by Cheryl Holt
"I missed the hell out of you," he claimed.
"You did not."
"I did. Damned if I know why."
"I didn't miss you," she fibbed.
"You liar. You missed me every second."
"Well, maybe a little."
"It's why I came. So you didn't waste away."
"Ha! As if I'd waste away over you."
"Would you shut up and tell me you're glad to see me?"
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, galvanizing his attention.
"I'm very, very glad to see you."
"That's more like it."
He bent down, lifted her, wrapping her thighs around his waist. She buried a squeal of surprise against his nape as he whirled and headed straight for her bedroom.
"I'm taking you to bed," he said.
"I didn't say I wanted to go with you."
"This isn't a debating society. You don't get to have an opinion."
The apartment was small and his legs long, so in a couple of strides they were across the floor. As opposed to the twins' tiny space that was a glorified closet, she actually had a real room with a wooden door and a lock, which he used to seal them in.
"Is that your bed?" He scowled down at it.
"Yes." It was a twin size, designed for one, that she'd purchased at a thrift store.
"How are we both supposed to fit on it?"
"You're a smart guy. You'll figure it out."
He dropped her onto the mattress and followed her down, stretching out on top of her. He smelled so good and felt so good that she could have wept.
She never had sex early in a relationship—she'd been with exactly three different men—and she was unnerved to find herself complacently acquiescing. She was like a stick in a mountain stream, being carried by the current. Or maybe it was more catastrophic than that. Maybe she was like a passenger on a train that was careening off the rails and into a ravine.
She couldn't stop what was about to happen. She could only hold on and hope she wasn't too battered when it was over.
"Can I light a candle?" she asked.
"No."
"Please?"
"No," he said more sternly.
The lamp was off, and there was just the silver of the moon wafting in the window. It whitened his skin, making him appear ethereal, mysterious.
"I want to look at you," she told him. "I want to see everything."
"I might pause to let you after we've done this four or five times."
"Tough talk, Merriweather. I'm betting you can't do it more than once a night."
He snorted with disgust. "I repeat: I missed the hell out of you, and I have no idea why."
"You're crazy about me."
"Crazy, yes. About you? Not even close."
"I'm cuter than Chantal."
"You are jealous." He laughed, cocky, preening like a rooster. "I knew it."
He kissed her, and though he had previously, it didn't remotely resemble that chaste, innocent embrace. In the dark, with his yummy, male body pressing her into the mattress, it fostered a level of intimacy that was impossible to describe.
His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair. She couldn't breathe or move. She could only hug him and listen with salacious glee as he whispered in her ear, telling her all the naughty, obscene things he was about to do to her. And she was eager to have him proceed.
For once in her life, she felt beautiful and cherished, and she was being swept away so quickly that she was dizzy with excitement.
Before his arrival, she'd been dressed for bed in an old T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. With a flick of his clever wrists, he had the shirt up and over her head, her breasts bared to his questing fingers.
He clasped her nipples, twirling them between finger and thumb, making her writhe and moan in agony. It had been so blasted long since any man had bothered with her that—when he dipped down and sucked on one of the hardened tips—she nearly cried with relief.
He tortured her, biting and playing, not letting up, giving her no respite.
He grabbed the waistband of her sweats. She was about to be naked, while he hadn't so much as removed his jacket, and she wasn't about to have sex with him when he was still wearing his shoes.
She rose up on her knees, and he did, too. They were frantic, scrambling to disrobe, and she ripped at his clothes. He undid his belt, and when she plucked at the button on his jeans, she was in such a state that he slapped her hand away.
"Would you calm down?" he said.
"Would you hurry up?"
He flicked open the button himself, and she reached for the zipper.
"Geez," he scolded, "relax."
"Take those stupid things off!"
"If you go any faster, you'll injure me."
"If you go any slower, I'll strangle you."
He grinned with conceit. "How long has it been since you got laid?"
"None of your business."
"That long, huh? Good thing I came to town then."
"Arrogant beast."
"Yes, I am, and it's your lucky day."
"Why?"
"You get to have sex with me."
At his egotistical comment, she should have replied with a suitable insult, but any snarky comment was cut off by his stripping off his jeans so he was naked.
They were both still on their knees, and she paused, her keen gaze roving down his torso, scrutinizing the sculpted chest, the washboard abs, the muscular thighs. He was so hard for her, his cock long and thick and begging to be stroked.
She ran her thumb over the sensitive tip, and he hissed with impatience and pushed her onto her back.
Balanced on an elbow, he was hovered over her, his blue eyes glimmering. He was handsome and vain and marvelous, and she was in so far over her head that she was already drowning. How would she ever rescue herself? How would she carry on as the person she'd previously been after he went away?
"I've died and gone to heaven," she said.
"Not quite yet," he confidently retorted, "but you'll be there in a minute or two."
He yanked off her sweats, then laid down on top of her. As they finally touched, bare skin to bare skin, they both sighed with pleasure.
He was staring at her, and there was the most riveting tenderness in his expression. A woman could get lost in that look, could read more into it than she should, might count on it meaning what it never would.
