Wild

by Foster, Lori

  He heard her small whimper and lifted his head. “Are you all right?” he asked, destroyed by the idea that he might be hurting her after all.

  He did his best to remain motionless, to let her get used to him.

  “This ... this is incredible,” she said, and pressed her face into his shoulder. “You’re around me and inside me, and the smell of you, the taste of you....” She licked his shoulder and groaned. “It’s almost too much, but I don’t ever want it to stop.”

  “It won’t stop,” he promised. “I can’t stop.” Carefully, he flexed his buttocks and went a little deeper, his way eased by how wet she’d gotten, how closely she held him. He withdrew, and pressed forward again. On the third stroke he entered her completely and they both moaned.

  Her mouth opened on his chest and she bit him, not a harsh bite, but a hungry one. Her heels dug into the small of his back as she lifted into him, trying to get closer.

  He fell into sexual oblivion.

  His every thrust heavier than the one before, he pumped into her while a roaring sounded in his ears. His entire body sizzled like a live nerve, every small touch electrifying him, driving him higher until he didn’t know if he could survive it, but he knew he couldn’t pull back. His hands contracted on her hips, holding her to him.

  Vaguely he heard Tamara cry out, but the wave of sensation cresting upward through his body, flooding his mind, obliterated everything else. And then he felt the draining release, the burst of pressure that was both pleasure and pain, and he tensed over her as his body shuddered.

  How long he rested on top of her, he wasn’t certain. He was horribly afraid he’d fallen asleep, because the sun had set and long shadows crept into the room. The light on her desk glowed, but other than that, the room was dim.

  The smell of sex lingered in the air, and the smell of Tamara filled his nostrils as he drew in a deep breath. Their bodies were practically melded together, his head on her breast, her thighs still around him. The steady drumming of her heartbeat sounded in his ear.

  He became aware of her right hand on his nape, idly stroking through his hair. Her head was turned, her mouth nibbling on his right hand where it rested beside her on the pillow. Her tongue licked delicately at his salty skin.

  “Tamara?” He felt drugged, and struggled to push himself up to his elbows. He was far too heavy to have stayed atop her, yet she hadn’t complained, in fact had held him the entire time.

  Her eyes were liquid as she looked at him, filled with tears and churning emotion. Her smile quivered over her soft, swollen lips. “You are the most remarkable man,” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair back from her face, caught a tear that trailed down her cheek. “Sweetheart, why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head, and gave him another beautiful smile. She held his hand to her cheek, rubbing into his palm with sweet contentment. “You have a lover’s hand. Did you know that?”

  Bending to kiss the corner of her mouth, Zane said, “I’m glad you think so.”

  She laughed with the delight of a child. “No, I meant that as a palm reader, I can see the defining elements in your hand for a lover. I’ve been studying it while you dozed.”

  Damn, so he had slept. He was a pig, but God, he felt replete, with both sexual satisfaction and emotional fulfillment. No other experience, no other woman, had prepared him for this. Then he thought about her words.

  Her shop window advertised palm reading, and Zane was curious. He smoothly disengaged their bodies, despite her protests. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  But once he stood, he paused to admire her lying there, warm and soft, nestled into the bedding. With a slight blush, she turned on her side, facing him, her soft, slender thighs closing, one arm covering her breasts. A lock of fine, blonde hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it away. Her smile was one of sharing, of intimacy.

  Zane inhaled deeply. He accepted that he was in deep—and he intended to get a bit deeper.

  It took him only a moment to get rid of the condom and splash water on his face. He brought a cool washcloth back with him and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, eyeing the washcloth with the same fascination she might give to a rattlesnake.

  Humor rose in him, sharp and sweet. “Playing the servant.”

  “No.” She started to sit up, and he wrestled her back down. Wrestling with Tamara was more fun than any man deserved. Especially since they were both naked.

  When he had her flat on her back again, he said, “This will give me pleasure, Tamara.”

  Skepticism darkened her vivid green eyes. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” She relented, but her shoulders remained stiff, her disposition wary while he bathed her face, her throat, her tender breasts.

  A catch in her breath and the sight of her nipples puckering told him she liked the impromptu bath as much as he did.

  “I want you to be comfortable.” With a gentle, slow touch, he brushed the damp cloth between her legs. Her thick lashes dropped to hide her eyes, and she made a small purr of surprise.

  Damn, he loved how quickly she responded to him.

  He threw the cloth aside and stretched out next to her, pulling her into his arms. He wanted to hold her all night.

  He intended to make love to her again and again before they slept, but she was new to lovemaking and needed time to get used to him. In that, her book was correct.

  The hand she’d been kissing was now filled with her breast. “Explain this palm reading business to me,” he said as he fondled her. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of listening to her, touching her.

  Tamara lifted his hand, depriving him of her breast, and kissed the palm. “Here,” she said, tracing a thin crease that ran the width of his hand. “This is your heart line. See how long and curvy it is? And it ends between your second and third finger. That means you have a tendency to freely release all emotion and passion that your head would normally block. You have a bigger capacity to experience sensation than many other people.”

  She twisted to see his face, her smile impish. “It also means you’re good at pleasing yourself and your partner.”

