Desperado

by Sandra Hill

  “A kiss. That’s all. One kiss,” she insisted, forcing a cool tone to her voice, praying for control.

  “One kiss,” he agreed with an enigmatic chuckle. “For now.”

  His lips were so near. She closed her eyes.

  “Why did you moan?” His warm breath fanned her lips.

  She hadn’t realized she’d moaned. She would have to be more careful. “Because I want this to be over as quickly as possible. Just do it so I can go to sleep,” she snapped, scrunching her closed eyelids even tighter. I’ll never sleep tonight. Never.

  “Liar,” he hissed, placing two fingers on the wildly beating pulse in her neck. “And don’t give me any of this I-am-a-martyr-and-you-are-the-satyr bit. This is going to be a mutual kiss, a willing give-and-take. We’re talking long, hot, slow, wet—”

  Her eyes flew open. “I never agreed—”

  But it was too late. His lips were already covering hers. Soft. Brushing back and forth till she opened for him. Slanting. Seeking the right fit.

  She didn’t know who moaned then, him or her. It didn’t matter. She wanted his kiss. She wanted his kiss desperately.

  He put both hands on either side of her face, and his firm lips took possession of her mouth.

  Willingly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. With one hand behind his nape, she pulled him closer. His lower body sought out the cradle of her hips, and she knew, without a doubt, that he was as aroused as she was.

  With his tongue buried in her mouth, he inserted a determined thigh between her legs, separating them. Expertly, he undulated his arousal against her arousal.

  She tried to keen out her spiraling pleasure, but his tongue, slipping in and out of her mouth, stopped her cries.

  All the time, he continued to kiss her, ravenously, never coming up for air, probably fearing that the minute they broke contact, the kiss would end. Their agreement would end.

  With a growl of frustration, Rafe put both hands on her buttocks and lifted her, pulling up the hem of her nightgown, adjusting her bare legs around his waist. She locked her ankles and tightened her thighs against his hips. Her shoulders rested against the wall.

  He cupped her bare bottom with his hands, then began to move against her in earnest—rhythmic thrusts against her parted center. She wanted him so much. She couldn’t seem to get enough.

  Through the fog of his bone-melting passion, Rafe became aware that Helen was kissing him back, with abandon. Licking his lips, nibbling, sucking, inserting her tongue into his mouth, grinding her lips against his.

  Tears were streaming down her face and incoherent pleas came out as whimpers into his own mouth.

  He turned and lowered her to the bed, following on top of her. His lips never left hers. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Please,” Helen pleaded against his lips, then broke contact, jerking her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she panted, writhing from side to side.

  “Hold on, babe, hold on,” he promised, running a hand up her leg to her inner thigh. At the first touch of her wetness, he almost came. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good.”

  She raised her hips up off the bed and parted her bent legs more. He could feel the muscles in her arms and legs grow rigid.

  “Relax, sweetheart. Just relax.”

  “Relax?” she choked out incredulously.

  He smiled. “Do you want me to touch you again?”

  “No!” Then, more weakly, “Yes.”

  His thumb strummed her slickness.

  She distended and pulsed.

  He could barely breathe.

  “O-o-oh, Rafe.”

  “I told you I would teach you how to say, ‘Oh, Rafe!’”

  “Shut up,” she ground out with a laugh.

  “I want to look at you.”

  “Not now,” she asserted, holding his hand in place with one of hers. The other hand reached down and caressed the length of his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

  He saw stars.

  With a guttural, animal sound of surrender, he placed himself against her, arousal against arousal. Bracing himself on straightened arms, he simulated the act of love—a hard rhythm, up and down.

  And she met his every thrust with an opposing thrust, a sweet, tantalizing counterpoint.

  “Oh, God, oh, Rafe, oh my, oh-h-h-h,” she screamed exultantly, arching high off the bed, knees bent and bracketing him, feet planted on the bed linens.

