by Linda Kage
Oh, God. Who would’ve known Grady Rawlings would be such a tease?
His fingers followed the torture next, as he skimmed them over her clavicle and around her breasts, caressing close to her most sensitive points, but never providing direct contact. It had to be the most sensual moment of her life, and yet he seemed perfectly content to turn a little PG, driving her insane by exploring safe zones.
Pausing at her old snakebite a few inches under her arm, he bent and kissed the healed wound. It felt very intimate to reveal such a scar to Grady. He didn’t ask about it, only lavished it with loving attention and then moved to the next scar he found on her knee.
Then, damn it, the man turned cuddly. He shuddered out a breath and lay on top of her, making sure every inch of his skin pressed against hers from their ankles to their necks. Sighing, he relaxed against her. His arms came around her as he rested his face by her shoulder, lying there quietly like he was soaking in the sensation.
He was. . .he was hugging her, she realized, and burying his face in her hair like he was hiding from the fact he needed such contact. . .such comfort. But this was definitely an embrace. She swallowed; tears pricked her eyes at the sweetness of the moment.
“Touch me back,” he whispered. Manually taking her hand, he pressed her palm against the side of his ribcage. “Please.”
She did, uncertain at first while she ran her fingers up the back of his shoulders. Shuddering out his pleasure, he closed his eyes and let his head roll back, allowing her to explore him as he had her. She traced the sculpted plane of his stomach and abs, and he investigated the curve of her hip before trailing his short nails up her spine.
The pace slowed to a drowsy tempo, neither rushing as they learned the contours and curves of their partner. When Grady finally abandoned her mouth, he only moved his lips to other body parts. His tongue and teeth lavished her. She sighed and threaded her fingers through his damp hair.
He kissed and touched like he was making love. There was no humping or screwing or any kind of degrading term like that with this man. Once he was in control of himself, he was all about gentle and soft. It was so damn precious she mimicked his kindness, touching him tenderly, rubbing her fingers up his arms and over his elbows, investigating places she’d never gone on a man, simple places like his wrists and earlobes, but places that suddenly seemed incredibly sensual.
This was how a married couple made love, she thought. But then, he was a married man, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t know any other way. Jesus, he was probably thinking of his wife as he nuzzled her neck with his nose, trying to forget he was with—
“B.J.,” he groaned, barely lifting his voice, a low rumble that vibrated through her and made her shiver.
So, okay, maybe he wasn’t thinking about Amy, which only made this better. . .and so much worse.
“Can I. . .” he started to ask and then hesitated.
“Yes,” she answered with no pause whatsoever.
Yes, he could do anything he wanted.
He lifted her leg, wrapping her thigh around his hip, and sunk himself inside her with an achingly slow plunge that had her gasping and bowing against him.
Slipping her hands ever so softly over his back and gracefully lifting her hips to meet this thrust, B.J. closed her eyes and pretended this was exactly what it felt like: making love.
His pace filled her with agonizing frustration. It didn’t take long for her to crave the speed again. She yearned to drown in the sensations, dive into the storm. But he took his ever-loving time like he relished discovering each inch of her with his mouth and hands, like each instance he moved within her, he needed to savor the feeling with concentrated deliberation.
B.J. squeezed him tight with her thighs, digging her heels into his ass and holding him deeper, urging him on and trying to coax him into cooperating and going faster.
“Hurry,” she rasped.
He looked down at her with sweat beading his brow and his lips tight with focus. “I want slow,” was his steady command.
She shook her head. . .or more like thrashed it from side to side. “I can’t—” Oh, God, she was going to die—or go insane—if he didn’t hurry. “Grady, I can’t.”
“You will,” he said, and, damn it, she did.
She came slowly, feeling it methodically work its way up her toes and the insides of her thighs, until it hit her g-spot. Then she came and came and came. . .and came. Above her, Grady gasped and tensed. Picking up his pace and pounding into her, he released himself, joining her orgasm. He gritted his teeth, telling her just how hard he strained as he gave that last plunge. Then he groaned deep and long, holding his large, quivering body taut as he closed his eyes.
