by Rosalyn West
He swung her around, getting only a glimpse of her tear-streaked face before crushing her to his chest. “You don’t have to worry, Starla. I’ve already made sure you and the baby will be taken care of, should anything happen to me.”
That knowledge should have taken the fear away, but somehow it didn’t come close. Her palms slapped against his shoulders, levering for distance as she cried, “Do you think that’s what I care about? What’ll happen to me if you’re gone?”
He stared at her blankly, not understanding why she was so wildly upset. Until she took his face between her hands and kissed him hard enough to drown him in a sea of unexpected sensation by the time she jumped back.
They regarded each other in breathless surprise.
“You should have told me,” Starla said at last, the edge of accusation back in her voice.
“I never thought to; I’m sorry. I guess I just accepted the risks and didn’t give them a second thought.” His gaze searched her face, seeking the meaning behind that fierce, unplanned kiss.
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have been so ready to accept them. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared for. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have—”
“Married me?” Dodge supplied tersely.
“Wouldn’t have let myself care about you,” she concluded. “You lied to me.”
Which meant she did care. It was more of an admission than he’d expected her to make. Which left him in the delicate position of talking his way out of the fact that he’d hurt her.
“You can stop caring about me now if you want to. I guess I’d deserve that.” And the hint of a smile he gave her made her temper soar, as if he were daring her to try to shut him out of her heart at this late date.
“I should hate you,” she complained.
“That would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”
She scowled and pouted, refusing to look at him until his fingertips skimmed under her jaw to tilt her head up, coaxing eye contact.
“I’m not planning to die anytime soon, Starla. Unless it’s from pneumonia standing out here in this damn freezing water.”
A smile teased about her lips. “It’s not that cold.”
“Then you do care about me?”
“Maybe a little,” was her grudging claim. “Although you’re a damn Yankee and a banker to boot.”
It was all the reassurance Dodge needed. He leaned toward her. Initially, she angled her face away, but when he paused, making no attempt to push himself on her, Starla turned back and lifted up for the reacquainting warmth of his kiss.
The marvelous thing about water was the way it held Dodge up, making it possible for him to stand on his own, to put both arms about his wife and pull her tight against him to feel the perfection of fit from lips to toes. Chilled nipples made indentations upon his chest, but the water wasn’t cold enough to extinguish his ardor. There was no way for her not to feel it growing, with only the wet hug of his drawers and her filmy underthings to disguise the hard rise of his interest. She didn’t pull back, but he could feel the way her breathing changed into quick little panicked snatches.
Slow. Don’t scare her. It was hell to remind himself of that as her body bowed in lithe surrender upon the unyielding contours of his own.
But this wasn’t about him. It was about her and what she wanted, what she needed. And for him to gift her with that, he’d need a little more clothing between them.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered against her lips.
She tucked her head against his shoulder and nodded without saying a word.
By the time they entered the dark house, it wasn’t the pain Dodge suffered from, it was the chill. He’d given Starla his frock coat to wrap about her bare shoulders, and his own fine shirt had quickly soaked through. It was hard to think about romantic kisses when his lips were blue and his teeth chattering.
“I’ll put on some hot water while you get out of those wet things.” Starla was once again all cool efficiency and didn’t even smile when he snapped a salute and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
She took her time. When she returned bearing two steeping cups of tea, Dodge was wrapped up in a woolen robe, his feet were bundled in thick socks, and he half-reclined on the bedroom chaise. His eyes were closed and he didn’t respond to her presence. Sleeping, she thought. Grateful for the respite so she could get out of her own cloying garments, she set aside the tea and his damp coat and hurriedly shed all her clothing to the pucker of her skin.
“That tea smells good.”
With a gasp of surprise, Starla yanked the heavy quilt from the foot of the bed to swaddle it about her nakedness before turning to meet Dodge’s steady gaze. She gave him a narrow glare for not announcing that he was awake before she undressed, but he refused to appear shamed. He looked tired and cold and somehow vulnerable because of those things, and she was lured into dropping her guard. She carried the steaming cups to him. He took his then patted the edge of the chaise.
“Sit here, with me.”
She perched cautiously, but when he remained slumped against the cushions, contentedly sipping his tea, again she relaxed, snuggling into the cocoon of covers and sampling the warmth of the tea. She gave a slight jump when his hand settled upon the curve of her hip, providing a bolster for her back. When she shot him a look, he was leaning back with his eyes closed, seemingly harmless. The moment she was lulled by that image, his hand shifted, beginning a slow, firm massage, first with just his thumb, then the heel of his palm, and when she arched her back with a sigh of hedonistic pleasure, he applied both hands to the task, kneading her shoulders, rubbing the slope of her back through the bulky quilt. His hands were strong, able to apply a blissful pressure even through the batting.
“That’s nice,” she purred.
“You’ll be wanting a lot of these as the baby gets closer.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“My pleasure.”
His arms circled around her, his hands spreading wide-fingered atop her abdomen and revolving slowly.
“I can’t wait to feel the baby moving.”
“A few more months,” she predicted.
