Catch Me If You Can

by Donna Kauffman

  “Tag, I—”

  He drove his finger deeper, let his thumb nestle just a bit higher, and simultaneously skimmed his palm lightly over her nipple.

  She gasped, clenched tightly around his finger.

  “Yes, that’s it. For me, Maura.” It was all he could do to stand upright. “Come for me.”

  She convulsed once, then pitched forward, gripping the sink with her hands. He bent over her, holding her back against him, the pad of his thumb still where she needed it most. But as she shook and shuddered against him, control abandoned him completely. He yanked his towel off and shifted her so she sank onto him. With one long, gliding thrust, he was inside her, his thumb still against her, his other arm around her waist, bracing her against him.

  She made a low, growling noise as he withdrew, then slid home again.

  “Yes,” he groaned, fighting like mad to stave off the climax that was already upon him. But she was still convulsing, her muscles still in the throes of her orgasm.

  Any hope of slowing it down was beyond him. She was still braced against the porcelain sink. He shifted back and gripped her hips, plunging fully into her. Again. And again. Hips slapping against her as he repeatedly buried himself as fully as a man could. She pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, crying out each time he filled her.

  Pulse thundering, heart pounding, he took her wildly. Hard, deep, and fast, no longer able to do anything but let his body take what it wanted. He came growling, teeth clenched, jaw tight. His fingertips sank into the soft flesh of her hips as he let it rush up and over him, swamping him, his growl turning to a choked shout as he poured himself into her.

  Her knees buckled and he immediately pulled her weight back against him, stumbling backward himself. He slid out of her as his back hit the wall. He grabbed the towel rack for support, his arm still clinging around her waist. She turned into him, her arms going around him as she fell against him, her breath coming in hard, fast pants.

  The realization hit him then. He hadn’t used anything. No condom, nothing. “Fuck,” he bit out.

  “We most definitely did,” she managed on a breathless gurgle of laughter. “And quite brilliantly, I might add.”

  Despite the shock of realizing what he’d just done, he barked out a short laugh himself. It was that very spontaneity in her that drew him in so easily, so swiftly. No matter what came at her, she didn’t dodge it, she didn’t take immediate offense, or demand explanations. She assumed the best, then parried with wit and panache. In his experience, that was a rare trait, man or woman.

  Their bodies slick from the steam and the exertion, he nudged her back slightly, then tilted her chin up.

  “We didn’t use protection,” he said, straight out. She didn’t dodge, so neither would he. “I—I’m—I—”

  She laughed, then kissed him. Hard and fast. “You’re a special man, Taggart Morgan, that’s what you are.” She smiled into his bemused expression. “Ye needn’t worry I’ll show up in the jungles of the Amazon a year from now with a wee bairn on my hip, okay? I’m on the pill.”

  “I wasn’t worried for me,” he said, realizing that he hadn’t once thought about what it could have meant for him. Further rocked by the realization that he just might not have been all that upset about such an outcome. Not because he fancied himself a father. In fact, he’d never fancied himself being a parent. Ever. But the vision of Maura, her belly swelling with a child—his child—did things to that primal part of himself he was just coming to realize played such a strong part of his makeup. At least where she was concerned.

  But mostly it was the thought that if he had made her pregnant, then she’d be forever connected to him.

  “No,” she said, her voice holding a note of wonder, “I don’t believe you were.” She slid from his arms, scooped up the towels and tossed one to him. “As I said, you’re a special man, Taggart Morgan.”

  He caught the towel to his chest, watched her as she busily wrapped one about her, then closed the shower curtain and pushed the floor mat about with her foot to soak up the water from the floor. She seemed casual and relaxed, but he knew her well enough now, whether it was from instinct or observation, to know she was anything but.

  There was something hanging in the air between them, and they both knew it, though neither was apparently in any hurry to confront it. Well, he could change that “So, would you?” he asked.

  “Would I what?” she asked, still busying herself with mop-up duty.

  “Travel halfway around the world to tie up loose ends.”

  She glanced up, the corner of her mouth curving. “You consider an infant a ‘loose end’?”

  “Okay. Bad example.”

  She stopped, straightened. “You’re asking if I’d do what you did?” She leaned against the sink. “Maybe. If I thought it was the only way to resolve things.” She looked around the room. “This place is a pretty demanding master. I’m not as free to move about the globe as you are.”

  “You always handle all this alone?”

  “You read my letters, you should know that.”

  He shook his head. “Not necessarily. You discuss in vague terms the ongoing work being done, but you don’t talk much about yourself. About the burden you’re under, anyway. I saw in your paperwork the reports you filed. I hadn’t seen those before.”

  “Surely your father kept—”

  “I’m sure he did. I looked over the paperwork in general, but I admit that wasn’t what pulled me in.” He held her gaze. “I never made it past your letters.”

  She didn’t have an answer to that.

  “Who you are shines through in the way you talk about the people here, the land, the goings-on in the village. I feel like I know half the people in Ballantrae. Gavin, Molly, your friend Priss.” There was a flash of… something across her face. “What? Have I gotten that wrong? I thought she was—”

  “Was.” Maura waved her hand. “Long story. Definitely not the moment to tell it.”

