Her laugh came out sounding strained and metallic. “He’s more than twenty years older than I am.” Dammit, she thought, she didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. Why were they having it? Why was she standing there listening to him?
He smiled. “An age difference has never been a problem before to my knowledge.”
“He’s also married!” she yelled.
Jase touched her cheek, unable to prevent himself, drawing a callused finger down her face from her eyebrow to her chin. “That doesn’t always matter, either, Shell.”
He felt the shiver that ran through her. “It would matter to me,” she said quietly.
For a long moment he studied her in the faint moonlight. “Yes,” he said finally. “Integrity is part of your soul, isn’t it?”
“I hope so,” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, then she ducked away from him and slipped inside.
Jase followed, inhaling deeply, appreciating the scents that greeted him. Entering Shell’s house was like walking into a wall of aromatic heat. The scent of the Christmas tree hung gently in the air, along with a tinge of alder smoke and some indefinable perfume that he suspected would always be where Shell was.
A strange sensation of homecoming struck him with throat-tightening intensity, though he had never before come home to the warmth of a wood fire and couldn’t recall ever having a real tree for Christmas. Still, something primitive in him reveled in the welcome he felt in Shell’s snug little home.
In silence they took off their jackets and shoes, then followed the beam of Shell’s flashlight into the living room, where the two oil lamps waited. She handed him the flash so she could light a match, and he watched as the flame flickered, caught, and held, sparking a silver glitter of tinsel and reflecting in red, silver, green, and gold tree ornaments. And in Shell’s eyes.
Fascinated, he stared at her, at her slender hands as she lit the other lamp. He felt the warmth of her body close to his, and controlled himself with difficulty. Damn, but he felt cheated out of a kiss that he needed. Each time he held her, he found it harder to let her go. In only twenty-four hours Shell Landry had got under his skin.
“Your hair looks pretty in lamplight.” He heard the words before the thought had fully formed. She turned to him, startled.
Their gazes collided and locked. The dead match fell to the table, rolled across it, and hit the floor with a noise far out of proportion to its size. “Thank you.” She looked away and fiddled unnecessarily with the height of the wick. The glow increased, and Jase watched the shadows leap and waver, as did too many emotions within him. “Does anyone else have the right to object to my being here?” he asked.
She glanced warily at him. “You mean, like a man?”
He had to smile. “No, Shell. Not ‘like’ a man. A man, dammit.” He wished he’d been able to temper the intensity in his voice, but it reflected the growing, grinding need in him.
Her breasts rose high under her red sweater as she drew in a deep breath. “No.”
“That’s good.”
“Jase …” Shell felt a protest rising up inside her, but it was negated by a surge of pure, hot desire as his hand moved over her hair, stroking down its length and pulling away the scarf with which she’d tied it.
“It was curly before,” he said, sliding his hand over it again. “When you were a little girl.”
She nodded jerkily, unable to tear her gaze away from his face. “As—as Lil said, she grew up admiring Shirley Temple. If I was ever a disappointment to her, it was because of my completely straight hair. She started having it permed even before I can remember. I didn’t stop until I was in high school and wanted to grow it long and …”
Oh, Lord, she was talking too fast, too much. Why didn’t she move away from him? Distance would surely alleviate this fast-growing, coiled-spring tension inside her. Her breath caught in her constricted chest. Her wobbly knees threatened to collapse, and her heavy eyelids wanted to drop down as he trailed his hand over her hair again. Through it. Fingers against her scalp, her neck, her shoulder …
The desire to run, to hide, dwindled. As she gazed at him, it seemed the two of them were cocooned in a small, sensual world with boundaries of darkness around which a thousand tempting dangers lurked.
“Shell,” he murmured. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, confirming her belief that it was perilous to stand so close to him. She shuddered but still couldn’t look away.
Oh Christ! Jase wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a curse. He must have been out of his mind, thinking that coming indoors would make it easier not to give in to the temptations this woman presented. It was worse, far worse, inside, with the soft warmth of the wood stove wrapping around them, the gentle glow of the oil lamps casting mysterious shadows across her face and playing like liquid gold over her hair … her beautiful sleek, silky hair.
