“Jesus, lady.” He managed to squeeze the words out through his throat, got his eyes to focus on her instead of the ceiling.
“What?”
“We just met!”
“I’ve known you since third grade, Kurt Anderson.”
She didn’t look like she was lying. And she didn’t have the vibe of someone negotiating the terms of a pity fuck. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do if they did get naked, much less busy. It had been so fucking long.
Her mouth, though. His eyes snagged on that pouty lip—just inches away, right here in his tent. Unless this whole thing was a hallucination. And, Jesus, if it was, let it never, ever end.
“How about a kiss?” His attention was so focused on her mouth, he forgot to take in her eyes when he let those words slide out. As if he said shit like that every day.
Her eyes were wide, by the time his gaze made its way up there—as if she was taking it all in with as much excitement as he was, and she didn’t want to miss a thing.
“That’s what you want?” she asked. “A kiss?”
“Yeah.” He was breathing hard already, like a teenager, which seemed pretty damned suited to the situation.
“Come here, then, and kiss me.”
4
There was no such thing as shame when it came to sex and bodies and anything else animal about O’Neal. It was likely because of the way Mom had walked around unabashedly naked, or told her all about the birds and the bees without once alluding to either birds or bees, focusing instead on the in and out of it, along with the potential repercussions.
Sex was a bodily function. O’Neal did it, enjoyed it, and moved on to other things if she and her partner didn’t feel like doing it again.
Which was why this mystical thing wasn’t comfortable at all. Mystical wasn’t the right word, maybe, but deep. Emotional, at the very least, which usually made O’Neal want to squinch up her face and say, “Ew.”
However she’d define it, when Kurt leaned over and put one exploratory cheek against hers, it touched more than her skin. It hit part of her she wasn’t ready to shed light on, tweaked a funny bone in her soul.
“Stop,” she said, before their mouths connected. To his credit, the man didn’t hesitate at all. He was out of her space before the p quit resonating.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” She grimaced, waiting for the thrumming in her chest to subside.
“We don’t have to do anything. You know that.” He made as if to slide out of his bag, the words rushed, his voice a little too loud. “You take the tent. I’ll go outside, give you some space.”
It would be easy to lie and feed him some BS about a headache, but that wasn’t her way. “Wait.” She set a hand on his arm. “I’m not used to this.”
“Kissing strangers in tents? Or not kissing them, I guess.”
“No. No, that’s not it.”
“So you are used to kissing strangers in tents?” There was a smile in his voice.
A nervous giggle escaped her and she sat up, her head almost brushing the ceiling of this tiny space they shared. Too small, too tight, too…something. The smells, the sounds, so subtle, but bigger than any half-drunken, fully-clothed door bang. “Maybe it’s cause I knew you as a kid, but I…I don’t think so. I think it’s…” Jesus. She swallowed and worked hard to catch her breath. “I don’t feel sorry for you, okay? Just so that’s clear. But there’s this…sadness to you that’s got its claws in me. I want to fix it. God, I know that sounds fucked up. I want to take it, maybe? Make it better. Smooth it out or…swallow some of it?”
He cleared his throat as if he’d say something, but nothing came out and, since she was afraid to look at him, she plowed right through. “You’re not my type. My usual M.O. is more confident asshole than broken soldier, I guess.”
“Broken soldier,” he repeated without inflection.
“I didn’t mean to insinuate that there’s anything wrong with— Oh, fuck it, come here.”
The thin, slippery fabric of his top slid through her fingers, so she twisted, right beneath his neck, and pulled hard, exposing a tuft of dark hair and two sharply angled collar bones. She’d been aiming for his mouth, but that fleeting view of what hid beneath his protective layers sent her further south. She dipped down and kissed the coarse stubble over his Adam’s apple, breathing him in before she remembered how excessively personal that would be. Then up, over his rough, squared-off jaw to the mouth she’d tried her hardest to ignore.
His lips were soft, despite their chapped, sun-burnt surface and the cracks that made her want to coddle him—another sensation too unfamiliar to process. She tried to eat him with her mouth, tried to make this one of those semi-anonymous, urgent encounters.
He wouldn’t let her, of course. A man who walked for a year wouldn’t rush any exploration. The only thing fast about him was his breathing, flatteringly quick and shaky in his excitement. The rest though, the touches, the sounds, the way he used his nose and hands to learn her, were excruciating. And perfect.
“Kiss me back,” she said against his mouth.
He smiled. “I am.”
Frustration welled up, although it tasted an awful lot like panic.
“Do it faster.”
“No.” He whispered into her ear, sending goosebumps racing off in all directions. “I like it like this.”
She tried to pull him closer, and when that didn’t work, she shimmied out of her bag and onto his lap. But there too, despite his body’s obvious excitement, he took his time. Calm, languorous, and way too sensual.
“You’re killing me, Kurt.”
He whispered or whistled something lightly between his teeth, held her arms tightly against her sides, and licked a path from her ear down her jaw to the ticklish spot on her neck, which had her squirming. Held immobile and writhing in the face of such devastating patience, she tried to lift a hand, thought about putting another stop to it, but he wouldn’t let her.
