Seeing Stars

by Vanessa Grant

He thrust his leg between hers and pressed up, against her sex, and they were fighting with denim and belts. She undid his and he found the snap at her waist and slid the zipper down, then he slid his hand inside her panties, past the constriction of her half-unzipped jeans and she convulsed around him as he dipped into the creamy folds.

  Then there were no words, only sounds and deep painful heartbeats as they pulled away barriers and she cried out when he touched the entrance to her passage, arching up, drawing him in, staring sightlessly at the stars as he penetrated to her center in one long, slow stroke.

  Please, take me.

  She might have spoken, or perhaps the words were only an echo in her mind as he thrust deep inside her. She moved against him in a rhythm as ancient as man, the way of a man and a woman, both surrender and victory.

  She took his face in her hands and brought his kiss to her lips, seeking deeply, penetrating as he penetrated her. Sensation grew beyond reason, beyond knowing. There was only Blake deep inside her, their mouths tangled, his hands gripping her buttocks as he thrust deeper. She drew him in, grasped the pulsing heat and pulled it to her very core... arched and somehow drew him even deeper, harder, pulling a cry of release from his throat as he drove her to completion and she clenched tight around him in spasms and the heavens shattered, sending stars radiating outward, to infinity...

  She wasn't sure if she slept. For a long time, it seemed she floated somewhere between here and sleep. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the stars, even as she felt the warmth of Blake's naked body curled around hers.

  When she turned her head, he opened his eyes. Although there was no moon, she could see his face clearly in starlight. She touched his cheek and he turned to press a kiss into her palm.

  "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice husky.

  "I might never be cold again."

  She heard pleasure in his chuckle and wondered that she wasn't embarrassed.

  "Do you do this often? Out here, under the oak tree... under the stars?"

  "Only with you." He rolled over and stared down at her, studying her mouth, her eyes. "This isn't how I planned it, but it seemed right that the first time we made love, it should be under the stars."

  "How did you plan it?"

  "Plan A," he said softly. "Music. Candlelight. I had some wine chilling and I thought we'd dance a little, kiss a little, and I'd do my damnedest to make you want to stay, more than you wanted to run."

  "I enjoyed plan B," she said, then added quickly before he could speak, "What happens now?"

  "You mean tonight, or the rest of our lives?"

  Something painful lurched inside Claire, but she fought it down and said lightly, "There is no rest of our lives. I mean tonight. I suppose I should leave before—"

  "No, you shouldn't leave. You should let me carry you inside to my bed, where I intend to show you exactly what madness is."

  "But we already—"

  "Yes," he agreed, bending to stroke the tip of her breast slowly with his tongue. Then he murmured with satisfaction as her breast peaked under his tongue and her breath stilled in her throat. "You see, we've only just begun, sweetheart."

  Much later, when their cries of fulfillment had echoed through the bedroom under the eaves and faded to sleepy cuddling, Mac cradled Claire in his arms again and closed his eyes to let the sensation of holding her wash over him.

  She was spooned against him, her back nestled against his chest, buttocks pressing his sex, his arms encircling her while her hand covered his, holding it to her breast. He felt each of her heartbeats against his hand, felt the soft sleepiness of her breathing through his whole body, the warm silk of her hair against his throat. And through the tumble of her hair, he saw the stars.

  To him, from this night on, they would always be her stars.

  "You can see the stars," he said, "through the window."

  She must have opened her eyes to look, or perhaps she'd been studying the sky before he spoke. "That's Orion's right foot," she murmured. "The star's name is Rigel, and it's about fifty-seven thousand times hotter than the sun."

  "And pretty," he added, amused by the blend of fascination and scientist in her voice.

  "Hmm."

  She snuggled closer against him, and from the sleepiness in her voice he thought her eyes must have closed. Against all reason, holding her while her breathing deepened and blended with his heartbeat, he wanted to give her the world, the moon, the stars... to cherish her closely, and forever.

