She looked at Sean. his face hard in the green light of the dashboard, his hands easy on the wheel. A spark of excitement flared beneath her ribs. She bit her lip.
"We're trespassing. What if we get caught?"
"You don't fell trees in the dark, beautiful. The guys clear out of here by four, four-thirty. I know, I drink with most of them."
The spark kindled, warming her with possibilities. "So, we're just going to … park?"
The truck jounced onto a rutted track. Sean raised one eyebrow. "You think I drove out here so we could have sex with your heels on the dashboard and the gearshift in the way?"
She was abashed. "Probably not."
"There's something I want to show you."
The trees ended abruptly. The sky arched overhead. Rachel stared out the windshield at a clearing pocked with great muddy holes and littered with roots and picketed with uneven stumps. A few bare trees stood like pilings. Heavy equipment humped in the shadows, dinosaur-sized and shaped, its bright yellow faded to gray by night. It looked like a bomb site or a scene from an alien planet or a landscape ravaged by flood.
"You drove out here to show me this?"
He eased the truck forward onto the barren clearing. "Yeah."
"It's empty."
Wasted. Desolate. She was disappointed, worse than disappointed, her little flicker of sexual excitement snuffed right out by his obvious disinterest. She felt as dreary as the grim terrain around them.
"That's because you're not looking at it the right way yet," Sean said. He parked the truck and walked around to her side, opening the door. "Come on."
She hesitated.
He held out his hand for her, impatience edging his voice. "Come on."
Disdaining his help, she jumped from the truck and then almost wobbled into him as she landed on uneven footing. He steadied her with hands under both elbows. It was the perfect opportunity for a man with sex on his mind to hold her close and gaze into her eyes and murmur something suggestive about knocking her off her feet.
Sean released her arms and walked around to the back of the truck.
So, all right, he didn't have sex on his mind. He'd made that plain. Rachel sighed and followed him.
The tailgate creaked down. Sean reached for the folded moving pad he used to protect his furniture and shook it out and spread it, providing her with a nice view of his muscled forearms and well-defined back, and then vaulted into the back of the truck. Crouching, he extended his hand to her. This time she took it.
She scrambled up.
"Lie down," he commanded.
She ignored the spurt of her pulse. He wasn't thinking about sex. Was he? "Why?"
His smile gleamed again. "Trust me."
She yearned for him with an ache so sharp she almost gasped. She coughed instead. "Do you know how many high school girls have regretted falling for that line?"
"I never kept count," he said, deadpan, and chuckled at her frosty look. "Pretty Rachel. Please?"
She grumbled. "All right." She flopped gracelessly onto her back. The stars wheeled overhead. "Now what?"
"Close your eyes."
She was afraid to accuse him of setting her up because she was so depressingly certain he wasn't. She shut her eyes.
His voice reached out in the darkness. "What do you smell?"
She started. "I… Woods?"
His warm hand took hers. He squeezed encouragingly. "Pine tar," he said. "Juniper. Oak. Cedar in the underbrush."
She couldn't distinguish the varieties the way he did, but his deep voice enveloped her as easily as his fingers wrapped her hand. She wanted to protest: you didn't spread a blanket in the woods with a gorgeous hunk of twenty-something to talk about trees. But he didn't want to do anything else. And so she let his words wash over her, sink into her, while the metal ridges struck through the pad beneath her and the warm air brushed her knees. Sensitized to the night's undertones, she lay very still and absorbed them, the sharp scent of pine, the earthy smell of decomposing leaves.
"It smells like fall to me."
"That's tannin from the cut oak."
"It smells … sad. All those dead trees."
"Sad? No. It's giving new life to the wood in tables and chairs. Houses. Cradles. The trick is doing it right. keeping the soul in the work. We live with too much plastic."
"You're an artist," she observed softly.
"Me?" He sounded embarrassed. "Nah. I'm just some Joe Blow carpenter."
