Donovan's Child

by Christine Rimmer

  At the last second, she decided she’d better be sure it was him before she swung the door wide. When it came to Donovan, well, a woman just never knew….

  So she peeked around the edge of the door.

  And there he was, staring back at her, still wearing the same sweater and jeans he’d worn to Luisa’s. One side of that wonderful mouth of his kicked up. “Changed your mind?”

  “I most certainly did not.” She stepped back, pulling the door wide. “I was getting a little worried about you, though.”

  He wheeled in.

  Once he’d cleared the threshold, she shut the door and leaned back against it, turning the lock by feel, her knees suddenly rubbery and her chest kind of tight. “Is everything all right?”

  “Abilene.”

  “What?” She sounded snippy. Somehow, she couldn’t help herself.

  “I went to my room, that’s all. To get condoms.”

  She realized she’d failed to mention that they didn’t need them. “I’m on the pill.” Then again, well, you couldn’t be too safe these days. “But I guess it’s wise, to use a condom in any case.”

  “Well, all right, then.” He looked her up and down, a lazy kind of look, a look that took its sweet time. When his eyes rose to meet hers again, he started backing the chair toward the center of the room. “Come away from the door.” He said it softly, with wonderful, delicious intent.

  And she felt instantly better about everything. It was obvious that he wanted to be with her. She could stop feeling that maybe she had pushed him into something he just wasn’t ready for.

  She took a cautious step.

  “Nice nightgown,” he said. He sounded like he really meant it.

  But she felt suddenly shy anyway. She gnawed on her lower lip, fiddled with the wide straps that held up the top. “It’s not exactly seductive….”

  “It’s perfect.”

  She felt a flush flooding up her neck and over her cheeks, and she had to look away. “I, um, thank you.”

  “Come here.”

  She took another step. “I feel…kind of awkward, you know? As if it’s my first time, or something, which it’s not. I mean, it’s not like there were a lot of guys, or anything. But still, it’s not as if I’m a virgin or anything….” She shut her mouth, swallowed. Yikes. Talk about an excess of information.

  “I know what you mean.” He said it low, roughly tender. “When you kissed me in the van, I was thinking that I felt completely out of my depth, like it was my first time all over again.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. And it is the first time. Our first time.”

  Now she almost wanted to cry. “Oh, Donovan…”

  “Yeah?”

  “That was the perfect thing to say.”

  “You think so?” He looked kind of pleased with himself.

  “I do, yes. The perfect thing.”

  “So you think you might come all the way over here, then?”

  She did just that, stopping inches from his front wheels. He put his palms to his thighs, patted gently. She hesitated. “Will I…hurt you?”

  “I’ll let you know if it gets too bad.”

  “So it will hurt you, hurt your legs, if I sit on your lap?”

  “If it does, a little, it will be worth it.” He engaged the brake, locking the wheels into place. “Trust me to tell you, if something isn’t going to work for me.”

  “Yes, all right.” Her throat felt constricted. And her heart was just jackhammering away inside her chest. She could almost laugh at herself. She’d been so confident, at Luisa’s, and when she kissed him down in the garage. Where had all that boldness gone?

  But then he held out his hand to her.

  She took it. And she found reassurance, in the steadiness and strength of his grip. She let herself relax a little, let herself feel again the electric excitement that charged the air between them every time they touched.

  He gave a tug. She took his signal, gathering her nightgown in her free hand, lifting it high enough to get it out of her way. It was so simple, to hitch one leg over him, to slide her hips forward, so she straddled his lap.

  With slow care, she settled her weight onto him, the skirt of her gown riding high across the tops of her thighs.

  “You feel good,” he said. He let go of her hand and clasped her bare thigh. Heat shimmered through her as he stroked her skin with his open palm. “Smooth.”

  She framed his face in her hands. “Oh, Donovan…”

  “Shh,” he said. “It’s all right.” And he kissed her, a slow, deep kiss, wet and sweet and so arousing.