She wanted to glance away, but couldn't. He was so magnetic, so overwhelming, that she was gaping in awe with the insight that—in some bizarre way—she'd enticed him into traveling to Gold Creek merely so they could have sex.
He'd been missing her and obsessing over her. It was insane and unbelievable, and she was so foolishly happy that she was about to bust.
He dipped to her breasts, as his hand slithered down her abdomen and between her legs. The instant he touched her, she was so aroused that she started to come. She let out a wail of dismay that had him laughing and preening again. He held her through the tumult, a palm clapped over her mouth to stifle the embarrassing sound.
"Be quiet," he whispered as the agitation waned.
"I can't help myself. You're right; you're wonderful."
"I know, but if you wake your sisters so we can't finish, I will kill you."
"You have such a romantic way with words."
"If you think my words are romantic, wait till you see this."
He centered himself, and with a smooth thrust, he entered to the hilt. She arched up, and she was moaning, clawing at his back, trying to pull him closer, but she would never be near enough. She would always crave more and more and more, but the chance of her getting what she needed from him was below zero.
At the moment, though, she didn't care. She didn't care if he lived in LA, if he would stroll out after they were done and she never spoke to him again. She didn't care about anything but the fantastic ending that was winging toward them with alarming speed.
Their bodies generated such in
tense sensation. Already, he was struggling to maintain control, but restraint was impossible.
They were physically attuned as few lovers could ever be, and they'd had a month to ponder and yearn. He couldn't delay, and she suffered a purely feminine thrill to know that she—plain, ordinary Amy Dane—could goad him to such a pinnacle.
He flexed once, then again, and he muttered an epithet. He pinned her to him and spilled himself. It was over—just that fast.
For an eternity, he buried his face at her nape as she caressed a lazy hand up and down his back. Finally, he drew away, and he was chuckling, joyful in a fashion she didn't imagine he was very often.
"You make me feel like I'm fourteen," he said.
"Was that as good as it gets with you?" she teased. "I could have sworn such a burly guy would last for at least a minute."
"Just wait till next time."
"That sounds like a threat."
"No, it's a promise."
He slid to the side, and they shifted in the cramped space, trying to get comfortable. Ultimately, he spooned himself to her. She reached over her shoulder and rested a palm on his cheek. He took hold of it and kissed the center.
"What is up with us?" he asked.
"I don't have a clue."
"I'm afraid you might kill me with sex."
"What a way to go."
"Yes," he murmured, "what a way."
She was smiling, but doubts niggled at her, and she shoved them away. She wouldn't fret. She wouldn't worry. She would simply revel in the moment.
His respiration slowed, and she elbowed him in the ribs.
"You can't fall asleep."
"I won't."
"I'm serious. I don't want the girls to wake up and find you here."
"Are you always this grouchy afterwards?"
"I'm not grouchy. I'm…pragmatic."
"You should be basking in the glow."
"I'm basking, I'm basking."
He settled an arm across her waist. "You're supposed to gush over me."
"Get real."
"You're supposed to tell me how spectacular I was."
She almost said, Is that what your other lovers do?
But she wouldn't start a discussion about any of his various women. She especially couldn't bear to hear any flip remarks about Chantal. It would depress her too much.
"I'm not gushing over your prowess," she said. "Your ego's too big already."
"It can always stand a little stroking."
She chuckled. "You are impossible."
"I know, but you love that about me. Don't deny it."
"Okay, I won't."
He kissed her hair, her shoulder. "I'm glad I came to Colorado."
"So am I."
"I'm glad I'm here."
She sighed with delight, curious as to what had really brought him to her. Had something bad happened? Was he lonely? Was he weary?
Whatever the reason, she was very, very grateful that he'd visited her.
They didn't speak again, and she must have dozed, because when she opened her eyes and glanced at the clock, it was nearly six-thirty. The alarm was about to buzz so she could get the twins up for school.
He was gone, having slipped out of bed and sneaked off without a goodbye. The room was so still that she couldn't detect the slightest reverberation of any energy he might have left behind.
She rubbed her hand on the pillow, but there was no residual heat from where he'd lain. She nuzzled her nose into the sheets, and she could smell his scent in the fabric or she might have wondered if she'd dreamed the entire encounter.
A hundred questions flew through her mind: Would she ever see him again? Would he vanish, only to reappear when she least expected it? What had all of it been about?
She was wildly happy and inordinately sad at the same time. A woman could never rely on a man like him, could never hope for more. He was completely solitary and not interested in binding ties, so it would be foolish to wish for him to be what he wasn't. But oh…he made her want as she'd never wanted before.
She stared up at the ceiling, shook her head at her folly, at her crazy behavior, then rose to face the day.
* * *
Dustin's cell phone rang.
It was a given that phones didn't work in Gold Creek, so he didn't immediately realize what the noise indicated. He'd turned it on out of habit, not believing that a call would come through.
