by Sandra Hill
“Undip me. Right now,” she demanded.
He grinned and yanked her upright without missing a beat of the dance rhythm. Once they straightened and were back in the traditional slow-dance posture again, she protested, “Rafe, let’s just get out of here. It’s obvious that I’m no good at dancing.”
“I don’t hear anyone complaining.”
In fact, the prospectors were stamping their feet and clapping, enjoying the spectacle immensely. And the Mexican musician kept repeating that stupid “Arriba!” yell. Helen felt like she’d fallen into a bad movie script.
“Besides, we can’t leave yet,” Rafe told her hurriedly, in between two more deep dips. “I met Henry and his cousin outside. They agreed to get our stuff from the hotel and bring the horses. They’ll signal with two whistles out back when they’re ready.”
“Oh, Lord!”
Still in the normal slow-dance position, Rafe boldly placed both palms on Helen’s buttocks and was guiding her backward and forward against him, teaching her the “dirtier” movements of the dance.
Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Get your hands off my bottom, you jackass.”
“I told you it was dirty.” His mouth lifted with humor. “C’mon, Helen, loosen up. Close your eyes. Pretend it’s just you and me. Put your body into it.”
Before she had a chance to react, he flung her away from him, holding onto one hand, then twirled her under his arm for six rotations, all in cadence to the music. John Travolta couldn’t have done it better. She emerged dizzily from her spin to find herself clasped in such a tight embrace she’d probably have groove marks on her stomach from the zipper of his fly.
Belly to belly, he rotated their hips, as one, in an erotic circle. Even their breathing came in unison now. It really was like making love.
And Helen began to forget the cheering miners, and the coins and gold nuggets being thrown to the stage, even the nineteenth-century setting. There was only Rafe and her and the music. And the forbidden dance.
A savage sexual energy flared between them as they learned the rhythm of each other’s bodies. He no longer had to show her the moves. She initiated her own. When he held her close, she felt the thud of his heartbeat against hers. When his hungry, pale blue eyes held hers, she couldn’t look away. She saw the pulse leap at the base of his neck, and she thrilled that she could affect him so.
“Helen.”
Just that soft-spoken word caused a tingling ripple through her oversensitized body.
He inserted a foot between her gown-covered legs and flashed her a challenge.
Brazenly, she took up his silent dare and rode against his thigh in the undulating Latin tempo.
His gasp of pleasure was her reward.
Finally, he turned her, spoon fashion, with his chest to her back. With his left arm wrapped around her waist and his right hand holding her right hand upward, he rolled their hips together in a sweet, scandalous circle, imitating the sex act.
Her knees almost gave out.
He made a low, gurgling sound of male desperation and nipped her shoulder playfully, propelling her in a dancing walk toward the back of the tent. Kissing the side of her neck, he then shoved her rudely to the floor.
“Wh-what?”
“Now!” he clipped out, and she realized, through her sensual haze, that Henry was whistling on the other side of the tent.
Jolted back to reality and the danger at hand, she lifted the canvas and was about to crawl under when she heard an uproar behind her. Rafe had both pistols leveled at the crowd, which was about to rush up onto the stage.
“Go!” he shouted. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She bit her bottom lip indecisively, but obeyed. Henry hurried her to the horses being held by his cousin and helped her mount, murmuring several words of caution. For several long seconds that seemed like years, they waited. Then there was a gunshot, which caused all three of them to jump with alarm.
Almost immediately, Rafe emerged, unscathed. “I shot in the air,” he explained quickly as he vaulted onto his horse. He nodded to Henry’s cousin, then reached down to shake Henry’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough, mi amigo,” he said thickly.
“Me, too,” Helen said tearfully. She blew Henry a kiss as she and Rafe turned their horses and galloped off, out of town in a northerly direction. She glanced back and saw that the angry miners were already swarming from the back and around the sides of the tent. Henry and his cousin melted into the shadows.
When they emerged on the outskirts of town, Rafe slowed his horse for a moment and rode next to her horse. Panting slightly, he gazed at her, a fiery expression on his face. There was anger in his glittering eyes and tight jaw—probably because she’d come to the saloon against his orders—but there was something else, too.
Without warning, he reached over and wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. Then he kissed her hard, bruising her lips and sending a shiver of fierce longing through her body, which still hummed from their forbidden dance. The kiss lasted only a moment, but the message was clear.
Tonight.
She had to be sure. “What?” she whispered, touching her fingertips to her lips.
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tonight is payback time, mi cara.”
Nudging his horse with his thighs, he moved forward again. She did likewise.
“I thought you were going to wait until our last night,” she argued weakly.
“I changed my mind.” He smiled mischievously. “But we have to find a safe place to stop first. I don’t think those drunk miners will follow us, but we can’t take a chance.”
She nodded, equally concerned about the danger. “Rafe, the reason I came to the saloon was because some men were talking in the hall of the hotel, outside our room. They’d heard rumors that the Angel Bandit was in town. They planned to search for him—you—to get the reward. I thought there was danger.”
He listened closely. “Then there was all the more reason for us to leave Marysville. Besides, I learned tonight that Pablo joined up with Sancho. They’ve moved farther north.”