She’d been with bossy guys before, men who wanted things a certain way or others who worked hard for dominance. This was something else entirely. This man held her still so he could enjoy her further. And goddamn, she felt that, hot and heavy and undeniably sexy, right between her legs.
She only noticed how much of a lead he had when he finally—Jesus, finally—let his lips graze hers.
Things sort of fell apart after that. It was all soft, way too soft and real. Way too human when what she was used to was pure animal. There was some of that, though, in the way he explored her, the way his tongue took its time learning the curves of her mouth, the way he backed up when she tried to bite, and then he gave it some time before giving her a bite of his own. And, Christ, that set off sparks along her nerves.
He made a noise deep in his throat and shifted smooth as syrup until he lay over her, kept her still with his manacle arms, and just looked—which shouldn’t have felt like this in the dark. Everything in her thrummed, open and wanting. The sound of her own whimpering intensified when he knocked her leg aside—and god, he did it almost negligently, like an afterthought, or like he had all the time in the world—and ground himself against her.
Why’d they leave all these layers of clothes on? She should strip naked for him, stake herself out in the ground, a sacrifice to his infinite patience.
“You always squirm like this?” His lips brushed hers with every word, each breath its own caress.
She shook her head when she found that she couldn’t speak.
“Hot as hell.”
She finally managed a couple words, although it wasn’t the You’ve gotta let me move she expected. “Don’t stop,” she said, her own voice unrecognizably breathy.
If she hadn’t been totally out of her mind, she’d have realized he released her when he leaned his weight on one straight arm and dragged a hand down her side, under the fabric of her long-sleeved T-shirt and up to her bra. It was one of those flimsy bralettes and his fingers slipped right beneath the fa
bric, up, up and—
“Fuuuuck.”
He pinched her nipple. It felt way too hard, but might have just been a tweak, heightened by all this restraint, or whatever the hell it was. She writhed, her whimpers turned to moans, her hands clawed at his lean, wide shoulders, then his neck, finally settling to grip his hair.
Caught unawares, she figured, he let out a shocked little gasp when she yanked him down, brought his mouth onto hers, and kissed him with every ounce of emotion she’d never let another person see.
It was a loss of control she’d surely regret. But who could blame her when she wasn’t herself anymore? Who could blame her when she’d been opened, spread out, and owned by Kurt Anderson halfway up Mount St. Jacob, and she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to get herself back?
The wilder O’Neal got, the calmer Kurt felt above her. Calm and—
Holy shit. He could breathe.
Such a small thing, usually, that inhale/exhale motion. Except when he fought to do it every second of every single day—and not because he was running, but possibly because he couldn’t walk slow enough. This journey he’d set off on was only meant to last a week, maybe two. But a week had turned into a month, then two and now, a year later, he’d turned inside out with the pain of not breathing.
Except now, with her writhing beneath him like a live wire, wild and scalding and completely out of control, he appeared to have found his center.
He kissed her again, just to see if he could prolong the peace, and she shuddered—actually shook. Her response slowed him, made him gather her together again and hold her immobile. She sucked in a harsh breath and stared at him, her eyes angry and glazed.
Jesus, look at her. Adrenaline seeped through his veins, as viscous as if he had all the time in the world, as if his hot, aching cock could take any amount of this torture without ever blowing. Slowly, he let his gaze scrape over her, one scorching inch at a time, leaving a quivering mess of nerves in its wake.
Chest clear, stomach calm, brain still and quiet, he sat back between her legs, fascinated by the pebbled points of her breasts. Excruciatingly slowly, he pulled her shirt up to reveal the little lace bra she wore and, heart finally starting to thump, he yanked that up, too. Oh, fuck, he needed to taste her.
He bent, loving the way her hands grabbed his hair and tugged him closer. She smelled good here. A heady mix of sweat and coconut he devoured with his nose before succumbing to her demands and licking those pert little tips. Licking turned to sucking and, when her twisting body demanded it, he bit her.
“Do it again,” she begged until the words ran together. “Do it again, doitagaindoitagain.”
So he didn’t. Of course not. How could he when controlling this woman made him whole again?
He shifted off to kneel beside her, happy to wait, despite the want simmering inside. “Will you pull down your pants for me?” he asked. A demand, but also a question. He needed to know she wanted this.
Her litany changed to a gratifying Oh God as she struggled to open the zipper, fought with the button and finally wrenched her pants down to her ankles with a furtive rustling.
Finally still, she lay there, a pale ghost in the dim light of the phone. Because he could, he reached over, grasped her wrists and clasped them together at about waist level.
“What…” He paused to flick one of those perfect nipples to standing, gratified when her bottom half twitched. “Am I…” His fingers grasped the nipple and twisted, and she screamed. “Going to do…” It took a second to transfer her wrists to his other hand, but he had all the time in the world, didn’t he? “With you, O’Neal?” The calloused skin of his free hand scratched its way down her belly to the light patch of hair between her legs, where he paused, and swallowed back a wave of excitement. “You need me to stop, you just tell me, okay?”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he wrenched his gaze from her pristine midsection—not a scar marred it—up to her face. “Got that?”