  He knew from the softening of her body that she slept now, knew also that she was his until morning. Sunday night, and if she consented to lie in his arms every night until she left, there would be four more nights.

  Not nearly enough. Forever might not be enough. It seemed a lifetime ago he'd stood in the parking lot of Manresa Castle and told her an affair between them would be low-risk because he didn't want more, and neither did she. Because in a week she'd be gone.

  There's no danger of us falling in love with each other. He must have been insane when his lips formed those words. It seemed to him now, looking back, that his heart had been Claire's the moment his eyes found her across the crowded banquet room at Manresa Castle. The moment he saw her, some deeply buried part of him must have recognized her as the woman he'd been waiting for, without knowing he was waiting.

  He would have sworn there was no forever woman for him, that he was a man who enjoyed women, liked women, but didn't need one particular female in his life to complete him, to give him meaning. The whole idea was insane, because his life was full, complete, certainly not lonely. He had his shipyard, his family, his boys, a collection of high-speed toys to satisfy his need for adventure, and the occasional woman, when he could manage it without threatening either his freedom or the heart of the woman in question.

  He'd told himself he didn't need a woman, any more than Claire needed a man. But he must have known it was a lie—why else had he panicked when she opened the door to him on Saturday night, dressed in temptation and seduction? He'd taken one look at her and he'd known the winds were too strong for safety, had determined to step back from the adventure.

  When had Mac McKenzie ever backed away from a storm?

  When it could kill him, he thought wryly, but it was obvious in hindsight that by the time he picked her up for the dance, he was in far too deep to swim for shore. His plan to back off had been doomed before he formed it, and if he'd had any sense he'd have known Claire Welland wasn't a mere hurricane. She was a complete and cataclysmic change of climate.

  What happens now, she'd asked, her damp flesh still clinging to his in the aftermath of loving. And his mouth had parted on the answer he didn't speak.

  You do, he thought, stroking her naked arm as it lay lax on the sheet he'd pulled over them earlier. You, here in my bed, in the next room, in my life, for the rest of our lives. If he'd said the words, she'd be gone now; he'd be alone, holding only memories.

  There is no rest of our lives.

  Accepting that was unthinkable.

  OK, so he'd have his work cut out for him.

  He figured he could have competed with another man easily enough, because how the hell could anything between two people be better than what happened when they stared into each other's eyes, when they touched, loved as they had tonight? He'd seen it in her eyes too, heard it in her voice. And he'd known from her responses tonight that nothing she'd experienced with Kevin, her only other lover, had came anywhere near the explosion of tonight's lovemaking.

  And a damned good thing, he thought grimly, because he had enough trouble with the competition as it was. If he didn't find a way to stop her, Claire would be leaving him for the stars on Friday. He'd shown her a sky full of stars here, in his own backyard, and more through his bedroom window, but he wasn't crazy enough to think it would be enough. She wouldn't be so easily won.

  There is no rest of our lives. But there had to be, because the woman in his arms, the woman who'd sat cross-legged on his ve
randa entrancing three tough teenage boys into building a telescope—that Claire didn't belong alone on a mountain. When he'd first seen her on Friday, he'd thought she did, because she'd looked at him with the eyes of the girl he remembered from high school. The mysterious, untouchable Claire, hidden behind thick glasses.

  But now he realized that he'd never seen beyond the glasses, that in his adolescent self-centeredness, he'd looked at her and judged her because she was unavailable. He hadn't seen the warmth, the laughter, the way fire flared in her eyes when she was challenged. He certainly hadn't dreamed that one day he would love her, that she was the one woman meant for him, to have and to hold, forever.

  He had four days, ninety-six hours, to convince Claire Welland that leaving him was the last thing she wanted to do, to make her see, make her believe they belonged together.