  His tongue slid over hers, retreating, and then gliding forward again, beneath hers that time, in a slick caress that brought a soft moan into her throat. The kiss went on and on and he touched her as he kissed her, first with long, exploratory caresses of her bare thighs. And then, more deliberately.

  He cupped her bent knees in his palms. And after that, he took the caress lower, down the sensitive, thin flesh of her shins, and around, to learn the curves of her calves, the secret coves behind her knees.

  She touched him, too. She ran her eager hands along the hard, thick muscles of his shoulders, over his chest, so deep and powerful, heavy with muscle even through the soft wool of the sweater he wore. Encircling his neck, she let her touch stray up into his close-cut hair. The short strands were warm, alive, between her fingers.

  And then he ended the kiss, pulling away just enough that their lips no longer met. He pressed his forehead to hers. With a long, slow sigh, she braced her forearms on his shoulders and linked her hands behind his head.

  Below, she could feel him. Growing hard. She tried moving her hips on him in a gentle, rocking motion.

  It felt so good, she sighed again, let her head fall back and groaned his name, “Donovan…”

  He pressed his lips to her throat, grazed the sensitive skin there with his teeth. “Yes…”

  And then those wonderful strong hands of his were sliding under the hem of her nightgown, around the sides of her thighs. He cupped her bottom, over her panties, and he urged her to move faster—and then slower. And then faster again.

  And again, they were kissing, mouths fused and hungry, as she moved on him, creating the sweetest, hottest kind of friction, and she was burning, deliciously. She was on fire, a fire that only flared hotter, that built and spread, all through her.

  He tasted so good. He felt so good.

  She let her hands stray downward, along his sides, so lean and compact, to his tight waist. For a moment, she lingered there, her hips rocking, her hands on either side of him, holding on good and tight, as the pleasure within her built in fiery waves.

  Beneath his sweater, she felt his warmth. But she wanted more. So she took the sweater by the hem and tugged it upward. For a moment, he resisted, unwilling to let go of her.

  But she was insistent. And finally, he gave in. He eased his hands from the folds of her nightgown and lifted his arms high.

  With a moan, she pulled her mouth from his and whipped the sweater up between them. He did the rest, yanking it all the way off, tossing it to the floor.

  And then they were kissing again. And he had those hands of his back under her gown, holding her, urging her onward.

  And she was rocking him, rocking herself, rocking both of them, as she wrapped her arms around him, ran her hungry fingers up and down the hard muscles of his back.

  She could have gone on like that forever, moving against him as he kissed her in that so thorough, so lazy, slow, delicious way he had. He still had his jeans on. She still wore her panties. But even with the barrier of their clothing between them, it felt perfect to her.

  It felt absolutely right.

  But he took it further. He trailed a hand slowly, up under her nightgown, along the lower curve of her back…and around.

  To the front of her again. He pressed his palm flat against her belly. And then those skilled fingers of his slid lower.

  He cupped
her.

  She froze. And she gasped.

  He took that soft sound into him as he eased his fingers under the elastic of her panties and slid them into the wetness between her thighs.

  Oh, it felt so good. So thrilling, so free. So exactly right.

  She was open to him and he stroked her, continuing to cup her at the same time, holding her in place with one hand as with the other he did the most amazing, lovely things. He dipped a finger in, then two. And with his thumb, he found her sweet spot.

  Oh, she was losing it. She hovered in a haze of building pleasure, on the far edge. She teetered on the verge of completion.

  And then, she was there. She was going over. The soft explosion claimed her.

  She grabbed his wrist, widened her legs even farther, held on tight, moaned low and helplessly, deep in her throat as the sweet, shimmering contractions took her. The pleasure increased in waves, taking her higher, and yet higher still. Until she hit the second peak, surged over it…and down.

  The slow fade-off began.

  She sagged against him, murmuring wordless things, boneless now.

