by Vonna Harper
She fought to keep her breathing regular, but it came in quick, shallow gasps. Maybe she should be afraid of him, but she wasn’t…probably because she’d never felt more alive, more primitive.
Eager to feel more of him, she lifted her hips. She couldn’t hold that position more than a couple of seconds, not that he gave her the chance because he lowered himself onto her, bringing her trapped wrists down and then under her breasts. He pinioned them there with his left hand which left his right free to slide under the top of her bra. He cupped first one breast and then the other, all the time staring at her so intently that she closed her eyes to escape his intensity.
From inside her self-imposed prison, she took stock. His weight pinned her from her hips down, and his left hand was so large that it easily handcuffed her wrists. In addition, he’d leveraged his weight so she could barely move her upper body. She could, as if it made any difference, move her head from side to side and bend her knees. She didn’t try.
She was his prisoner, plain and simple. If he wanted to massage her breasts and mold them into contours of his choosing, he’d do it. If he chose to clamp his fingers around her throat and squeeze the life out of her, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.
For reasons she wasn’t about to explore, that excited her.
Still holding her in place, he slipped his hand out from under her bra, then around behind her where he deftly unhooked it. He couldn’t yank it off without releasing her wrists, but obviously that didn’t matter to him.
With her eyes still shut, she imagined him staring at her breasts and taking their measure. They weren’t half bad, not as magnificent as those that had been artificially enhanced, but genetics had been kind to her. Maybe he agreed, because this time when he laid claim to them, it was with a new tenderness—or if not tenderness, a certain consideration.
Consideration for her response.
He touched and tasted, took a nipple between thumb and forefinger much as she’d recently claimed his. He had more to play with than she’d had. And was better at it.
Once again moisture flooded her cunt and added to what was already there. Her nipples hardened, and she sucked in humid air through flared nostrils. He spread his fingers over the outside of her breast and pushed inward, then placed his palm over the small mountain he’d created and created indentations with his rough finger pads. Done with that, he rolled her swollen and sensitive nipple back and forth, back and forth, creating enough friction to be almost painful.
She felt her hips lifting off the ground again, tried to spread her legs. She sobbed in frustration because they remained clamped together and imprisoned by his legs. How could he thrust his cock into her if he trapped her like this? If she still had on shorts and panties? Didn’t he know how frustrated she was becoming, how she desperately needed him filling her?
Although she wasn’t sure she had the courage for this, she opened her eyes. He stared down at her, but she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. He looked—not impassive really but something she couldn’t reach or comprehend. Wild.
Determined.
“I’m not—I’m not going to run away,” she managed, although it might be a lie. “Please, let me up. Get these damn clothes off me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It is better this way.”
For which of us? Certainly not for her, and she couldn’t imagine he was satisfied with endless foreplay. If he was into control, he shouldn’t have any complaints, but his cock couldn’t possibly get any larger. Surely he wanted to shove it in her.
Determined to get her point across, she resorted to rhythmically lifting her hips toward him. Each thrust lasted only a second because she wasn’t sure how long her back would hold out. Still, again and again, she pressed her pelvis bone against the inside of his thighs. It would have been impossible if he rested his full weight on her, but he’d repositioned himself so his knees bore that responsibility.
She could only imagine what it felt like to have that damnable fabric repeatedly brush the tip of his swollen penis. Fortunately, her imagination was vivid—that and what her repeated thrusting was doing to her. Sex without penetration pretty much summed it up—sex with her doing the pumping. Her pussy hot and humming.
He growled, and she answered with a throaty moan.
“It—doesn’t have to be—like this.” Spent, she rested. In her mind, she continued her erotic thrusts, but that would have to suffice until her buttocks muscles recovered. “We can do this—another way.”
Did panthers purr? She didn’t think so, and yet the sound that came from his throat prompted the question.
“You’ve made me wait—so long. Teasing. Turning me inside out. I deserve—” She tensed in preparation to start pumping again. “More than this.”
Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, he leaned forward and lowered himself onto her, trapping her arms between them. His cock now pressed against her belly, the tip grinding into her navel—or it would have if it hadn’t been for the two layers of fabric. She wanted to concentrate on that, but couldn’t because he’d started nipping her jaw line and the side of her neck. She could only imagine what he looked like with his butt sticking up in the air to accommodate his greater length to hers. Instead of needing to laugh, she found the image erotic—not that she needed more in that department. Trusting and yet not, she turned her head to the side and gave him full access.
He closed his mouth around the taut tendon at the outside of her neck. She had no doubt that the strength in his jaw was enough to kill her. Not pain, not really. On the edge, between pleasure and discomfort.
A little heat had gone out of her flooded passage when she stopped her gyrations, but now the fire returned. Only one thing would quench it—him inside her.
“Fuck me!” she gasped. “Laird, do it!”
If he heard, he gave no indication. Instead, he continued to nibble almost playfully at her neck. His cock felt heavy against her belly, and she’d become aware of the texture and weight of his balls.
