by Unknown
Her flush was revealing. Dawson swallowed the last of the soup and caught her gaze.
"I have my own nightmares," he said unexpectedly. "If I could take it back, I would. Believe that, at least."
She moved restlessly as she put the soup bowl back on the table and helped him sip some of the hot tea. He made a terrible face.
"It's good for you," she said stubbornly.
"It may be good as a hand warmer in a cup on a cold day," he muttered. "If it's good for anything else, I wouldn't know." He lay back down. "If they want to shovel caffeine in me, why can't I have coffee?"
"Ask someone who knows."
He chuckled without humor. His eyes searched hers. "Going to stay with me tonight?"
"It seems to be expected."
His face hardened. "Don't let me put you out. I'm perfectly capable..." She winced.
He closed his eyes. Beside his thigh, his fist clenched until the knuckles went white.
She pulled her chair closer. Her fingers spread tremulously over his big fist and lingered there. "Dawson, don't," she whispered. "Of course I'll stay. I want to."
He didn't say a word. And still, his hand clenched. Her fingers pressed down, became caressing.
She knew when his head turned, when his eyes opened. She knew that he was watching her. With a long, helpless sigh, she lifted his hand and put it to her lips. And he shuddered.
She dropped it abruptly, horrified at her own action, and started to get up, red-faced.
But he had her hand now, turned in his, firmly held. He drew it until he could press the palm to his hard mouth. His eyes closed and he made a sound deep in his throat. When he looked at her again, what she saw in his face made her go hot all over.
"Come here," he said huskily.
Her knees became weak. She felt the imprint of his mouth on her palm as if it were a brand. She never knew whether or not she would have obeyed that heated command, though, because the door opened and the doctor, making rounds, came in smiling. Dawson let go of her hand and the moment was lost.
But not forgotten. Not at all, not through the long night when he slept, because of the pills they gave him, and she lay in the chair and watched him sleep. They seemed to have reached some sort of turning point. Her life lay in that hospital bed now. She had no desire whatsoever to leave him. And it seemed to be the same for him.
When he woke the next morning, a new young nurse came in with soap and a towel and a basin of water. Her eyes were bright and flirting, but when she offered to bathe him, he gave her a look that made her excuse herself and leave.
"You're intimidating the nurses," Barrie remarked with a faint smile. She was tired and half-asleep, but the look he'd given the nurse amused her.
"I don't want them touching me."
"You're not up to bathing yourself," she protested. His eyes searched hers without amusement, without taunting. "Then you do it," he said quietly. "Because yours are the only hands I want on my body." She stared at him helplessly. He wasn't chiding her now. His eyes were warm and quiet and soft on her face.
She got up, a little hesitant. "I've never bathed anyone except myself," she said.
He untied the hospital gown at the neck and, holding her eyes, sloughed it off, leaving the sheet over his lean hips.
She colored a little. She'd never seen him undressed, despite their intimacy.
"It's all right," he said, soothing her. "I'll leave the cover where it is. I can do the rest myself, when you finish."
She didn't stop to ask why he couldn't do it all. Her hands went to the cloth. She wet it, and put soap on it. Then, with gentle motions, she drew it over his face and throat and back, rinsing it and him before she put more soap on the cloth again and hesitated at his arms and chest.
"I'm not in a place, or in a position, to cause you any worry," he said gently. She managed a smile. She drew the cloth down his arms, to his lean, strong hands, and back up to his collarbone. She rinsed it again before she began to smooth it, slowly over the thick hair on his chest. Even through the cloth, she could feel the warm muscles, the thickness of the hair. She remembered just for an instant the feel and smell and taste of his chest under her lips, when she'd been all but fainting with desire for him.
He felt her hesitate. His hand pressed down on hers. "It's only flesh and bone," he said quietly. "Nothing to be afraid of." She nodded. Her hand smoothed down to his navel, his flat stomach. He groaned suddenly and caught her fingers, staying them.
His breath came erratically. He laughed abruptly. "I think... you'd better stop there."