“We should think of names.”
Starla went quiet, then murmured, “I’ll let you do that.” Distracted by her melancholy, she allowed him to hug her closer. He didn’t want her to be thinking about the child’s unfortunate conception, but rather of them, as a family.
“I’m going to spoil this baby shamelessly,” Dodge warned happily, then nuzzled her neck. “Just like I’d spoil his mother, if she’d let me.”
“I’m already so spoiled it’s a wonder you can stand me.”
His low chuckle brushed warm against her neck. When had they gotten so close? she wondered in alarm. She was lying back against his chest, within the curl of his arms, her head intimately pillowed on his shoulder. What surprised her more was her disinclination to move.
“Spoiled with possessions, maybe, but not with the things that really matter.”
“Like what?” Her tone sharpened. She wiggled and tried to sit up, but he held her tight.
“Like letting yourself be held all wrapped up in a warm blanket. Like it?”
She nodded tentatively, staying where she was.
“Like being pampered and not having to worry about what you have to give back in return.”
Now she was alert more than alarmed, attuned to the seducing caress of his voice, to all he was suggesting, to all he was doing.
While one arm continued to lie easily about her middle, his other palm roamed freely, fondly, over the fabric of the quilt, stroking up her arm, along her torso, sweeping over her breasts without pausing long enough to earn an objection … taming her to the weight of his hand and the feel of his touch, familiarizing her with his closeness. All very unhurried and unthreatening, and purposefully arousing.
Starla wasn’t aware of that danger, though. She concentrated on the delicious feeling of being surrounded by luxurious warmth, by the liquid sensa
tion of peace and protection. She was sprawled across him so that her glossy black hair spilled over his shoulder and invited him to bury his face in its damp curls, to whisper kisses against the side of her neck. She stopped thinking and just let herself feel.
“Warm enough now?” he asked, words stroking against her throat to elicit a slight shiver.
“Mmm, yes. Are you feeling better?”
“More than you can imagine.”
The soothing cadence of his voice took the suggestive threat from his words, so Starla let them pass without reacting with worry or suspicion. She didn’t want to risk ruining the quiet moment between them. She’d known so little peace. She let herself drift in the comfort of his embrace, her spirit gentled by the continued movement of his hand, over her hair, along her shoulder, down the curves of her torso and hip, suddenly against her skin. Before she had time to gasp, he’d moved safely outside the covers again, but moments later, his warm palm found its way once more within the bundle of the quilt to rub warmly over the bend in her knee.
He continued that sensory play, slipping in and out of the covers, his touch always moving, never lingering long enough for her to voice a protest, until she began to anticipate the brush of heat over bare skin … skimming lightly up the curve of her calf, circling the rounding of one hip, flirting up the quiver of her belly, tickling along her sides, buffing the full underside of her breast. She was no longer pleasantly warm. His fingertips traced a hot glow along her skin, kindling restless fires within the sudden heaviness of her breasts, and then low, near the juncture of her thighs. Part of her wanted to put those fires out now, while they were under control, but another urged her to let them rage, to let them burn wild with the slow passion Dodge ignited.
With an abrupt, unplanned movement, her tossing opened the flaps of the quilt, giving him access to the clean line of her nakedness. The air felt deliciously cool against her too-warm skin, but his touch felt better.
“Dodge,” she moaned in confusion.
“I liked it when you called me Tony before.”
“Tony, what are you doing?”
“Spoiling you a little. Is that all right?”
His knuckles grazed her rib cage and she found herself arching, encouraging him to move higher. Her body’s freedom to ask for what she didn’t dare nudged a recessed panic.
“I don’t know,” she admitted with a whisper.
“I want it to be all right with you. You’re going to have to tell me that it is.”
He made slow revolutions over her stomach, creating aching tension above, yearning pressure below. She stretched up one arm, curving it around so she had the back of his head cupped in her palm. He lowered to nibble the sensitive union of bowed neck and graceful jawline until her fingers fisted in his hair.
“Tony …”
Tremors raced along her body, shaking loose the last of her resolve, making it impossible for her to deny that she didn’t desperately want what he was offering.
“It’s all right with me.”
With that concession of trust, his touch grew bolder.
Her breathing fluttered wildly as his attention centered on her breasts, kneading their fullness, exciting soft little moans of wonder from her as he aroused their sensitive tips into hot points of need. She’d never known her body was capable of such exquisite feeling, of such unfettered responsiveness to this man’s touch. Sensation prickled along her skin, waking shivers of surprise and delight. His touch was something she never wanted, something she’d feared, but now, as he woke her to pleasures undreamed of, she craved nothing quite so much.
While he continued to tease and tempt her breast with one hand, the other began a slow downward stroke, and the lower it traveled, the higher Starla’s anxiety grew. The freedom to enjoy what he was doing was gradually replaced by uneasiness and a mounting sense of shame. Her knees lifted, pressing tightly together, locking him away from more intimate exploration and herself from further discovery. His palm moved gently along her thigh and hip, but her tension defied him.
