Shrugging, Clay returned to his game. She was too nervous to disturb him, so she raided the refrigerator. An all-nighter called for food.
Keeping an eye out the kitchen window for any reigniting embers in the backyard while Clay watched the front, she boiled shrimp and cut up cheese and strawberries. She threw them on a platter with some grapes and crackers, added a dip and leftover shrimp sauce, and carried the tray to the coffee table. “Wouldn’t the lounge chair be more comfortable?”
Clay didn’t glance up. “Can’t be comfortable and think straight at the same time.”
He had long, arched feet and sinewy legs from running. Distracted, Rory turned to the TV screen to cover her nervousness.
“Playing games requires thinking?” She watched a dancing pink elephant walk over a smirking clown and fill the screen with exploding bubbles. She didn’t see much thought behind that.
“This game does. Ever played?”
“Never had time to learn video games,” she admitted. “I don’t know where Mandy found that one.”
“I loaned it to her the other day when she came over with Kiz.”
Figures. “What would you like to drink?” She hadn’t meant to sound curt, but Clay stopped what he was doing to turn his unfathomable gaze on her, so he must have caught the tone. The man might not communicate in normal fashion, but he listened—even when she didn’t want him to. She didn’t like being nervous. It made her even more defensive.
“Don’t suppose you have wine, do you?” He checked out the tray and scarfed up a handful of shrimp.
“Nope. With teenagers in and out, we don’t keep more than Pops’s six-pack of beer. Will that do?”
“Even better. Thanks.” He set the controller aside and strode off to check the dryer, holding the towel in place.
Rory felt somewhat better that she wasn’t the only one suffering with this awareness. She’d probably self-destruct if she had to sit here much longer, waiting for the towel to shift.
When Clay returned, he was wearing a still slightly damp but much cleaner pair of trousers. She wasn’t certain the damp trousers were an improvement over the towel. She politely kept her gaze on his face rather than the way the cloth clung to him when she handed him a cold beer. They were dancing around each other as if they were teenagers.
He dropped down on the couch beside her and helped himself to more shrimp.
She thought he’d focused all his energy on the game until he asked, “Why did you never have time to play games?”
That was when she figured out the game was just a diversion, like the food, and she was his main topic of interest. Having all that intelligence aimed in her direction was almost scary.
She tried to shrug it off. “Pops never earned enough to buy more than groceries and pay the utilities. Cissy and I worked to buy our clothes and things. Games were way down on my list of necessities.”
He sampled a dipped strawberry and, apparently approving, began making huge inroads through the fruit. He didn’t notice what he was eating, though. Instead his full attention fell on her. “I’ll teach you to play. It helps to unwind.”
Admittedly she was curious about the colorful images still bouncing across the screen, but she was wary of his intentions, given the level of hormones buzzing around the room. “We probably ought to patrol the grounds every so often. Dry kudzu could go up in a minute.”
“It’s starting to rain. I don’t think you have to worry.”
She’d been concentrating so hard on him, she hadn’t noticed. Surprised, she listened. The gentle patter against the roof was too rhythmic for tree branches. Still on edge, she rose on her knees to check out the picture window. It was hard to see anything in the meager porch light, but a dark puddle on the front walk glittered and reflected spreading drops.
Not realizing how terrified she’d been that the trailer would go up in flames, Rory pressed her forehead against the steamy window and expelled a huge sigh of relief. As a kid she’d hated her embarrassing home, but now that she’d almost lost it, she realized how much it meant to her. She’d grown up here. Her memories of her mother and laughing Christmases and birthday parties were all tied to this place. It was a home, not a trailer. Her modern condo in the city could never compare.
Turning away from the window, she was hit with the impact of the large man occupying the couch, his sun-burnished hair gleaming in a pool of lamplight, his regard so intent on her that he forgot to drink from the can he was holding halfway to his mouth.
Her stomach did weird little twists as she sat back down. “We should get some sleep.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.” Finally remembering the beer in his hand, he took a deep gulp, then set the can neatly on a coaster. When she didn’t say anything, he reached for the game controller. “You can go to bed if you like. Unless you have a machine you want fixed, I guess I’ll just play this.”
“I’ll be okay by myself,” she said tentatively, “Maybe you could find the keys to Pops’s bike.”
The glare he turned on her positively bristled with male outrage. “The cops are patrolling the road for looters. Your sister is in the hospital, and you have no transportation. You think I ought to walk away?”
Every other male of her acquaintance would have. Especially after she’d refused his advances.
Clay didn’t operate like normal people—probably because he lived on a vast plane above the common, giving him a broader scope than most. She had no right to believe that, but she did. Maybe she needed to right now.
Nervously Rory clasped her elbows and let the first whisper of fear into her universe. “Cissy is cautious to the max. I don’t see how she could have gone off the road like that.”
The look Clay gave her said he didn’t want to talk about this, but she couldn’t help it. She’d almost lost everything tonight. She needed to understand why.
“Maybe a deer jumped in front of the car. Save it until you can ask her.” He stared at the computer screen in seeming fascination, but she was beginning to understand the game was a reflexive action to cover up his rapidly spinning mental wheels.
