Virgin without a Memory

by Vickie Taylor

  She hesitated, her eyes questioning. “Then why did you stay here?”

  He thought about that a long time before answering. He opened his eyes and looked again at the painting of Mike. The answer was there, shining from his eyes. The same shine he’d seen in Mariah’s eyes when he’d first seen her. Mike and Mariah shared something he didn’t—the ability to turn loose from fear, regret, responsibility: To live for the moment.

  He’d felt that way once, but it had been a long time. He’d thought the fire was gone in him, the ashes scattered by the cold winds of reality. But when he’d seen Mariah thundering down the trail toward him on her black horse, oblivious to the wind and rain, her expression a reflection of the rapture of the moment—she’d ignited a spark in him. A tender ember that longed to be nurtured into a long, slow burn.

  He looked up at her. Her eyes were cool now, the fires within carefully banked until violet faded to nearly blue. What shade would her eyes be, he wondered, when passion stoked those flames?

  “Because from the moment I saw you,” he answered carefully, “here is the only place I wanted to be.”

  The constant need he’d felt since he’d first seen her wouldn’t be denied any longer. It thrummed within him, a driving beat that had nothing to do with practicality or responsibility and everything to do with dreams, and flying.

  Her lips parted slightly. Accepting her invitation, he lowered his head. His mouth grazed hers, open and wet. He traced the curve of her cheekbone with the tip of his tongue, closed his teeth over her lower lip and tugged until she gasped.

  He held back his own gasp with a forcible effort. “I want to make love with you, Mariah. Tonight. Now.”

  “I—No.” She turned her back to him, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

  He turned her back to him. “‘No’ because you don’t want to, or ‘no’ because you’re scared?”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He found a sad smile within himself, hearing the familiar words “Right, and I’m not going to hurt you. I think we’ve covered this territory before.”

  “I told you, I can’t be with anyone until I know the truth.”

  Eric reached out, tucked a stray strand of silk behind her ear, then captured her left hand between both of his. “And I told you I already know the truth, Mariah.” He laid both their hands over his heart. “In here.”

  Gently he spread her arms wide and stepped between them, closing them around behind his back. His hands soothed her anxious skin from wrist to elbow and back.

  “Just let go, Mariah.” He used her arms to pull her closer, still afraid to put his own arms around her, to confine her. “Like you do when you’re riding.”

  She stiffened as their bodies made contact from knee to hip. “I can’t—I can’t control it.”

  He had to pause to rein in his own body’s response to being so close to her. “It’s not about control.” Her words from the other day came back to him. “It’s about rhythm, and balance.”

  He demonstrated, rocking his lower body into hers gently. Forward, and then back. Again. All the moisture in the room evaporated. The air around them crackled, hot and dry.

  Mariah’s brain fried. Shorted out so completely that she forgot to blink when her eyes burned, forgot to breathe when her lungs ached. Confused impulses jumped from one nerve ending to another, but none found their way to the upper half of her body. Her entire nervous system seemed to have moved below her belt.

  Words drifted to her, hazy, seeming to come from all sides like a tugboat horn in the fog as he moved against her most sensitive places. “Just relax. That’s it.”

  When he groaned, low and dense, she realized that she had found the cadence Their bodies rolled together like waves lapping at a shore. Her eyes found a measure of focus, and she looked up to find him looking down. Unmistakable desire burned behind onyx irises. A hum started inside her, pulling at her this time, drawing blood down, down into her core.

  Her limbs weakened, and she raised her arms to his neck, sagging even as she looped herself around him for support. Still, she might have fallen but for the knee he had somehow slipped between her thighs.

  The pulling sensation between her legs became a sharp ache.

  He moved against her again, and she rode him, relentless in her need for movement. Escape. Release.

  But relief evaded her, galloping ahead, tantalizing, just beyond reach. She closed her eyes and moaned in protest.