  On the surface they seemed an impossible couple, an astronomer who treasured her mountaintop and a shipwright tied to the ocean. He couldn't leave Port Townsend. If he did, there would be no one to make sure Jake and Tim made it to adulthood in one piece, no one to take emergency calls from Don or Ellie, when a boy needed an extra hand.

  He couldn't leave, so it would have to be her.

  Chapter Nine

  Claire woke to the sound of water running. The shower, she realized. Perhaps she should have woken disoriented, confused, thinking herself on her mountain, or in the condo alone.

  But she hadn't. She heard the water and knew it was Blake, that he'd gone into the next room, that if she followed she'd see him through the glass doors of his shower, water pounding down on his naked body.

  She stretched, felt stiffness in unaccustomed places, and a full, feminine awareness deep inside. She saw a green terry robe at the foot of the bed, knew he'd placed it there for her and slid out of the bed, stretching naked in front of the window, as naturally as if she were home on her mountain with the windows facing out over the cliff.

  No one could see her here, either. The window looked out over the harbor at an angle that created complete privacy. Difficult to believe this house was actually in the middle of Port Townsend, because its acreage and trees created a feeling of seclusion so complete they'd been able to make love, last night, outside under the trees.

  She wondered if she would feel embarrassed when he stepped out of the shower and returned to the bedroom, wondered if he would be naked or clothed. She felt a strange lack of self-consciousness right now, though that might disappear the moment she saw him. But just for the moment, it seemed perfectly natural to be standing beside his bed, staring out his window at the whitecaps on the ocean, wearing not a stitch of clothing, with her body experiencing sensations that made her distinctly aware of how she'd spent the night.

  Loving.

  She reached for the robe and belted it around her. It must be his, because she had to roll the sleeves up twice, and the hem brushed her feet as she walked.

  In the bathroom, she found he'd put a new toothbrush out for her. She had one in her car, but she spread toothpaste and used his gift because it felt somehow right. She looked in the mirror and thought she could see the signs of last night in her eyes, in the way her mouth looked somehow softer, fuller... kissed.

  He was still in the shower, his body distorted through the glass of the shower door. She smiled and unbelted the robe, let it drop to the floor as she pulled open the shower door.

  Inside she saw only steam, then as she stepped in, she saw his hand slick back his hair as he threw his head back and let the stream of water rinse away the soap. His eyes were closed, and he must not have heard her open the door, because he jerked when she touched him, but he knew her instantly because he drew her into the stream of water, into his kiss. She gloried in the sensation of water streaming warm down her back, his hands bracketing her waist, his eyes clinging to her mouth, her throat, her breasts.

  Hungrily, she let her arms find a home in his hair as she pulled his head closer. "Morning," she murmured against his lips.

  "Good morning, sweetheart. I brought your telescope inside."

  "Thank you," she whispered. Then she hung on tightly as he took her mouth and pulled her close against his hardening sex.

  "I want you," he growled against her throat.

  She moaned as his words sent a shaft of need through her. "Then take me," she challenged, drawing his head down to her breast, groaning as his lips found one hard, sensitized peak and began to torment her.

  He lifted his head then, imprisoning her with his arms as his eyes blazed down into hers, and he said in a low, driven voice, "I have never wanted any woman—never needed any woman the way I need you. You are the first, Claire."

  She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, could only realize that if it hadn't been for Jennifer urging her to have an affair with the man of her teenage fantasies, she wouldn't be here. She'd never have had the nerve to proposition Blake McKenzie without Jennifer egging her on. But she had, and now she was here, standing in his shower, on the edge of making passionate love with him for the fourth time, and later, when it was over, she would take his memory, this memory, back to the mountains. And she knew, right now, as he cupped her and lifted her, as her legs curled around him, gripping tightly, welcoming him deep inside her, that somehow, sharing passion now with Blake would make everything in her life from this day forward better, sharper, more real.

  Afterward, when it was over, even the stars would shine more brightly above her mountain. And now, now...