  The twinkle in her eyes charmed him. “And you agree with that assessment?”

  “Wholeheartedly.” She brought his hand to her mouth again, and this time she bit his baby finger. “See how your little finger is long and straight and sort of leans out to the side? Now that reveals a freethinker, unconcerned with the restrictions of others.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “And often accurate.”

  “Huh. So the services you advertise aren’t entirely bogus?”

  “Of course not.”

  She didn’t sound hurt by his skepticism, so much as resigned. That bothered him. He didn’t want her to accept him as the typical doubting Thomas who didn’t understand her. He was more than that, much more.

  “I can tell by reading your palm that you’re willing to try things.”

  Trying things held a definite appeal at the moment. Fascinated, Zane studied her breasts, how her nipples were now soft and smooth, her delicate skin a little abraded by his five o’clock shadow. Were her silky thighs scratched too? He cupped his hand protectively over her mound, promising himself he’d shave before pleasuring her that way again.

  “What kind of things?” Thoughts of what he intended to do with her and to her made his voice huskier.

  Her voice was deeper, too, as she said, “Sexual things.”

  At least they were on the same track.

  “You’re not content,” she said, “to just make love in the missionary position, on a bed and in the dark.”

  Zane snorted. “Hell no.”

  Curiosity brought rosy color to her cheeks. “Where else would you like to make love?” Tamara continued to examine his hand, every so often kissing a fingertip or licking at his flesh.

  The “love” word, even in the context of
physical love, kicked his heart, making it miss a beat. Infatuation, possessiveness, pounding lust—they were all emotions he could deal with. But love? Jesus, he just didn’t know.

  As his thoughts progressed, she turned her face against his shoulder, and once again he wondered if she could read his mind. He was the one who’d originally insisted on calling their intimacy “lovemaking.” She’d been more than happy to label it mere sex. And here he’d upset her. It seemed that every time he got agitated, she was the one to react.

  He frowned, reluctant to let anyone into his head. And yet, how could he stop her? Especially when she denied any such thing. It was certainly something for them to discuss, once she stopped being so close-mouthed.

  He nuzzled her temple, rubbed his bristly jaw into the soft coolness of her hair. “Before I start sharing fantasies, we need to eat.”

  He felt her lips form a smile against his skin. “I suppose a man your size gets hungry often?”

  “In more ways than one.” She lifted her face, staring up at him with invitation. He kissed the end of her nose. “Let’s eat, and then,” he promised, “we’ll trade fantasies.”

  “The book suggested we should do that. You share a lot of the same philosophies with the woman who wrote it.”

  Zane stood and pulled her to her feet. After everything they’d already done, she still looked shy, her thighs quickly pressing together, her shoulders hunching as if to hide her breasts.

  Patience, he told himself, unwilling to shock her, refusing to let her feel used. But containing his marauding tendencies had never been so difficult. All he had to do was look at her, and his blood raged. Seeing her fresh from his lovemaking had the impact of a wrecking ball on his composure.

  Distracting himself, he glanced around the room. “Where is this infamous book?”

  Twisting and dipping at the waist, she reached beneath the mattress. Zane clenched his fists to keep his hands off her delightful bottom. It wasn’t easy.

  She straightened, holding a slim, worn, blue volume with a ribbon poking out from between the faded pages. A marker, he realized, and wondered how far she’d gotten.

  Taking it from her, Zane flipped it open. Tamara went on tiptoe to look with him. She pointed. “Right here. Sharing fantasies. It says it’s an excellent way to really get to know your lover.”

  He wasn’t sure he’d live through hearing her sexual fantasies, but he was willing to try. “Why don’t we check this out while we eat?” He could definitely use some nourishment right now. And filling his mouth with food, while not nearly as satisfying, would keep him from tasting her again.

  Tamara held back as he tried to urge her toward the door. “I need to get my robe.”

  Laughing, Zane pulled the sheet from the bed, tossed it over her shoulders, and lifted her in his arms. “Honey, I like you this way, buck naked. And there’s no one in your kitchen to see us, is there?”

  “No. ”

  “Then why deprive me of the sight?” Zane strode into the kitchen and plunked her onto the counter next to the refrigerator. He pulled a mock frown when she scrambled to get the sheet around her. “Spoilsport.”

  He didn’t ask permission, just opened the refrigerator and found cheese, mustard, lettuce, milk. “Where’s your bread?”

  Arms crossed over her breasts to anchor the sheet in place, she nodded toward a pantry. “Over there.”

  “Stay put.” Zane fetched the bread and went about making several sandwiches. “How many can you eat?”

  “A half.”

  He eyed her slim body, practically swallowed by the voluminous sheet, and shrugged. “Okay, but that means we’ll have to have dessert, too.”

  “There’s strawberry ice cream in the freezer.”

  “Perfect.” More than perfect, he thought with anticipation.

  For the next hour, Zane showed her how to play while giving himself time to recover. He didn’t want to admit it to Tamara, but his legs were still rubbery and his pulse still sluggish. She’d zapped him of his strength. He needed all his wits and dexterity to deal with her and the sensual plans he’d made for the night.