  Enc’s breathing had grown harsh. He turned them both until his back faced a wall and then he sank against it, pulling her with him. The rise of his chest lifted her, then dropped her against him. Again and again their bodies brushed, generating such sweet friction.

  She squeezed with her legs, urging him on, feeling him gather himself, accept the challenge.

  Throwing her head back, grinding her teeth, she let go of his neck and flattened her palms on the wall behind his head. She hurt so badly. A sweet pain. His fault. All his fault He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her. He’d lied. She lowered her head and opened her mouth to tell him but never got a chance. He took her mouth with the same tempo he took her body. He assaulted her senses until there was nothing left but him, and the movement, and the fluid warmth where her body wept for him.

  When she thought she couldn’t take another second, he slipped his hand between them. He held her, cupped her

  Pressure on the wound.

  And she exploded. Imploded. Both and neither.

  Shock waves ripped through her like tidal waves from a nuclear blast, rattling her teeth, curling her toes. All she could do was cling to him, ride it out. Her face found refuge in the curve of his neck, and she couldn’t be sure if the salty drop that trickled onto her lip was his sweat or her tears.

  Gradually the bone-shattering aftershocks faded to easy ripples, ever gentler, like water rings in a pond.

  “Mariah? Sweetheart?”

  “Mmm?” He’d called her sweetheart? Sweetheart. She rolled the word around in her mind, savoring the sound of it.

  She opened her eyes, but his were closed. Squeezed so tight that deep crow’s-feet lined each temple. Slowly she became aware of the steel-knotted biceps under her hands where she gripped his arms, the quiver of his thighs where he supported her. “Eric?”

  He opened his eyes. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to scare you, but I really need to touch you now.”

  “I thought that’s what you just did.”

  He grinned tightly. “I mean put my arms around you, hold you.”

  She should have been afraid, but she didn’t have the energy, so she just nodded.

  His fingers brushed along her thighs, leaving behind a trail of tingles. His thumbs followed the outside seam of her jeans, then hooked in her belt loops and tugged her forward, onto his chest. When she complied, he rewarded her with a kiss. Gentle, teasing, a taste and a nip, then a retreat, encouraging her to follow suit.

  Which she did. She liked this part, this kissing. And he wasn’t really holding her very tightly, just his fingers in her belt loops.

  She explored his mouth with her tongue: the smooth parts, the rough parts, the even outline of his teeth. By the time lack of oxygen forced her to raise her head, she realized with surprise that his arms had slipped around her without her notice.

  Vaguely she remembered him tracing the pattern of her spine, sliding his hands lower. Now his large palms firmly cupped her buttocks. He snugged her up against him and her breath caught as she felt the bulge of his erection straining against his jeans, jutting into the soft flesh of her belly.

  “Mariah?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I also really need to sit down.”

  Eric could have cried with relief when he slid to the floor, taking Mariah with him. The strain of holding her weight and holding himself back at the same time had almost killed him.

  She wriggled, straddling his chest as he lay on the flo
or, and he prayed for strength. He might die yet tonight.

  Her cheeks were still flushed, her lips swollen. A silky curtain of auburn hair brushed his jaw. “Wow,” she said, toying with the collar of his shirt. “All that, and we’re both still fully dressed.”

  “Imagine that,” he said dryly.

  “You don’t have to look so pleased with yourself.”

  He rolled his head from side to side, keeping his eyes fixed on her. “This smile’s all for you, sweetheart.”

  He could have basked in her answering smile all night. Except she was sitting on him, her behind stirring up trouble against a part of him already complaining vehemently about the long confinement.

  Hesitantly, he reached for the lowest button of her shirt. “Maybe we should do something about this clothing problem.” Moving deliberately, he unfastened the shirt from the bottom up, stopping halfway to skim his hands over her ribs. The muscles of her abdomen fluttered under his touch, and the vibration went straight to his groin. A little more quickly, he finished the buttons and pushed back the panels of the shirt. Her arms still caught in the sleeves, the flannel draped around her shoulders like a regal stole.