“I like it better this way,” he said, lifting her hair and letting it fall as he turned her face toward his. “It’s thick and rich-looking, and hangs like a heavy satin curtain around your shoulders when you leave it loose.”
Shell could say nothing. She was trembling deep inside and knew that from this moment on the scent of wood fires, of Christmas trees, even the aroma of oil lamps, would evoke Jason O’Keefe for her. She sighed in response to the touch of his fingers in her hair, on the back of her neck. It reminded her of their kiss that morning, the stolen one in the night, and made her want it all over again. The feel of his lips, the hardness of his body, the strength of his arms … His scent. His taste.
Him.
He outlined her left ear with one finger. “Shell,” he said. “The name fits.”
She gripped the corner of the table in both hands and stared down at the box of matches, the silver-and-black tube of the flashlight, the sprigs of leaves Nola had embroidered on the tablecloth. She tried to find a sense of normalcy in those things, tried to keep her mind under control when it insisted on winging off into a fantasy world peopled only by two humans who ached to be one.
One callused, masculine finger stroked down the side of her face, as it had outside. But here, in the intimacy of the house, the effect was even more entrancing. “Your skin is the same delicate shade as the inside of a shell.” He slowly slid that finger under her chin, lifting it, turning her face back toward him. “And as smooth.”
She breathed in the scent of him, heard the soft sound of his breathing, and felt the warmth of his body close to hers. His other hand slid around her waist, and he turned her to face him fully.
“Last night,” he murmured, “one of the first things I noticed was your hair, how glossy it is, how smooth. I wanted to touch it then and see if it felt as silky as it looks.”
She tried to speak. Her lips parted, but no sound issued. He lifted several strands of hair and let them trickle out of his fingers, watching as they caught the light. She saw the shimmering movement reflected in his dark eyes. She saw herself there, saw her own uncertainty … and her own need, and knew he must see it too. Now, when she wanted to close her eyes to hide from him, they refused to obey her command. She stood there, caught in the web of his gaze.
His hand encircled her nape, drawing her closer until the tips of her breasts rested on his chest, softness against hardness, and their breaths mingled.
“Shell?” His voice was a dusky whisper, filled with intent.
“Jase …” Hers was a soft plea, but whether a plea for him to let her go or to continue, she couldn’t tell. His other hand rested lightly on the small of her back, exerting no pressure. A deeper shudder ran through her. As if in answer, his fingers curled, pressing against her spine. He smiled down at her, then his thumb traced over her cheek. She trembled, feeling her will grow weaker and weaker, and stepped forward into the fullness of his embrace.
Jase closed his eyes as he lowered his head to hers, his heart hammering hard, loud, in his chest. His entire body vibrated as her breasts brushed his chest. Viscerally, he felt the tremulous breath she drew, and he
pulsated from head to toe as she curved her hand around his jaw. The rasp of his whiskers was loud against her hand. The sound sent a shaft of regret through him, for his beard might mar her skin, but even that couldn’t stop what was about to happen.
He was going to kiss her, taste her, feel her instant responses to him again. He had to kiss her. Nothing was going to stop him from doing what he needed to do, had needed to do all day.
Slowly, prolonging the pleasure, he slid his arms around her, drawing her into him. He reveled in the softness of her body, the scent of her, the sound of her quickly indrawn breath. Her instinctive quiver fed his desire, and he moaned softly. His palms flattened against the small of her back, fingers curving down and around over her firm buttocks. As his mouth brushed hers, he felt her lips part, and he took what she offered.
It was sweet and deep and so powerful, he groaned aloud, pulling her in tight to his hardness, moving against her. She softened, whimpered, slid her hands through his hair, and held him close. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. Her eyes fluttered open. He smiled, then kissed them shut again before accepting the silent plea of her damp, parted lips.