Her hand stilled. Involuntarily her eyes slipped past it, and she stared.
"One of the pitfalls of bathing a man," he said, swallowing hard. "Although I won't pretend not to enjoy it. For years, that hasn't happened at all." Her eyes were curious as they met his.
"You don't understand," he mused.
She smiled faintly. "Not really."
"That doesn't happen with other women," he explained slowly. "Not at all."
"And if it doesn't, you can't—" She stopped.
He nodded. "Exactly."
Evading his intent gaze, she lifted the cloth and rinsed it and then soaped it again. She handed it to him. "Here. You'd better..." His hand touched hers. He searched her eyes. "Please," he whispered. She bit her lip. "I can't!"
"Why?" He didn't even blink. "Is it repulsive, to touch me like that, to look at me?"
Her face was a flaming red. "I've never... looked!"
"Don't you want to?" he asked gently. "Honestly?" She didn't speak. She didn't move, either. His hand went to the sheet and he pulled it away slowly, folding it back on his powerful thighs.
"We made love once," he said quietly. "You were part of me. I'm not embarrassed to let you look. And I'll tell you for a fact, I'd never let another woman see me helpless like this." He took a long, slow breath and felt the tension drain out of him. He was weak and disoriented, and his body relaxed completely. It worried him a little that he couldn't maintain the tension, but when he was well again, perhaps he could find out if he really was capable completely. Unaware of his misgivings, Barrie bit down hard on her lip, and let her eyes slide down. She looked and then couldn't look away. He was.. .beautifully made. He was like one of the nude statues she'd seen in art books. But he was real.
She tried to use the cloth, but it was just too much too soon. With a smile and a grimace she finally gave in to her shyness and turned away while he finished the chore.
"Don't feel bad," he said gently when he was covered again, and the bath things were put aside. "It's a big step for both of us, I guess. These things take time."
She nodded.
He tugged her down into the chair beside the bed. "Do you realize that we made love and never saw each other undressed?"
"You shouldn't talk about it," she faltered.
"You were innocent and I was a fool," he said. "I rushed at you like a bull in heat, and I never even realized how innocent you were until I hurt you. And I couldn't accept that you were, Barrie," he confessed heavily. "Because if I admitted that, I had to accept what I'd done to you, how I'd scarred you. Maybe my body was more honest than I was. It didn't want another woman after you. It still doesn't. The reaction you get, I can't give to anyone else." She met his eyes. "I don't... want anyone else, either," she said softly.
"Do you want me?" he asked bluntly. "Are you able to want me?" She smiled sadly. "I don't know, Dawson."
He took her hand and held it tight. "Maybe that's something that we're both going to have to find out, when I leave here," he said, and it sounded as if he dreaded the outcome as much as she did.
Seven
They let Dawson go home three days after he was admitted. The doctor insisted that he be cautious about returning to work, and that if he had any recurring symptoms from the head injury, he was to get in touch. Barrie wasn't happy about them discharging him, but she did have every sympathy with the nursing staff. Dawson in a recovered state was better off
without time on his hands. He made everyone uncomfortable.
He'd progressed from the bed to the desk in his study and he'd taken Barrie in there with him to discuss the tract of land Leslie Holton had agreed to sell him.
She stared at the contract on the desk, which had arrived by special courier that morning. "She wasn't that eager to sell at first. How did you change her mind?" she asked with barely contained irritation.
He leaned back in his chair, his forehead still purplish from its impact with the steering wheel, marred by the thin line of stitches that puckered the tanned flesh. "How do you think I convinced her?" he taunted. She didn't say a word. But her face spoke silently. He smiled cynically. "And that's a false conclusion if I
ever saw one," he mused. "I can't do that with anyone except you, Barrie." She flushed a little. "You don't know that."
"Don't I? " His pale eyes slid down her body which was in a loose knit shirt and jeans, and lingered on the thrust of her high breasts. "Then let's say that I'm not interested in finding out if I can want anyone else."
"You'd been drinking," she reminded him.
