JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "You're beautiful," Jesse said, causing her to meet his gaze in the mirror and study her own reflection. She, too, stood bathed in a rainbow of color, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair slightly mussed. She glanced down at her protruding nipples and prayed she wouldn't blush. He was pressing his mouth to her shoulder, taking little nibbles, sending chills up and down her spine.

  She knew what he intended to do.

  He flicked his tongue over her skin. "Do you remember, Tricia?"

  "Yes. I thought about it at the ball when we danced."

  "Me, too." He pulled at her earlobe with his teeth. "I thought about how much I wanted to do it again. How much I've missed you."

  He moved to stand in front of her, and she realized he wasn't asking for permission. He was taking what he wanted, and God help her, she had no choice but to let him.

  "Watch, Tricia. And feel."

  He nuzzled her breasts, then teased one aching nipple with his tongue. His touch was the same, yet different—stronger, experienced, self-assured. He rooted at her nipple and she held him there, encouraging him to suckle. The sensation flowed through her veins like molten wax, so she let herself melt. And purr.

  He dropped to his knees, slid his tongue to her belly and laved her navel. "Watch," he whispered again. "Let me make new memories."

  A pulse pounded between her legs, a throbbing, uncontrollable heat.

  Patricia fisted his hair. "Jesse." His name was a plea, an urgent prayer.

  He caressed her legs, her inner thighs, the part of her craving more. She rotated her hips and caught sight of her own reflection, the flush on her cheeks, the wanton look in her eyes. The blatant, hungry need. He must have seen it, too. Felt it. Because before she could plead his name once again, he loved her with his mouth, his tongue making tender swirls, then deep moist strokes.

  Should she tell him that he was still the only one? That she hadn't let another man…

  No, she couldn't. Not now. Not while the room spun, the kaleidoscope from the stained glass twirling around her. He grasped her hips as if to steady her, hold her while she bucked and made throaty little sounds. Pleasure lifted her higher. Pleasure and need and emotions she couldn't begin to describe. The spray of color, the ruthless thrust of his tongue swept through her like a tornado, a whirlwind of greedy aches and hungry urges.

  Was that her scream? Her cry of release? Patricia wasn't sure. All she knew was that she'd soared into oblivion, into that warm, sensual place only he could take her, and when she came back down, she was wrapped in his arms, panting his name.

  * * *

  Flesh against flesh. Fair against dark. Jesse savored the feeling, the image. Tricia clung to his neck, shuddering with sexy little aftershocks.

  The reflection of her bed shone in the mirror. It was tousled, unmade. His next breath nearly clogged his lungs. Knowing that they would make love on the same sheets she'd slept on the night before aroused him. Made him hotter. Harder.

  He tongued her ear and slid his hands down her back and over the curve of her bottom. The impulse to track her scent made him feel primal, animalistic—a male searching for his mate. Tricia's fragrance had the power to seduce—a sea of jasmine, a swirling vine of exotic white flowers. He wanted to dive in. And swim.

  Jesse swept her up and placed her on the edge of the bed. She smiled, so he kissed her, daring her to taste herself, that sweet, womanly flavor that had nearly driven him mad. The fact that she'd watched had driven him mad, too. He knew she wouldn't be able to walk into her bedroom and stand before the mirror without recalling what he'd done to her, the decadent thrill, the orgasm that had left her quivering in his arms.

  Tricia gripped his shoulders and pulled him down. They rolled onto the bed. Blood leaped to his fingers, making them itch to touch. She had changed, grown and matured. Her breasts were fuller, hips rounder, tummy marked with pale, faint lines.

  He traced one of those delicate lines and felt her body, that smooth liquid body, tense.

  She turned away. "They're ugly."

  "No." He caught her chin and brought her face back to his. "They're from my child, Tricia. My flesh and blood. The baby you carried in your womb for nine months." He didn't understand why women didn't take pride in the marks left by pregnancy. "Giving birth is part of your medicine now. It makes you even more beautiful than before."

  Her expression softened, and he tried to picture how her tummy must have looked swollen with his child. He would have made love to her then, too. Thanked Esaugetuh Emissee, the Master of Breath, for the miracle bestowed upon them.