“Starla, I’m not going to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
Her head nodded jerkily upon his shoulder as her breath rushed fast and frantic, and beneath his hand, her heart pounded like that of a trapped animal’s.
His lips brushed warmly and seductively along the slope of her throat, tasting her fear, trying to coax her trust. Her hand moved restlessly through his hair, mirroring her uncertainty but not willing to let go.
“I want to show you something,” he crooned, as his fingertips glided up the outside of her thigh, then down the sealed inner seam between the clench of her legs. She trembled.
“Will I like it as much as the rest?”
She felt his smile. “I promise.”
Because of that smile, because of the husky arrogance of his tone and the simple fact that he waited for her to decide, she relaxed her muscles, letting her feet slide down along his legs, letting her knees part timidly.
He worked up her passions with a maddening leisure, beginning again at her breasts, stroking, plucking, tantalizing until she arched and cried out for more. He palmed her flat belly, the curve of her hip, and then the tender down of her womanhood, making her quiver and ache with a foreign expectation. Her senses were knife sharp, not with anxiousness, not with fear, but rather with a desperate need to know what her body seemed already to understand with its sudden embarrassing wetness, what it invited with the slight lift of her hips.
She gasped as he saw to his promise, with revolving pressure from the heel of his hand, with deeper intimacy that involved his fingers and a touch so glorious she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He found her body’s rhythm and moved with it, intensifying it, using it to exact sudden wild shudders so violently out of her control that they tore his name from her throat and stripped her of all but the volcano of sensation exploding inside her, through her. When it was over, tears of wondrous emotion quivered in her eyes.
She was scarcely aware of Dodge wrapping the quilt up around her. Her warmth was from within, a deep, heated pleasure born of trust and unexpected triumph. Her body limp with relief, her spirit sated, Starla curled up against her husband’s side, her eyes closed, her lips smiling softly as she felt his kiss brush her brow.
No one could ever take this moment from her, the moment she first realized what it meant to be cherished.
Chapter 18
Starla woke gradually, shifting languorously, the sheets creating a delicious friction upon bare skin.
Bare skin….
She sat up with a gasp, the covers clutched to her bosom as she surveyed the room for possible threat. Dodge’s room. Where her drying clothes were draped over the back of the chaise where last night he’d awakened her body to unbelievable splendors.
Coloring hotly at the memory, at the way even now it stirred an answering restlessness within her, Starla glanced about, confused to find herself alone. It was early. Surely Dodge hadn’t already left for the bank. Not without waking her.
A rattle of china in the hallway and a low, vivid curse announced her husband’s approach. Smiling, Starla sank back down in the covers and waited for him.
He was carrying a tray laden with tea and toast in one hand, balancing it precariously. But what surprised her was that he’d exchanged his crutches for a cane.
Cups clattered. Liquid splashed.
“Damn it!” He grinned at her apologetically. “I’m not very good at this yet.”
Seeing disaster in the tipping of the tray, Starla slipped out of bed, forgetting modesty, to relieve him of the burden.
“I’ve got it.”
And he had her.
No sooner had she’d rescued the tray than Dodge wrapped his free arm snugly about her waist, drawing her naked figure up against him. She gasped at the abrupt mashing of her breasts to his satin waistcoat and quickly set the tray aside, lest she drop it. She didn’t know which to react to first, her situation or his.
“What are you doi
ng?” she stammered.
“Trying to keep from falling down. And a very nice crutch you make, too.” His hand moved familiarly over her backside, making her squirm against him, which itself was a reward.
Clasping his waist to steady him, she scolded, “Should you be trying this so soon?”
He grinned wider, deliberately misunderstanding her. “It’s nothing you didn’t let me get away with last night.”
Blushing fiercely, she said, “I meant walking with a cane.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know unless I tried. I doubt I’m up to running up and down stairs, but I can manage the length of the hallway all right.”
“With a tray of tea? You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He frowned slightly, annoyed by her lack of praise at his accomplishment. He’d wanted her to be surprised and pleased, not haranguing.
“I have a bullet in my back. How much more hurt could I be?”
“You know what I mean. You’re pushing too hard.” Anxiousness colored her words with the memory of what she’d learned the night before. The last thing he wanted while clutching her close was for her to view him as fragile.
“I’m not pushing hard enough. I’m going to be walking on my own by the time the baby is born.” He said it as if there wasn’t the slightest chance that it wouldn’t be true. Starla sighed in exasperation.
“If you insist on this foolishness and end up flat on your face, I’m not going to pick you up.”
He grinned, relieved by her warning because it showed such a lack of pity. “Fair enough.”
His gaze lowered to chart the ample contours of her bosom where it flattened against his chest, the sight distracting him from all else. His hand slid up the curve of her spine, disappearing into the cloak of her hair.
“I was going to surprise you with tea and toast in bed. I didn’t expect to get such a nice surprise in return.”
“The tea is getting cold.”
“I can reheat it.” His fingers turned, looping her tangled hair in them, tugging slightly to raise her face to his. His gaze was devouring. “My God, you’re beautiful. If they modeled those monument angels after you, they’d never be able to keep the dead men down.”