  She held on tightly, felt her world shatter as he drove into her, felt his need and his driving power, felt herself open so wide to him that it seemed she could never be whole without this... without him.

  She twisted and gripped him more tightly, and he drove so deeply inside her that she felt every shudder, every groan, every sensation, and it was as if she were inside him as he thrust into her, as if she knew without knowing, exactly how her fingers digging into his back shafted like an arrow into his need, how her own deep, secret muscles clenching tight drove him farther, higher, wilder.

  Then she could no longer feel because she was the motion, the need, her sounds harsh, her need primal and tied to his breath, her body clenching tighter with each harsh explosion of his breath, driving him higher, taking him beyond the stars, beyond reason, beyond touch or thought... to the end.

  She felt his climax from a long way off. She felt his groan and tightened around him, drawing everything from him as he lost himself in her and emptied all he was into her and she felt his body shudder, his hands, so hard against her buttocks, now trembling.

  She let her legs slide down, and cradled him, his face against her breast, breath harsh, so harsh, broken as she felt his throat flex against her. She felt their intimate coupling part and touched his hair, stroking the wet curls back from his forehead, wishing they could stay like this forever. Even while her own body still throbbed with desire, she needed to hold this moment forever, his face pressed to her, his breath open and vulnerable, not in passion but something far more shattering.

  Fulfillment.

  She closed her eyes and let her head rest against the wall of the shower enclosure, breathing, just breathing, clinging to the moment, feeling her own arousal slowly settle, as if his climax had somehow soothed her lust.

  How many ways, she wondered. In the four days left to them, how many ways would they love?

  She felt his sigh and forced herself not to cling when he moved. Then his mouth settled on hers, warm and soft now that his need was sated, and he murmured, "Good morning, sweetheart."

  Her heart crashed against her ribs although she knew it was only a word. Sweetheart. She'd always known, hadn't she, that he would be a wonderful lover, and for now she would let herself pretend the love words were real, and only for her. Afterward, she'd take them with her, the words and the sensations, the memories, a treasure she'd have for all her life to come.

  She forced her mouth to lie lax under his slow kiss. Later, he would need her again, and she would find her
release. Somehow, if she could have these moments, these gentle, slow kisses, she could wait forever.

  Then he was lathering her body with soap, stroking her from shoulder to ankle with slow circular motions, and she tried to stop him, tried to speak, because she couldn't bear this... couldn't...

  "Hush," he said, his mouth against her cheek, and he stroked the water over her belly and her thighs, rinsing the soap away, sliding his hands between her legs in a light fountain of water, rinsing their loving away.

  She shuddered, moaning, and he murmured and drew her out of the shower, wrapped her in the terry robe and lifted her into his arms.

  "I can't..."

  "Hush," he murmured as he laid her gently on the bed. "Let me love you."

  She stared up at him mutely, saw the morning sun in his eyes, and tenderness, felt his hands at the belt of her borrowed robe, watched him—could do nothing but watch as he parted the robe, and with a towel in his hands he began to stroke her slowly, so slowly, caressing the soft dampness of her throat, the swollen fullness of her breasts.

  Then he kissed her lips, so softly her breath stopped to find the sensations. Her lips, her throat, the soft flesh above her breasts, the swollen lower curve of her breast, the sensitive flesh of her midriff. She reached up to touch him and he captured her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm.

  "This time is for you," he breathed against her palm, "just for you." And her hand lay where he placed it on the bed, and her eyes drifted closed and the world became sensation... his lips softly caressing, fingers stroking.

  A sound, a breath, escaped her throat, a long sigh, and he encouraged her with murmurs of encouragement as he kissed just below her ribs, then the hollow inside her elbow. And finally, she understood, and she surrendered and let herself float on the timeless tide of sensation, knowing... knowing...

  When his mouth finally covered her breast, she was a pool of molten sensation, and she could only moan aloud. He laved her nipples, then sought the tender trembling of her belly, the soft whisper of lips against her inner thigh.