by Cait London
“I wanted you safe.” He smoothed the big collar at her throat. “You’re wearing my shirt, the one you wore that morning when you drove the lumber truck.... I look—I am tough because I come from a long line of mountain men, honey. Trappers and hunters, and there is that Blaylock Apache blood...”
Her hand caught his wrist, turning his hand to examine his palm. “Oh, Roman...”
Roman noted the gleam on her band—Kallista still wore his wedding ring. It was enough that she hadn’t removed the symbol of their wedding, of his love for her.
She bent to kiss the raw skin, the legacy of his hours with the ax, when she’d hid in the cabin and cried. She hadn’t wanted him to see her pain and that had hurt. Then her soft gaze lifted to his. “Get undressed, Mr. Blaylock. Come lie beside me.”
“That might not be a good idea—” Roman heard his indrawn breath hissing through his teeth as Kallista sat up and began unbuttoning her borrowed shirt.
When the edges were open and revealing the soft curves of her breast, she placed her hands on his chest. “Come lie by me,” she repeated in a whisper. “I need you to hold me.”
Roman hesitated, then tugged off his moccasins and stood to undress. “Don’t look at me like that, Kallie,” he whispered, when she studied him intimately and reached out to smooth his body with her fingertips.
He was aroused, thrusting, aching, and shivered when her fingers curled curiously around him. Kneeling on the large, sturdy bed, Kallista eased out of the shirt and wrapped her arms around his waist, her head resting against his chest.
Roman groaned shakily, uncertain of how to hold her, what to tell her. Could he restrain his need for her now?
The softness of her breasts brushing sweet and low on his body caused him to tremble and Roman eased her back on the bed, sliding into the covers beside her.
She turned to drape her arm across his chest, toying with the hair there; her slender thigh slid between his rougher ones, caressing him. Kallista raised slightly to look down at him. “Thank you, Roman, for keeping Boone’s land safe...for keeping his secret.”
“You don’t owe me,” he said roughly, uncertain and wary of her mood.
“No, I don’t But I want you to know that I realize I was wrong—you are a good man, Roman Blaylock.”
“I want you,” he murmured, giving in to the blunt truth that had always been his way.
“But the decision is mine, right? What if I want you?”
“Want me?” He flattened to the bed as Kallista moved over him, his hands immediately locking to her hips.
“I’m not making any promises, Roman. But you are a beautiful, sweet man, and you’re mine—at least for now.”
She would always be his—in his heart. Roman turned her slowly, ran his trembling hand down her soft body, and brushed her lips with his. He could tell her with his body how much he loved her, how deep she went in his heart—then he realized he was speaking aloud.
“You say the most beautiful things.” Kallista’s slender hands smoothed his back and hips and Roman thought he was floating. Then she looked up at him and locked her legs with his, rubbing his calves with her soles.
The burning moist entrance to her body beckoned to him, and with a reluctant groan, Roman slid fully into her. The fire came quickly to them, bodies pounding, hunger blazing, mouths fused, heat pouring from them; then Kallista’s tight body clenched his intimately and Roman cried out, both in pleasure and in devastation.
The incredible softness of Kallista beneath him soon caused Roman to lift his head, to find her breasts with his mouth and to nibble gently—she twisted against him, bucking, her nails digging in. In her eyes, he saw the desperation that rode him, and for once in his life, Roman cut his leashes and began loving her again, thrusting deep, lifting her hips, feeding upon her skin, tasting her...
She pushed him back and Roman shook his head, startled that he’d pushed so deeply into her tight body, that he’d taken greedily. Then Kallista flung herself at him, turned him, and lay upon him. “You’re so traditional,” she whispered with a grin.
“What do you know about it?” he returned, grinning up at her.
Her body clenched his tightly and he released the breath he’d been holding. “You’re shockable, Mr. Roman Blaylock.”
“Am not.” He barely kept himself from pouring into her, fighting to be gentle, fearing to unleash his passion for her.
