Authors: Sarah McCarty
Caine's Reckoning (54 page)
No, she realized as her tender muscles parted beneath the onslaught, stretching to give him what he wanted, there would never be anyone else for her. Not now, not in the future. She bent her knees, working him deeper as he groaned with the agony of holding back the strength of his desire. For her. Because he worried that taking her any other way than gently would remind her of
them.
As if she could ever confuse Caine with
them.
She leaned in, circling her hips as she pushed down, kissing his lips, his chin, his throat, groaning herself as he lost control and thrust up. His big cock wedged deep, stroking that spot only he had ever reached. More. She wanted more. More of his passion, his pain, his tenderness. Even more of that damn stubborn nature he wore like a shield. She wanted everything that made him the man he was. She held his gaze as she took him, letting him see her determination along with her pleasure, her want.
As she watched his. The aggressive desire he held in check, the concern, the anticipation as the broad head of his cock spread her wide, tunneling into her eager channel, dragging on the delicate muscles that clutched a welcome. His hands shifted to her hips, stopping her descent. “Easy, baby. Not too much. Give yourself time to adjust.”
She didn’t want easy. It was time he understood that. Time he understood she’d healed. “Caine?”
His fingers flexed as she squeezed as best she could with her inner muscles. He stretched her too finely to have much control. “What?”
“I didn’t just come out here to play.”
“You didn’t?”
The way he lifted his right brow just begged for a kiss. She gave in to the impulse, following the arc to his temple, measuring the rapid beat of his heart with her lips before tucking her face into the curve of his neck. Being scandalous left her feeling open and exposed.
“No.”
Two tugs and she had his hands on her breasts, relaxing into their heat, taking strength from the familiar feel. She settled back onto him, for the first time taking him with nothing—no worries—between her pussy and his cock except the liquid silk of her desire. She ran her fingers up over his chest, skipping over the collar of his shirt to his face, pausing to stroke the lines carved beside his mouth by the sun and experience before moving on. His hair was cool against her fingers. She didn’t stop when she reached the barrier of his hat, just continued up, pushing it off, wrapping her arms around his neck as the full force of his attention centered on her. “I came to get fucked.”
His hand spread open over the small of her back as she dropped her forehead to his. He was always ready to support her if she needed it, ready to give her whatever she required. The knowledge gave her the courage to say what they both needed to hear. “By you.”
His smile was infinitely gentle, infinitely understanding. “My wife doesn’t get fucked.”
“What does she get then?”
He touched his nose to hers and his drawl when it came was low and intimate and loaded with feeling. “Ah, sweetheart, she gets loved.” His right hand slid around to her back, tucking her against his heart. “All I can give for as long as there’s breath in my body. Can you live with that?”
She searched his eyes, for once seeing him without his defenses, without his shields, seeing nothing but pure love pouring out over her from a man who didn’t know how to do anything by halves, a man who appreciated her smiles and her frowns, who’d fight to the death for her, who’d share his fortune and his triumphs. A man who saw her as his partner, his lover, his treasure, his wife. She brushed his hair off his face, her fingers naturally finding the hint of anxiety tightening the skin by his eyes. Silly man. She slipped her arms around his neck. “Will you be mine?”
His eyebrow arched and his hand came up to cup her head. “Who else’s would I be?”
She tried to arch a brow back, but gave up when his lips quirked in a small grin. She played with the hairs at the back of his neck. “Mine to love, honor and obey, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse?”
The smile left to be replaced by an intensity that would have scared her in the old days, but now just filled her with peace. This was her man and everything he did, he did with his whole heart, including making his wedding vows, this time with nothing but his own desire forcing his hand.
“To love and cherish,” he drawled, his deep voice rich with nuance and commitment, his eyes a brilliant green as he made his vows there in the shadowed barn, the air redolent with their commitment, the rhythm of their desire still pounding in their blood. “Until death do us part.”
He tilted her head back for his kiss. “I love you, Desi Allen.”
Just before their mouths connected, in that instant when their breaths mingled and anticipation reigned, she whispered back, “And I love you.”
The edge of his lips teased hers. “Did you mean that part about obeying?”
She tickled his upper lip with her tongue and confessed, “I had my fingers crossed on that part.”
His laugh was pure sensual pleasure, flowing into her mouth, her heart. She loved to hear him laugh.
“That’s my Gypsy.”
Dear Ari,
I don’t know how to start this letter, except to say, “Thank God you’re alive.”
So much has happened in the last year. Not all of it good, but some of it so special, there aren’t words to describe it. I’m married. Happily so to a man of whom Papa would never have approved. He doesn’t have money, doesn’t have social position and doesn’t care a fig about mine, but he is everything I never dreamed big enough to desire when we used to sit under the apple tree imagining the perfect husband. A heart that knows no limits, a sense of honor that can’t be compromised and a love for me so rich, I’ll never be poor. He’s Hell’s Eight and if you’re still living in the
My husband’s name is Caine Allen, and he’s the one insisting I write this letter. He believes in family and in my intuition. Though everyone says you’re dead, he says my gut feeling is good enough for him, and he’s promised finding you will be Hell’s Eight’s number one priority. He can be high-handed at times, but in the best ways.
I’m sorry I can’t introduce you to the man handing you this letter, but you see, I’ve made seven copies and entrusted them to seven different men with the hope they’ll find you: Tucker, Sam, Tracker, Shadow, Luke, Caden and Ace. Like your soon-to-be niece or nephew, my husband and yourself—though you don’t know it yet—they’re Hell’s Eight, and I’m asking you, Ari, to put yourself in their care because each one of them has made a promise to me, one they’ve sworn to uphold.
You see, they’ve promised to bring you home, Ari. Home to Hell’s Eight, where there’s no past, no recriminations, no judgment, just peace and a place where you can breathe easily. After what we’ve been through, I know it sounds like a preacher’s description of heaven—illusive and unreal—but I promise you, there is a way out of hell and if you haven’t already found it, I’ll help you.
Trust no one but them, Ari, because father’s solicitor, Harold Amboy, is the one who arranged for us to be attacked initially, and he has men hunting for you, too. He intends to control father’s money through one of us. But you can trust any of these men. Absolutely and completely with everything you hold dear.
I’m crying as I write this. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I can’t forget how we parted, my nightmares—which must have been your reality—the sense of helplessness as I stare at the night sky wondering if you can see the same stars, wondering if you’re healthy, happy and most of all, safe.
Do you remember the game we used to play at the summer house as children when things didn’t go our way? How we’d go find a patch of daisies dappled in sunlight, link our hands in our special way and then just spin until we didn’t care about anything else? I just want to see you again, Ari, find a patch of daisies, grab hands and spin until laughter takes over and all the bad falls away. Though it’s irrational because I have no idea how long it will take the men to find you—days, months, years—I have to say this.
Hurry home, Ari. I’ve planted a patch of daisies and it’s waiting.
CAINE’S RECKONING
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0797-8
Copyright © 2007 by Sarah McCarty.
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