by Rhodan, Rhea
Her voice was barely a low whisper, “Not dry, Clint.”
That was all it took to get him hard. Jesus, zero to sixty. Her touch high on his thigh was so light through the denim of his jeans, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it if his skin hadn’t become extremely sensitive. Make that zero to a hundred.
He laid his hand over hers. It trembled. She turned toward him, beautiful eyes open wide, full lips parted. Vulnerable. Whatever the hell he’d done to make her doubt him, he was going to fix it.
Keeping the kiss gentle was a priority. He used only his lips, no tongue, no groping. No matter how badly he ached to touch her everywhere, he kept one arm around her, not too tight. Her mouth was as warm as her hand beneath his was cool, her tongue hot, gingerly tracing his lips. Behind his closed eyes, he could swear he saw sparks shooting up from the fire.
Easing his hand from hers, he cupped her face to deepen the kiss slowly, very slowly, even if it killed him. He felt her hands warming through his T-shirt as they clutched his back.
She definitely wanted him, though a part of her tension remained distinctly non-sexual. Her tongue slipped past his teeth, grazing the roof of his mouth before retreating. His body’s response robbed his brain of the blood he needed to think and sent it coursing lower. His own kiss become more demanding, his tongue making short thrusts into her mouth. He tangled his hand in her hair, holding her to him, while with the other he followed the fluid line of her throat to the low neck of her dress, then lower.
Her bra didn’t cover the top of her breasts. Only the silk of her dress lay between his fingers and the silkier skin beneath it. Through the fabric, he nudged the edge of the bra, rasping her erect nipple, dragging the silk back and forth over it until she whimpered and arched toward him.
She didn’t move to stop him when, his mouth still on hers, he eased the dress off her shoulders. Its low neck provided even less resistance. His fingers smoothed up her throat before catching the sexy lace-edged bra straps and inching them down. He tore his lips from hers to view the revelation of dusky nipples atop the lushest pair of breasts he’d ever had the good fortune to gaze upon. God, they were a sight.
The sigh he heard was his own. He wasn’t sure who had unsnapped the bra with such finesse. The hands holding its contents, lifting them toward his mouth, were his though, as was the unbearable pressure in his jeans. It got worse when his tongue stretched to tease a stiff peak, and Cayden whimpered again.
Using one arm to hold himself up, he hooked her legs and laid her down. She was a hell of a temptation, with her eyes all wide, the flecks of gold in her irises glowing in the firelight, those spectacular breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath.
He went to work on them in earnest, from one irresistible nipple to the other, first licking, then sucking, now letting his teeth graze them, later biting lightly. When they blossomed to a dark ruby red in the firelight, he started over. He kept it up until his back stung from direct contact with Cayden’s short nails, her fingers frenzied beneath his T-shirt. Knowing it, feeling it, drove him wild.
He mustered every ounce of restraint in order not to yank up that silky dress and bury himself inside her right then. He was not going to rush this. For some inexplicable reason, this felt too important. Besides, as hot as she was, she wasn’t begging yet, and he wanted her begging. Just the memory of the sounds she could utter had him throbbing so hard he was fairly certain his zipper would pop with his next heartbeat.
Rather than rutting on her like the animal she’d turned him into, he wrenched his T-shirt over his head, lay down on his side next to her, and kissed her gently, taking it back to the beginning. The scent of rain-soaked wind blowing across earthy green fields wafted to his nose.
With monumental effort, he kept it slow and gentle, leaving her lips to nibble on her throat and behind her ear. He fondled her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples. When his mouth joined in, she gasped. Then the squeeze of her small sure fingers seared him right through his jeans and shorts.
Two could play at that game. He slid his hand over her smooth skin, past her belly and over her hip, roaming between her satin thighs. Just as he reached his final destination, she slid his zipper down. Her fingers were stroking him bare at the exact moment he discovered that, in lieu of her usual thong, she wasn’t wearing anything at all.
That combination, and the state of readiness he found when he touched her, was more than he could take, more than any man could be expected to take. He tried to hold himself back, caressing her in the slow circular movements he knew drove her crazy, until she thrashed, and finally begged. By then, he was in such agony all he could do was thank God her dress was already bunched at her waist, out of his way.
He levered himself over her, poised to take that first glorious plunge, when he remembered and groaned in frustration.
Her voice was breathless when she said, “What is it?”
“Condom.” He rolled onto his back, frantically trying to get to his wallet and the foil packet it contained.
“Oh.”
She couldn’t have sounded disappointed. She was as desperate and impatient as he was, that was all. She didn’t help him put it on this time, though. And if she wasn’t quite as eager as she’d been a minute ago, well, it was understood women cooled off faster than they heated up.
The tender kiss he offered was meant to encourage her, not wrench at something deep in his chest. The feeling derailed him, until her legs wrapped around his waist. They tightened as he began moving, faster and harder than he intended. If her nails digging into his ass were any indication, she didn’t mind.