  He gathered her close to him, wrapping his arms around her. She felt the brushing touch of his lips in her hair, the warmth of his breath at her temple. For a time they just sat there, in his chair, together. Entwined.

  Some time passed. Minutes. Forever.

  When she finally lifted her head from his shoulder, he touched her cheek and she met his shining eyes. He stroked her hair, guided a heavy, tangled lock of it behind her ear.

  They shared another kiss—a tender one, a light brushing of his mouth to hers.

  And then he was gathering her nightgown in his hands, easing it up. She raised her arms and he pulled it off and away, dropping it to the floor on top of his sweater.

  “So fine,” he whispered, bending his head to touch his tongue to the tip of one breast. He pressed his thumbs to either side of her navel, holding her waist in his hands. And then he caressed his way upward, until he cradled both breasts.

  She sighed and arched her back, offering him total access. He took it, bending closer, taking one nipple into his mouth, swirling his hot tongue around it, and then sinking his teeth in—not too hard, just enough to add to her pleasure.

  He kissed her other breast, too, taking his time about it, making her moan again, making her clutch his big shoulders and whisper his name.

  And then his hands were around her waist again, lifting.

  She took his cue and transferred her weight to her toes. A little unsteadily, with her legs spread so wide, she started to rise. He helped her, taking most of her weight in his two strong hands. She hitched one leg back and then the other, clearing the large rear wheels of the chair. And then the smaller front wheels, too. At last she was able to find her balance upright, to bring her legs together.

  He gazed up at her, his eyes heavy-lidded. She smiled down at him, admiring the beautiful musculature of his arms and shoulders, the hard perfection of his chest and belly. Such a gorgeous man.

  And still very much aroused, his hardness straining the fly of his jeans.

  He canted forward then, touched the side of her hip, tracing the curve of it, following the shape of her, up into the cove of her waist, and then back down again. Little flares of heat burst along her skin in the most wonderful way, wherever he touched her.

  He took hold of the bits of elastic at her hips and eased her panties down, over her thighs, to her knees. Then he sat back again. She did the rest, bending to slide them down all the way, stepping out of them, using her toe to kick them aside.

  She rose to her height again.

  Naked, she thought. I’m standing here naked in front of Donovan McRae.

  And then she grinned to herself, as she realized that his seeing her naked really wasn’t anything new.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, low and rough.

  “Maybe you do.”

  Or maybe he didn’t.

  It made no difference.

  What mattered was that they were here, together, in this intimate way. What mattered was that it was good, between them. It was honest. Open. True.

  He said, “You’re so beautiful. I never thought this would happen.”

  “I didn’t, either. But it did. It is. And Donovan, I’m so glad that you’re here with me….”

  He asked, “The bed?”

  She shook her head. “I was thinking, the first time, we could try it in your chair….”

  His eyes grew darker. Softer. “Sure.” His hands were already at his fly. He unbuttoned, unzipped.

  “Can I help?”

  He lifted one sculpted shoulder in a half-shrug. “I guess it would make things quicker.”

  “Your shoes?”

  “Thanks. Yeah.”

  So she bent on one knee and took off his shoes for him, and also his socks. When she stood again, he’d taken the condoms from a pocket. He held them out to her. She set two on the nightstand, and kept the other, ready, in her hand.

  With some effort, he began easing down his jeans and underwear. She stepped back a little. Partly to admire the view. Partly because if he wanted help, he would say so.

  He paused with the jeans and briefs still high on his thighs and he snared her glance, held it, his square jaw suddenly tight. “You should be warned. It’s not a very pretty sight….”

  She only looked at him, steadily, without wavering. It seemed to her that there were no words for this. Her complete acceptance of him was what mattered, her ability to communicate that she wanted him exactly as he was, that the man he was now, at this minute, was enough for her—more than enough.

  He braced his feet on the footrest and with a groan he tried to stifle, lifted his hips enough to take the jeans down to his thighs. Since he didn’t ask for more help from her, she didn’t offer it.