  “Hmm,” he said, knowing he had no right to delve into any aspect of her personal life, despite the intimacy they’d shared. Sex, no matter how explosive and emotional, was just sex after all, at least until someone said or did something to make it more than that. Which, of course, neither of them could. “I’m sorry,” he said at length.

  She lifted a shoulder, but couldn’t keep the disappointment from her eyes. “Me, too.”

  He pushed off the wall, reached out his hand. “Come on.”

  She shot him a dry smile, dimples winking out. “Sex is not the answer to everything, you know.”

  “A few days ago, I’d have agreed. But that wasn’t my intent just now.”

  She took his hand. “Then what is?”

  He pulled her close, then elicited a squeal of surprise when he bent and scooped her up in his arms. “Tag—”

  “Shh.” Both their towels fell as he carried her back to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed. “Climb in while I build the fire back up.”

  Watching him, she did as he asked without comment.

  He could hear the rustle of the bed linens as he crouched in front of the fireplace, feel her gaze caressing him. Isn’t this a cozy little nest you’ve built for yourself here, Morgan. The fire snapped as it burned brighter. A woman, warm and willing, tucked into bed, fire roaring against the cold of the winter night. He couldn’t ask for much more now, could he?

  He stood, turned, only to find her tossing back the covers, her pale skin burnished gold in the glow of the fire. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said softly. Her gaze burned over him as he crossed the room toward her.

  He’d never been so self-aware. Of his nakedness. Of how it affected her. Of how badly he wanted it to affect her. Wondering if he could ever match in her the desire she stoked inside him. Because minutes ago, in the bathroom, he had only had thoughts of climbing in bed, pulling her close to him and burrowing under the covers for the night. Surely when the sun rose in the morning, they’d be able to sit a
cross from one another like the lucid, rational adults that they were. But for now, for what was left of the night, he just wanted to forget everything else and feel her heart beat next to his as he drifted off to sleep, knowing she’d still be there, warm and his, when he awoke.

  For now, that would be enough. More than enough. Or it would have been, if she wasn’t looking at him like she could eat him alive. And damn if his body wasn’t stirring in response. “Changed your mind about what?” he asked, though he knew without a doubt exactly what she wanted. Just as he knew he wouldn’t deny her. In fact, he wasn’t all that certain he’d ever be able to deny her anything. Bewitched, that’s what he was. She’d lured him to her tower and despite the fact that he’d done the taking, they both knew who the prisoner was here.

  “I believe I was told earlier that if I were patient, I could have my turn.” She patted the bed next to her. He hadn’t known a woman with dimples could smile so wickedly. “My patience has run out. I want my turn. And, as it happens, I want it now.”

  His lips curved. His cock twitched. She noticed both. “Be gentle with me?”

  She laughed. “Why? You weren’t with me.”

  He climbed in the bed. If he ever were to find the strength to deny her, it was definitely not going to be right now. “True,” he said, as she rolled him to his back and pinned his arms over his head. “Very true.”

  Chapter 18

  Maura sat gingerly on the hardwood chair at her small, round kitchen table. Day Four of living with Tag, she thought, wincing a wee bit as she tried to find a comfortable position for sore muscles. She’d had athletic, energetic lovers before. But with them sex had been something of a sporting event, where she’d half expected to look up after finishing to find a row of people holding up scorecards.

  It wasn’t like that with Tag. By turns rough and demanding, then gentle and achingly tender. Hard and fast, slow and thoughtful. He was all those things and more. He’d wrung orgasms from her that could only be described as vicious, then turned around and played her body like a fine-tuned instrument, bringing her up and over the edge slowly, like a wave lapping at the shore. Relentless, timeless. She’d come growling and she’d come with a lump in her throat, barely able to contain the sob of emotion fighting to get out.

  She had no idea how to categorize him. In her head or her heart. All she knew was that she had never been so well and thoroughly made love to by anyone. And rough or tender, somewhere during the past several days, they had crossed that indefinable boundary from sex to lovemaking.

  He was inexhaustible, she thought, steeping her tea egg. A smile curved her lips. But where he was concerned, so, apparently, was she. Another storm had moved in two days ago, keeping them penned inside the castle. Most of that time had been spent in her tower, in her bed. She shifted again, this time in remembered pleasure, thinking of the ways he’d taken her, the times he’d taken her. Last night, yesterday afternoon, first thing in the morning. The night before that.

  She sighed. A girl could get spoiled.

  Which is why she had absolutely no cause to pout this morning. Yes, she’d woken up to find the sun finally shining and the other side of her bed empty, but it was just as well really. Because a girl could also get confused. And she was that, in spades. He’d swept into her life like that first snowstorm, and thoroughly staked his claim on her. Just like that. And she had no earthly idea how he’d managed it. Or what to do about it.

  Since his arrival at Ballantrae, they’d spent hardly a moment apart. As much as she’d like to be outside wandering along the loch with him right now, showing him her favorite spots, she knew it was good to finally have some time alone with her thoughts. When he was near, she couldn’t seem to think at all. About anything other than him, anyway.

