Jaimie: Fire and Ice

by Sandra Marton

  She raised her face to his.

  “It was,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have never, ever done anything so—so wanton in my entire—”

  “And I’ve never done anything as stupid.” Her face fell; silently, he cursed himself for a fool and he caught her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “Anything as stupid as letting my pride get in the way.” There’d been more to it than that; there’d been that goddamned lying call from Young because yes he was sure it had been a lie, but now wasn’t the time to talk about it. Instead, he brushed his mouth over hers, again and again until she sighed and her lips parted and clung to his. “I should have called you, Jaimie. Hell, I should have flown to D.C., banged my fist against your door until you had no choice but to let me in and then—”

  “And then,” she said, “this would have happened a lot sooner.”

  “You’re damn right, it would.” He framed her face with his hands. Ran his thumb lightly over her mouth. “I thought about you all the time.”

  “About how easy I was, you mean,” she said, jerking away from him. Color flooded her face. “How easy I still am.”

  She turned away.

  Zach wanted to pull her back into his arms, stop her doubts with his mouth, his hands, his body, but she deserved to know why he had let so much time go by before coming after her, and why he finally had. He couldn’t tell her about Caleb, but he could tell her the truth that mattered, the truth he’d known the instant she’d opened that door.

  He reached for her, his hands hard on her shoulders, and swung her toward him.

  “You’re doing us both a disservice.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Do you want me to believe that’s what you are, Jaimie? An easy lay?” Anger flashed in her eyes. Good. It meant he was getting somewhere. “And that I’d come hundreds of miles just for a woman who was?” She tried to turn her face away, but he wouldn’t let her. “The truth is you’d never done anything like what you did that night. Isn’t that right?”

  He waited. And waited. Then, finally, she nodded.

  His heart lifted.

  “It was a special night.” His tone softened. “Even a world-class cynic like me knew that, though I’d sooner have eaten a bucket of nails than admit it.” He saw her expression softening; he smiled, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, honey. You’ve been with me 24/7, and if you think that’s an easy thing to admit to a woman who dumped me…”

  “I did not dump you.”

  Her voice was stronger, and her eyes met his without flinching. He smiled again.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Dear Mr. Castelianos,” he said. “Thank you for everything…”

  Her face reddened.

  “I—I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “You could have awakened in my arms and said, ‘Good morning, Zacharias. I’d like us to make love again.’”

  She sank her teeth lightly into the tender flesh of her bottom lip. God, he wanted to kiss that tiny wound.

  “I—I wasn’t myself that night.”

  “I think you were. I think that was the real you. The real you and the real me. He slid his hands into her hair and tilted her face up to his. “And I think you were afraid of what I made you feel.”

  “I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life!”

  “Feelings,” he said softly. “That’s what you’re afraid of. And I understand that because it’s been the same with me.”

  He spoke before he could stop the words. What he’d just told her was more than he’d ever told anyone in his entire life, including himself. If she laughed, if she scoffed…

  But she didn’t.

  Her eyes grew bright with unshed tears.

  “I’m not,” she whispered, “really, I’m not…” She made a sound nobody would ever call a laugh. “Two bastions of logic. Pathetic, don’t you think?”

  “Amazing, is what I think. That we’re wasting all this time, talking, when we could be in bed, making love.”

  Her eyes searched his. An eternity seemed to pass. Then, she sighed.

  “You are a very wise man, Mr. Castelianos.”

  Zach swung her into his embrace. She put her arms around his neck and kissed his throat.

  “Down the hall,” she murmured, “and to the right.”

  He hadn’t needed her instructions; he knew where the bedroom was. The realization made him feel as if a small chunk of ice had lodged itself in the pit of his stomach.

  He was going to have to be careful.

  Or maybe—maybe he was going to have to tell her the truth.

  “Zacharias?”

  Her voice was soft and tender. Zach kissed her as he set her slowly on her feet beside the bed.

  “What, honey?”

  “I thought you would never come for me,” she whispered, and he knew then that the truth could wait if he didn’t want to risk destroying whatever it was that they’d found.

  * * * *

  He made love to her slowly.

  Long, tender kisses that gradually deepened, her lips parting, yielding to the seeking pressure of his, her sighs like the warm breath of life against his mouth as he caught her bottom life gently between his teeth and feasted on its sweet taste.

  He parted the torn edges of her nightgown, revealing her breasts, so perfect, so silken as he cupped them.

  He dipped his head, kissed the pulse beating wildly in her throat, kissed his way down her skin, teased her nipples with the tip of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, almost going crazy when she moaned and began to shift restlessly as he lay above her, one knee between hers, that knee against the female heart of her, pressing, moving, rubbing lightly against the flower he knew was opening, opening, opening, its delicate petals begging for his touch,

  But not yet.

  He had been too quick that first time.

  Now, what he did to her, for her, with her, would last. He would make it last.

  He was a man who had spent his entire life learning the art of self-control.