She sighed. “Do you think our troubles will ever end?”
He slanted her a devilish look. “Honey, one of those troubles is going to end tonight.”
“We’ll talk about this when we stop.”
“No, we won’t, Helen. The time for talking, and teasing, and constant hard-ons is over.”
“Constant har . . . Oh, you’re always trying to shock me.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No, I’m not. I’m preparing you. And while you’re preparing, think about this. I’m picturing your widespread legs on that horse. With each rhythmic roll of the horse’s gait, you can feel the saddle pressing against your soft hairs . . . and open folds . . . and swelling—”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” she gasped out.
“And I want you to imagine that it’s me under you.”
She tried to shut out his enticing words, to no avail.
“Are you wet already, Helen? Don’t lie to me. I know you were just as aroused as I was by our dance. Do you still feel the . . . throb?”
“Why are you talking like this?” she cried out. “I deal with men every day. Do you think vulgar language is something new to me? I don’t expect it from you, though.”
“Vulgar? My talking about our making love is vulgar? Helen, if I were saying these things to some stranger, it would be insulting. Harassment, even. But this is you and me. A man and a woman. If it’s not to your taste, fine, but don’t paint it as perverted, or intimidating. Can you honestly say that my words don’t excite you at all?”
She groaned. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”
“This is foreplay, sweetheart. The most delicious torture there is. By the time we stop an hour or so from now, I want you so turned on and hot, you’ll blister my skin at fifty paces.”
I could probably do that right now.
He clucked to his horse and moved into a slow
gallop. Her horse soon caught up. They rode for about a half hour without talking before he slowed.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Fine. I’m not that tired, and my horse can probably go another—”
“Helen, Helen, Helen. That’s not what I meant.” He reached over and ran a palm fleetingly over her thigh.
A shot of electricity ran from her toes to her groin to her brain. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her telling moan.
He laughed. “Babe, we are going to be so good together.”
“I don’t like it when you talk like this.”
“Why?” he asked, cocking his head with surprise.
She lifted her chin and turned her face away from him, afraid she would reveal too much, even in the dark.
“Prissy, is your loose gown rubbing against your breasts?”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she refused to answer.
“Are your nipples hard? Do you want to be suckled? Do you like it hard or soft? Wet or dry? Whatever you wish, I’ll do. Everything. No holds barred.”
Her breath stopped. Every nerve ending in her body was listening to his insolent, erotic words, and increasing in sensitivity.
“I knew a woman once who could come just by having a man play with her breasts. Do you think you could do that?”
She tried to shut out his words.
“Helen,” he murmured in a cracked voice, betraying his out-of-control state, too. “Do you know what I’d really like?”
“No, don’t tell me.”
He grinned at her vehemence. “I’d like you to drop your reins for a moment and look at me. Then, while you’re holding eye contact, I’d like you to lift your own breasts. And touch the tips. Just for a second. That’s all.”
Helen was shocked. This time, she really was.
The most shocking thing of all was that she was tempted.
Helen kicked her horse into a gallop before she actually embarrassed herself, and Rafe, by complying.
One time he caught up with her and asked, “I don’t suppose you’d consider riding naked?”
“Get real!” she snapped.
After another hour, they veered off the road and up a steep mountain. Thunder had been rumbling in the distance for some time, and they needed to set up camp before the storm broke. Finally, they came to a wide overhanging outcrop of rock.
“This is the kind of place that often has some caves,” Rafe conjectured aloud. “Stay here while I explore.” He returned shortly and motioned for her to follow. “It’s perfect. Just enough room for us and the horses.”
While Rafe went out to gather firewood, Helen began rubbing down the horses at the back of the small, low-ceilinged cave. With the dampness of the “room” and the breeze from the coming storm, a definite chill hung on the air. Or is it my fear of what’s to come? In any case, a large fire would be welcome.
She started the kindling in a space close to the cave opening so the smoke could escape. Meanwhile, Rafe went in and out five more times, carrying armloads of broken limbs, which he stacked to the side. By the last trip, he was soaking wet from the pounding rain.
“Helen, see if you can find soap in one of the saddlebags.”
She looked up from the fire she was feeding with pieces of kindling. On an indrawn breath, she asked, “What are you doing?”
Rafe already had his boots and socks off, along with his soaking shirt. Water ran down his face and chest from his hair. He was about to unzip his pants.
He chuckled, apparently understanding her alarm. “I’m going to wash in the rain.”
“Oh.” She found the soap and handed it to him. Oh, Lord, he was already down to his black boxers. The light from the fire highlighted his sleek body, wide shoulders, hard abs, flat stomach and narrow hips, beautifully long legs, and narrow feet.
“Want to join me?” he asked huskily, intensely aware of her scrutiny. And not at all self-conscious of his near-nudity.
Shaking her head, she kept her eyes averted, disconcerted by her reaction to him. I’m thirty-four years old and getting flustered by a man. I’m an Army major, for heaven’s sake, surrounded by men. Why should this one affect me so?