The silence that followed was deafening.
B.J. didn’t think she was ever going to stop shuddering from the aftershocks, not even when he collapsed heavily on top of her, his limp deadweight making her wonder if he’d physically passed out.
Just when she decided she liked the warm, blanketing load, he picked himself up and rolled off her. She instantly chilled, missing his heat. Closing her eyes, she wished him back, and then jumped when he actually curled his arm around her waist and tugged her against him.
They held each other close, like a pair a frightened children huddling in the dark and worrying about the scary monster coming for them. And, damn, she did feel terrified out of her mind. Reality could be one mean bogeyman.
Not sure what had just happened between the lines of all that moaning and orgasming, she clutched him for dear life, thinking he was the only thing solid and real in this crazy, mixed-up situation.
He kissed her hair and stroked her arm, settling her nerves. She wasn’t sure if he knew she needed his tender touch after that explosion of raw feelings and need, but he provided exactly the kind of tranquil comfort that eased her. Relaxing and closing her eyes, she inhaled the smell of his sweat that oozed what could only be called a Grady pheromone.
Lounging against him so peacefully, she imagined a husband and wife this way, all happy and satisfied after making a baby together.
She paused.
Baby?
Her eyes jerked open; she stared up at the ceiling, feeling frozen.
“Did you wear a condom?”
What kind of stupid question was that? Of course he hadn’t. . .in either round. She’d been there the entire time. She knew perfectly well there’d been no pausing for prophylactic safely.
Grady went tense. He sat up and looked down at her with wide eyes.
“Shit,” she said and sat up as well. “I. . .I should clean this off. . .or something.”
She couldn’t see him clearly in the dim light, but she could tell he wasn’t moving.
“Not that it would make much difference,” she added as she pushed to her feet. “But washing’s better than nothing. . .don’t you think?”
He didn’t respond.
She felt stupid, explaining herself and asking his advice. But what the hell was she supposed to say? She’d never had unprotected sex before. She’d never completely forgotten about safety. She’d never coerced a man into deserting his vow of chastity and, damn it, she’d certainly never experienced two orgasms right in a row like that.
She was completely at loose ends over how to handle any of this.
Feeling stiff and suddenly sore, she moved toward the bathroom and hobbled inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. Once alone in the brightly lit chamber, she let out a breath and pressed a hand to her quaking stomach. She met her own gaze in the mirror. Large, dazed brown doe eyes stared back. She looked like a woman who’d just taken a long, hard tumble with a very potent lover. Her naked skin was red and chafed from his five-o’clock shadow while her hair, which had come free from its ponytail holder, was mussed in a ratted, mangled mess. Her lips were swollen and bright rose in color.
B.J. blinked and lifted a hand to touch her mouth. Holy Lord. She looked good and truly debauched. As she glanced back at the door, her stomach rolled again wi
th unease. This was foreign territory indeed. She was actually thinking like a woman as she wondered what was going on in Grady’s head out there.
She wondered what he thought of her now and how awkward it was going to be when she finally left the bathroom. She knew she’d been wrong. . .but he hadn’t stopped her. In fact, the second time had been entirely his doing. . .his sweet, slow, almost-loving doing.
B.J. grinned. The second time. Imagine that. They’d had sex two consecutive times in a row.
Thinking things couldn’t be as bad as she’d originally surmised, she hurried to the shower, turned on the water, and cleaned herself quickly. All the while, she almost expected Grady, the sexually repressed nymphomaniac who’d just gone twice in a row, to pop in and join her for some kinky, yet satisfying, shower play. But he didn’t enter the bathroom.
Once she’d rinsed herself clean, she hurried out of the tub and slung a towel around her body, wrapping it up under her armpits and tucking the end between her tender breasts. She hadn’t brought any clothes into the lavatory, so she went to the door and eased it open, wondering if he’d be dressed or not.