  Underneath she wore a simple white bra, cotton with a whisper of lace around the edge. Unhooking the front clasp, he pushed it back to meet the shirt and drank in his fill of the sight before him.

  When he moved, her nipples rose to meet his touch. He shaped and weighed her with his palms, desperately memorizing her contours and at the same time knowing it was unnecessary. He’d never forget the feel of her.

  Or the taste. Sweet nectar, like her kisses.

  Her fist twisted in his shirt and he relented. Fair was fair, after all. Raising his shoulders off the floor, he pulled his shirt up, then stopped, catching sight of her curious gaze. He dropped the hem of his shirt. “You do it,” he said.

  One corner of her mouth curled like a handlebar mustache. So, the spitfire enjoyed this game? She peeled the fabric off of him an inch at a time, touching and tasting as she went. By the time the shirt lay in a puddle next to him, he could no longer call what they were doing a game.

  She trailed a finger down the center of his chest. Her touch set him on fire. He couldn’t get enough of her. She shrugged the rest of the way out of her shirt. He ordered her boots off; she helped him shed his. Their jeans were disposed of just as quickly.

  Back where they started, she straddled him, this time with nothing but skin separating their souls. A hint of uncertainty crept into her smile.

  He was as hard as he’d ever been. He was so ready that the urge to turn her over and plant himself in her nearly obliterated all conscious thought. But she wasn’t ready, and he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Mariah crawled up his body and pressed her lips to his, tasting such a strange mixture of the two of them that she had to dip into it again. And again. Until he shifted, and she realized the price of her selfishness. His erection throbbed against her hip, unsatisfied.

  “I don’t know about you, Randall.”

  His eyes glittered with need and speculation.

  “I thought you were supposed to be some hotshot negotiator, but I seem to have substantially more favorable terms in this agreement, so far.” She rubbed his groin gently with her knee. “You’re not letting me win, are you?”

  He shook his head. “I never throw a deal.”

  “Good. Because I’d hate to think you weren’t giving this your... best effort.”

  “Then show me what you’ve got, lady,” he challenged. “I’ll match you point for point.”

  “Me?” Did that squeak really come from her? “I—I—Maybe you could give a rookie a few pointers?” she asked hopefully.

  He pulled her down and whispered explicit instructions in her ear.

  Rearing up, she smacked his bare hip. “I’ve been breeding horses since I was twelve. I understand the mechanics.”

  He was all innocence. “Then why did you ask?”

  “Because I want—” She ran her fingertips through the fine brush on his chest, plucked at his nipple. “I don’t know how to make you feel the way you made me feel.”

  “You’re doing fine.” He laced his hands behind his head. “Just do what feels good to you,” he said. “The rest will come naturally.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she leaned over and grated her cheek against his, relishing in the abrasion. She moved her attention to his ear, explored it with her tongue, listened to the echo of her breath in its cavity, nibbled at the lobe.

  His breathing deepened.

  In the minutes that followed, she lived out her deepest fantasy, exploring a man’s body, unhurried and unafraid. She found the recesses that made him gasp, the mounds that made him moan. All the while moving lower, gathering her courage.

  She stopped at his navel, delving her tongue inside. His stomach clenched. His sex strained against her shoulder, calling her attention.

  She slithered down his belly, leaving a trail of warm breath, and hovered over him, staring unabashedly at the size of him. The magnificence.

  She’d done this to him? That she had that power astonished her. Gave her confidence. Tempered her fear.

  She lowered her head. The rise and fall of his chest stopped.

  “Mariah.” Her name sounded like a warning. “Don’t...”

  Like hell.

  She touched him tentatively with the tip of her tongue and his whole body lurched. She laved the length of him and his hands clenched the tarp beneath him, his back arched. And when she took him all inside, he cried her name, sweet music to her ears.

  “I think I found the bottom line to this contract,” she said, removing herself from him for a moment.