Chapter Seven
THEY BROKE THEIR KISS, their breathing hot and hard. They stared at each other, as if searching for the truth of what had swept—continued to sweep—through them in waves of awesome intensity.
“Jase …” Shell said, her voice choked, muted. She shook her head.
“I know. I know.” He rested his forehead against hers, then as if he couldn’t stop himself, snatched her into a hug so tight, she thought she might break in half. She didn’t. She molded herself to him and pulled his head down, this time taking, not giving. He held nothing back from her. He was willing to let her have all she wanted of him, which was more, more, and yet more …
Jase tore his mouth free and trailed it over her face, loving the satin of her skin, the scent of her hair, the small cries she made to tell him of her pleasure. She arched toward his hand as he found a full, firm breast. He cradled it, enjoying its warmth, its weight, even through the barrier of her clothing.
She shifted, wordlessly telling him what she wanted, what she needed. It was what he needed too. He stroked his hand down her side to her waist and slipped it under her sweater, feeling her abdomen ripple in response. Her skin was so soft it tempted him to seek more of it and he eagerly unhooked her bra and pushed it aside. She moaned, her body surging into his at the touch of his hand on her bare breast.
He caught her sound of delight in his kiss, and rolled an exquisitely taut nipple under his palm and between his fingers, then flicked it with his thumb until she shuddered. Her hips thrust forward, pressing against his in a rhythm that took his breath away. He gasped as desire burned through him, growing, aching, demanding release. He needed her. Had to have her. Couldn’t live unless he had her under him, naked, open, taking …
He lifted his head and caught a handful of her hair, tilting her face up to his. He saw the dazed glow in her eyes, the need that so closely approached his. “I want you,” he whispered, tugging her sweater up. He pulled it off over her head, then slid her bra down her arms. He wanted to see her naked in the lamplight and needed to take her breasts in his mouth. Needed her.
He skimmed both hands over her, molding her, holding her, gazing in delight at the flush that rose up over her chest, at the proud, jutting nipples, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. He wet one nipple with his tongue, watched it gleam in the flickering light, then sucked it deep into his mouth as he lifted her against him.
“I want you,” he repeated, his voice ragged as he struggled to tug his shirt from his waistband with one hand. “Now, Shell. Against me. Touching me. Now.” He set her down, tore his shirt open, reached for her again, and grasped … air.
“Stop!” The word was a soft plosive sound, like a sob. She had jerked away from him so suddenly and swiftly, he couldn’t stop her. Folding one arm protectively over her breasts, she stared at him. She shoved her tangled hair away from her face and staggered back from him, leaving him alone and cold.
Shell’s head spun, and she had to force herself to stand upright. The deep pulsing inside her had made it almost impossible to wrench herself away, but she’d had no choice. She knew that. Something had shrieked at her, Stop now! Get out of this before it’s too late! To go on is insanity.
She stared at Jase from five feet away. His chest heaved, as did hers. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Black hair glistened damply where his shirt hung open, arrowing down his flat belly to his belt. She tore her gaze away from the bulge in the front of his jeans, sweeping it over his face. His eyes looked half-crazed, and his mouth hung partly open on a word he couldn’t articulate. He snapped it shut and tried again.
“What?” he finally managed, but she took another step back as if he had threatened her. “What’s … what went … wrong?”
She struggled to control her panting. She was hyperventilating, growing dizzy. “ I … can’t.”
Can’t what? she asked herself. Can’t explain? Can’t go further with this? Even she didn’t know what she meant at the moment. She knew only that it had been too much, too big, too frightening, whatever it was that had sprung up between them. And he was a stranger. A stranger from California. Forbidden.
“Dammit, Shell—” Jase bit off the rest of what he’d been going to say and sank down onto the sofa. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. He had never forced a woman in his life. And he had never felt more like doing so than he did at that moment. He breathed deeply, keeping a tight rein on his riotous emotions and the instincts that insisted he had only to touch her again, to hold her and kiss her and run his hands over her body, and she’d be his.