  He came against her in a searing gush of pleasure, so powerful his body shuddered for several long minutes afterward. Decreasing spasms continued to ripple through him. He’d never had such a satisfying orgasm, even when inside a woman.

  He let himself rest on her, heavily, for several moments, trying to get his heart pumping back to normal again. When he finally raised himself on his elbows, he saw that Helen was trembling, too, gazing up at him with awe.

  He shared the feeling.

  And this was just the beginning. What would it be like when they really made love? When he was imbedded inside her welcoming folds? When she climaxed around his erection?

  He stifled a groan.

  Grazing a thumb across her kiss-swollen lips, he said in a hoarse voice he barely recognized, “That was some kiss, babe.”

  She nodded. “This is probably par for you, but I never—”

  He pressed his fingertips against her lips to halt her next words. “No, it’s not par for me. Believe me, what just happened to us was different . . . special.”

  “Rafe, don’t say things you think I want to hear. It happened. That’s all. I don’t expect anything from you.”

  He gritted his teeth. For some reason, he wanted her to expect things from him. And he wanted her to admit it was special for her, too. “I want to look at you,” he said huskily, and began to tug on the hem of her gown.

  She covered his hand with hers, stopping the hem at mid-thigh. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” she replied nervously.

  “Don’t go shy on me now, honey.”

  He pushed the rest of her gown over her head and flicked it off the bed. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, surveying her body. “I was right. You do have Vargas breasts.”

  She tried to cross her arms over her chest and close her legs with belated modesty. Before she had a chance to curb her tongue, she blurted out, “What are Vargas breasts?”

  He pulled her arms apart and over her head, holding them by the wrists with one hand. With the other hand, he cupped one breast, testing its weight. “Champagne breasts. Round and full. Puffy aureoles. Pebbly, pink nipples,” he explained thickly. “Vargas was an artist who painted nude pinups like that for Esquire years ago.”

  “Pinups? Pinups?” she sputtered, her face burning with mortification as she squirmed to get free from his grip. But not too hard, he noted.

  “I love your freckles,” he added. “I love that they’re all over, even in your secret places.”

  She moaned.

  “And I love it when you moan for me.”

  She moaned again.

  He moved his hand lower, pausing over her flat stomach. “So smooth. Your skin is so smooth.”

  “Except for my scar.”

  “What scar?”

  “Just above my belly button. You can’t miss it. I had a port wine birthmark removed when I was ten years old.” She glanced down, and then jerking her hands out of his grasp, sat up. “My God, the scar is missing. That’s incredible.”

  He shrugged and reached for her again.

  She ignored his open arms and stood, moving closer to the lantern, examining her stomach for the missing scar, then studying her right knee. She was momentarily unaware of her nudity, which he was enjoying immensely. “My knee surgery scar is missing, too. I tore up the cartilage in a skydiving jump five years ago and decided to have the shredded cartilage removed by laser surgery.”

  “Hmmm. That’s odd,” Rafe said, but his smoldering eyes said he had something else on his mind. “I mean, it�
��s odd that we would retain our tattoos, but not other body scars.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her. “C’mere and let me check out your other bodily anomalies.”

  She laughed. “I’ll give you anamolies.” Then she thought of something. “Maybe it has something to do with scientific anachronisms.”

  “Say that again.”

  “You know, it was possible to have tattoos in the nineteenth century, but cosmetic operations didn’t come into vogue until World War I. And a swollen knee joint wouldn’t have been cause for surgery. So, we only carried back with us those medical marvels that were possible in this time.”

  She moved back toward the bed. “Don’t you have any scars, Rafe? Didn’t you ever have any surgery?”

  “Well, actually . . .” he said, folding his arms behind his head. He was really, really enjoying the play of light and shadow on Helen’s sexy buns and magnificent breasts. “The only surgery I’ve ever had, if you could call it that, was the vasecto—”

  The blood drained from his head as he bolted to his feet, rushing over to the lantern. Even before he looked, he knew what he would find. No vasectomy scar.

