by Laura Taylor
Expectation and anticipation accelerated her heartbeat. Reaching up, she smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead before she trailed her fingertips down the side of his strong jaw and then traced his lips with a single fingertip. David captured her hand, pressing her open palm to his lips. And a thousand fiery sensations spilled into her bloodstream.
"I need you, Emma."
"Soon," she promised, "because I need you, too." She lingered in his arms, her gaze riveted to his rugged face. The desire to be absorbed into his flesh and bones sang in her veins, but common sense prevailed. "First, though, I must bathe."
"First things first," he agreed.
He stepped back, reclaimed the small bowl that contained the lighted candle, and then clasped one of her hands. He led her into the kitchen, pausing before a well–stocked pantry.
Emma smiled. "Mary’s always ready to feed an army."
He gestured to the contents of the pantry. "Why don’t you get cleaned up while I put together some kind of a meal for us?"
"You deserve to go first," she reminded him.
He shook his head. "Ladies first. Now, get going. If you need anything, tap on the wall."
** ** **
Emma settled into a huge bathtub filled with fragrant hot water fifteen minutes later. At first, she simply soaked her battered body, savoring both the heat of the water and the scent of the lavender bath salts that Mary favored. Soon, though, she began to scrub the accumulated filth of three hellish weeks from her flesh. Next, she washed her waist–length hair twice, drained the tub, and then stood under the showerhead to rinse away the last of the soap and shampoo.
She wrapped her wet hair in a towel, using a second one to dry herself before she borrowed an ankle–length bathrobe Mary had left hanging on the back of the door. After brushing her teeth, she smoothed moisturizing lotion into her skin. Her thoughts then shifted to David and what he might need. She set out a stack of fresh towels, a plastic–wrapped toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a disposable razor and manicure scissors, and a bar of unscented soap for him.
In Mary’s guest bedroom, she retrieved the extra–large, terrycloth bathrobe that she remembered from a previous visit. For David’s sake, she was glad Mary’s brother had left it hanging in the closet. She placed the folded robe atop the bathroom countertop. After starting a bath for him, she padded barefoot into the living room, feeling cleaner than she had in more weeks than she cared to count.
She found him standing with his back to her at the heavily draped front window. A platter piled high with all manner of finger food and canned fruit sat on the coffee table, along with additional bottles of water, napkins, plates, and utensils.
Emma snagged a banana, peeled it, and took a bite while David continued to scan the front gate and interior courtyard garden of Mary’s house through a narrow gap between the drape and window frame.
"Is anyone out there?" she finally asked.
He stiffened, his tension evidenced in the rigid set of his broad shoulders and the stiffness of his spine.
"It’s just me, David."
Exhaling a hard gust of air, he turned to face her.
"I didn’t mean to startle you…" she began.
He waved off her apology. His heated gaze raked over her with a masculine thoroughness that very nearly off–balanced Emma. She felt naked, despite being clothed from throat to ankles.
"My God…" He broke off, looking stunned and confused as he stared at her.
"What’s wrong?" she whispered.
"Nothing’s wrong. I just didn’t expect… I mean, you’re…" He paused a second time.
"I’m not sure what you mean." She felt unnerved, and she didn’t try to pretend otherwise.
"You’re…" Yet again, he seemed unable to complete the thought.
"I’m what, David?"
He heard the edge that had crept into her voice, and it seemed to shake something loose inside him. "Christ, I’m sorry. I knew you were beautiful, but you’re not just beautiful… you’re exquisite."
She relaxed and flashed a lopsided grin at him. "Thank you."
"I mean it, Emma." He frowned. "What haven’t you told me about yourself?"
She shrugged. Unwilling to meet his gaze, she popped the last bite of the banana into her mouth and set aside the skin. She finished chewing and swallowed before she answered his question. "Not too much. You really do know all of the important stuff."
"Not all of it, obviously. Talk," he ordered. "Now."
She sighed. "If you insist."