But when B.J. ducked her head into her hotel room, all traces of Grady Rawlings were gone. The only thing to let her know she hadn’t imagined everything was the soreness between her legs and the hot rash of beard burn on her neck, not to mention the pile of her damp clothes strewn across the floor.
Straightening, she stepped fully into the room and ignored the ball of disappointment that thumped into the base of her stomach. Of course, she was relieved too, she assured herself. If he was upset or remorseful, she didn’t particularly want to face him and look into his accusing eyes.
But the disappearing act kind of stung. It told her without a doubt their encounter had been a mistake.
B.J. nodded to herself, mentally repeating that it had indeed been a stupid, careless blunder as she slumped toward the bed. Not bothering to put on clothes, she dropped the towel and crawled under the covers.
Curling into a tight ball, she lay there. She shouldn’t have left him out here alone. Or better yet, she shouldn’t have pushed him into any of this tonight. She should’ve just shut up and let it all alone. Damn it, she shouldn’t have been so rude, and she certainly shouldn’t have kissed him.
But she had. She’d done it all.
He was probably in his room, feeling as guilty as hell. He hadn’t planned on ever being with another woman again. Something inside her told her he hadn’t. Not that it mattered. She’d destroyed his plans and felt like a piece of crap for it.
“What a complete mess,” she announced to the quiet room.
Then, unable to help it, she burst into tears.
“God, what’s wrong with me?” she muttered.
B.J. Gilmore, the tomboy of Tommy Creek, Texas, never cried. But, tonight, she did. She let the tears flow as she bawled herself to sleep.
Chapter Five
Grady crawled out of bed before dawn. All night, he kept jerking awake every half hour, haunted by erotic images, until he finally grew fed up with trying to sleep and shoved the sheets off his burning skin. He took a shower. As the water sluiced over his shoulders and through his hair, steaming the air around him, he closed his eyes, rested a hand against the shower wall, and bowed his head. Deciding this had to be about the most confusing moment of his life, he let out a long breath and lifted his face to the spray.
From one perspective, he wanted to hate B.J. Gilmore. She had no right to pressure him into doing anything he didn’t want to do, something he hadn’t been prepared to do. This was his life. He decided when he was ready to move on and when he wasn’t.
Damn some hot-headed tomboy who thought he needed a little prodding.
On the other hand, he wanted to return to her room, lock them both inside, and continue where they’d left off. She’d been right about one thing. Going without sex for too long couldn’t be healthy. . .hadn’t been healthy. It’d turned him into a maniac, an utter savage. He just wanted to tie her to the nearest bed and keep her there for two weeks straight. He wanted to pound and rut until she passed out from orgasm overdose. The things he had in mind would make it so she’d never walk right again.
God.
Rippling with need, his dick lengthened and his balls tightened. His body wanted more of B.J. Gilmore, and it didn’t care what he had to do to get her.
Yet decency told him he should apologize. His mother hadn’t raised him to be the type of man who kicked up a woman’s skirt twice in a row without protection and then ditched out on her at the first opportunity. He was better than that. A gentleman.
Guilt clogged his throat, and he swallowed, trying to work it loose.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have survived if he’d stayed in her room. His nerves were rent to hell, and every particle of his being felt scattered and disorganized. He didn’t know who he was or how to be. He just knew he had to get as far away from her as possible.
In his entire life, he’d only been with one woman. He’d dated Amy for three years until they’d had sex on the night of their junior prom. At that point, it was a given they’d eventually marry. So, he’d never thought he’d be with anyone else. She’d been “the one.” He’d assumed he’d never have another for the rest of his life. But he’d had B.J., the very woman his dead wife had helped raise.