He'd been feeling irritable and edgy, so he'd jumped in his car and driven out of the narrow canyon. He was up on a mountain pass, stopped at an isolated scenic pullout and gazing at the spectacular vista, which was probably why he had service.
He dug around in his jacket pocket and yanked it out. As he saw who it was, he scowled.
"Hello, Chantal."
"Hello."
Her voice was very clear, as if she was right next to him, but in his thoughts, she was so far away that she might have been talking to him from the moon.
After their unpleasant trip to Colorado, he hadn't contacted her again.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she tentatively said.
"You're not bothering me," he lied.
"I haven't heard from you in a few weeks…" She trailed off, providing him with an opportunity to fill in the blank, offer an explanation, but he was silent, so she continued. "Ah…when I was with you in October, you mentioned Thanksgiving."
She paused again as he frowned. He'd mentioned Thanksgiving to her? Why would he? He was no help at all, and she had to lead the conversation.
"You asked me to fly down to Puerto Vallarta with you."
He winced. "Crap. I forgot all about it."
"I've been expecting to go, so I didn't make any other plans."
Thankfully, she didn't whine or nag. She was quiet, her annoyance palpable, but unvented, for which he was grateful.
"I'm not in LA," he told her. "I'm in Colorado."
"Oh."
"I'm spending the day with my brother in Boulder."
"Oh," she repeated, and she waited for the request that she join him, but it wouldn't be forthcoming.
He still hadn't convinced himself that he'd show up at Faith's family dinner, complete with kids and dogs and the good china. But if he did decide to go, he wasn't about to bring Chantal. The meal would be sufficiently stressful without adding her to the hectic mix.
"Well, okay then," she mumbled when he refused to speak. "I had an invitation from an acquaintance out in Malibu. I've been putting them off, but I'll just call and accept."
"I apologize, Chantal. I feel like a total shit."
He wasn't lying. What kind of guy asked a woman to fly off to Mexico for a romantic getaway, then forgot all about it?
He blamed it all on Amy. She had him so disordered that he didn't know up from down.
"It's no big deal." She was gracious for once. "You're busy; I understand."
"We'll go when I get back to LA. I promise."
"I'll look forward to it. When might it be? I need to clear my schedule."
Thanksgiving was in three days. "I'm coming home on Sunday. So maybe we could shoot for next weekend?"
"Great. I'll arrange my calendar."
"Terrific."
There was another lengthy pause, and it was so extended he wondered if he'd lost service, but no. She was still there.
"I have to ask you about one other thing," she said.
"What's that?"
"I'm embarrassed to mention it now."
"No, go ahead."
"Your mother's secretary called me."
He scowled ferociously, as if his mother, Jacquelyn, was with him and could see how irked he was at hearing her name.
"What did she want?"
"Your mother will be in Denver in December."
"For her annual holiday party," Dustin said, just remembering it.
His mother lived in Santa Fe, but she occasionally traveled to Denver to pretend their presence in the city still mattered. Her Christmas party was the gala event of
the Denver social season, but Dustin had forgotten about that, too. With all the upheaval in the past year, he hadn't supposed his mother would have the energy to host it.
"Yes," Chantal said, "she's having a holiday party. I guess she read an article in a gossip magazine…and…ah…she thought we were an item."
"She invited you?"
"Not yet. She was simply asking if I might be available."
He bit down on a grimace. Jacquelyn liked to spice up her gatherings by bringing in people from New York or LA who would make the guest list more thrilling for the locals—as if they were a bunch of rural hicks.
She assumed he and Chantal were a couple? She'd dared to contact Chantal and not check with him first? Next time he saw her, he would strangle her with his bare hands.
He'd already screwed up Chantal's Thanksgiving, and though he could be the ultimate jerk, he actually had some manners. Now that Jacquelyn had dangled an invitation, Dustin wouldn't rescind it.
"You can tell her yes," he advised her.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Will you…be there?"
"Of course. It's a tradition."
Lucas wouldn't come, but Dustin and his sister, Brittney, would both stagger in.
Chantal hesitated, and he could sense her indecision. She was in a horridly awkward position, not confident of her status with Dustin—she didn't have a status with him—and not certain where she stood in relation to a Merriweather family event.
"Will we…um…" she cautiously started.
"We'll hash it out when I get to LA. We can fly to Colorado together."
She sighed with relief. "I'll let her secretary know that I'll be able to attend."
"See you soon."
"Yes, see you."
Dustin hung up so she wouldn't have a reason to continue the conversation.
He was standing at the top of the world, the highway pass at nearly twelve-thousand feet. The road below him wound down and down toward the valley that sheltered Gold Creek.
He was still trying to figure out why he was in Colorado, why he hadn't left.
The moment he'd arrived, he'd gone straight to Gold Creek, had climbed the steep stairs to Amy's attic apartment, and had sex with her. Then he'd crept out without a word.
That was four days ago. Since then, he'd been driving aimlessly, moping and staring out at the bleak scenery. He was a coward, terrified that he might have run into Amy on the sidewalk or at the downtown diner, so he wasn't even staying in Gold Creek. He'd checked into a hotel in Aspen.
