suited him so. Its paleness brought out the smooth olive tan of his complexion, made him look wild and free. She thought back to what her father had said, that Carson was a lobo wolf who could never be domesticated. The better she got to know him, the more certain she was of that. He’d never be able to stop picking up beautiful women, or looking for the next fight. Her heart felt sick.
She tossed seed onto the ground while the last of the nuts vanished from the fence. Carson reached into the bucket and pulled out a handful of his own and tossed it.
They stood very close, in the cold light of the morning, feeding the birds. Carlie thought it was a time she’d never forget, whatever came after. Just her and Carson, all alone in the world, without a word being spoken.
It felt...like coming home.
Carson was feeling something similar. He didn’t want to think about it too much. His life was what it was. He wasn’t going to get married again, settle down and have children. It was too tame for him, for his spirit. He’d lived wild for too long.
He knew she must have hopes. Her physical response to him was purely headlong. She would probably give in to him if he pushed her. He thought about doing that. He wanted her very badly. But no form of birth control was surefire. Carlie was an innocent, and she had strong beliefs. She’d never give up a child she conceived, especially his. It would lead to terrible complications...
&n
bsp; He scowled. He was remembering some tidbit of gossip he’d heard. He glanced down at Carlie. She looked up, her eyes full of soft memory.
“Your father married your mother because you were on the way,” he said gently. “True?”
She swallowed. “Well, yes. She was like me,” she said, lowering her eyes to his chest. “She’d never put a foot out of line, never been...with a man. My father was dashing and exciting, well-traveled and smart. She just went in headfirst. She told me once,” she recalled sadly, “that she’d ruined both their lives because she couldn’t say no, the one time it really counted. She loved me,” she added quickly. “She said I made everything worthwhile. But her love for my father, and his for her, never made up for the fact that he’d been pressured into marrying her.”
“This isn’t Victorian times,” he pointed out.
“This is Jacobsville, Texas,” she returned. “Or, in my case, Comanche Wells. I live among people who have known my people since the Civil War, when my family first came here from Georgia and settled on this land.” She swept a hand toward it. “Generations of us know each other like family. And like family, there are some social pressures on people in terms of behavior.”
“Prehistoric ones,” he scoffed.
She looked up at him. “Is the world really a better place now that nothing is considered bad? People just do what they want, with anyone. How is that different from what animals do in the wild?”
He was lost for words.
“Everything goes. But the one thing that separates human beings from animals is a nobility of spirit, a sense of self-worth. I have ideals. I think they’re what holds civilization together, and that if you cheapen yourself with careless encounters, you lose sight of the things that truly matter.”
“Which would be...?” he prompted, stung by her reply.
“Family,” she said simply. “Continuity. People get married, have children, raise children to be good people, give them a happy home life so that they grow up to be responsible and independent. Then the next generation comes along and does the same thing.”
“Permissive people still have kids,” he said drolly.