  Bending at the waist, he pushed the jeans and briefs over his knees, down his calves and, finally, all the way off. And then he wadded them tight and tossed them away from him.

  Slowly, he sat up straight again. He remained hard, fully aroused. She had absolutely no doubt that he wanted her.

  But his eyes had turned wary. He was watching her, gauging her reaction to the sight of his damaged legs. “Pretty ugly, huh?”

  “No,” she said. “Not ugly at all.”

  “Liar.” But at least he said it with a tender smile.

  She wanted to argue, to promise she wasn’t lying, that his legs weren’t ugly. But why go there? They were what they were. And in comparison to the buff perfection of his upper body, they did look sad and wasted—the right leg especially. It was much worse than the left, crisscrossed with ridges of scar tissue, some of it red and angry, the long rows of stitches still visible. His calves were too thin, his ankles slightly swollen.

  He gave a low chuckle. “A lot of pins, rods and screws involved, putting them in, taking them out again. Believe it or not, this whole mess looks a hell of a lot better than it did just a month ago….”

  “I believe it.”

  He searched her face, seeking the slightest hint that she might be having second thoughts—about tonight, about the two of them.

  But she had none. And he must have seen that.

  Because he held out his hand to her again.

  She took it, and she came to him, easing a leg over him, straddling him as she had before—only now, there was nothing, not the slightest scrap of fabric, between them. They were flesh to flesh.

  She kissed him, sliding her fingers free of his, peeling the wrapper off the condom and then slipping her hand between them and down, so she could encircle him. He moaned into her mouth when her grip closed around him.

  He was silky. So hard. So warm. She moved her hips in rhythm with her stroking hand.

  As she stroked him, he clasped her thighs, his fingers gliding underneath, so he could caress her from below. She felt her own wetness, her readiness for him.

  And then he was lifting her, taking some of her weig
ht on his arms. She helped him, rising to her toes, moving in closer against him, so her breasts brushed his chest and her toes, behind the rear wheels, could touch the floor.

  She still had her hand down between them, around him, and she moved it lower, to the base of him, so she could hold him in place. She rolled the condom over him.

  There. It was on.

  She tipped her hips forward, lifting them. He helped her, raising her higher, into position to take him inside. Yes. Just…there.

  She felt him, so sleek and hot, nudging her, parting her.

  With a long, hungry moan, she lowered herself onto him. He came into her in a sweet, hot glide. Her body put up no resistance. She welcomed him.

  There was only pleasure. Only heat.

  Only the delicious, complete, thrilling way he filled her.

  She let her head fall back and a deep cry escaped her; it felt so very good. And he leaned into her, kissed her throat, her chin, opening his mouth on her, licking her, scraping her burning skin lightly with his teeth…

  Until she lowered her head and offered her lips. He took them. She parted to him eagerly, gave herself over to his deep, wet kiss.

  With his powerful arms supporting her thighs, giving her something to brace against, she could take control. And she did. She moved on him in deep, hard strokes and he helped her, lifting when her body signaled him, lowering when she pushed down.

  He felt so good, so exactly right.

  And behind her eyes there was darkness, beautiful darkness. Darkness turning slowly to blinding, glorious light.

  Chapter Ten

  Donovan woke in Abilene’s bed.

  For a moment, he lay there, eyes closed, unmoving.

  Remembering.

  Every kiss. Every whispered endearment. Every hot, sweet caress.

  It had been good. Damn good. Better, even, than in all his frustrated fantasies of how it might be.

  He opened his eyes. He lay on his side, facing her. His legs hurt. But then, they always did.

  She was still sleeping—on her back, one slim pale arm thrown across her eyes, her hair wild on the pillow, her lips slightly parted. Her breathing was shallow. Quiet. Slow.

  He ached to touch her, to take hold of the blankets, pull them away slowly. To reveal every inch of her, every hollow, every soft, inviting curve.