“Please!”
Snarling, he scrambled off her, planting his feet under him and standing. Before she could react, he reached down, grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up with him. Her bra straps started slipping off her arms. She grabbed the garment and tore it from her. Before she could turn her attention to her shorts, he took charge by yanking the elastic waistband down her hips. The elastic caught around her thighs, but only for a moment because, impatient with his speed, she pulled them off the rest of the way. She reached for her panties, but he caught her hands and pushed her away from him. His gaze seared her.
“Well?” she managed. “Do you like what you see?”
“You are a woman.”
Woman. Talk about summoning it up with a single word. “I-I wasn’t sure,” she admitted. “For too long—I was in a relationship that didn’t—that never did this to me.”
“Today is different?”
She swayed, felt lightheaded. “Today’s different from anything I’ve ever done in my life.”
He continued looking at her, staring at her face for a long minute before raking his gaze lower. She felt the heat of that stare on her throat and then her breasts. Finally he turned his attention to her waist and belly. Suddenly shy, she tried to cover her crotch with her hands, but her arms were so heavy. Besides, she still wore that tiny piece of white nylon and lace.
But not for long, she amended as he jerked his head at her, commanding her to come to him. She did so mindlessly, and when she stood before him, he took hold of the front of her panties and tugged. They too hung up on her hips, prompting her to suck in her breath to aid in the disrobing, but once the scrap of cloth was at the juncture between hips and legs, she let him take over again. He crouched, rolling the garment down her legs. She stepped out of it.
Naked before him. Finally.
Now what? she asked herself. Think, damn it. Now what?
Despite the way her fingers trembled, it didn�
�t take long to untie the knot of cord over his hip that held the loincloth in place and toss it away.
Bigger than she’d imagined.
Her tongue snaked out to touch her upper lip. She didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t mesmerized by the contours and veins of his engorged penis and heavy testicles.
“You’re—magnificent.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t move.
“You—you belong inside me. Now, now!”
Still wordless, he clamped his hands around her waist, propelled her over to a rotting tree stump covered with moss and ferns, and backed her against it. Not waiting for him to position her, she reached behind and found a handhold. Then she arched away from him, spreading her legs and thrusting her pelvis at him at the same time. After staring at her from under hooded eyes, he lifted her so her toes barely touched the ground. Because there was an indentation in the ground at the front of the stump, he could stand in it—make the fit of cock to cunt perfect.
Now! Now before I lose my everlasting mind!
Using his thumbs, he spread her hot, wet folds. She felt the first exquisite kiss of cock against swollen bud, trembled.
“No!” a stranger ordered.
Fighting terror, she forced herself to concentrate. Laird had stepped away from her. Something about his stance made her question whether he had any control over what he was doing.
“Laird?”
Teeth bared, his fists raised and at the ready, he turned. Everything about him said he was facing an adversary, a foe, maybe danger, but she didn’t see anything or anyone.
“Laird? What is it?” she demanded. “Who…”
He crouched slightly as if readying himself for attack.
“No,” he said, the word half defiance, half plea. “No.”
What are you talking about? Because she didn’t dare distract him, she simply settled herself back onto her feet and watched, waited. She couldn’t begin to ignore her sexual frustration, couldn’t bring herself to close her legs.
Laird looked no less wary than he had a moment ago, and she read denial in every line of his body, but he was no longer ruled by shock. Instead, she could swear he accepted something she couldn’t begin to comprehend. When he spoke, she couldn’t understand a word. The only thing she had no doubt of was that he was talking to someone—someone she couldn’t see.
Slowly, as if he couldn’t put his mind fully on the task, his fingers relaxed, and he no longer put her in mind of a trapped animal. He straightened and another look—peacefulness or acceptance—came over him.
Then he walked away from her. Let the Everglades embrace him.
“Laird!” she screamed.
Nothing.
“Laird!”
Still nothing.
It was night by the time Mala let herself into her small home in Naples. The inside air was stale, prompting her to open windows before checking her answering machine. When she did, she found that Ralph Korn had left two messages, both emphasizing how much he admired her work and hinting at a personal relationship.
After deleting the messages, she walked into her bathroom, stripped off her Everglades-soiled clothing, and stepped into the shower. Scrubbing off the day’s sweat felt wonderful, as did shampooing her hair twice.
Then, instead of turning off the water, she ran her washcloth between her legs. Frustration guided her fingers into her opening, but the moment the rough fabric touched her need-swollen bud, she groaned and rested her shoulder against the shower wall.
Self-satisfaction wouldn’t do the trick tonight. Only Laird—or Thunder—would. And until she understood what had happened to him, until she truly believed he was all right, she couldn’t think of anything else.
