The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  They were no longer lost in darkness, there were no lies between them. Her eyes drifted open to find that he watched her face as he very slowly loved her, as he pushed his hard length to the hilt and held it there. Stretching her, filling her. A fine sheen of sweat covered his body and hers as he moved within her again, rocking back and forward, slowly and sweetly, unhurried as he lingered over every stroke, every breath.

  Her fears gone, there was only this— his body above and inside hers, her body around his, the fire that grew with every stroke. Every breath. Her hips rocked against his as she moved with him, searching and climbing, needing the release that teased her with slight tremors and lightning-like flashes that coursed fleetingly though her body, promising what was to come.

  Her eyes drifted closed and she wrapped her legs around his, lifting her hips, answering him as he plunged faster and deeper, moaning deep in her throat as her body reached for release until at last the culmination burst upon her, wrenching her body from the inside out with power and a pleasure that was shocking in its intensity.

  She cried out, Cyrus's name on her lips as he drove deep and shuddered above her, as he found the same release that shocked her with its intensity, its power.

  He drifted down to cover her, his body drained and weak, hot and slick with sweat. This time there were no doubts, no regrets, no deception. There was just love and passion, pleasure and possibility. All was right with the world. They had so many nights stretching before them, so many nights of talking and laughing and making love, just like this.

  The rain came down hard now, fast and heavy. It pounded violently against the roof and the windows. Roxanne smiled. It didn't matter what went on outside these walls. Not now, not ever.

  She settled her lazy hand over the back of Cyrus's head, gently ruffling the short strands. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head to look down at her.

  If only he would smile and tell her that he loved her, too. He'd said the words before, once, when he'd been pretending to be Calvin, but she wanted him to tell her face to face, eye to eye. He looked so serious, as if he wasn't yet sure this was a good thing. Maybe he wasn't ready to say the words face to face. It didn't matter; she knew he loved her. He'd shown her in a thousand ways.

  She tried to smile for him, to tempt him with a wide, seductive grin until he put every grain of indecision behind him. One day soon he would look her in the eye and tell her he loved her, she knew it. Until that moment came she'd be satisfied to have him show her his love now and again.

  Ah, what a wonderful place to be on a rainy night. She felt every breath he took, every beat of his heart, the sweat on his skin ... and she knew that this was where she belonged.

  Cyrus propped up on his elbow to watch Roxanne sleep beside him. Outside the rain continued, a constant slap against the house. Occasionally thunder rumbled, but it was far away and not a threat to their sanctuary or Roxanne's sleep.

  He'd doused the candles and the lamp a while back, leaving only the dying fire to light the room and the sleeping woman beside him. She looked so peaceful. Happy. Safe.

  She was no delicate flower, his Roxanne, no fragile, insubstantial dream. She was real, warm and passionate. Fearless and honest. Strong of heart and soul, relentless and gracious. Somehow she was all this, and more.

  He'd always known her to be exquisitely beautiful, but until tonight he'd never had the chance to study, so closely, the bits and pieces that together made her who and what she was. Her limbs were long and shapely, graceful and strong. Even her hands and feet were long, narrow, utterly feminine. The shape of her body was perfection itself, from the elegant line of her neck to the firm swell of her breast to the gentle curve of her hips. And her face ... well, he'd had opportunity to study her face before, but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy looking at it right now.

  Her eyes were large and slightly tipped up at the corners, and as she slept long, dark lashes rested on perfect, creamy cheeks. Her brows were elegant dark wings above those eyes, and a simple lift of one or both spoke volumes. In waking hours her chin was often stubborn, as if she were ready to do war with the world. In sleep she was completely relaxed, and the lines of her jaw and chin were softer. His eyes fell, hungry already, on her full mouth, a mouth that kissed and smiled with abandon, and spoke to him of love.

  Not once, as he'd loved her, had she been afraid or hesitant. She was open and honest, and ravenous for the life she'd denied herself for the past three years. She came to him with unchecked power and life and hope, for both of them.