But this time he was wrong. He was so much more. The clues to his nature were in his work, in the way he brought purpose and hope where she saw devastation. Flat on her back in the bed of his truck, she marveled at the big, scarred hand pressing hers, the power of bone and sinew, the pulse of life, the connection forged between them.
She had needed this. Needed the scent of the earth and the kiss of the air to put her fears and problems in perspective. Needed the strength and laughter of the man beside her to restock her depleted heart.
"Now open your eyes," he whispered.
She did, and saw the stars, brilliant in the gray velvet sky. The reflected glow of the city hovered above the tree line.
What are you offering? she had asked him. Here was her answer. Peace. Friendship. Stars and shared confidences. All good things. But not enough. Not for her. Not anymore. She was tired of being the nice girl, of waiting for him to seduce her, of waiting for things to be offered instead of taking what she wanted.
She was thirty-four years old and stargazing wasn't enough.
Well, hell. Sean stared up at the cold and brilliant sky and tried real hard not to think about the warm and breathing woman lying next to him.
He was going to be noble if it killed him. Which, he figured, it probably would. He was already dying and she didn't have a clue, stretched out beside him with her runner's knees in the air, the hem of her shorts sliding down to expose her strong, smooth thighs, and her well-shaped hand trusting in his.
She was fine and real and vulnerable, and she had enough on her mind right now without worrying about him jumping her bones.
Too bad he couldn't think of anything else.
He drew in a careful breath. A better man wouldn't notice how the scent of her reached through the darkness. Patrick would think about honor and Con would do tax tables or something in his head. Sean could only curse himself for a fool and ache.
He heard her sigh and felt her shift and tried not to imagine how it would feel to have her sighing and shifting under him. She let go of his hand and turned onto her side, toward him. If he looked—and of course he looked, he was only human—he could see the dark strands of her ponytail snaking across the sweet inside curve of her arm, black on white, like a written invitation. Her smooth, bare knees nudged his thigh.
That was it. He was going to hell.
He was there already, burning up with lust when she needed his patience and protection. Desperately, he tried to think himself out of his body, focusing on the cold and distant sky.
And then she lifted up on her elbow, and her face replaced the stars, and she kissed him fully, warmly, on the mouth.
Desire slammed into him. Her mouth was slick. Her lush breasts flattened on his arm. He imagined them filling his hands, peaking against his palms, and he curled off the truck bed, his arms going around her, one hand already fisting in her hair.
She came right back at him, genuine and generous. Hungry. Hot. His hands moved on her blindly, pulling her top free of the waistband of her shorts, following the curve of her rib cage, seeking the warm damp skin beneath.
She shuddered, murmured, moved. His libido grew teeth like an industrial saw, sharp enough to chew through masonry, to make sawdust of his good intentions.
He shook his head, trying to think through the buzz. "Rachel."
Her warm mouth fastened on his neck. He hoped she would forgive him for what he was about to do, because he was pretty sure he would never forgive himself.
"Rachel … stop."
&
nbsp; She lifted her head. Her lips were full and wet and curved. "The gearshift's in the way?"
Despite his frustration, he laughed. "No, that's me."
"It feels wonderful. You feel wonderful."
"Sweet Heaven, Rachel." As prayers go, it was inadequate but sincere. He definitely needed the help of the angels here. "We can't do this."
She pulled back with an honest look that cut straight to his heart. "You don't want to?" she asked quietly.
Hey, the angels wouldn't want him to lie, would they? "No, I want to. I don't think we should."
She bit her lip. "Don't tell me you haven't done this before."
"More often than you," he muttered. "I don't want you to get hurt."
Her eyes were warm with relief and understanding and something else he couldn't read in the darkness. "That's very virtuous of you."
"No." He was embarrassed. Insulted. "It's just… You're just in a tight place right now. I don't want to take advantage."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you. How would it be if you just lie there and I take advantage of you?"