  She bobbed at her tea egg with her spoon, staring into the brew as the water swirled about, growing darker and darker. He’d left her a note. She smiled a little, remembering how she’d found it, tucked into the scrollwork of her wrought-iron headboard. His handwriting had been a neat and tidy slash of words. He’d wanted to assure her that he wasn’t off snooping about the castle without her, so she didn’t go off on a wild goose chase hunting him down.

  She’d looked out from her balcony and hadn’t spotted him, but a glance out the other side had shown his lorry still parked in the same spot. She’d had a moment’s panic when she’d thought he might have gone wandering down to the village, and that gave her pause. She leaned back with a sigh, abandoning the tea she didn’t want anyway. She’d hoped for a clearer head this morning, to go with the clearing skies. Or, perhaps, she’d hoped that he’d wake her up with more of what they’d been at all night. Leaving her to wonder how long she would have continued to let him preoccupy her like that.

  She snorted. She was human.

  She’d met her deadlines, e-mailed her article off, but that had been pretty much the extent of what she’d accomplished, outside of making love with Tag. She smiled again as she recalled his surprise when he’d woken the other morning to find her tucked into the chair in her bedroom, madly typing away on her little notebook computer. She’d reminded him that while this was a remote area, she was hardly as removed from civilization as he typically was, and that they had computers and mobile phones and fax machines and everything.

  And he’d smiled and told her that he used a laptop, too, even in the jungle. Indiana Jones of the new millennium. His surprise, he explained, with that patient, so sexy glint in his eyes, was because of the handwritten letters she’d sent his father. He’d assumed she’d use the easier method of e-mail if it were available. And she’d explained that there was something more fulfilling in drafting a personal letter by hand. And that receiving a handwritten note, tangible evidence of the person who’d sent it, was always more cherished and personal than seeing words pop up on her computer screen.

  And then she’d woken today to find that handwritten note from him. Her smile softened as she fingered the folded piece of paper she’d brought downstairs with her this morning. As if, finally parted, she still needed to keep a little, tangible piece of him within reach.

  She tucked it in her shirt pocket, then propped her chin in her hands and stared through the narrow window, past the woods, to where the village lay beyond. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea of him traipsing down there. About letting him loose on the villagers.

  Her villagers. Her tenants. Her whole life.

  It was one thing to have him here, locked up in her tower like some kind of personal pleasure escapade, meant for her and her alone. Quite another to allow him access to the rest of her world. To impact other people with his presence here. And impact them he would. If only for the shaggy locks, tanned skin, and reptilian necklace. Like Crocodile Dundee had stuck out in the big city, Tag would stand out here in Ballantrae. And when they found out he was a Morgan? She blew out a long sigh and dipped her chin. Oh, he would create quite the stir, he would.

  And later, when he was gone? That was where the panic had risen from, she realized. Because she’d never be able to just tuck him away then, in her own way, a private memory that was hers and hers alone. Her marauding jungle Scot. The Morgan who’d come to claim what was rightfully his, and had claimed her right along with it, before heading back out to do battle once again, far far away.

  She shoved away from the table with a snort. “Apparently a few hours sleeping like the dead wasn’t enough to set your foolish head to rights,” she muttered, clearing away her tea. There was another cup, rinsed and sitting on the drain rack. It gave her pause, too, though she couldn’t have said why. They’d shared tea together before, although admittedly it had usually been in bed.

  It was more something about the casualness of it. And perhaps the separateness of it. That he’d padded about her kitchen, helping himself to what he needed, as if he belonged here in some way. Jory had done the same on the few occasions he’d spent the night. But she’d never picked up the cup to run her finger around the rim, thinki
ng that his mouth had been pressed right there, then shuddered as she’d thought of other, far more intimate places he’d pressed those lips.

  She tucked the mug in an overhead cupboard and shut the door on a sigh. “Jesus and Mary, you’re like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush.” Only, given the carnal knowledge she had of him, it was a very, very adult crush, indeed. But the root of it was, Tag was imprinting himself on more than just her heart. He was becoming part of her life. And she was liking it. Far too much for her own good.

  She headed to the stairs, intent on taking a shower and changing the bed linens. Again. “It’s getting to be like a regular brothel here,” she stated as she stamped up the stairs, unsure why exactly she was suddenly in such a stroppy mood, but there it was. “Hell, Maura, perhaps that’s how you can save the place. Just hire on a few girls and give it a go.” She strode into her bedroom and yanked the sheets from the bed.

  Once the bed was stripped, she stomped into the bathroom, then had to force away the tightness in her throat on first glance at the sink. The sink she’d clung to as he’d plunged every hard inch he had and then some into her quite willing body. She caught her reflection in the mirror over the sink, found herself wishing it hadn’t been fogged that night so she could have watched his face as he’d taken her.

  Her cheeks flushed and she spun away. Christ, she couldn’t even look at her bloody, goddamn sink again without thinking about him. She yanked the towels from the floor and the rack and tossed them on top of the linens in the bedroom. The whole of the castle was already indelibly imprinted with the man. She’d never get him out of her head.

  She didn’t even want to think about the lasting impact on her heart.