Her dive to his nipple, suckling it, proved that Roman Blaylock had much to learn about her body and his. He laughed aloud and turned her to her stomach, lying over her, nibbling on her ear. “You taste good.”
She turned to smile up at him. “You’re better than a blanket—in fact, you’re burning...and you’re definitely not a soft man.”
“That I am...for you.” Roman studied the long black swath of hair across her sleek back and eased it aside. He bent to trail kisses across her shoulders and down her back, sliding his hands beneath her to capture her breasts. “You’re so sensitive here—” Then he turned her to taste her, the dark mauve tips cresting within his mouth. She shivered, her nails digging in his shoulders each time he licked and bit gently. “You’re shaking, burning—”
Her hips bucked against his, the slap of heated damp flesh startling him as she asked, “Is that me burning in this hurricane—or you?”
Roman—her new husband—braced himself over her, his face as dark and fierce as his Native American and Spanish ancestors, and as passionate, his hair rumpled from her hands. Kallista quivered as his hands ran down her, locking to her hips, those hard, rough, callused hands, drawing her knees gently higher. Then he came to her, strong, wild, fighting the passion she fought, climbing with her, and Kallista cried out, panted, her teeth biting his shoulder, her nails digging in—holding Roman, holding his strong, rippling body within hers.
He breathed as if air had been torn from him, as if he were fighting to claim eternity, and yet leashing his strength.
She held him tighter, flung herself at him, and his teeth caught her lip tugging at him, his mouth found hers and ravished, pounding her as she lifted to him, retreat, dive and retreat, the race taking her soul, the pleasure building.
He took her breast in his hand, suckled until she cried out, cords of pleasure tightening until she thought she’d found fire and melted—then the rhythm began again, Roman’s big hands sweeping over her, his face feverish upon her skin, his words rough and dear and sweet against her ears, her skin. Locked to her, Roman was hers...hers...and they were flying across the fire, until...
She held him fiercely, poised on that ultimate crest of rippling pleasure. With a shout, Roman followed her, as though he’d flung all that he was, all that he would be into his passion for her. In the silence later, his heart pounding against her, his skin damp beneath her palms, his body tense, she fought to keep him close, and suddenly Roman turned, keeping their bodies locked as she lay over him.
Because she could almost sense his thoughts—berating himself for dominating, for the power he’d used with her in the eternal struggle, male and female, locked in sensual battle, Kallista whispered against his chest, “Don’t you dare let me go now, Roman Blaylock.”
He shivered, a huge, strong man in terror that he’d hurt or frightened her. She couldn’t have him in pain, and slid her hand to where they were joined at the same time she nibbled on his neck. She smiled when his big hands tightened on her hips, molding them, his body growing hard within her now, stretching her and instantly she caught him again.
The interesting thing about Roman Blaylock, she thought with pleasure, was that his passion matched hers. When she hurled herself against him again, the movement took them off the bed and Roman landed on his back, catching her amid the heavy patchwork quilt. She braced herself above him and studied him. “I should have told you I wanted you badly. You’re shy in your way.”
“Me?” he asked, clearly astonished.
A half hour later, after her bath in the old tin tub, Roman lifted her to the floor and dried her. His
bath was hurried, his eyes never leaving her as she nestled on the old bed. When he came to her, she saw what he wanted, knew that already his desire leaped for her, needed her.
There in the wildfire, the hurried sweet mating, their bodies joined, slick with sweat and trembling with the storm, Roman began to explore her carefully, and she cried out as he touched her delicately, found that sensitive spot and then she was lost, locking him to her so tightly that they were one, flying again and she found herself lying on his broad chest, heart racing and bones melted. Then Roman began to lift her hand, to kiss her ring, and to hold her close as the fire crackled in the old stove and a gentle calm came over Kallista Blaylock, as though she’d known all her life that she was meant for this one man.
He smoothed her hair, turned her face up to his for a kiss and covered her bare shoulder with the heavy patchwork quilt.