The air left his lungs in a rush. Images of Rachel using him for her pleasure, for his, ignited in his brain. And before he could twist his thoughts or his tongue into objections, she poured over him like fire, and the reality of her burned through his imaginings.
She covered him, her long, smooth legs tangling with his, her strong, supple back arching under his hands, her breasts rubbing his chest. She was liquid heat, her fingers dragging at him, stroking, stoking. Heat blurred his brain as her mouth fastened on his.
He wanted to show her tenderness. Technique. Finesse. She didn't wait. Her mouth was avid. Her hands went to the button on his jeans. His body lurched in unbelieving pleasure.
Capturing her hands, he yanked them to either side of his hips, fighting for control. She tugged at his jeans, wriggling above him, and something inside him snapped.
He rolled with her, forcing her under him, holding her still with the weight of his body. Her thighs parted to cradle him, and he could feel the lush, moist heat of her straining against him. His muscles contracted. He wanted her with a desperation that bordered on pain, wanted to take and take.
He was used to looking out for his own pleasure, for his partner's. Always before he could slow things down or speed things up to make it happen. And now all he could focus on was stripping her of her clothes and pushing into her tight, hot body and pumping to completion. His lack of control—his lack of choice—scared him.
He thrust against her crudely, making her feel the pulsing demand of his body.
"What do you want, Rachel? This?"
She met his gaze, her eyes honest and unafraid in the dim moonlight. Her mouth was swollen. "You. I want you."
Her words burst his control. He went crazy. He pulled at her shorts, shoved at his jeans. Even in his madness, he was aware that she helped him, or tried to help him, their hands sliding and colliding in the tangle of their clothes, the press of their bodies.
He growled. "Let me."
She arched. "Hurry."
His hands were shaking so bad he could barely lift his wallet, but he managed to find and use the condom. He didn't know if it was habit or concern for her, but he managed that much.
She moved restlessly. Reached for him. Her short schoolteacher's nails dug into his skin. He held her down, pushed her open. He started giving it to her, fast and hard, and these soft, beautiful, animal sounds tore from her throat as her strong arms gripped him and her smooth thighs wrapped him and her inner muscles kneaded him. Willing. Eager. His.
He levered himself on his elbows and yanked up on her top, on her bra, so that her breasts surged free, pale in the moonlight. Her nipples were dark and tight. He sucked on them hard and felt her peak, felt her shudder and come apart in his arms. She was crying out, and he felt an answering shout swell inside him, in his chest and in his soul. It filled him until it was too much to contain. Too much to control. Too much. Like a wave it took him, and every time he thought to ride it in, another, bigger wave rushed in and knocked him down. He was drowning in her, drowning in her moans and the wet, hot clasp of her body and her scent, until the final, biggest wave tore through him, and he emptied himself into her with a jerk and a roar.
From a tall branch high above them, a night bird cried and launched into the night.
* * *
Chapter 11
«^»
Crushed between the cold, flat moving pad at her back and the hot, hard weight of Sean along her chest and belly and thighs, Rachel had never felt more free. Her blood still surged. Her pulse still rioted. Her body shivered with lovely, charged aftershocks.
She moistened her lips and found her voice with effort. "That was…"
The body above hers stiffened. "Too rough?"
"I was going to say, incredible."
He relaxed on her, all that wonderful heat and weight pressing, pinning her down. "Yeah, that about sums it up. Are you always…"
"A screamer?" she asked dryly. "No."
His laughter was a breath on the side of her face, a rumble low against her stomach. It felt fantastic. And then his muscles collected and he started to lever away. "We did get pretty wild."
She missed the pressure of skin on skin, resented even the slightest loss of contact. She wanted him on her. In her. But she let him shift to the side, feeling the drag of his jeans as he rolled. He hadn't even undressed. Amazing.
"I suppose it could have been the primeval setting," she said uncertainly. Did he want distance? Her legs were cold.