Tension increased inside him, as well as all around him. The air had grown so thick it was almost impossible to draw into his lungs, even after tearing his mouth from hers. His blood thundered in his ears, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, have slowed to save his life.
Cayden screamed and bucked. The thunder became deafening. Then, a pleasure so hot its burn was nearly painful erupted and roared through him.
He’d wonder later whether the hallucination that followed was the result of the not enough blood, therefore oxygen, reaching his brain, thus causing a hallucination, or if he’d simply passed out and dreamed it.
The fire surged beyond any reasonable capacity.
While he couldn’t see the limbs of the trees beyond the blazing light, there still wasn’t any rustling of leaves, no sound besides that of the crackling of the fire. So why was his hair blowing as if in a strong breeze, even when he was lying down?
And if he was still lying down, how could he see the entire pattern, luminous and fluctuating, around the entire blanket?
He was distracted from his question by an insistent thrumming deep in the earth. Two mighty pulsing lines intersected below him. The power plucked at the ring finger of his right hand, urging it to cover his heart. Then wisps of blackened smoke wrapped themselves around it like tiny steel cables, pinning it to his side. They multiplied and tried to fasten themselves all over him, but the breeze-that-wasn’t blew them away, except for those on his right hand. He saw himself signing his name in blood with that hand. Then he saw…nothing.
Clint’s breath hissed with a sharp intake of air. “Oh no.”
“Are you okay? I thought I lost you there for a minute.” Cayden was reeling from the aftereffects of both their lovemaking and the wave of power. She couldn’t guess what Clint might have seen, heard, or felt. He’d remembered the condom, so she’d have to try for another round. She smiled. She could handle that.
“‘Oh no,’ as in the condom broke ‘oh no.’ And I think I passed out there for a minute.”
“I see.” The Crossing, apparently, had its own way of dealing. Which meant she was mostly likely already… “Well, it’s too late to worry about it now,” she said as much to herself as to him.
“I guess you’re right. I’m
ready for a glass of wine now though. How about you?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
Clint riffled through the picnic basket. The fire had died to an acceptable level. He had a glass in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other when he stopped to look at her.
“Oh yeah, you don’t drink. But after what happened, maybe this wouldn’t be the worst time to start.” He extended the glass he’d poured toward her.
“Actually, after what just happened, this could be the worst time to start.”
He stared at her for a few heartbeats before he downed the glass.
She squelched the ridiculous urge to laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to let it breathe first?”
“It was either the wine or me.” He refilled the glass and took a big swallow.
“So what if…”
She berated herself for asking, nonetheless wanting to know the answer.
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, honey. Not tonight, anyway. I don’t want to spoil this. I mean, God, Cayden, that was so…wow.” He took another swallow of wine and stared at the fire.
Evasion, the mark and tool of a man who lacked commitment. What had she expected? They’d known each other a month and a half, if she included the first occasion Clint had spoken to her. And that incident hadn’t exactly been auspicious for anything but the Crossing.
“It was special for me too.” She hoped her smile conveyed her sense of wonder at the pleasure, power, and relief coursing through her, rather than the shadow of sadness threatening to eclipse it.
He slid down beside her, leaning on an elbow, holding the half-empty glass of wine. He was looking at her again. “I can’t believe we still have our clothes on.” He emptied the glass and kissed her.
The wine tasted good on his lips, on his tongue. The heat of his touch on her back, the slide of her dress’s zipper, his rough clever fingers, distracted her from everything other than desire.
They continued to distract her long into the night, until sleep ultimately claimed them.
It was still dark when they awoke and made their way back past Gran’s. The house was dark too, as it should be at this hour. Yet something wasn’t as it should be. Every hair on her exhausted body vibrated. Yet she didn’t jump, as Clint did, when Rob Roy crossed their path yowling.
“Damn! I bet that monster just scared a year off my life. Does he belong to your grandmother?”
“They have the same relationship as Nevermore and I.” If she was too tired to filter her words carefully, she’d at least had the presence of mind not to call them familiars. “And better scared than scarred.”
“If he’s so mean, why does she keep him?”
“It has been said not even death can break the bond.”
Clint’s laugh scraped at her raw emotions.
“You make it sound spooky.”
“It is what is, as I am what I am, as Buchanan’s Crossing is to us, and we to it. There’s no turning back now.”
Chapter Eleven
The deep gong freed Clint from a vaguely familiar nightmare. He’d been standing at the brink of a precipice while in the belly of the darkest pit. The absurd geometry had left him slightly nauseated. Though he hadn’t seen Cayden next to him, she’d been there in the dream, keeping him from falling. An intricate design of glowing white lines pricked at his memory. A flicker of recognition tingled in his right ring finger.
The gong sounded again, chasing away everything except the feeling that he was forgetting, or missing, something important. He sneezed, and a small black feather blew off his pillow.
Cayden let out an aggravated sigh. “Nevermore, who is it?”
She rose to lean on her lower arms. Clint admired the view.