She slowly dried herself, her fingers lingering over her still-sensitive breasts and the belly that remembered the feel of his bulging cock. Despite her satisfaction, however, certain things about their encounter bothered her. Only by steeling herself against raw memories was she able to acknowledge what it was. The man she’d mated with had been primitive and uncivilized, not the lonely-eyed motorcyclist she’d seen so long ago. She wanted him to be both, pure male animal and filled with humanity.
Once she’d pulled on a nightshirt, she thumbed through the phone book, looking for the number for Clint Jaeger. She didn’t care that it was going on for ten p.m. One way or the other, she’d get some answers or—or what?
A man answered after the fourth ring. As he said “hello”, she strained to catch a similarity to Laird’s voice, but how could she when the last time she’d heard her phantom lover, he’d been speaking in Seminole?
“Hello,” she responded, hoping she didn’t sound like a telemarketer. Before the man could cut her off, she explained that she was trying to contact someone who knew Laird Jaeger. “Are you related to him?” she asked. “I know it’s late, but this is important. He might be in trouble.”
“Lady, believe me, my brother’s middle name is trouble.”
Laird’s brother! “I wouldn’t know about that,” she stammered. No matter what she said, it would sound insane. “He owns a motorcycle, doesn’t he?”
“The way I see it, the cycle owns him.”
“Not anymore,” she blurted.
“Huh? Did you buy it from him? Nah, no matter how broke he might be, he wouldn’t get rid of it.”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
After taking a deep breath in a not-too-successful attempt to calm herself, she blurted out, not everything, but enough to let Clint know that Laird had been in a motorcycle accident that had propelled him into the Everglades. He was still there.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Clint demanded. “He’s done some damn reckless things in his life, but getting lost isn’t one of them. Look, lady, I hate to break it to you, but my brother attracts broads like fish to live bait. He doesn’t give a damn about any of them beyond the obvious. If you’re looking to hook up with him, you’re going to have to do better than this cock-and-bull story.”
“You don’t believe me? I’m serious.” She felt on the verge of tears and suspected it showed in her voice. “Why would I make up something like that?”
Clint didn’t immediately answer. “What do you want from me?” he asked. “If you’re on the up and up, this is a matter for the police.”
“They don’t believe me,” she blurted and was instantly sorry. “I thought—you’re his brother. Please, help me find him.”
There was more dead air time, and then Clint cleared his throat. “I was half asleep when you called. I’m still trying to put it together. Besides, if you’re right about—I gotta tell you it makes no sense.”
“I’m not lying. Why would I?”
“I don’t know you, lady, so I’m not going to comment on that. But let’s say that my brother got himself lost. We can’t go looking at night, can we?”
“No,” she admitted. Besides, now that she was talking to Clint, she was having second thoughts about her half-baked plan to convince someone who should love Laird to help her free him from what or who had him. “But at daylight—”
“At dawn I’ll be at his business trying to hold it together. Meet me there.”
Chapter Eight
Mala might have dozed off a few times during the night, but she certainly didn’t feel as if she had. Her exhaustion was a combination of concern for Laird’s welfare, what she’d have to do in order to convince his brother that he was in trouble, and sexual frustration. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do a thing to minimize any of those conditions.
It was still technically dawn when she pulled into the small but upscale marina that looked out at the calm, pristine Gulf of Mexico. A few people were stirring, prompting her to wonder if they’d slept onboard. The majority of the craft moored in slips near the parking area were well beyond the budget of the middle class, and she had visions of wild parties attended by the rich and beautiful. She couldn’t imagine Laird being part of that scene, but really, what did she know about him?<
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A discreet sign pointed toward several water-oriented businesses, and she cautiously made her way along a long wooden walkway paralleling the shore. Laird’s business was at the end of the walkway and appeared to consist of two well-maintained open, flat-bottomed boats equipped with fishing gear and chairs. Having gone fishing only a few times in her life and finding it boring, she couldn’t say what kind of fish the equipment was designed to catch. Docked a short distance from the fishing boats and storage-shed-sized office was a well-designed, handmade white-and-blue houseboat with a deck and railing along two sides. Several lounge chairs had been fastened to the deck floor. A person—Laird—could live there. She couldn’t shake the thought that he might never return.
She was heading toward the little office when the door opened and a man a good six inches shorter than Laird wearing carefully pressed slacks and a nearly new white shirt stepped out. His shiny black shoes appeared ill-equipped for standing up against salt water. Although she set his age at mid-thirties, he carried a spare tire and was going bald. His somber expression didn’t change when he saw her.
“You called last night,” the man said without preliminary, folding his arms over his belly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I woke you, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
“Hm. Look, Laird’s got customers coming in a few minutes, and I’m going to have deal with them, so let’s cut to the chase. Tell me again what happened.”
She did as he ordered, this time detailing every moment of the accident in the middle of a rainstorm, the police search, her forays into the Everglades. His expression remained impassive, but she had no doubt he was scrutinizing her intently. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’d actually seen Laird, nearly become his lover.
“How did you know his name?”