"I insist."
"There were a few other reasons I had to give up gymnastics," she conceded.
David broke in. "Let me guess… too tall and over the top curves in all the right places."
She nodded. "I started getting injured. My legs were too long, and I just couldn’t handle the equipment any longer. It’s not exactly designed for a giraffe."
"A gazelle," he corrected. "An elegant, long–limbed, sexy as all hell, knock–out of a gazelle." He gave her a questioning look. "You could model for Victoria Secret."
"No, that would be my cousin, Gabriela, although I was the first runner–up in the Miss World competition when I was eighteen. After all of that insanity finally ended, I enrolled in college and didn’t look back. That, Major Winslow, is my story, and I’m sticking to it."
"Holy fuck, woman!" The words burst out of him. He couldn’t stop them.
Emma laughed so hard, her knees almost buckled. When she could speak again, she said, "The tub’s probably half filled by now, so you need to get in there before we accidently flood the place. I highly recommend a good long soak. It’s very therapeutic. And while you’re taking care of you, I’m going to satisfy my craving for some decent food."
"Yes, ma’am." David still looked faintly stunned. "Anything else, ma’am?"
She grinned up at him as she sank down onto the sofa, reached for a plate, and began to fill it with much needed sustenance. "I thought Marines were trained to handle the unexpected."
** ** **
An hour later, David found Emma stretched out on the sofa. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady. He settled into the chair closest to her, still not quite able to wrap his mind around what he now knew about her. He held his breath when she stirred, her shift in position atop the cushions causing the robe she wore to part from her thighs to her toes.
Desire steamed through his veins as he indulged himself in a leisurely study of those shapely legs—legs that seemed to go on for frigging ever—legs that made him want to groan aloud his need to sheathe his sex deep within her body and feel them wrapped around his hips as they made love. He must have made a betraying sound, because when his gaze reached her face, he saw that her eyes were open and she was watching him with a curiously tender expression.
"Feel better?" she asked as she took in his startling transformation.
Gone was the grime of deprivation and captivity. Gone were the filthy flight suit and the steel–toed flight boots that he’d worn since being shot down. And gone was the heavy beard that had obscured his hard cheeks and stubborn chin.
Obviously naked beneath the towel fastened low on his hips, he literally took Emma’s breath away. She cared little that he hadn’t opted to use the robe she’d left on the bathroom counter for him. In fact, she was almost relieved that he hadn’t put it on.
Scrubbed clean and freshly shaved, he was a new man. A striking man, but not at all handsome. Definitely not handsome. That tame word would never in a million years be applied to David Winslow. He was big and powerfully constructed—so much so that her heart did a little tap–dance of pleasure. And as he shifted in his chair, the air in her lungs stopped cold. She realized that even his slightest movement reflected the lithe grace of a predator. And, my God, the man looked ready to prowl.
He remained silent, though, apparently not yet ready to answer her question. Instead, he seemed to have questions of his own to ask, questions that lurked in hi
s eyes as he studied her. So, she waited him out and continued her study of him.
The strength of his character and his Montana origins showed in his steely jaw, direct gaze, and sensual lips. His uncompromising personality was apparent in the sturdiness of his starkly male body. Although bruised and likely scarred in a variety of places by the torture he’d endured during his captivity, the damage inflicted upon his flesh did nothing to diminish his appeal.
"I feel much better," he finally said.
"I like you without the beard."
He dipped that strong chin in acknowledgement, his expression remaining oddly neutral.
"What are you thinking, David?"
"That I want… I need… to take you to bed."
Warmth and desire swamped her. "I want you, too."
She sat up without further comment, swinging those impossibly long, impossibly spectacular legs of hers off the cushions. Her upward momentum dislodged the towel that had encased her damp hair. As it fell away, her nearly waist–length mane tumbled free like an unraveling bolt of obsidian silk past her shoulders and down her back.
Hunger lanced through him as David pushed up from his chair, took her extended hand, and drew her to her feet. "You’re sure?"