She awoke to Roman thrashing in his nightmare, his face damp with sweat, and his mournful cry. Kallista hurried to place her hands on his face, to soothe him as he had shown her. Strange, she thought, how her touch meant so much as he began to still. His lashes fluttered open and bending over him, she saw into his hell, his nightmare, his grief. “Roman?”
“I’m sorry.” He was trembling now, his deep voice streaked with pain. “It happens sometimes when I—I let go. Did I hurt you?”
“It’s Michaela, isn’t it?”
He shuddered, sitting up, his bare back to her, as he held his face in his hands. “I see her facedown in that damned swimming pool. She was so tiny.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Debbie should have—”
“Leave me alone,” he said and quickly jerked on his jeans and moccasins, leaving her.
The instant the door closed behind Roman, Kallista was out of bed, hurrying to dress. She grabbed Roman’s jacket and stepped out into the chilling wind. He stood amid the snowflakes, hands on his head, his unbuttoned shirt blowing in the wind. The pain in his eyes tore at her, and Kallista shoved his arms into his jacket, then hurled her arms around him. He held her tight, then in the next instant, bent to pick her up and hurry back into the cabin.
They met in passion, falling onto the bed, Roman’s hands already upon her body, finding her beneath her jeans. She tugged open his jeans and came down on him, her body filling with his as she pushed him back, straddling him and rocking. Roman twisted beneath her, hips bucking, meeting hers. He ripped off her jacket, flinging it away, then his met the same fate. His hand pulled open her blouse, just as she tore open his shirt, buttons popping as the fever blazed between them.
Kallista gloried in Roman’s unbridled need for her, in the wild pounding of his body, the race they shared, the heat and storms burning away the past.
Lying on her now, because she wouldn’t let him leave her, Roman shuddered, and eased to one side. He smoothed her hair and gathered her close. “You are a strong woman, Kallie,” he murmured softly before falling into a deep sleep.
The depth of his pain startled her, and it was a long time before Kallista slept, twined with Roman’s hard, warm body.
The man cooking breakfast bacon and potatoes on the old stove looked delicious—freshly bathed, worn jeans his only clothing, his powerful back rippling as he moved... Kallista slid from the bed and walked to Roman, sliding her arms around his waist, and kissing the long red streaks her nails had made.
Roman tensed. “You’ve got my marks on you, Kallie. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to—” When Roman turned, her eyes widened; the red marks on his dark skin. “I actually bit you. I bit you,” she repeated, stunned.
“I did some biting of my own,” he whispered gently, and slid the skillet aside. He began backing her to the bed, then stooped and picked her up and plopped her on it. With a dive, Roman came down on her, already hungry.
“You’ve shocked me,” Kallista murmured later over their breakfast of champagne and bacon and freshly baked sourdough biscuits.
“I’ve wanted you a long time. You’re a passionate woman, a strong woman, Kallie Blaylock. And still shy of me,” he added, running his fingertip down her hot cheek.
“You should see yourself, Mr. Blaylock, rising up like some warrior, all fierce and hungry and—mmm.” Kallista stopped talking and gave herself to the man who had just plucked her from her chair and held her high in the air, laughing up at her. She wrapped her legs around him and dived into the man she wanted more than freedom.
The next night, they lay in the huge empty room of his addition, still hungry for each other. “Is this what you want?” Roman asked as he lifted his lips.
“I make noises,” she muttered and realized she barely had the strength—after Roman’s devastating lovemaking—to lift her hand.
“That you do. The purrs knock me sideways, but that high keening sound as if you’re flinging away your soul. That is a lovely sound and I feel like I’m in the middle of thunder and lightning.”
“I’m not alone in the noise business,” she said to defend herself. “You shout as if you’re dying.”
“I purely do die, just that bit after your lightning bolts sizzle the holy soul out of me. Or that nice sweet surrender when everything comes calm and gentle upon us.”
She could have listened to him talk forever, his simple words easing her past and what she would find in Boone’s records.
The fiickering light from the fireplace traced Roman’s hard face. He hadn’t shaved tonight, hadn’t had time. He’d carried her into the new addition and kicked the door closed behind him. “It’s for you to decide if you want to live here. But if you could find it in your heart, I’d like to share our bedroom with you.”