He groaned into his hands. Of course he couldn’t do that. The lady had said “stop.”
Shell felt his anger, his frustration, and part of her shared it. She knew what she’d done, and it was cruel. Men called women terrible names for less, but if she had known how it would be, how quickly her body would respond to him, how intense and almost inevitable the outcome of that kiss would be, she wouldn’t have accepted it. Would she? No! Never.
She bent and scooped up her sweater, then looked back at him. He had lifted his head and was staring at her, his eyes dark with questions for which she had no answers, questions he had every right to expect her to answer. What could she say? That she was sorry? He must know that. That she’d had to stop because if she hadn’t, in another two seconds she’d be inviting a man she didn’t know right into her bed?
He had to know that too. Just as he had to know that she couldn’t do it!
Suddenly, an almost frightening anger surged in from nowhere, sending her reeling onto another emotional plane. It was anger with herself. Anger with Jase for making her feel this way. Anger with Lil for needing her so much. Anger with circumstances she had never been able to control. She welcomed the anger, husbanded it, let it grow strong enough to overcome the aching sense of loss. It rescued her from her overwhelming guilt, and she threw it at Jase as he came to his feet. “No!” she said. “Stay away from me!”
Though he hadn’t been approaching her, Jase stood as if glued to the front of the couch. She snatched up the flashlight. “I’ll do what you want.” Her voice broke as she whirled around and started across the room, her hair streaming down her naked back.
“What I want …?” There was only one thing he wanted.
“I’ll take you to my father’s party.” At the far side of the room, she turned back, her sweater crushed against her breasts, hiding them, and he had never been so aroused by the sight of a woman. Her eyes blazed into his. “You didn’t have to try to seduce me, Jase. I’d have invited you anyway, if only to save my grandmother.”
“Shell! Dammit, I wasn’t—”
“Weren’t you? I find that awfully hard to believe.” She flicked an icy glance over him and turned away again.
“Good night,” she said, and her inflec
tion was as poisonous as if she’d said “Drop dead.”
Several painful minutes later, Jase extinguished one lamp and, carrying the other, limped down the hall to his room. The oily stink of the lamp’s dying smoke eradicated the feminine perfume that lingered too long in his mind.
All right, he told himself. Fine. It was just as well she’d called a halt to something that had been almost entirely out of hand. He didn’t need involvement. He didn’t want it. And he damned well wouldn’t have it.
Not with Shirley Elizabeth Landry or anyone else!
“So there you are,” Shell said when she finally found Jase the next morning. He stood beside the creek where Ned had the front end of a badly crumpled green Jeep hooked up to his tractor, preparing to haul it out of the now tame and shallow water. “Uh … hi.”
Jase turned and looked at her, watching as she approached. For a long moment he said nothing; his eyes revealing no emotions. “Yup. Here I am,” he said.
She lifted the cup she was carrying as in a toast. “Thanks for making the coffee. What time did the power come back on?”
“I don’t know. When I got up, nearly every light in the house was blazing. I thought you were up.” And had left without a word. He didn’t say that, but she thought that was what he’d meant.
She managed a sketchy smile. “I should have checked switches, I guess, before I went to bed. I forgot how many had been turned on.”
His crooked smile told her it had been a poor choice of words. Their gazes met, held, and too many other, unspoken words crackled between them. Shell clutched her coffee mug like a lifeline and forced herself to continue meeting his gaze. “Jase … I’m sorry. About last night.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay My fault. I moved too fast. I’m sorry I scared you.”
She drew a deep breath and shook her head. She owed him the truth, if nothing else. “You didn’t scare me. I scared me.”
For the first time since she’d come outside, he smiled. It was a slow, tender smile full of gentle mockery, visible first as a lightening of his obsidian eyes, followed by an easing of the lines of tension in his face, then a curving of his lips. He took one long step that put him right in front of her, raised his arm, and rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. When he tucked her hair behind her left ear, she felt the touch right to the soles of her feet.
Forbidden Dreams Page 9