Her whispered, “Yeah,” turned him back up to that slow boil he couldn’t get enough of.
“All right. I just wanna…” His mouth was dry when he swallowed, the sound loud in this tiny space. “I wanna make you come.”
She let out a long, low Oooooh sound and fought to open legs trapped by her pants. He liked the way she looked caught in a net. Snared by desire. Hers and his, together.
From where he kneeled at her side, he ran his hand through her pubic hair, then lower to her lips. Goddamn, she was slick and wet and so fucking female. With two fingers, he spread her open, and used a third to slide inside.
She’d stopped vocalizing her pleasure at some point—probably when his thumb circled her clit. The only clue he had that she liked it were the tiny, ragged breaths she fought to take. Christ, it had been so long. Could he come from just touching her? He shifted, his cock constrained by his pants, and went to work on her clit, filling her with one finger, then two, and all the while circling her, watching her sizzle and burn. Half in love with a woman whose pleasure rode so close to the surface, while his was buried so deep he’d been sure he’d lost it forever.
It took no time at all for her to come, and when she did, holy fucking shit, he’d never seen anything like it. Had he ever experienced such intensity? So much feeling it almost hurt. He thought about shying away, but now that he could breathe, well, he didn’t want to. He wanted to soak it up. So, while her back arched almost painfully, her mouth open with a sort of keening, he couldn’t help but scoot low on her body and put his mouth all over that pleasure.
While her body convulsed around his two fingers, he covered her clit with his tongue, ate her up, consumed every luxurious drop of her.
And fuck if it wasn’t the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Jesus Christ above, Kurt Anderson.” O’Neal couldn’t quite catch her breath after that, couldn’t quite piece together what she was seeing or feeling. Fragments of that orgasm still flew around the tent, leaving everything black around the edges. Crap, had she passed out? Why did it feel like she’d passed out?
He laid a soft, satisfied-sounding breath on her thigh, even though she knew damned well he hadn’t been the one satisfied in that encounter.
She lifted her head barely enough to say, “Your turn” although she did manage a glare when he chuckled low in response.
“I’m good.”
“Seriously?” she mumbled.
His shoulder lifted in a shrug against her. “That was pretty good for me, too.” He sighed. “But I haven’t had a shower for a couple days.”
“I want to—”
“Another time.”
Will there be another time?
Jesus, she wanted another time—a chance to give back just a tiny bit of what he’d given her.
He reached to put out the phone’s light while she yanked up her pants.
Her thoughts screamed into the dead silence that followed, urging her to invite him home. Just for a shower. And maybe another little taste of…that. Whatever that had been. Say it. Say it say it say it.
They were so stiff and still in the suddenly cramped space that it was a miracle he couldn’t hear her.
“Better get some sleep then. I’ve got a big day coming up.” He flipped onto his side, facing her. The smell of sex hung in the air, and what they’d done sat like a wall between them.
“Summit tomorrow?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.” Out of the dark, his voice came, low and hesitant. “Know what you said about…holding me?”
Something hitched in her throat. “Yeah.”
“How’d you feel about trying that out?”
She pictured how it could be: their naked bodies, warmly entwined. Could she even sleep in someone’s arms? It’d be sticky and close, awkward and much too intimate.
“I’m not—”
He nudged her shoulder. “Won’t bite.”
Paralyzed by this new brand of intimacy, she waited for him to show her what to do.
“Come here.”
He lifted an arm in invitation.
She hesitated. How messed up was it that this was harder than baring her body or letting him put his fingers inside her?
This is for him, she decided. Not for me.
That made it easier to scoot up into his side, lay her head on his chest and wrap an arm around him. It was easier to fall asleep, too, with the warm man smell and the steady thump of a good, sturdy heart in her ear.
5
O’Neal awoke with a gasp. Where the hell am I? Where the—
The tent, Kurt. The orgasm to end all orgasms and then…snuggling. She had the urge to hide her face at that.
It was cold now, though. Like see-your-breath cold. And she was alone in here, jittery from whatever’d just scared her awake.
There. That sound. What was that?
Another spurt of fear shot like fireworks through her veins. She lay frozen in the bag, listening hard, waiting for it to get closer. Thump, whisper, thump, groan. Over and over.
It had a rhythm, steady, but frenetic, and so eerie it couldn’t be human. Or it shouldn’t. Which made it even worse knowing that it was Kurt. Doing what?
She scrunched up her face and tilted her head to give one ear unobstructed access.
It would have had an almost sexual bent to it, if it hadn’t sounded…demented. Or pained. Was he hurting himself? She pictured him banging his head against a tree. Was someone hurting him? Had he heard something, gone out to check, and been attacked?
Shit.
On the edge of panic now, she shivered her way out of the sleeping bag, snagged her coat and left the tent in a rush, almost falling out headlong, to find him…
Burpees? Push-ups?
What. The. Hell.
And what was he saying as he worked himself to death? He was talking, or muttering something. Every hair on her body pricked as she stood stunned, unnoticed as this man turned himself inside out.
People didn’t do this. They didn’t show their messed-up insides to the world like this.
Rogue Affair Page 36