  A moment too long. He recovered quickly, lifted her by the armpits and flipped her over, then crossed his body with hers. “This is no contract,” he growled. “I’m not settling for anything less than an all-out merger.”

  With his knees he pushed her legs apart. His weight came down on her. Panic swelled, threatened to spill out. She squeezed her eyes shut and struck out blindly. Her hands landed solidly on his chest. The smell of cigars clawed at her throat, made her eyes burn.

  “No!” He grabbed her wrists, pinned her arms above her head. “Don’t do this, Mariah. Stay with me.”

  Panic edged toward hysteria.

  He shook her. “Open your eyes. Open them!”

  The agony in his voice cut through her hysteria. She opened her eyes. Gradually the blurred form above her cleared. Eric. Raw and anguished. The smell of cigars faded, replaced by the comforting aromas of acrylic and peat.

  He let go of her wrists and cupped her face. “Stay with me, baby. Please.”

  She drew a shuddery breath, feeling as if she were halfway across a high wire in a windstorm. Behind her lay darkness, ahead the light. She couldn’t turn back. “Just do it, Eric.”

  “No.” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “Not now.”

  She sniffed. “Now or never, city boy.”

  He lowered his head so that she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he turned and pressed his cheek to hers. He rested like that, his breath whispering softly in her ear. Then, just as softly, he spoke. “You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever known, Mariah Morgan.”

  On his last word, he surged into her in one sure stroke. Breathless, she hung on to him. Clung to hun. She felt impossibly filled, invaded, shocked. Then he shuddered in her arms and withdrew, leaving a gaping emptiness behind. She pulled him back, not able to bear the loss, until he came into her again, reaching deeper, stretching her to the limits of her body and her mind.

  Then there was no room for fear. No empty place for the horrors to take hold. His light filled her darkness. Made her whole. Gave her back her life.

  Her head still in his hands, she rubbed her palms down his back. As he moved, his muscles bunched and released beneath her touch. She gloried in the feel of him, the power of him and his need.

  He quickened his pace. But it wasn�
��t enough for her.

  At the end of her reach she found smooth, deep flesh. “It’s about rhythm and balance,” he’d told her. Pulling him deeper, arching to meet him, she found both.

  Impaled beneath him, she was no longer frightened by the imprisonment. She reveled in the pleasured grimace of his beloved face as he moved above her, delighted in the weight of his breath on her cheek and sang with the music of his cry in her ears.

  This was Eric. Her love. Her lover.

  Her shelter. Her strength. Her mountain.

  When their bodies tensed together for the final time and she felt the gift of his love come into her body, she realized that beneath him might be the only place she ever felt safe again.

  Chapter 13

  Mariah sighed and shifted, in no hurry to shed the drowsy haze enveloping her. Eric’s masculine scent seeped into her awareness like a wisp of smoke, almost imperceptible to the conscious mind, but recognizable all the same. Smiling, she reached out to touch him, but her hand found only cold, scratchy tarp.

  She opened her eyes. Her head rested on his wadded-up shirt. Her grandmother’s quilt covered her chin to toes. Naked as a newborn, Eric stood with his back to her, immobile before his brother’s picture.

  His body, finely sculpted as any piece of art, took her breath away. He carried the breadth of his shoulders and back straight and proud. Not a bit of fat had dared take up residence on his lean waist or hips. His legs were heavy and powerful, his buns tight.

  He might be a corporate executive, but he had the body of an athlete.

  Gathering the quilt, she moved to his side and wrapped the cover around both their shoulders.

  Curling an arm around her waist, he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  She followed his gaze back to the painting while his hand caressed her back in slow, maddening circles. “I’ll finish it for you, if you want.”

  His hand stilled. “It’s beautiful. But I don’t think I could stand to look at it every day.”

  Mariah knew she would finish the painting, anyway. The pain might be too raw for him now, but avoiding the memories wouldn’t stop the hurt. In time he would heal. Then maybe he would be able to look at his brother and remember the good feelings.