“I thought cars only started fires in movies.” She couldn’t let it go. She didn’t dare relax. She needed some control of the situation.
“It’s dry enough out there for a spark from the bumper hitting a stone to ignite spilled gas,” he insisted. “We’ll know more in the morning. Find something else to do besides ask questions we can’t answer.”
Watching the pink elephant dance across the screen under Clay’s manipulation, Rory surrendered. She wasn’t ever going to sleep tonight. Rather than contemplate the alternative, she gave in. “Teach me to play.”
She thought the devil looked back from Clay’s deceptively clear eyes, but she took the hand he offered, and slid down beside him on the plush green couch.
A man smelling of lemon soap couldn’t be too dangerous.
o0o
“If the princess picks up the sword, she loses, but if she chooses a fishing pole, she defeats the monster?” Aurora asked in disbelief as her character strode triumphantly through the Gates of Gold. “Who the dickens comes up with these things?”
“Idealistic teenagers?” Clay suggested dryly. He’d finally convinced her to sit in front of him so he could show her how to use the controller, but she perched on the edge of the couch rather than make herself comfortable against his crotch. He liked an independent woman, but this one carried a good thing too far. His arms literally ached to hold her. Or maybe they ached from trying too hard not to brush her breasts.
“I’m in awe. I thought these things were all bloody battles. This is fun. What is she supposed to be doing in this cave?” She steered her character toward a dusty book on a shelf.
Clay brought his blue Karate Turtle character out of the rocks to poke around a conspicuous chest on the cave floor. “Most people look for treasure.”
“That’s too obvious,” she scoffed, opening the virtual book. “Whoever created this thing had a dev
ious mind.”
Clay wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or bad, but the herbal scent of red-gold tresses spilling down her back kept him from caring. Now that the game had captured Aurora’s imagination, she bounced on the cushion like a gleeful child, braid swinging. He didn’t care what the hell was happening on the screen. He simply wanted to bask in her eager energy, sink his fingers into soft, womanly flesh, and see where the moment took them.
Her tears earlier had pierced him in so many places that any word she spoke now slipped through his perforated hide to rub and irritate, or soothe and calm. She’d have him riddled to the bone if she kept this up. Her laughter softened him in dangerous ways.
It didn’t soften the part of him that had been hard all evening. And he didn’t mind that either. With some other woman, he might have become impatient, but this one kept blowing things up in his face, entertaining him on so many levels that he could wait until she was ready. Anticipate it, even.
She was a natural-born troublemaker in establishment disguise. He just wasn’t certain she realized that. He wanted to be around for the fireworks when she did. He suspected he wanted more than that, but he would take it one step at a time.
“Oh, you dirty rat!” she shouted when his turtle won the Book of Wisdom by producing a golden key from beneath the princess’s belt.
Aurora aimed an elbow backward at his midsection in retaliation, but Clay took the opening and dragged her back against him, sighing in satisfaction as his arms finally closed around her.
“To the wise go the rewards.” He nibbled her ear until she turned her head. He had his arms full of woman, and he couldn’t resist. He found her mouth with his, and electricity crackled.
He shut his eyes and drank in the flood of sensation—strawberry lips, rosemary-scented hair, searing hot kisses that he felt all the way to his groin—agony and ecstasy all rolled into one.
He fell back against the wide cushions, pulling Aurora down on top of him. She let him do it, feeding him with eager kisses instead of protesting as he’d half expected.
With her crushable breasts and belly cushioned against him, Clay rolled over, sandwiching her between the back of the sofa and himself. She had a way of tangling her tongue with his that blew steam out his ears. His libido demanded that he take charge and conquer, win the duel of tongues and claim the prize.
He wasn’t about to frighten her into backing off as he had earlier. He desperately wanted Aurora in so many ways that he thought he might explode if he held in all these rampaging, conflicting tensions. He knew once he focused on a goal, his intensity could overcome good sense.
He searched his overheated—devious—brain for some means of holding himself in check while encouraging her, but an armful of woman kissing him with mind-melting ardor discouraged rational thinking. Her long fingers were wandering through his hair, and the pressure of soft breasts and hips crushed against him in all the right places sent any semblance of thought southward. The way he felt right now, this was anything but a casual encounter—a revelation that he wasn’t prepared to explore.
With one last vestige of inspiration, Clay caught Aurora’s hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, and placed it on his biceps. “Remember those old Atari games that had joysticks instead of controllers? Pretend I’m your joystick. Take me where you want to go.”
If he put her in control, then maybe he wouldn’t scare her away.
Rory’s eyes flew open, staring disbelievingly into Clay’s unwavering gray gaze. Joystick?
She didn’t know anything about joysticks, and she scrambled for interpretation. A hard male body pressed her into the sofa cushions, a heavy thigh trapped hers, and she ached for so many things at once, she couldn’t begin to name them. She could think of only one joystick on him, and she wasn’t about to go there. Surely he wasn’t so crude as to suggest...?
Clay slid his hand through her hair, loosening the braid so it fell over her shoulders. “How about this? Do you like your hair undone?” He leaned over and nibbled her ear. “Does the turtle win the fair princess if he tastes her here?”