  He had expected she would never know he'd been the one to charm her, in Calvin's place, to make love to her in the shadow of the balcony where she'd spent so many nights. He'd been so sure that if she did know she would hate him for the deception. She'd surprised him, especially with her whispered, "Ask me what I want now."

  As he watched, her eyes fluttered open. She came awake slowly, peacefully, and with a small smile, as if she'd just awakened from a good dream.

  "Why are you still awake?” she asked, reaching out to lay her hand familiarly, easily, on his arm. “You need your sleep."

  "I'd rather watch you,” he whispered.

  Her smile widened. “It can't be that fascinating,” she whispered.

  "It is,” he answered seriously. Deep in his heart he was afraid this chance would never come again, that Roxanne would come to her senses and realize that he was not everything she wanted him to be. He reached out and brushed a dark strand of hair away from her face.

  Her smile faded, and even in the near dark he could see her eyes smoldering, her lips falling apart as if asking for a kiss. He was already heavy with wanting her, but with that searing glance he hardened.

  He was in no hurry. He wanted this to last all night, he intended to savor every moment, every touch, every word. “How long can you stay?” he asked, whispering. “How long before your aunt and uncle miss you?"

  "Hours,” she said with an enticing smile.

  "Good.” His fingers trailed from her cheek to her neck, to the hollow at the base of her swan-like throat, to the valley between her breasts. His hand stilled there. It looked so harsh and clumsy against her pale skin, so dark and crude. He brushed one rough palm over her breast, felt the nipple harden at his touch.

  "I thought you would be furious if you ever found out,” he said, watching his hand against her breast instead of looking into her telling eyes. “I was so afraid I would lose whatever chance we might have if you knew the truth."

  Surprisingly, she laughed; a low, deep, laugh that faded quickly. “Just this afternoon, when I finally accepted the fact that I was falling in love with you, I decided that this time I would take it slow. That maybe in a year or two you and I might.... “Her soft voice faded away.

  "A year or two?” he repeated, horrified.

  She laughed again. “Yes. Well, that idea didn't last long.” Beneath his hand she sighed and stretched, breathed deep and extended her body like a happy, lazy cat.

  "Thank goodness."

  She lifted a hand to his chest, and he watched the play of her pale, slender fingers on his skin. “When I first began to suspect, I thought my flight of fancy was just wishful thinking. Ah yes, if it was Cyrus who romanced and loved me, then all my problems are solved. That solution was much too easy, I assumed. Much too far-fetched. And then when you kissed me like I knew you'd kissed me before, when I put all the pieces together and they fit, I was so relieved,” she whispered.

  "Relieved?"

  She scooted her body closer to his, rocking across the sheets in a slow, undulating motion that brought her near. “Angry, too, but relieved,” she whispered, laying her mouth against his own, small, flat nipple.

  Her mouth came away slowly, and she breathed against the wet spot she'd made with her mouth. The sensation was icy cold and intense and arousing. Cyrus held back a groan. Impossibly, he grew harder.

  "Relieved,” she said again, “to find out that in the past several weeks
I'd only been falling in love with one man, not two. For goodness sake, Cyrus, I thought I'd lost my mind."

  "Two men?"

  His hand slipped lower to rest against her flat belly. He could feel her quiver.

  "I found myself smitten with some faceless romantic I thought was someone else, while at the same time I continued to have these entirely inappropriate thoughts about my friend the sheriff.” Her hand dipped lower to brush against his hip, her light, teasing touch torture. Her lips floated close to his, but not close enough, her breast brushed his chest, the nipples raking across him as he took a deep breath.

  "I wanted so much not to fall in love with you,” she whispered seriously. “You were right when you said I wanted to hide from the world.” Her hands became bolder and she touched him, wrapped her gentle fingers around the hard length of his manhood. “I don't want to hide anymore, Cyrus. Not from the world, not from the pain that comes from living, not from love.” She brushed her lips against his, the touch light and fleeting. “I especially don't want to hide from you."