But he gathered her against his shoulder, fitting her snugly into his warm side. "Honey, this isn't Jungle Land. I don't think it was the setting, unless the truck did it for you. High CDI factor in trucks."
She sighed with contentment. "CDI factor?"
"Chicks Dig It." He laughed when she bit his shoulder, and stroked a hand down her back. "Are you okay?" His voice was deeper. Softer.
She wriggled against him. "Oh, yes."
He exhaled, still holding her close. "Good."
They lay there quietly. The night hummed around them. The stars pulsed overhead.
Sean spoke. "Might have been an adrenaline thing."
A tendril of doubt uncurled in Rachel's chest. Did he mean that this incredible explosion between them, this lightness of being, this newfound freedom, wasn't him? Wasn't her? Don't take it too seriously.
"You mean, like stress release?" she asked cautiously.
His shoulder moved beneath her cheek as he shrugged. "It's one explanation. We could try it again now that you're relaxed. I'm willing."
"That's very generous of you."
"Well, in the interests of science…
"Or it could have been that I haven't had sex in over a year," Rachel said sharply. Too sharply, she thought the instant the words left her mouth.
The hand stroking her back stilled. He tangled his fingers in her hair and raised her head so he could study her face in the moonlight. His gaze was direct and hard.
"Maybe the long dry spell explains it for you, beautiful. But that doesn't account for my little out-of-body experience, all right?"
She was reassured. "It was … okay?"
"You blew my mind," he said honestly. "You wrecked my control. You want a testimonial?"
She kissed his shoulder. "Not a testimonial, no. Maybe a repeat performance?"
His breath whooshed out. In amusement? The hand in her hair shifted its grip. "I'm willing," he said again, and brought her mouth down to his.
His breath was hot. He licked inside her mouth, and she felt herself softening, melting down. The overwhelming suddenness of her response staggered her. Frightened her. She wanted abandon, and she was in thrall to him, to the need be created in her quickening heart and womb.
She made a grab for the old Rachel, the Rachel who never lost herself in the back of a truck with a beautiful man. "I don't know. Do we have time?"
He laughed, actually laughed at
her. "I'll be quick," he promised.
And he was willing. How willing, she could feel against her thigh. He was rigid and silky hot, and her thighs went lax even as she tightened deep inside. His hands were hard. He felt so good, so solid and warm, and she wanted him. He sprawled her limbs and made her climb on top this time, so he could watch. His eyes were glittering slits.
She shivered. He pulled her top over her head, leaving her briefly blind and confused, and then his hands were all over her, on her breasts, between her legs. Desire bowed her back as he filled his palms with her and held her hips and moved her up and down, urging her on. It was shameless. It was exciting. And she took him, all of him, everything he had to offer, the freedom and the power and the hot, lovely slide of his body.
She came fast, shuddering as he filled her. He didn't let her go. He held her, thrusting up, again, again, before his release racked them both and he gripped her tight with his big, hard hands and gasped into her hair. He let her collapse then, pulling her onto his broad, damp chest. She was still quaking inside.
And as the stars wheeled and the night settled around them, she knew it wasn't the setting or the adrenaline or even her long celibacy that explained her response.
It was Sean.
He was all her best and baddest dreams come true, all the things she'd never allowed herself to have and to be. She touched his chest, indulging in the feel of warm muscle and rough hair under her fingertips. But she was attracted to more than his to-die-for body and color-outside-the-lines attitude. He was decent and hardworking and kind. She nuzzled her face against his damp shoulder. Just look at the way he'd dragged her out here to comfort her.
Was that why he'd made love to her, too? Let her make love to him? Out of kindness?
Her blood cooled. She squirmed.
Be a grown-up, she instructed herself. If that was Sean's strategy, it had worked, damn it. She was grateful, more than grateful, for his comfort and his laughter. For the temporary freedom and the temporary sex. And she wasn't about to repay him for his gifts by reading any more into the situation or clinging to him now.
THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL Page 13