  They lay side by side gazing at each other, their hands drifting over warm flesh and emotional need. This wasn't love, Jesse thought, but it wasn't just sex, either.

  She shifted onto her knees and leaned forward, exploring the physical change in him. He had matured, as well. The years, he knew, had made a man out of him. Bitter and angry sometimes, but a man just the same.

  She roamed his chest first, the wall of muscle he'd inherited from his father.

  "Your body's different. Stronger." She placed her head against his heart, let it thud in her ear. His heartbeat was strong, too, he supposed. Excited. Eager.

  "Your nipples are hiding," she teased, twining her fingers around his chest hair.

  Jesse fisted the sheet. He wanted to spring forward, cuff her wrists and slam into her, devour all that femininity. Instead he remained still and allowed her to play. This would be a new memory, he told himself, a moment to think back on while he was alone in his own bed, craving her touch.

  She scraped his stomach with her nails, abrading gently. His heartbeat stumbled; her hand slipped lower.

  Tricia was sliding into dangerous territory now, making this memory too damn real. She had lowered her head, her mouth barely brushing his—

  "You can't do that," he warned in a voice that sounded remarkably like a growl. "Not this time. I won't … I can't…"

  She dropped her lashes, and his strong, steady heart threatened to kick its way out of his chest. A coquettish smile tilted her lips. Somewhere along the line that sexually shy eighteen-year-old had turned vixen.

  Tricia flicked her tongue, and he nearly flew off the bed. "But you did it to me, Jesse."

  "Yeah, but women can … you know … more than once, and…"

  She kissed his belly, lingered there, then brought her face next to his. "I want a rain check."

  He drew a deep, ragged breath. It was all he could do not to push her back down and let her have her wicked way with him. His body throbbed, cried out for relief. He couldn't wait. Couldn't play this teasing game anymore.

  He had to have her.

  Now.

  This thundering instant.

  "My jeans," he groaned, lifting Tricia off the bed with him. He had to find his jeans, his wallet, the condoms he prayed were still intact. God only knew how long he'd been carrying the damn things around.

  They rummaged through his wallet like a couple of frenzied teenagers, dumping the contents onto the floor.

  "Here!" Tricia located a foil packet and dragged him back onto the bed.

  Feeling her roll that thin veil of latex over him was suddenly the most seductive act he'd ever experienced. They kissed while she did it, made wild love with their mouths. She nibbled his bottom lip, pulled and tugged and drove him half-crazy.

  He pushed her down and straddled her. She arched her back, thrusting those gorgeous breasts, those taut rose-tinged nipples. Desperate for her, he took one in his mouth and fed.

  The outside light still burned, shooting streaks of color from the window over her skin, over that smooth, feminine body, those sleek grown-up curves. He took her other nipple, captured it with a slash of blue, a beam of red. She moaned and raked her nails over his back—lightly, ever so lightly.

  Blood raged in his head, roared through his veins, throbbed in his groin. He lifted her bottom, sank into her, then felt her wrap those endless legs around him.

  Warm, wet, tight heat. Al
most like the first time.

  I'm home, he thought, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and caressed his skin, exploring his features with the tips of her fingers.

  He moved. She moved with him. He groaned. She gasped. He nibbled and kissed. She bit her nails into his back and made his eyes go blind with fresh heat. She was Tricia, old and new. The same, yet changed. A touch of innocence remained, wrapped in the woman she'd become, the sensual siren, the well-bred lady with a naughty smile and blush-pink claws.

  They went a little mad, crazed for each other. They took and took, releasing all the want that had been building, the desire, the need. It was a marathon, he thought, as she battled for control, then rode him, her naked body painted in light. She looked surreal—living, breathing art—the woman he'd missed, cried for, nearly hated, once loved.

  Still wanted.

  He caught her in his arms and rolled, pinning her beneath him again. Increasing the tempo, he lifted her hands above her head, locked them with his. She was close, so close. He could see her losing the battle, giving in, gasping.