  He licked one sweet pink nipple, then blew on it. She cried out, arched toward him, her body an elegant bow.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Zacharias, please…”

  She reached for him, dug her fingers into his hair, urged his mouth to her breast and he did what she wanted, what she needed. How could he not taste that lovely bud? He drew it into his mouth, sucked it, sucked harder. She cried out and he felt his thoughts begin to spin.

  His body ached.

  All he had to do was shift his weight, sweep aside the torn nightgown…

  Not yet.

  Not yet, he told himself, and he drew her hands from his hair, manacled her wrists with his fingers, tugged her arms high over her head.

  “No,” she said, “Zacharias, let me—”

  He kissed her.

  Kissed her breasts.

  Slowly.

  Tasted. Licked. Sucked.

  She gave a short, sharp cry and arched up from the bed again.

  “Let me touch you,” she pleaded. “I need to touch—”

  “Not yet,” he said, his voice low and rough and hot, and he kissed his way down her body to her navel, kissed the tiny indentation, kissed his way over the slight, elegant convexity of her belly, kissed those soft pale curls at the apex of her thighs, kissed them and marveled that she was natural here, too, not shaved and buffed to some sexual standard that was beyond him to comprehend.

  She was sobbing. Bucking against him. Struggling to free herself from his grasp, but he wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t stop kissing her, wouldn’t let her touch him and now, oh God, now he was nuzzling the edges of the torn nightgown apart, nuzzling her thighs apart, and she was wet, so wet, so hot…

  His mouth found her.

  He was doing things. His tongue. His teeth. His lips…

  Color danced behind Jaimie’s closed eyelids. Red. Pink. Purple. Blue so deep, so pure that it
had to be the very fabric of the universe.

  She was gasping for breath.

  “Zacharias,” she whispered, “please oh please oh please…”

  He moved back up her body. Kissed her parted lips. Tasted desire and need and hunger, and knew he was dancing on the thin knife-edge of sanity.

  Another kiss, deep and hot.

  Then he let go of her wrists.

  She reached for him, but he pulled back, kicked off his sneakers, tore off his jeans, his boxers.

  He came back to her, hot skin against hot skin, steel against satin, and she clutched his biceps, rose to him, sought his mouth, kissed him, bit him, her hips lifting to his in such blatant female offering that he knew he couldn’t take much more.

  “Jaimie,” he said.

  She blinked. Her eyes met his.

  “Tell me.” His voice was ragged. “I need to hear you say it. I’ve waited weeks to hear you say the words.”

  Suddenly, all the knowledge of the universe glowed in her eyes.

  “Make love to me, Zacharias,” she whispered. “Please. I need you. I want you. I—”

  He thrust into her.

  She came in a rush of light, of music, of emotion so intense that she began to weep.

  He began to move.

  She cried out, wrapped her legs around him, met him stroke for stroke. His name was on her lips, a mystical chant taking her deeper and deeper into a place of golden sunlight and swirling stars.

  Her eyes closed.

  “No,” he demanded. “Open your eyes honey. Look at me.”

  His face was a study in male dominance, the bones standing out in stark relief beneath the taut, golden skin. He clasped her hands, drew them to her sides.

  “You’re mine,” he said. “Mine.”

  He surged forward. She heard herself cry his name.

  And the world came apart.

  * * * *

  She woke hours later.

  Rain pattered against the house. And she was lying in Zacharias’s arms, warm, safe—and happy.

  The last time she’d come awake this way, what she’d felt was shame. All she’d wanted was to escape.

  Now, all she wanted was for the rain to continue. It was Friday, her day off, and between that and the rain, she had the perfect excuse to stay right where she was.

  Unless Zacharias had other plans. Unless he had to return to New York…

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Jaimie lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him. He was early-morning gorgeous. Rumpled hair. Jaw dark with stubble. Eyes still with that sexy, sleepy look.

  Her heart swelled.

  “Morning,” she said softly.

  He grinned.

  “Morning,” he said, just as softly. He kissed her. Tenderly. Lingeringly.

  She smiled. “What a guy!”

  His grin broadened. “Well, if you say so—”

  “A man who reads minds. Very impressive.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Why, Mr. Castelianos, sir, whatever did you think I meant?”

  Zach rolled onto his side so they were face-to-face. He’d seen lots of women first thing in the morning. Some used the kind of makeup that didn’t wear off. He’d always thought it made them look like bleary-eyed Barbie dolls. Some, he was pretty certain, crept out of bed at dawn so they could reapply what he thought of as their faces. One or two let the night do whatever it was going to do: smeared mascara, bedhead hair, rosy cheek-color that had transferred to the pillow.

  This was a first.

  Jaimie had fallen asleep looking the same way she had when she’d let him into her apartment. No makeup. No carefully combed and teased and sprayed-into-submission hair.

  She was herself. Unadorned. Natural. And—

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  She laughed softly, touched the back of her hand to his jaw. How could that dark stubble be so incredibly sexy?

  “Liar.”

