And now her mouth was pressed against his, her tongue stroking his. She tasted like no woman he'd ever known. That connection between them was so potent, so charged. It went zipping right through him.
He was instantly, totally, completely aroused. The T-shirt was riding up a bit, and he was sure there was nothing but the dubious cover of his boxers between his painfully tight erection and her belly. She arched against him, and he groaned, making do for the moment with that sweet pressure of his straining erection against her belly and the fact that he was kissing her deeply. Greedily. Like a man who might never stop.
He lied to himself for a moment and told himself he wouldn't. Not at all. Not until he gave into the urge to lift her across his lap and spread her legs and bury himself inside her. The damned hurricane could pick up the whole island and twist it and toss it miles away, and he wouldn't so much as notice and wouldn't care. Not if he could be inside her. Just once.
Her hands were greedy, too, he found. In his still-wet hair. All over his skin. His shoulders, his back, his chest, his jaw, in a feather-light touch that was making him insane. She made little noises deep in her throat, sexy, breathless little sounds, and she kept saying his name as if she was begging. Begging. For him.
They were pressed so tightly together, there couldn't have been so much as a molecule between them, and suddenly it seemed there was no air in the room at all. Nothing. Anywhere.
Just him and her.
And he could not let himself do this. He couldn't.
He wouldn't take advantage of her this way, wouldn't use her to scratch an itch or even to satisfy a long-denied need.
"Grace," he protested, his need like a fever, burning him alive.
She shifted against him, breasts rubbing against his chest, her mouth so sweet.
He caught her hands and pulled them off his body, where they'd been stroking his chest and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He took her by the shoulders next and pushed her firmly away. Her lips he found almost impossible to separate from his. All he had to do was lift his head. He knew that. But he didn't want to give that up. Didn't want to give up anything of her.
But he would. He did.
Finally managing to lift his head, he cursed the darkness himself this time. He knew it was better that he couldn't see her right now, but he wanted to. He wanted her thoroughly disheveled and fighting for breath, wanted to see her nipples and the swell of her breasts, their shape, teasing him through the cotton shirt and begging for his touch. He wanted to see her just like that and knew he had to be grateful that he couldn't.
So he sat there, cursing himself and the darkness and the circumstances, knowing he had to explain somehow and having no idea on earth how to do that.
Finally, he said, "It's not that I don't want you."
"I know that," she said wryly, and he laughed in spite of himself.
"I'm not going to take advantage of you. Of the situation."
"Oh." She was quiet for a moment. "Maybe you didn't notice. I'm the one who had my hands all over you. I kissed you. I didn't want you to stop."
"You don't want to talk about your parents or your brother. Or the fact that you need to get a life, and I happened to be the best distraction at hand." Hell, he hated that thought, but he certainly couldn't dismiss it, either.
"Damn you," she said.
"Yeah, I'm damned all right," he admitted.
Because he was afraid he'd always want her and never, ever have her. How was a man supposed to deal with something like that?
"I don't understand you," she said.
"Then we're even. I certainly don't understand you."
She stayed where she was, staring at him, her breathing still agitated, her lashes dipping low. Finally, her hand came up, her palm landing against his chest. Dammit.
"You don't really want this, Grace."
"How do you know?"
"I know you."
That there hadn't been many men in her life. She was almost always working, and he almost always had someone watching her. Not twenty-four hours a day, but enough to know where she was and what was going on in whatever part of the world she was in at the time. He had contacts all over the world, resources at his fingertips. If there'd been any man who'd been a part of her life for any length of time, he'd have known about it. And likely hated it. Especially in the last year and a half. But there hadn't been, which made him happy and sad all at the same time.
He wanted to be the man she trusted. Not just the one who got her out of trouble, but the one who gave her everything she so richly deserved, the man who made her believe in promises once again, made her unafraid of love. And there was no way he could do that.
"What is it?" she said, taking his face between her hands, concern in her voice.
"Nothing."
"Liar. You call me on every one of mine. Did you think I wouldn't call you on yours, too?"
"I can't do this, Grace. I want to. So damned much. But I can't."
"Soldier's ethics? The code by which rescuers of damsels in distress live?" she said lightly. "Because that's the first I've heard of any soldier—"
"My own ethics," he said, but didn't add his own guilt and so many things he hadn't told her. Things he wasn't sure he'd ever have the nerve to tell her. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Then stay out of my head. Hold me. Kiss me. Make love to me, but don't go digging into my soul anymore."
He couldn't help it. He bent his head and kissed her again. As softly and gently as he could. He would move heaven and earth, he thought, if only he could. If only he was that mythical, all-powerful creature she imagined.
He'd do anything for her, give her back her family. She wouldn't need him at all then. She'd be happy and surrounded by people she loved and wouldn't be taking stupid risks with her own life. She wouldn't be wishing she could join them. Everyone she loved. Everyone she'd lost.
* * *
He was so sad all of a sudden and so very serious.