  Roxanne stroked his arousal until he had to grab her hand and move it away. He took her wrist in one hand and pressed his mouth to hers, and with a gentle nudge he pushed her against the rumpled sheets that covered their bed. She fell onto her back and he rolled with her, covering and entering her in one move.

  He loved her hard and fast, mindless and with primitive abandon. Her body stroked and grabbed his, invited him, accepted him, as he pounded into her again and again. This was no tender coming together; it was a wild mating of bodies so hungry for one another that nothing but this ferocity would satisfy them. Beneath him, Roxanne lifted her hips to embrace each powerful thrust, to take everything he offered. To love him.

  She shattered beneath him, shuddering, whispering his name, tightening around him, and he allowed himself the release he'd been holding back since the moment she'd touched him. He lost himself in her, in her body and her confessions of love, in her smile and her deep sighs.

  He sank down to cover her sated body with his, wrapping his arms around her, laying his head against her shoulder. She idly lifted one leg and wrapped it around his, and wound one limp arm around his neck, until they were impossibly entwined.

  Roxanne had been nothing but open and honest with him. She held nothing back, no part of her mind or her heart. Her honesty made his well-meant deception seem worse, more of a betrayal than he'd ever imagined. Perhaps it was time he followed her lead and attempted the truth.

  "I do love you,” he whispered into her ear, his breath brushing against soft, dark hair that was spread across his pillow and her pale, tempting shoulders. “More than you can ever imagine."

  He lifted his head to look down at her, to look her in the eyes and open his heart to her the way she had opened her heart and her body to him. “I love you."

  She kissed him, on his neck and his jaw and his face and his chest. With a gentle laugh she swayed, rolling him off her body and following his slow rotation to hover above and feather a hundred small, happy kisses over his body. He lay there, exhausted into inertia, warm and satisfied, while she held his hands to the mattress and laughed and kissed his shoulders and his neck and his chest, just above his pounding heart. There was pure joy in her laugh and her feathery kisses, such love and enchantment. Eventually, she collapsed beside him and snuggled her head against his shoulder.

  "I love you, too, Cyrus. Sleep now,” she whispered breathlessly, wrapping one bare leg over his. “Sleep."

  Amazingly, he did.

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  Chapter Seventeen

  He ran faster and harder than he'd ever run before, his legs pumping beneath him, his heart pounding until he thought it would burst in his chest. Raindrops pelted his face, and in the distance a boom of thunder mingled with the roar of cannons. Cyrus glanced quickly at the sky, and hard, needle-like drops stung his face. He almost stopped running; somehow he knew it wasn't supposed to be raining.

  He ignored the rain and the certainty that the storm was all wrong, and kept running. Louis was in trouble. Cyrus prayed that he'd get there in time. If he could run fast enough, just this once, just this one time, everything would be right again. His legs were so weak they shook beneath him, threatening to collapse with every pounding step. The harder he tried to run the weaker his legs became. They trembled beneath him as he pushed himself to be stronger, faster.

  The Yankee beast lunged and swung his meaty arms, and Louis was killed. Louis's eyes remained opened, his mouth still moved, but he was dead. Suddenly, too late, Cyrus was there. He threw himself between the boy and the Yank, and the bayonet swung up and across his face. This time there were cold raindrops mixed with the warm blood, and as he fell he saw a streak of brilliant lightning that matched the clap of thunder above.

  "Louis.” Cyrus turned away from the lightning to face his friend, the boy who was dying. His heart beat so hard he felt it pounding, thudding against his chest. He could barely breathe. No matter how many times he tried to stop the tragedy it always ended this way. He was never fast enough.