  “Me? Lie about such a thing?” He gave her a little push and she tumbled, very willingly, onto her back. “Are you suggesting that I’d say whatever it takes to have my way with you, madam?”

  “Mmm.” She turned her hand over so that her palm cupped his jaw. The stubble felt wonderful. Soft. Teasing. Sexy. “I am, indeed, sir.”

  “Mmm, yourself.” He caught her hand, kissed it. “Hey, I’m a guy. Saying whatever we think will get us past ‘Go’ is in our DNA.” He kissed her palm again, touched the tip of his tongue to the sensitive skin. “But not this time.”

  The stroke of his tongue made Jaimie’s toes curl.

  “No?” she said, a little breathlessly.

  “No,” he said, his voice a low, raw growl. Zach moved over her, his body hard, his eyes dark. “You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful, you damn near stop my heart.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do that,” she said. “Because if I did—” He moved, kissed her breasts, slipped his hand between her thighs. She moaned and arched against his fingers. “If I did, we wouldn’t be able to—to—Oh God, Zacharias. When you do that—what you do that—”

  His mouth captured hers as he entered her.

  She cried out, came hard and fast. He held out as long as he could, waited until he felt her spasm around his rigid flesh a second time. Then he let go, lost himself in her cries, her scent.

  Lost himself in her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They showered.

  “Together,” Zach insisted, even though the shower stall wasn’t much bigger than a phone booth.

  Jaimie pointed that out. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. He made it sound as if it were simply a logistical issue that he’d solve in a practical way.

  Not quite.

  It turned out that what he’d meant was that he’d hold her in his arms, she’d cling to him, and that in very little time, the magical combination of water and soap and skin-on-skin contact would prove that the best way to deal with the lack of space would be for him to lift her in his arms, for her to wrap her legs around him.

  For him to be deep inside her.

  Afterward, he swathed her in a towel and took her back to bed. This time, he made love to her with a tenderness that transcended anything he’d ever experienced with a woman.

  At the end, he collapsed against her. Her mouth was against his throat. She said something; he could feel her lips move though he couldn’t hear the words. Carefully, he rolled to his side with her still in his arms.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said—I said I’ve never—I’ve never—”

  He kissed her.

  “No,” he said gruffly. “Neither have I.”

  She smiled. Yawned.

  “I’ll make us some breakfast.”

  He grinned. “I notice you said that without moving an inch from this bed.”

  She batted her lashes. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  Moments later, they were both asleep.

  * * * *

  By the time they woke again, the rain had changed to sleet.

  They dressed, Zach in what he’d worn the night before, Jaimie in jeans, a sweater and leather boots.

  He sat on the edge of her bed while she stood in front of the mirror over the dresser and brushed out her hair.

  “Don’t,” he said, when she started to pull it back. Their eyes met in the glass. “I love the way your hair looks when it’s loose, hanging down your back.”

  She smiled and put down her hairbrush; he wondered how come he’d said that or even thought it. He liked a woman to have long hair, but the particular way she wore it had never mattered to him before.

  “It’ll probably get wild,” she said. “It always does, when the weather’s wet.”

  He rose to his feet, walked up behind her and put his arms around her. She covered his hands with hers and leaned back against him.

  “I like you wild.” He felt her heartbeat quicken. His arms tightened around her. “I love you wild,” he whispered, moving his hips aga
inst her backside.

  She gave a hum of pleasure.

  “That’s good,” she whispered. “Because you bring out a wildness in me.”

  He bent his head, nuzzled her damp hair aside and nipped the nape of her neck.

  “Do I?”

  She nodded. “Normally, I’m—I’m not wild at all.”

  Zach raised his head and looked at her reflection.

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “I’m a practical person. You know. Logical. Cautious.” She laughed. “What else would a CPA be? I’m an accountant. Walking away from accounting and taking a job in real estate was probably the wildest thing I’d ever done until that night.”

  “What night?” Zach said with deliberate innocence.

  She smiled. “You know what night.”

  “Yeah. I do.” He turned her in his arms and locked his hands at the base of her spine; she put her palms against his chest. “But I want to hear you say it. You were the very picture of propriety until…?”

  “The picture of propriety.” She laughed. Leaned back in his arms and looked up at him. “Why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t know the first thing about propriety?”

  “I would. I do. Believe it or not, I clean up really well.” He captured her mouth with his in a soft, sweet kiss. “And you’re trying to change the subject. You were a good girl until—”

  “Until that night in your place. I’d never done anything like that before.”

  “Spent the night without electricity?”

  She laughed, tapped him lightly on the shoulder with her fist.

  “It was the first time I’d ever—I’d ever been with a man I’d just met. You know. I’d never had sex with a stranger.”

  He’d already figured that out by himself, but hearing her say it was better.

  Why should the admission make him feel so damn good?

  “The first time,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “Uh huh.”

  He wanted to tell her it would be the last time, too, but he stopped himself before he said it. Nobody could predict the future. This was now. It was—it was terrific. But who knew what either of them would feel a month from today?