Feathers ruffled. “Bad news.” A flapping of wings followed, then a click of claws on metal, followed by more feather rustling.
He’d been half afraid the bird might name someone. This answer was—well, could be—random. He let go of the breath he’d been holding.
“I’m not in the mood.” She leaned away from him and flipped a lever, deadening the bell mid-gong.
“I hope that remark was directed at your visitor, not the suggestion I was about to make.” He traced her spine to the swell of her ass, massaging the available cheek upon arrival.
She turned to him, her fiery eyes flashing wickedness.
Bing. Zero-to-sixty. He’d always been a morning man.
Three sharp raps at the door doused the fire in Cayden’s eyes. Her full lips pressed together, the seam forming a straight, hard line. She wasn’t cursing, but she might as well be.
Since she showed no signs of rising to answer it, he got things back on track. He nuzzled her ear, stroked his way up her thigh, nipped her throat. Her lips softened and parted. He slid his thigh over hers.
A quick succession of assertive knocks assaulted the door.
Cayden growled and jumped off the thick mattress, pulling her spider web T-shirt dress over her head as she stomped down the stairs. She turned, giving him an apologetic half-smile.
“Do you have any idea who it could be?”
Three more insistent raps swung her toward the door. “Only a mother could be this irritating.
“My mom hardly ever is.”
“Mine always is.”
From his perch in the loft, he saw her pass the door on the way to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” He kept his voice low.
Another series of knocks. Cayden had it right. The incessant rapping was more annoying than any of his friends’ pounding had ever been. He dropped his head back on the pillow. So much for morning love.
Really, he should be sated. God, last night had been good, mind-numbingly intense, reality-threatening good. Cayden had looked beautiful lying on that blanket. Her tat had seemed even more alive in the firelight than it had by candlelight. He’d intended to examine it in daylight, but it didn’t look as though that was going to happen this morning, either.
He’d considered dropping Cayden at her place, giving himself a chance to cool off, think rationally about the possibility of her being pregnant. It was nigh impossible to think straight around her. She drove him crazy. That was the operative word, wasn’t it? Hardly the basis for raising a child. He’d do the right thing, of course, once he figured out what that was. Her mood had been strange, even for her, after they’d left the grove. It was perfectly understandable though, under the circumstances. In the end he couldn’t leave Cayden alone with her worries. He wasn’t going to dwell on the realization that his need to comfort her had proved greater than his well-developed sense of self-preservation.
After the next round of knocks, an imperious, if muffled, voice said, “Cayden, I know you’re in there. Open the door this instant.”
Cayden sauntered to the door with her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here, Muriel? You disowned me, remember?”
He strained to catch the answer. “Cayden, sweetheart, we never disowned you. We merely wanted to teach you responsibility.”
“No, what you wanted to do was control me, and you tried to use Todd’s money to do it.”
“Oh, Cayden.” He could scarcely hear the woman speak, but her sigh was plenty clear. “I don’t understand why you can’t call us mother and father as other children do. What did I ever do that would induce you to force me to stand outside your door in this dingy hall where I might be accosted?”
“I’m not forcing you to stand anywhere. Goodbye already.”
Several strident raps followed. Even though Cayden’s mother had to be hitting the door with something other than her hand and the disabled knocker, he had to admire the woman’s stamina.
As if to confirm that thought, she said, “I am not leaving until we talk. Let me in, immediately.”
“This simply isn’t the type of discussion one engages through a closed door.”
“Actually, we’ve had lots of discussions exactly like this.”
Stubborn silence reigned.
Finally, Mrs. Sinclair said, “Cayden, sweetheart, it’s your grandmother.”
“Gran?”
Cayden yanked the door open so fast Dr. Seuss wobbled and Nevermore flapped his wings, clinging to the armored shoulder. Clint ripped the curtain tie in his hurry to close the loft off from view. He hoped the crow had been enough of a distraction to keep his presence unknown to the woman who pushed her way into the apartment.
“What on earth are you doing with that horrible bird? Don’t you know how filthy they are? Why, they carry all sorts of diseases.”
Yup, Nevermore had done the trick. Clint put his eye to the split in the curtain. Cayden’s mom was stunning. From the top of her impeccably-styled chestnut hair, to the faultlessly-tailored suit, to the pointy toes of her designer shoes, Muriel Sinclair was the picture of Bostonian aristocratic elegance.
Her daughter ignored her comments, obviously not as awed as he was. “Gran. Tell me. Now.”
The woman’s gaze swept the apartment before she jabbed the umbrella into the superb antique stand by the door without so much as a blink at its obvious value and seated herself in the Queen Anne chair as though she were its namesake. “Fix me a nice cup of tea, won’t you, sweetheart? It’s been a frightfully long morning, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”
He craned his neck to see over the edge. Cayden didn’t see him because she was giving her mother a look that would blister varnish.
“If you don’t tell me why you’re here this minute, I’m going to drag you back out into the hall.”