She chuckled in relief at his foolishness. Games were fun and nothing to fear. “The turtle is likely to land on his shell if he’s not careful.”
“Then the turtle will die. The fair princess wouldn’t let the turtle die. He can show her many wise things. He’s a very useful turtle,” he said in a seductive rumble, kissing the tender place behind her ear.
He was very useful in more ways than this, but at the moment she could concentrate only on smoky kisses and simmering fires. She’d never been called a fair princess before. His whisper tantalized, but his hands were the prize she wanted.
Following his lead, Rory slid her fingers over Clay’s cheek and guided his mouth back to hers. He accepted the offer so forcefully, she thought she might melt down to a pair of red shoes like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Aggravatingly, he didn’t use his magical hands to touch her anywhere else. He clung to the sofa back behind her and leaned over to tease her with kisses and no more. She wanted his arms around her. She wanted his hardness pressed against her belly. Her breasts longed for attention—and she knew where that would lead and didn’t care.
“Might I suggest...” He caught her hand and slid it under his open shirt so her fingers caressed the smooth skin over bulging muscles.
“The turtle has a broad shell,” she murmured, liking the way his muscles rippled beneath her fingers so well that she explored his back and started on his front. He groaned as she addressed her attention to his puckered male nipples and stroked the light hairs over his pecs.
“The turtle may expire of pleasure before he pleases the princess.” His breath was hot and seductive as he nibbled her ear. “He is at your command. Lead him, your highness.”
She’d seldom played games as a child. She’d always understood that if she wanted to escape the tedium of poverty, she had to study and work hard and be the best at everything she did.
She’d thought of sex as another lesson to be studied and learned—and discarded when she’d found no advantage in it. Clay’s teasing opened up enticing new views of this abandoned area of interest. She liked the idea of playing games with him. She liked the game he was playing.
She captured his wide, capable hand—his “joystick” if she lifted her mind from the gutter and interpreted correctly—and spread his fingers across her cheek, enjoying the rasp of calloused skin. “Touch me,” she commanded in her best princess voice. Just saying the words shot a thrill through her. She’d never been so decadent in her life.
“Your servant will take much pleasure in doing so.”
Clay’s voice was low and beguiling, but there wasn’t a damned thing subservient in his rapt attention. He traced his fingers across her cheek and gazed into her eyes as if she were the most fascinating treasure on earth, and he meant to claim her. He ran his hand to her nape and nibbled kisses along her jaw, testing for those places that made her moan. He brushed his lips across her skin tenderly, but with a hunger that drove her wild.
The intensity of his focus was too much to bear. She turned his head so she could meet his mouth with hers. It was easier this way, feeling, touching, not watching what was happening between them.
He kissed her slowly, savoring her mouth and tongue, letting the need build between them. His hand trailed down her spine, cupping her buttocks through the denim, stroking her hips—touching everywhere but where she wanted him most.
Servant, her foot and eye. He was the one in control here, and he was driving her crazy.
She kneaded his bare chest and nipples to show him what she wanted, but maddeningly he retraced the trail he’d already created. His kiss became more urgent, but still his hand remained on charted territories.
Every other man she’d kissed had gone straight for her breasts, but not this aggravating creature.
“Treat me as yours to do with as you wish,” he murmured against her mouth, granting her a freedom of terrifying pr
oportions—forcing her to admit she wanted this as much as he did.
She’d never taken command in sex before. It had never seemed the feminine thing to do, or she’d feared driving her partner away with her aggressiveness. But Clay was letting her know that not only were they equals in this, but she could call a halt at any time. The decision was hers.
“I’ll make turtle soup of you shortly,” she growled back, but she couldn’t resist his game any longer. Taking command of his free hand, she placed it over her breast.
His reaction was instantaneous and dizzyingly gratifying.
Through denim and lace, Clay cupped and squeezed and explored as if she were the most wonderful prize he’d ever won, when she was the one about to succumb to pleasure. She saw pure delight in his eyes as he studied her reaction to each touch and stroke. When he finally unfastened the buttons of her dress and slid his hand inside, Rory couldn’t watch anymore. She closed her eyes and just let herself feel.
Feeling led to brainlessness, she knew, but Clay had shattered all resistance. She couldn’t condemn him as selfish or greedy or interested only in her body, no matter how hard she might try. He concentrated on her pleasure and needs before giving in to his.
He had her completely under him and both hands inside her dress before she knew how she’d landed there. Hands that could take apart clocks and motorcycles wasted no time on bra hooks. He filled his palms with her bare breasts and brought her to the brink with just his touch. When he bent and applied his tongue to the places he’d aroused, Rory lost control, surrendered, submitted, and wept with joy until even his mouth on her breast wasn’t enough.
She reached for his belt buckle, and he had his khakis unfastened before her fumbling fingers could work it out. His moan of pleasure as she took advantage of this new freedom released a frozen latch inside her, and she boldly went where she never had before.
She’d always been the compliant receptor of whatever her partners wanted, never reaching out for her own pleasure. Clay offered her the freedom to take as much control as she desired. Or as little.
Carolina Girl Page 17