  “No!” he exclaimed, then turned to her hopefully. “Please tell me you have an IUD or birth-control implant.”

  She shook her head slowly, apparently not understanding his dilemma.

  Damn! He felt all his hopes for this night, in fact the remainder of this time-travel adventure, go up in smoke.

  “What?” she asked, looking pointedly away from his genitals.

  “My vasectomy scar is gone.”

  Helen stared at Rafe, trying to understand the horror in his voice.

  “And I only have three damn condoms in my wallet.”

  “Well, why is that such a big deal?”

  “Why is that such a big deal? Why is that such a big deal?” He mimicked, moving away from her, pressing his palms against the wall. “Because that means we can’t make love, that’s why. And believe me, babe, to me that is a very . . . big . . . deal.”

  “But if you have three condoms . . .” she said hesitantly. “I mean, three condoms is surely enough.”

  He cast her a frown of utter disbelief. “Babe, three times wouldn’t be nearly enough for me. Once I have you, I won’t be able to stop at three times.”

  “In one night?” Her mouth dropped open, and she hastily clamped it shut.

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, Prissy! You are so naive.” With a groan, he turned and pounded his forehead against the wall in frustration.

  “Oh, Rafe,” she said behind him.

  “Hush up, Helen. What I don’t need now is your sympathy. What I need is your hot sex.”

  A long silence followed his words.

  Eventually, he turned around and saw that she’d already donned the damn nightgown again.

  She peeked up at him, her face pink with embarrassment. In a low voice, she homed in irrelevantly on only one part of what he’d said. “My sex is not hot.”

  He started to laugh then. It was a good thing, too, because otherwise, he might have cried.

  Ah, the mysteries of sexual attraction! . . .

  Helen awakened at dawn, as she always did. Her internal alarm clock apparently still operated, even in time-travel mode. Lying on her side, facing the window, she saw a bright orange sun rising on the horizon, portending another blazing day.

  Rafe slept soundly behind her. Even with the rolled blanket that separated them, at his insistence, Helen was intensely aware of the man. His heat, his scent, his masculinity.

  She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her carefully controlled defenses last night, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the night’s events, either. How it felt to be kissed by Rafe’s lips. How she had opened herself for his touch. She tried to remember ever feeling that way with Elliott, or any other man. She couldn’t.

  Sliding herself quietly off the bed, Helen looked down at Rafe. He slept on his stomach, arms thrown over his head with total abandon, boxer-clad legs spread slightly, face to the side. The long, luxuriant lashes of his closed lids fanned his face. He breathed softly through parted lips.

  Helen’s heart grew and grew with a strong, new emotion. She was drawn to him, always had been. She couldn’t deny that. But why? Logically, there should be more things about him to repel her than attract. His maverick personality. His lack of patriotism. His greed. His crudity and constant teasing.

  Oh, he was handsome, no doubt about that, but she was surrounded by men every day, many of them much better looking.

  Intelligence? Hmmm. She’d always been drawn to a man with intelligence, and Rafe clearly fit that criterion. His reputation as a top-notch lawyer hadn’t come easy.

  Sexual chemistry? Yes, there was that. To the nth degree.

  But, no, it was something else—perhaps the vulnerability that she always sensed in him over his ethnic background. His extreme sensitivity probably resulted from a lifetime of hurts she couldn’t fathom. And the needful, yearning expression in his eyes when he watched her sometimes in an unguarded moment . . . Well, what woman wouldn’t be flattered?

  Helen shook her head in confusion, not sure she wanted to understand this thread that connected them. He was a dangerous man, dangerous to her well-planned military life, her well-planned future, her very well-being. Taboo. Off-limits. Not to be considered.

  Still, Helen had something she needed to do for Rafe this morning, before he awakened. Dressing quickly, she took a few gold coins from the sack, strapped a holster and gun around her hips, and slipped out the door, locking it behind her.