  He lowered his mouth and kissed her—hard—so hard it nearly took his breath away. She began to shudder then, shudder and chant his name. He watched her, watched until a growl, an animalistic sound, rose in his chest and ripped from his throat. She hugged his hips with her legs, tighter and tighter, and together they climaxed—man and woman—spilling into each other, spinning inside a rainbow.

  "Don't move," she whispered, a long, quiet moment later. "Don't go away."

  "I won't." Probably couldn't, he thought. All the blood had drained from his body, stealing his bones with it. "Are you asking me to spend the night?"

  She nodded. He could feel the movement against his chin. "I want to sleep in your arms."

  He had to smile, even though it took every ounce of energy he owned. "Then I'd better move, or else I'll be sleeping in your arms. And since I weigh a hell of a lot more than you do, you'll hate me in the morning. Either that, or you'll need traction."

  She laughed. "I'm already numb."

  He shifted until she lay in the crook of his arm, warm and comfortable. He couldn't bear her hating him, not even as a joke. "Close your eyes, Tricia."

  She slept just like an angel, he thought. He kept a light on so he could watch her, watch and wonder if she would sprout wings, dust the bed with fluffy white feathers. Tomorrow, they would talk, he decided, no matter how difficult that conversation would be, or how much he dreaded delving into old aches. They had to confront the past, come to terms with it somehow. No, he didn't want to fall in love again, wasn't sure if he actually could, but he wanted to keep making love to Tricia—find a place in her life, be her lover and her friend.

  He slipped out of bed to wash, careful not to disturb her. A man couldn't sleep with a condom on, he thought, as he walked past the spilled contents of his wallet. Strange Tricia wasn't on the Pill. She was thirty now, a woman who had probably enjoyed a variety of lovers.

  He cleaned hastily, anxious to climb back into bed, hold her close. It was time to sleep, not dwell on the other men who had felt Tricia's touch, known her as a lover. He'd been her first, damn it. Nothing could ever take that away.

  * * *

  Patricia woke with the sun, blinked sleepily, then smiled. Beside her was the most incredible creature on earth, all dark and male, muscle and sinew. Night-tousled hair fell upon his shoulders, framing that perfect jaw, those strong features. Even in sleep, he emitted power.

  She trailed a finger over his chest and around his nipples. She followed the hair that grew there, followed it down to the thin line that marked his belly. The sheets blocked her view. They were tangled around his legs, his hips.

  She discovered a pocket of air and slipped her hand inside. The sheets were soft and cool, his flesh warm. A giggle threatened to bubble. She felt wicked. Wonderful. She brushed his thigh, found his—

  Oh, heavens. He was aroused.

  "I wasn't asleep."

  The sound of his voice nearly stopped her heart. She lifted her gaze and collided with lightning.

  "Hi," she said. The greeting sounded foolish, even to her own ears. Hi wasn't what a woman said to man when she had her hand between his legs. Was it? Patricia wasn't quite sure.

  His mouth curved into a roguish grin. "You were all over me. Did you really think I'd sleep through that?"

  She had barely touched him, she thought. Barely had time to play. And now, damn it, her skin felt flushed. It was the light of day, and she was blushing like a schoolgirl.

  He reached beneath the sheet, took her hand and closed her fingers around him. "Do it some more. Make me hard, Tricia."

  She bit her bottom lip. Was the stain on her face growing deeper? "You already are." He felt like iron, a rod of steel. And she felt embarrassed for having been caught. She wasn't used to waking up beside a man, wanting him so early. Even Jesse. He'd been gone for twelve years.

  "I can get harder."

  "Jesse!" She giggled when he moved her hand, melted when he kissed her.

  They tumbled over the bed, landed in each other's arms and smiled, the moment suddenly gentle, romantic.

  "I've always liked your hair," he said, combing his fingers through it. "You're so sophisticated. So ladylike." His fingers trailed lower, down her neck, over her breasts. "I couldn't believe you smiled at me that day."

  A tingle shivered up her spine. They were naked, recalling the day they had met. It seemed right somehow. Sexy. "You were the most handsome man I'd ever seen."