  The sight of her perched so prettily on the counter did a lot toward helping him reach that goal.

  He fed Tamara, occasionally licking one of her fingers, even trailing wet kisses up her wrist to her inner elbow. He found all the places that made her eyes go heavy with desire, and he showed her how and where to kiss him in return.

  She enthusiastically complied with all his instructions—even referring back to the book a few times.

  “Did you know,” she asked, “that women have a biorhythm for when they’re most easily excited?”

  “Is that from the journal?” He’d read some of the elegant, sloping script, and found it to be amazingly precise and on target.

  “Yes.” She scooped up the book and thumbed carefully through the fragile pages. “An observant and caring man,” she read, “will make note of when his lover is most receptive. A woman can be convinced to do anything if she’s approached at the right moment.”

  “Anything, huh?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Well now. I think that’s terrific information to have. When are you most receptive?”

  She lowered her lashes, relaxed enough to flirt, and asked, “What is it you want to do?”

  “Everything.”

  The fluttering of her pulse gave her away. “I ... I think I’m susceptible to you anytime.” She watched him without guile, open and honest. “I meant it when I said I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you. I think about you most at night, because that’s when I’m least busy and I can concentrate more. But you—this—is always in my mind, even while I’m working.”

  “This?”

  “Having you here.” Like a lingering touch, her gaze moved over him. “Naked and willing and mine at least for right now.”

  His stomach dropped, his chest swelled. “What else do you want? I mean, in life.” He was so curious about her, all of her. The more he knew, the better equipped he’d be to deal with the nearly smothering emotions.

  She sighed and turned to stare at the floor. “I want to keep my shop. I want whoever is bothering me to leave me alone. And I want to be normal.”

  Her words hurt him, an actual physical ache that was more powerful than lust could ever be, and more painful than anything he’d ever experienced. “Normal?”

  Gesturing, she flapped a hand toward him. “Like you. Like people who go about every day with their regular jobs and their regular lives.”

  “Not a Gypsy?”

  Her lips pressed together. “I’m sorry.” When she looked at him, her gaze was clear, all remorse hidden. “I shouldn’t be complaining. In so many ways my life has been extraordinary.”

  “And restrictive.”

  “Yes. But my aunts and uncle did what they could. And I’m grateful to them. They raised me and loved me, and that’s more than a lot of people have.”

  And it was nothing compared to what he’d been given in his life. He felt spoiled and shallow; he’d pushed through life taking what he wanted, rejecting what he didn’t need. He’d had a backup system of love and support and acceptance that he’d often taken for granted.

  “I am sorry.” Her laugh was self-conscious, frustrated, and it loosened his knees, made his eyes burn and his throat feel tight. “I can’t believe I’m yakking on and on like this.”

  “What?” He bent to look into her face, to see her eyes, her expression. “We can’t talk? Can’t share?” He kept his tone soft, neutral, carefully hiding the surge of urgency he felt. He wanted, needed, her to tell him more. “Says who?”

  Tamara gripped the cloth-covered book tightly. Her hair skimmed her shoulders as she shook her head. “According to the first chapter, I shouldn’t be burdening you.” She chewed her lip. “It’s just that I’ve never been involved before, so it’s hard to remember what I should and shouldn’t talk about.”

  “And here I was thinki
ng that the journal was written by a smart lady.” He made a deprecating sound that she immediately reacted to.

  “Oh no, we should talk and share. But I don’t want you confused over what I want from you. Those other things ... they’re not your concern. They’re things I’m working out on my own.”

  How many times, he wondered, had she had to summon up that rigid streak of pride to protect herself, claiming it was what she wanted? How often had independence been her prop for loneliness?

  He wouldn’t dent her pride for the world, so he let it go. By morning, she’d know in no uncertain terms that she was his in every way, not just within the boundaries she dictated.

  She was getting his help whether she wanted it or not, but she didn’t need to know that just yet.

  For a while they ate and talked about inconsequential things, foods they both liked, movies they had enjoyed. Zane located a few ticklish spots on her—the back of her knees, her hipbones—and he relished her laughter, her small smiles, and her teasing rebukes.

  “What else can you do besides read palms?” he asked when they had just about finished all the food. They were both semi-aroused, freely touching and kissing in a lazy, savory way.

  Tamara had become unmindful of her nudity. She’d even gone so far as to place the notorious journal aside, and let the sheet drop to her lap, giving him free access to her breasts, letting him do as he pleased. And it pleased him to touch her, kiss her. He couldn’t keep from it.

  He loved watching her move, the way she gestured with her hands or tilted her head or curled her toes. He’d been with a lot of beautiful women, stacked women, but she had the cutest body he’d ever seen, all soft and pink and petite, with an undeniable feminine strength. He was as enthralled with her as he’d been with his first naked woman. He remembered the fascination then, lying in the sunshine in a field with his junior high school sweetie being very accommodating, giggling as he’d explored with his fingers, moaning when he’d used his tongue to taste her. It had been like having the candy store opened, and everything was free.

  He felt that way now, magnified about a thousand times, constantly needing to stroke her or nibble on her in some small way. The ice cream hadn’t been dessert enough—he wanted to start at her toes and work his way up.