She nodded, captured by his incinerating gaze—a darkly territorial gaze that asserted both male prowess and his personal claim on her. "I’m very sure."
He raised his free hand, stroking the mass of unbound hair, his gliding fingers indulging in pure sensory appreciation. "It’s almost blue, it’s so black."
She shrugged. "Chalk it up to an excellent gene pool."
His hot gaze ran riot over her, his hand trembling as he withdrew it from the damp strands. "Excellent. Good word. Christ, if I’m dreaming don’t wake me up."
He gathered her up and into his arms in one fluid motion. As he cradled her against his broad chest, she looped her arms around his neck and remained silent as he carried her into the guest room. And with every step he took, she ached all the way down to her soul for this man.
He held her like precious cargo, and she felt the sluggish, simmering flow of the blood in her veins. She felt simultaneously weakened and empowered. She felt utterly seduced, just as he’d seduced her with his touch in the prison cellblock when all they’d been able to do was hold hands and dream of freedom. And she felt needy, but only for his touch—his passion—his hunger.
Once he lowered her to her feet beside the bed and they faced each other, she held his gaze. Without pretense or false modesty, Emma shrugged free of her robe and let it tumble to the floor. A hard gust of air burst out of him. As the raw sound faded, she freed the towel knotted at his hips. It, too, fell to the floor.
Then, she stepped forward, surrendering fully as his arms encircled her and he drew her into his heat. Her senses quickened, her heart raced, and she trembled with need.
He tightened his embrace and bent his head, the subtle flex and flow of the muscles that crisscrossed his chest and ridged his flat belly tensing as she melted against him. His sex lengthened and swelled to near bursting. Sucking in a sharp breath, he fought for control.
Then he claimed her lips, instantly deepening their connection when he thrust his tongue into her mouth. His kiss devastated her with its overt carnality, and she gloried in it.
Instinct and too many other emotions to name drove her. Coherence fled. Everything within her became centered on David, the way he tasted, the feel of his mouth fused to hers, the invasive darting of his tongue, and the possessive sweep of his hands down her back and over her hips.
Emma moaned her pleasure, her fingernails digging into his back as she clung to him. Her body wept for his possession, and her knees threatened to give way. And somehow, he knew. He knew exactly what she needed.
He shifted one of his hands to a position between their bodies, hesitating for just a heartbeat before he skimmed his fingertips down over her belly and then slid them along the silk covered, swollen seam of her slick cleft. She moaned at the trail of burning sensation he left in his wake. He drank in the pleasure–filled sound even as he delved into her sheathing heat with first one finger and then a second.
"You feel like you’re on fire, Emma."
"Now, please. Need you… inside me," she whispered against his lips.
The coarse word he muttered echoed in the stillness like a whispered prayer. Without warning, he lowered her onto her back atop the bed. He came down over her, bracing his upper body weight on his elbows as his narrow hips wedged apart her thighs.
She gripped his shoulders, trembling when she felt his sex at the entrance to her body, the thick head throbbing and hot and poised to claim her. The interior of her body felt as heated as honey placed atop a flame.
She glanced down, taking in the dense pelt of mahogany hair that covered his chest. The swirling pattern invited a fingertip inspection. Her fingertips, she decided. Only hers.
Emma brought her gaze back up to his chiseled features. He appeared to be cast in granite, but she knew that granite was cool to the touch and David was not. She felt his heat and hunger right down to her soul—this man composed of muscle and bone and sinew, this man so capable of compassion and fierceness, kindness and aggression, this man who could seduce her with the simple act of breathing.
She recalled the way in which he’d aroused her to the point of mindlessness with the simple stroking of his fingertips across the palm of her hand. Now, he watched her with an almost proprietary manner, which only served to strengthen her desire for him.
"I need to keep a promise," she said.
"Promise?" he asked.