His sweetly sensual kiss brought tears to her eyes once again, the regrets in his voice nearly breaking her heart. She'd never imagined that he was hurting, too, or that anything she might do to try to make herself forget might bring on such painful memories for him.
"What did I do?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"I did. I touched a nerve—"
"Grace—"
"What? You're going to tell me to leave it alone?"
"I don't suppose I could," he admitted.
"Not unless you want me to laugh in your face." Except she wouldn't. Not when he seemed so troubled, so… She would have said vulnerable, if the word hadn't seemed utterly out of place in any context around him. She wouldn't have thought he had a vulnerable bone in his body, but it appeared he did.
She felt awful about that. She didn't want to hurt him at all. Not ever.
She liked him much too much. Found him absolutely fascinating. Gorgeous. Strong. Stubborn. She wanted him so badly she could hardly see straight, and despised him for the things he'd said to her, even if he thought he was doing her a favor by saying them.
Worst of all, she was starting to get used to having him around. She was afraid that already she needed him, and she couldn't let herself do that.
She didn't let herself need anyone, couldn't let herself get used to this. Couldn't let herself think he really cared about her or that he'd made any kind of commitment to her at all.
Showing up every couple of years for a few minutes when she was in trouble wasn't exactly a commitment. He'd even told her not to count on him. That he was nothing but a man. That there'd come a day when he couldn't get to her in time. Which, arguably, had already happened. She'd been kidnapped off the streets of San Reino, even if he had rescued her a day and a half later.
So she had to stop this, had to find a way to stay away from him.
She wasn't ever going to love anyone. Not in her whole life. She'd promised herself that. She would never hurt again the way she had when she'd lo
st her entire family. Those promises – the ones she made herself – were sacred. They were what had kept her sane and maybe what had kept her from popping a bottle of pills the first time she had access to them.
Grace pulled away from him and got to her feet.
"Okay. You're right," she said. "We can't do this. It would be a mistake."
"Yes," he said carefully. "It would."
* * *
It sounded perfectly reasonable that evening. It would absolutely have been a mistake. But it wasn't so easy the next morning.
She'd slept on top of him. As if he were her pillow. Grace wasn't sure how that happened. They'd gone to bed with one blanket wrapped around her and another wrapped around the two of them. Close but not … not like this.
She vaguely remembered being uncomfortable in the night, remembered scooting closer and closer to him. And then she remembered her bed growing decidedly more comfortable at some point.
Except, it appeared her bed was him.
Two hundred pounds or so of pure muscle and man.
Her head lay against his chest, her hand as well. He had short, curling hairs on his chest, and she fought the urge to run her fingers through them. His skin was smooth in some places, but scarred in others, just as he'd told her. She wanted to find them all with her fingertips and explore at will, found herself infinitely curious about just what he'd been through, just how badly he'd been hurt over the years.
With her ear pressed to his chest this way, she heard every reassuring beat of his heart, felt every breath. He was softer than the ground, but not by much. There was hardly any give to him at all, just all these intriguing dips and swells. The muscles in his arms and shoulders, that hard, flat stomach. He had a hand splayed wide at her back, holding her firmly to him, and another one playing lazily just beneath the bottom of her T-shirt. With her bottom, actually.
She was practically purring at the exquisitely gentle touch against the soft skin of her bottom, his big, slightly rough palm rubbing absently, round and round, cupping it, as if he were fascinated by the shape.
She shifted a bit, one of her thighs sliding between his, and they both groaned as her leg grazed his erection. It seemed the man stayed hard all over. All the time.
"Morning, Grace," he said, his voice a little rough, the word spoken with a lazy drawl this early in the day.
"Good morning."
He sighed and stroked his palm across her bottom one more time before pulling her shirt down to cover her, his hand falling away. "Right back where we started, huh?"
She nodded, so turned on it was hard to speak and too comfortable to ever want to move.
Men woke up like this. Something about hormone levels and sleep. If she tried hard, she could remember the scientific explanation. But there didn't seem to be anything scientific or casual in his reaction to her. She wanted very much to know this was about her. Not just any woman who happened to crawl on top of him while he slept.
"Should I apologize?" she offered.
"Should I?" he murmured, his one hand still at her back, stroking lightly up and down.
"Only if you mean it. I really can't say that I am sorry. Unless I've made it even harder on you…" Her voice trailed off. She felt the chuckle rising from his chest. "If I've made it more uncomfortable for you. I'm sorry."
"I don't think it could get any harder, Grace. Not my body and not what it's going to take for me to let you go one more time."
He shifted again, his thighs falling apart, her whole body pressed that much more tightly against him. She ached now. Just ached. She fought the urge not to rub her body shamelessly against his.
Gasping, she said, "Would it really be so bad?"
He put his hand back on her hip. Bringing her just to that spot, the one he wanted. Fooling with the pressure ever so slightly and making her moan. She couldn't help it.
"It would be great," he said. "It would feel exquisite."