  He circled her nipple, lowered his mouth to taste. "I was barely a man. More of a boy, really." He moved to her other breast, teased the peak with his tongue. "Just out of high school."

  "Me, too." She nearly melted into the bed. Bittersweet memories and foreplay. Her head swam with it. "We were both kids."

  "But I wasn't used to proper girls." He rose above her, steadied himself. "It made me want you even more."

  She remembered how much he had wanted her, how much she had wanted him. "You taught me how to feel."

  Was teaching her still, she realized as his mouth took hers. They made love again. Slower than before, lazier. She slipped into the rhythm, the easy flow.

  They danced on water, she thought, a warm quiet wave, a sensual current. The hunger that had made them crazy last night kept them sane this morning. She held him close, felt his muscles come alive beneath her fingers. He sipped her like wine, drank until he was full, then came back for more.

  The pulse at her throat fluttered. She wanted him to keep drinking. Tasting. Coming back for more. He moved inside her, his hair falling over his forehead, his cheekbones high, lips full and sensual.

  Patricia caught her breath on a sigh. Jesse Hawk was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. And for one dreamy, dizzy instant, she was eighteen all over again, losing her virginity and her heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Patricia snuggled in Jesse's arms, then glanced at the clock. "It's still morning."

  He smoothed her hair. "Yeah, we were up early. Hey, do you have anything here for breakfast?"

  She smiled. He could switch gears so easily. Lovemaking one minute, food the next. Men, she assumed, were like that. She wasn't an authority on after-sex practices, but she'd heard plenty of other women talk and compare notes. "The fridge is stocked. What are you in the mood for?"

  "Hmm. First off I could use a strong dose of caffeine. Then maybe some bacon and eggs."

  She shifted to look up at him. "Do you trust me to cook for you?"

  He chuckled and kissed the tip of her nose. "Maybe we should do it together."

  Patricia elbowed his rib. "Thanks a lot. Afraid I'll burn the kitchen down?"

  He sank his teeth into her shoulder in a playful bite. "No, it's just that cooking with you is so much fun." He bit down a little harder. "Come to think of it, everything I've been doing with you lately has been kinda fun."

  She nudged him again, and
they both laughed.

  "Typical male," she said, humor suddenly failing her. Did he joke around with his other lovers? Nibble their skin? Cook breakfast with them?

  She still ached to think of him with other women, it still made her raw inside. She placed her hand against her heart, grateful for the beats. She hadn't lost it, nor did she intend to. She'd had a moment of weakness during their lovemaking, but she'd recovered. Of course, not being in love anymore didn't seem to keep her jealousies under control. It bothered her that he kept condoms in his wallet. Mostly because she knew they hadn't been placed there with her in mind. Last night had just happened; neither of them had planned it.

  Don't, Patricia. Don't ruin what's happening. Accept it for what it is. "I think I need a shower before we tackle breakfast."

  "Yeah, me, too."

  "You're welcome to use the guest bathroom down the hall." She knew he'd already used her bathroom this morning, but only to dispose of the condom. He wouldn't shower in someone else's house without asking or rummage through drawers for toiletries. Jesse had a proper, respectful side. She kissed his stubbled cheek. "Feel free to help yourself to a razor or whatever else you need." Out of habit and decorum, Patricia kept the extra bathrooms well stocked for overnight guests: disposable razors, unopened toothbrushes, mouthwash, shampoo.

  "Thanks." He nuzzled her neck. "Guess I could use a shave."

  A cluster of goose bumps raced up her arms. She didn't remember his beard being that heavy, but then, most of those massively formed muscles were new, too.

  She was learning about him all over again, and about herself, as well. Being naked with him felt strange. Not between the sheets, but afterward. It was an effort not to dash for a robe and cover herself. But she would seem inexperienced if she put on a robe just to walk to the bathroom. And Patricia didn't want him to know just how inexperienced she was. She glanced down at the contents of his wallet still strewn across the carpet. The corner of a foil packet winked beneath a credit card. Apparently sex happened often in his world.

  He grabbed his jeans. "I'll meet you downstairs, okay?"