  Down on the empty street, she looked about, trying to locate Lily’s Fandango Parlor.

  And all it cost was her bra and panties . . .

  “Oooohm. Oooohm. Oooohm. Oooohm.”

  Rafe awakened reluctantly from the best sleep he’d had in days.

  Oh, no! Not again. He buried his head under a pillow, trying to wipe out the sound.

  “Oooohm . . . Oh, you’re awake . . . Oooohm . . . Good . . . Oooohm . . . Give me a minute. . . . Oooohm . . . I only have two more sets to go. . . . Oooohm . . . I brought you coffee and a cinnamon bun. . . . Oooohm.”

  His eyes shot open. Where did she get coffee? Unless she’d gone out. She wouldn’t! Would she?

  He sat up, holding the pillow in his hand.

  Helen sat all twisted into a pretzel at the bottom of the bed, facing the window, fully dressed in camouflage pants and green T-shirt, wearing his gun belt. A quick glance at the door showed the wooden brace was not in the same place he’d put it last night.

  Yep, Helen had gone out this morning while he’d slept. The realization hit him in the gut like a sickening sucker punch.

  “Oooohm. Oooohm. Oooohm. Oooohm.”

  Angrily, he pitched the pillow.

  “Oooohm. Oooohm. Ooooh—”

  The pillow hit her smack in her chanting mouth. Good!

  “Why did you do that? I wasn’t done,” she protested.

  “Oh, you’re done all right.” He stood abruptly.

  She dodged out of his path and headed for the washstand, which was all of two feet away. Ignoring his grumbling, Helen took a handful of water from the china bowl and began to gargle, spitting into a brass bowl on the floor.

  Gargle, spit. Gargle, spit. Gargle, spit. “Glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . .”

  He felt like fingernails were scraping across his eyeballs.

  “Do you think we could buy a toothbrush and toothpowder today?” she asked blithely. “Glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . . glug . . .”

  Rafe crossed his eyes. His frayed nerves would surely break with one more “glug.”

  “Glug . . . glug . . . gl—”

  He grabbed her by the forearms and shook her, which was a big mistake. Her unconfined breasts moved under the T-shirt, drawing his eyes like an X-rated magnet.

  He dropped his hands and turned away, fighting for composure. When he felt sure he could speak above
a croak, he demanded, “Where did you go this morning?”

  “Lily’s Fandango Parlor.”

  That was the last thing he’d expected. He jerked about and stared at her in astonishment. She was peering into a small, wavy mirror over the washstand, cleaning her teeth with a twig, oblivious to his outrage.

  “What did you say?”

  She put the twig down and faced him, a secretive, pleased look on her face. She’d pulled her hair back off her face into a ponytail, tied at the nape with a piece of lace from her gown. She would have looked like a little girl if it weren’t for her lush, kiss-swollen lips.

  He gulped.

  “I went to Lily’s. And you were right, it is a brothel.”

  Oh, brother!

  “Did you know that those women get fifty dollars for something called ‘Hair of the Dog’?”

  He put both hands on his hips and grinned, despite his being upset.

  Her eyes followed his hands to his hips, then dropped lower. Her head flew up like a rocket and her face turned beet red.

  He was very pleased. So was a certain part of his body.

  She made a slight coughing sound, then continued. “You should have seen the outfit one of the girls was wearing—pure Victoria’s Secret. Anyhow, it was really hard to find Lily’s because it didn’t have a sign outside, and I had to go to Big John’s and wake him up to give me directions. He’s the one who gave me the coffee and cinnamon bun. So, you should be really grateful for all the trouble I went to.”

  “Grateful? Grateful? Do you have any idea how dangerous it was to leave this room? And why the hell did you go to Lily’s?”

  Smiling, she reached into her back pocket, which only accentuated the outline of what had to be the most perfect breasts in all creation. He was afraid he might lose it right there on the spot.