He’d always thought of her as the mouthy little Gilmore tomboy whose mama had died in a car accident when she was only three. B.J. was a tough hard-ass who didn’t take crap from anyone. Grady had never looked at her in a sexual light before, not until he’d glanced at her in the elevator and seen her nipples poking through her wet shirt, making him want to warm them with his breath. Of course, she’d been talking to him about sex, so at that point it was the only thing on his mind. But Grady was thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. He should’ve had more restraint. The mere sight of a woman’s tits definitely shouldn’t have pushed him over the edge.
Yet it had.
And now, here he was. . .confused. There was shame, sure. He’d just been with a woman who wasn’t his wife—whom he never intended to make his wife—and he’d liked it. It went against every single old-fashioned moral fiber he possessed.
Then there was anger. If she’d only left him alone, he wouldn’t have touched a hair on her head the entire trip, and none of his morals would be compromised. God, why hadn’t she just left him the hell alone?
The guilt for ditching out on her afterward ate at him the most, but the longing thumping through his bloodstream didn’t help in the least. His libido craved her again. Like a junkie going through withdrawal, his body felt edgy and impatient, needing more. . .now.
He didn’t want to want her. He wasn’t ready for this pulsing, gut-eating kind of necessity. He still loved Amy. He wanted to be with Amy. He wanted to make love with her, not some rude, irritating wannabe man.
But Amy was gone, and he felt lost and so conflicted, the water turned cold in his shower before he realized how long he’d been standing there.
Cursing under his breath, he shut off the stream and pushed the shower door open to reach for a towel.
One thing was certain. He needed to apologize. It didn’t matter how much he blamed B.J. for their encounter, he’d fully participated. And leaving her alone afterward was inexcusable.
He’d say something on the plane.
But damn. . .he certainly didn’t relish the idea of being stuck alone with her on a tiny aircraft the entire way back to Tommy Creek. . .not when she’d be close enough he could smell her or, God help him, lean over and taste her.
****
B.J. arrived at the rented hangar half an hour before their rendezvous. Blood thrummed through her veins as she neared her plane. Today, she wanted to fly fast. She needed to vent, and her skywagon was just the tool in which to do that.
She’d had her Cessna TU206 for five years now. The Gilmore family business already had three planes between them. But ever since she was six years old and
her father had taken her up on a crop-dusting job, she’d wanted one to call her own. Pop let her think she was commandeering the throttle, and she’d been a goner. It’d taken her sixteen years to finally get approved for the loan to buy her own.
The money she’d borrowed for her twenty-year-old Cessna exceeded the mortgage on her house, but B.J. thought it was worth it. Her single-engine aircraft did everything she needed it to do. It was an SUV of the air. She used it for aerial photography on occasion, cargo-hauling at other times, and least frequently she transported up to four passengers or flew for skydiving lessons and jumps. She figured it’d pay itself off in another ten years if business kept on as it was.
Thankful it was a bright, sunny day, she pushed her mirrored sunglasses into place, making sure they were snugly settled before she patted the side of her Cessna in welcome. Nothing short of the hand of God was going to make her take those shades off either. Under the reflective lenses, her eyes were puffy and red.
Her hair was up in a ponytail—big shocker there—and she wore a black tank top with blue jeans. It definitely didn’t scream, come and get me, big boy, but when she glanced up and saw Grady watching her as he approached, she felt as if she were wearing the slinkiest, hottest piece of lingerie on the planet. He wanted her. It was spelled out in his clear blue eyes as his gaze slowly traveled down her body and meandered its way back up again.
Shock and animal awareness collided hard in her gut. She still couldn’t believe he’d actually showed. It wasn’t like there would be any commercial flights landing in their small countryside airstrip anytime in the next millennium, but she’d wondered if he’d just rent a car or something and drive home. She’d in no way thought he’d torture himself by riding back with her in a small enclosed space for nearly a whole hour.
But here he was at eight o’clock sharp, staring at her like he wanted her for breakfast.
She sucked in a breath and tried to keep it cool, though questions stirred inside her. Did that hungry look mean he’d forgiven her? Did his presence mean he wasn’t mad? Could she hope all was okay between them?