The rooms were barren, scented of new wood, the wood floors gleaming. The living room led into a family kitchen, sprawling countertops and cupboards waiting to be filled. One large bedroom viewed the mountains, with a door to a smaller one.
Kallista snuggled close to Roman and studied Mrs. Llewlyn’s refinished walnut wardrobe. “Thank you. I haven’t given you anything.”
Roman’s grin was wicked, boyish and tempting. Then his band found her breast and the passion ripped through them again.
When Cindi rode her bike to The Llewlyn the next morning, she crossed her arms, tilted her head and studied Kallista in the bright September midmorning. “You look different. There’s marks on your neck. Roman looks like he’s come unglued and only his silly smile is pasting him together.”
This was her little sister, and Kallista. bent to hug her. Bristling, Cindi pushed away, but then she smiled slowly, shyly. When she was old enough to know, Kallista would tell her that they were sisters. “There’s a present for you in the house,” she said now.
“For me?” she asked before racing to the house.
Kallista turned to Roman and with a grin, patted his backside. He straightened, stunned and wary. “That’s a familiar thing to do, Mrs. Blaylock.”
She fluttered her lashes at him, fascinated with the quick leap of desire in his eyes, his body humming instantly with it. “You’re so easy, Mr. Blaylock.”
“Are you staying?” he asked bluntly, in one of those quick turns that sent her reeling.
“It would be too easy to do,” she answered truthfully.
“Then we’d better get a bed today, a good strong one...if you’re sleeping with me.”
“That sure is a big bed,” Cindi remarked looking out the pickup’s rear window to the furniture in the back. “We had to drive to two towns to get it Mine is better. Mom, you look like you’d like to murder someone—”
“I would.” Kallista managed a sweet tone although she really wanted to leap the man driving the pickup and burn him.
Roman lifted that one innocent eyebrow as he looked down at her, his hand tightening on her knee. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
She took his wrist and placed his hand on the steering wheeL “You can’t just walk into a furniture store and tell them that you just got married and you want the biggest, strongest bed in stock...and
say ‘now’ as if you can’t wait to get it home.”
His look at her sizzled. “I can’t wait to get it home, dear.”
“I like my new combat boots. I said thanks,” Cindi said worriedly, reminding Kallista of the girl’s experience with battling adults.
Kallista held her hand, and ignored Roman’s thumb caressing her own nape. He’d braided her hair that morning; then while Titus and Dusty showed Cindi the new barn kittens, Roman had closed Boone’s office door. One look at him took Kallista toward him, matching his passion with her own.
There in the pickup seat between the safety of Roman and her young sister, Kallista fought tears. Her grandfather had suffered so much, his shame burdening him, his sons hurting him, and yet he’d wanted to keep Llewlyn land for his grandchildren.
Suddenly Roman’s arm came around Kallista, and he gathered her close.
“Why’s she crying?” Cindi asked in hushed, worried tones.
“Her heart is aching, honey. But she’ll be just fine.”
Twelve
Two weeks later, while September’s wind brushed the aspen leaves upon the old cabin’s wooden shakes, Roman forced himself to lift his head from his wife’s soft breasts. He brushed back the silky black hair from her damp, flushed cheek; he traced her swollen lips with his as the big bed creaked beneath them and the fire crackled in the stove. “I’m glad you like the combs.”
The huge, old silver combs, embedded with bloodred garnets, gleamed in Kallista’s hair. “I love the man who gave them to me...who put them in my hair and who loved me last night and every night. Boone chose the perfect man to bring his grandchildren back to the land.”
He brought her hands to his face, nuzzling them in that tender, humbling way. “You’ve given me so much. I should have had a special something for you on our wedding day.”
“Well, there was that pirate thing. How many brides can have their wishes come true? You were gorgeous, darling, looking like a pirate and a mountain man—so romantic,” she teased, loving this dear man she had captured.