She heard him step out of his shorts and pad toward the cave entrance. Just before he went out, he said, “I’ll be right back.” A heavy pause ensued during which she refused to look up, and he added, “Have the blankets ready for us, Helen. I need you . . . real bad.”
She did look up then, but all she saw was the back of his nude body moving out into the driving rain.
Rafe was gone for a long while, and every few moments, as she built the fire higher and higher, Helen glanced over to the blankets piled in the corner. She knew that Rafe was giving her time, that if she actually made a bed for them, it would be her answer. He was throwing the choice in her lap as to whether they made love or not.
Should I? The mere question flicked a switch in her already overly aroused body. She wanted to. Yes, she definitely wanted to.
What about Elliott? Helen immediately discarded her engagement as a deterrent. No matter what happened—or didn’t happen—with Rafe, Helen was not going to marry Elliott. She knew now that she didn’t love him, even though he was a good man. She couldn’t stop dreaming of marriage and a stable home and children, but they would mean nothing in a loveless marriage.
Control? I have no control over Rafe, or over myself when he gets too close. Helen didn’t like feeling so helpless. She’d built a life for herself based on logic over emotion. If she allowed herself to unravel this one time—this one night—would she be able to put herself back in order again? Probably not. Still . . . What would it be like to really lose control with a man? With Rafe? She closed her eyes for a second at the overwhelming tide of want that flooded her at that alluring possibility.
I don’t even like him. Well, that wasn’t quite true. The more she got to know Rafe, the more she realized she didn’t know.
Love. That was the big element here, Helen concluded. What if she fell in love with Rafe? What if she already loved him? Now, that was a dangerous prospect. They had no future. They were too different—their ideals, their backgrounds, their dreams.
He doesn’t want children.
A one-night fling, that’s all it would be. Would that be enough? Of course not. But what was the alternative? Not knowing. Never experiencing. Taking no risks.
With a tinkling laugh of surrender, Helen rose and shook out the blankets, laying them near the fire. Later, she would move the saddles closer for pillows.
Pensively, she began to undo the buttons down the front of her gown, from neck to stomach.
“Helen.” Her name came off Rafe’s tongue in a rasp, like a dark, smoky plea.
She glanced up and saw him leaning against the cave entrance, watching her with a feral expression on his face.
“Don’t stop.” He folded his arms across his chest, waiting. His rampart erection gave visual evidence of his desire for her. His skin was dark everywhere, a reminder of his Hispanic heritage. Without the modern trappings of his clothing, he looked just like the wild, desperate bandit he was accused of being. A desperado.
Rafe’s heart was beating like a jackhammer. Hot breath burned his lungs. This was the moment he’d been awaiting for so long. His dream. “Don’t stop,” he repeated in a voice much harsher than he’d intended.
Helen stood frozen, like a frightened deer, her brown eyes wide. Did she view him as the hunter? A threat?
Calm down, calm down, he told himself, taking deep breaths. Put on the brakes. You’ll scare her with your raging hunger.
“Will you strip for me, Helen?” he asked gently. “Real slow.”
She nodded hesitantly and undid another button. Eight more to go.
“Make it last, baby. Make me want you so bad.”
Another button. This one at chest level. The fabric of her green gown parted, giving a glimpse of creamy white skin and a scattering of freckles.
He felt as if he w
ould explode if he didn’t touch her soon. Instead, he clenched his fists. “How do you feel?”
“Wanton.” Another button.
Wanton?
The inside curve of her breasts was exposed. A shudder ran through him.
She waited.
“Feel your skin. Is it hot?”
Refusing to break eye contact with him, she popped another button, then pressed the fingertips of both hands against her bare abdomen. “Scorching.”
He gave out a short laugh of delight. Helen was losing her shyness. Good.
She undid two more buttons hastily and peered up at him questioningly.
“Do you know what I want, Helen?”
She smiled ruefully. “Oh, yes.”
He smiled back. “Not just that, babe. No, I want more . . . much more.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Honey, I want to do things to you that no man has ever done. I want to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.”
“I already feel things I’ve never felt before,” she confessed. “I’m not a virgin, Rafe, but I feel like . . .” She fought for words. “I feel like . . . well . . . this is the first time.”
Strangely, he did, too.
She shrugged out of her gown, letting it drop to her hips.
His body went still, and his mind went blank.
Her hands dropped to her sides. Although her face flamed, she held his eyes in challenge, daring him to find her flaws.
There were none.
She was a goddess with her fiery hair. Her skin was creamy smooth—not porcelain, or even deep tan, like so many women he’d known, but the peach-tinted hue of a pure redhead. Her slender neck led down to the most magnificent breasts he’d ever seen. Vargas breasts. Perfect globes of ivory capped with puffy aureoles and pebble tips of a raspberry tint. Champagne breasts, as he’d told her one time.
And that wasn’t all. She had a narrow waist that flared out to curvy hips. Her flat stomach framed an indented navel that he longed to explore with his tongue. Her gown hid the rest, but he could wait. This was enough for now. Almost too much.
He started toward her. He couldn’t wait.
She held up a halting hand. “Do you remember . . . do you remember what you asked me to do earlier?”