He studied her exquisite face and those extraordinary eyes. She was so much more than he’d imagined, more than he’d dreamed of possessing, more than he’d ever craved in a woman. His hunger for her overwhelmed, made every muscle in his body tighten like coiled steel.
His control began to disintegrate. Need thrummed inside him. Fantasy and reality warred within him. And yet, here she was. Naked. Tantalizing. Enticing. His to touch. His to linger over, to savor, to consume. His for the taking.
"What promise?" he managed to ask a second time.
She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to the side of his neck to bestow a stinging little nip and then a gentle, healing kiss. When she drew back, she met his curious expression. "That first day in my cell, I made myself a promise that I’d put my arms around you and hug you at the very first opportunity. That was hug number one, but I think I still owe you at least a thousand more."
He flinched. "Gratitude." He ground out the word, and it sounded ugly. All the emotion left his eyes. He looked as cold as ice despite the heat rolling off of his body in waves. "Is that what this is, Emma? Gratitude?"
She frowned. "Of course not."
"I don’t want gratitude. And for the record, you don’t owe me shit. Not now. Not ever."
When he began to shift away from her, she gripped his shoulders and stopped his withdrawal. "This is not gratitude with sex offered as a thank you… this is us, David. There’s a world of difference between the two."
He wanted to believe her. Taking advantage of a vulnerable woman wasn’t his style. It never had been, and it never would be. And she was vulnerable, despite what she seemed to think or what she said. She’d faced the constant threat of rape for three solid weeks, and she’d been forced to confront her own mortality. "A lot has happened to you, Emma… I don’t want you to make a mistake or regret…"
"We are not a mistake and regret won’t ever be a possibility."
He released a pent–up breath, his gaze slowly drifting from the determined look in her huge blue eyes, down to the delicate curve of her shoulders, and then on to the bounty of her high, full breasts. They responded to his visual caress, swelling and firming beneath his gaze. Her nipples beaded, as if inviting his mouth.
His eyes shifted lower still—to her narrow waist, the soft curve of her belly, the feminine width of her hips, and the thatch of black silk at the t
op of her parted thighs—all of the parts of her that beckoned to him, seduced him, rendered him nearly mindless in his need of her. He’d have to be dead and in his grave not to want her. He closed his eyes, fighting to keep a clear head.
"I want you, David. I can’t even imagine not wanting you." She searched his expression. His hesitation had something to do with his past or his ingrained integrity and sense of honor, she felt sure of it. "I meant it before when I said you’re a part of me, a part of how I define myself."
"Emma…" He stopped speaking when she pressed her fingertips to his lips to silence him.
"Don’t talk. Just listen to me, please. I’m not a child. I am an adult, and I know my own mind. I think it’s your turn to trust me."
"I do trust you, but…"
"Prove it," she challenged.
His jaw tightened. His sex surged, nudging at her hot slick cleft, seeking entry, seeking surcease, seeking heaven. Still, he didn’t move a muscle as he stared down at her. His restraint cost him, though, because he felt like he was being flayed with a sharp blade.
"Trust me to know what’s right for me, David."
All of the fight went out of him then. He surrendered to the certainty and persuasiveness of the naked beauty sprawled beneath him on the bed. Never mind that a war raged just beyond the walled garden of the house in which they’d found shelter, and never mind that they’d both be executed if they were found by the secret police of this godforsaken country. For now, it was just about the two of them. Reality be damned.
He stopped resisting, and he stopped thinking. Instead, he filled his hands with her breasts and brushed his thumbs back and forth across already peaked nipples. Even as shudders rocked her body, his desire for her roared up inside of him like a hurricane, desire so profound that it shocked him.
He lowered his head and took a beaded nipple into his mouth, tonguing and teething while Emma moaned low in her throat and arched into him. He moved to her other nipple, tormenting and teasing as if he had all of the time in world to devote to her pleasure. She cried out, arousal heating her skin and making her long graceful limbs tremble. All the while, he held her as though she were the most vital thing in his world.