"So I had." He stood up. "And you think it was the whiskey?" She shrugged. "It might have been."
He moved away from the desk, glanced at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then on an impulse, went to close and lock the office door. "Let's see," he murmured deeply, and moved toward her.
She jumped behind a wing chair and gripped it for dear life. Her eyes were wide, wild. "No!"
He paused, searching her white face. "Calm down. I'm not going to force you."
She didn't let go of the chair. Her eyes were steady on him, like a hunted animal's.
He put his hands into his pockets and watched her quietly. "This isn't going to get us anywhere," he remarked.
She cleared her throat. "Good."
"Barrie, it's been five years," he said irritably. After the closeness they'd shared while he was in the hospital, now they seemed to be back on the old footing again. "I've been half a man for so long that it's a revelation to have discovered that I'm still capable of functioning with a woman. I only want to know that it wasn't a fluke, a minute out of time. I want to... make sure." Her big eyes searched his.' 'I'm afraid of you like that." "You weren't just after you had the nightmare," he reminded her. "You weren't the next morning. In fact, you weren't in the hospital when I let you bathe me." Her hands released the back of the chair. Her short nails had left fine marks in the soft leather. She stared at them. "You weren't...aroused when you pulled back the sheet," she faltered.
"That's what bothers me most, that it didn't last until you tried to bathe me," he said heavily. "Maybe it was just a flash in the pan, the whole thing," he said with black humor. "But either way, I want to know. I have to know." There was something in the way he looked that made Barrie feel guilty. Her own fear seemed a poor thing in comparison with the doubt in his hard face. It was devastating for a man to lose his virility. Could she really blame him for wanting to test it, to know for sure if he'd regained what he'd lost?
Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped away from the chair and let her hands fall to her sides. After all, she'd seen him totally nude, she'd felt his body against hers when it was aroused, and she hadn't succumbed to hysteria. Besides, she loved him. He was here with her, alive and vital. Her mind wouldn't let go of the picture it held—Dawson in the overturned car, his face covered with blood. She looked at him with her heart in her eyes.
His eyes traced her face in its frame of long, wavy dark hair to her soft, parted lips. His hands were still in his pockets, and he didn't move, despite the fact that her expression made him feel violent. She looked as if she cared.
"Are you just going to stand there?" she asked after a minute. He searched her eyes. "Yes."
She didn't understand for a moment, and then he smiled faintly, and she realized what he wanted. "Oh," she said. "You want me to... kiss you." He nodded. He still didn't move.
His lack of action made her less insecure. She moved toward him, went close, so that she could feel the heat from his tall, powerful body, so that she could smell the clean scents of soap and cologne that always clung to him. He'd shaved. There was no rasp of beard where she reached up and hesitantly touched his cheek. Involuntarily her fingers slid down to his long, firm lower lip and traced it.
His breath drew in sharply. She felt him tense, but his hands stayed in his pockets.
Curious, she let her fingers become still on his face. There was something in his eyes, something dark and intense. She searched them for a long moment, but she couldn't read the expression.
At least, she didn't understand until she took an involuntary step closer and felt his body against hers.
"No fluke," he said through his teeth. His voice sounded odd. "Now I don't want to frighten you," he continued shortly, "so if you're getting cold feet, this is your last chance to move away."
She wasn't sure if she meant to hesitate, but she did. His hands came out of his pockets and slid to cradle her by the hips. He pulled her, very gently, against him, and then moved her slowly against the raw thrust of his body, shivering.
It wasn't so frightening that way. She was fascinated by what she saw.
"Yes," he said through his teeth. "You recognize vulnerability, don't you?" he asked impatiently, hating the helpless desire he felt even while he thanked God for the ability to feel it. "My legs are shaking. Can you feel them?" He drew her a little closer, to make sure that she could. "I'm swelling. You can feel that, too, can't you?"
It was embarrassing to hear him telling her such intimate things, especially in that angry tone. She flushed, but when she tried to drop her eyes, he caught her chin and made her look at him.