  Louis fastened angry eyes on Cyrus. He was dying, he was weak, but energy and fury and an unearthly light flickered dangerously in his eyes. “Why did you let this happen?” he whispered in a croaking voice that was full of rage and pain. Bloody hands reached up and grasped Cyrus's shirt, and Louis hauled himself up to place his mouth against Cyrus's ear. “Did you want Roxanne so badly that you let me die?” he whispered hoarsely. “Did you kill me so you could sleep next to my wife?"

  "No,” Cyrus whispered, horrified. He tried to make Louis release his grip, to pry the strong, bloody hands away from his shirt. But Louis's fingers were like steel. They refused to relax and fall away.

  "You let me die so you could fuck my wife, didn't you Cyrus?” Louis whispered. “So she could lie naked in your bed, and you could touch her and whisper into her ear.” Louis's breathing was raspy and weak, but his words were clear and condemning. “Did you think that with me gone she would love you?"

  "No,” Cyrus tried to say, but he couldn't hear his denial for the clap of thunder above.

  "You could've saved me,” Louis said clearly as he dropped back and closed his eyes for the last time and his hands finally fell away. “Maybe no one knows that but you and me, maybe no one else will ever know, but that doesn't make it any less true."

  "I tried...."

  "You could've saved me."

  A loud boom of thunder that shook the house awakened Roxanne, but it was Cyrus who kept her awake.

  The last embers of the fire gave off a touch of light in the dark room, and she could make out his dimly lit form. Covered with sweat, he tossed beside her on the bed, his legs moving slowly, his hands reaching out blindly, his head rolling from one side of the pillow to the other. He'd already thrown the quilt on the floor, and as she watched he turned to her and flung one arm out wildly, his fisted hand missing her head by mere inches.

  Another flash of lightning lit the room momentarily, the bright light shining through the curtains strongly enough to illuminate his tortured face for her. Her heart constricted at the sight of his evident torment.

  "Not fast enough,” he mumbled.

  She reached out a tentative hand to touch him, to awaken him from the nightmare. He looked so unlike the Cyrus she knew and loved, so frantic and furious, that she hesitated for a moment before laying her hand on his shoulder.

  Her initial touch and whisper of his name had no effect. None at all, and that scared her. What if he didn't wake up? The nightmare that terrorized him would go on and on. She dug her fingers into his shoulder and shook him slightly, raising her voice as she called to him again. As the seconds ticked past and he didn't respond, she became more and more frightened.

  "Cyrus, please,” she said, shaking him again, harder this time. “Wake up."

  He came up so quickly and unexpectedly that she was nearly thrown back. He cried out once as his arms came up in a defensive motion to clear
everything and everyone away from his tense body, and a flailing fist landed on her shoulder as she scooted to the edge of the bed.

  She could see the moment Cyrus became aware, the moment the nightmare left him and he knew where he was. He became suddenly, completely still, motionless but for the rise and fall of his chest, silent but for the sound of his breathing. He raked his hands through sweat dampened hair, took a deep ragged breath, and closed his eyes.

  "Cyrus,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm, to offer him a little bit of comfort.

  He flinched, and when his head snapped up he looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there, as if finding her naked in his bed was a shock.

  "Are you all right?” She reached out to touch him again, but he moved away, leaving the bed quickly before she could so much as lay a comforting hand on him. “It was just a bad dream, that's all."

  He reached for his trousers where he'd left them on the floor, and with his back to her he stepped into them and pulled them up. “The problem is,” he whispered as he fastened the buttons, “I don't know anymore what's dream and what's memory.” His voice shook, a little.

  She made a small move, as she prepared to leave the bed and go to him, but he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay there,” he whispered as he gathered the quilt from the floor and covered her with it. He didn't touch her face, or her hair, or lean over to kiss her. He just covered her.

  Roxanne gathered the quilt around her and sat up, facing a Cyrus she didn't know. With an easy hand she massaged her shoulder, there where he'd hit her as he came awake. It had been a glancing blow, but since she had a tendency to bruise easily she imagined she'd have a mark there in the morning.

  He watched the gentle motion of her hand. “I hit you, didn't I?” he whispered.