She did some stroking of her own. Found his skin fascinating. She'd never been up close and personal with such a well-defined set of muscles in a man's chest, arms and shoulders.
She stroked up his biceps, along his neck, his clavicle, down to his left nipple. He sucked in a breath at that, and she didn't stop to think. She was done thinking.
She wanted a taste of him. Her mouth closed over his nipple and she licked it with her tongue, played with it, explored. His breath took a hard, pained tone. He caught her hair in his hand and tugged hard, trying to pull her away at first and then holding her to him.
His whole body shuddered. She felt it ripple through him, and it flat-out thrilled her. She was molded to him already, might as well have melted and had someone pour her over him, the way every inch of her body was draped along his. His thighs shifted restlessly and his pelvis arched against hers. How could a man possibly be this hard, this big?
She fussed over his nipple again. She'd never, ever done this to a man, never wanted to. But she wanted to taste every inch of him. She used her teeth, gently, and he shuddered yet again.
She kissed every bit of skin she could find. Across his chest, down his rib cage. He moaned, his hand still tangled in her hair. He was rocking his hips against hers now, easing off the pressure, thrusting forward.
She wanted him desperately. Like a madwoman, the kind she'd never been before.
And why should she deny herself this pleasure? There'd been so little pleasure in her life. Too little life altogether; he'd told her that. He wanted her to live. Surely this was living at its absolute best. She wasn't the kind to give herself to any man easily, casually. In fact, she'd been celibate for years. But there was nothing casual about this. This was absolutely essential to her. And maybe she did need a lesson in living, the sheer joy of it. Maybe she would be more careful of her own safety if there was joy like this in her life.
She could keep herself alive just to be able to make love to him so exquisitely, to feel so beautiful, so free, so startlingly alive.
"I don't care if it's wrong," she said. "I don't even think it is."
"Grace," he groaned.
She scooted down a bit more. Her mouth against his bottom rib, then following that thin line of hair down the middle of his abdomen. She kissed, made little patterns with her tongue.
There was a pulse throbbing wildly in his erection. She could feel it now. She put her hand down and cupped him, rubbed against him, and she heard him swear viciously and softly. His flesh leapt beneath her fingers, thrusting itself into her hand.
She was fascinated by it, the shape, the thickness, the hardness, and she wanted him inside her. Now.
Surely he wouldn't deny her that. Surely she could take him to the point where he simply couldn't.
She set out to do just that. The next thing she knew, he grabbed her by the arms, in a hold that allowed no resistance at all, and swung her around until she was lying on her side, and he was covering her body with his.
She was thrilled, waiting for him to push his way inside her like a man on the absolute edge of control. But instead he whispered into her ear, "Don't move. Not a muscle."
The flat, no-nonsense tone of his voice had her blinking up at him through the darkness, confused and not happy at all.
She opened her mouth to protest, and he shut it for her, his hand covering it.
"Someone's outside," he whispered into her ear, everything about him different now, his hold on her, his voice, even the way he held his body.
She made no sound. She couldn't. And her thoughts were an awful jumble. From sheer pleasure to out-and-out terror. She tried to figure out what he'd heard, couldn't imagine anything that would have cut through the incessant roar of the wind and the rain. She'd been too caught up in him and the way he felt, the things she wanted from him, to hear anything. The whole world might have come crashing down around them. She wouldn't have known. But he did.
He reached for something behind them. His pistol, which he shoved into her hands. "Do you know how to use this?"
"O
f course," she whispered. She hated guns, but she knew how to fire any number of them.
"It's a semiautomatic. You've got ten rounds. Stay right here and try not to shoot me when I come back. If anyone else tries to get in here, kill 'em."
She gulped, not sure that she could.
"Grace, I don't care if you start trying to save the bastard ten seconds later, if that's what you have to do. But shoot him first. Dead center in the chest. It gives you the biggest target, and it'll stop most anything that might come at you."
And then he was gone, silently dissolving into the shadows and the grayish half light, as she'd seen him do so many times.
It unnerved her, how many tunes she'd seen him disappear Ike that. How long it had taken for him to come back those times. Not that she thought he was going to abandon her now.
No, he'd promised he wouldn't. He'd promised he'd get her out, and there was just something about him. He said it as if he had no doubts whatsoever, and it made her feel the same way. She had no doubts he would save her or die trying. He'd promised her that, too, and he was a man who delivered on his promises.
Feeling that way about him – about anyone – was almost as unsettling to Grace as the weight of the gun in her hand.
She did know how to use it. She wasn't a fool after all. Neither was her father. Peace was a wonderful thing, but some people simply didn't believe in it. There had been wild animals to consider, as well, in many of the places they'd lived. If threatened, Grace could defend herself. Her father made sure of it. He also convinced her she was capable of doing anything. Anything at all.
So she sat there with the gun clutched in front of her in both hands and thought about him, about all the things he'd taught her and tried to teach others. He believed life was a sacred thing. A gift. He'd always made the most of every moment. Her mother, too.
HER SECRET GUARDIAN Page 10