"Stop cringing. I'm not a monster," he said roughly. "I lost control with you at the worst possible time, and I hurt you. I won't hurt you again." She swallowed. The feel of his body in such close contact made her nervous, but it also excited her to feel him wanting her. She grew dizzy with confused sensations. She shifted uneasy yet exhilarated at the same time. He drew in a sharp breath and groaned, and then he laughed. "God, that feels good!" He bit off the words. He actually shivered. His eyes met hers and he moved her against him in the same exotic little motion she'd made without thinking. His teeth ground together and the laughter came again. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to be a man."
His pleasure affected her in the oddest way. She buried her face in his chest, half afraid, half excited. She shivered, too, as his arms enfolded her.
"So you feel it, too, do you?" he asked at her ear. His hands tightened on her hips and he repeated the rough, deft motion and heard her cry out. "Do you like being helpless?" he asked, and his head bent. "Do you like wanting me and feeling powerless to draw away?"
She could hear the resentment, mingled with heated desire, in his deep voice. She opened her mouth to respond and his lips moved over it, opening to fit the shape of it before they settled with a rough, hungry, demanding pressure that made her stiffen with unexpected pleasure. Pictures of tidal waves flew through his mind as he groaned and forced her body into even more intimacy with his. He wanted her. God, he wanted her. It was a fever that burned so high and bright that he couldn't hide his need. It grew and swelled, the pressure hard against her soft stomach. He could feel her embarrassment as she tried to move her hips away from his, but he wouldn't permit it. He couldn't. He needed her softness against the flare of his masculinity.
He needed her.
His arm forced her closer as his mouth deepened the slow kiss into stark intimacy. She felt the slow, soft penetration of his tongue, the hard caress of his lips, the aching deep groan that shuddered out of his chest. Her arms were under his and around him. She could feel the heat from the hard muscles under her hands. She could feel his belt digging into her midriff. His powerful legs were trembling as he moved her against him and he groaned again, in anguish.
While he kissed her, his hands went deftly under the knit top to the front catch of her
lacy bra, quickly loosening the catch before she could protest. His hands slowly took the weight of her bare breasts, caressing their hard tips, while the kiss went on and on. He felt her body tremble again and heard her soft cry go into his mouth. He couldn't stop. It was just like France, just like that night in her room. Some part of him stood away and saw his own helpless headlong rush into seduction, but he was too far gone to fight it now. He hadn't been a man for years. Now he was in the grip of the most desperate arousal he'd ever felt and he had to satisfy it. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her.
He was practiced, an expert in this most basic of arts. She was, for all her fears, still a novice who'd never known pleasure. He was going to give her that. He was going to make her want the satisfaction his body demanded. Slowly he began to to slide the fabric of her blouse from her body while his mouth bit at hers in the kind of kisses that were a blatant prelude to intimacy. They threw her off-balance so that she made no protest when he removed the top and bra and dropped them onto the carpet. His hands caressed her soft, bare breasts and he drew away a breath so that he could watch them under the tender mastery of his hands.
"They're beautiful," he whispered tenderly, aware at some level of her dazed, wide-eyed stare. His hands caught her waist and he lifted her to his mouth. He traced the hard tips with soft wonder, savoring their taste with lips that cherished her. "You taste of rose petals and perfume," he breathed, nipping her tenderly.
She made a sound that brought his head up. He looked into her eyes, seeing the excitement, the shock of wonder in them. No, she couldn't stop him now. He recognized that blank, set expression on her face. She was in the throes of passion. There was no way she could draw back now, even if she'd wanted to.
Confident, he let her slide down his body and he moved back a step. She didn't try to cover her breasts. After a minute he caught the hem of his own knit shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor with her things. His chest was sexy, she thought through a haze of pleasure, staring at it, bronzed and muscular with a thick curling mat of hair just a few shades darker than the hair on his head. Without volition, she moved forward and leaned into him, closing her eyes with a shaky sigh as she felt his bare chest against her breasts.
