Every Second Counts (22 page)

The bull stomped again on her injured leg, then lifted and shook his great head as Ryder dangled from his horn. He tossed her into the air a second time. One fearless clown rushed forward to grab the bull’s tail and give it hard crank. When the bull whirled, the clown was halfway to the barrel. The animal gave chase and the clown jumped into the barrel a split second before the bull rammed into it.

The heavy barrel rolled away and the bull stood, snorting. He swung his body back toward Ryder, but two men were already there, each slipping a hand in the armholes of her vest to grab hold. Ryder raised her hand, then dropped it again as they dragged her away.

The students cheered. “Show it again, show it again,” they chanted.

Bridgette sprinted to the restroom and vomited her lunch in the first empty stall. A couple of students looked at her curiously when she emerged, and she quickly rinsed her mouth at the sink.

Marc’s fine. She’s fine. She was walking around Cherokee Falls just last week. She’s not dead, not paralyzed, not crippled. She’s fine.

But the mantra in Bridgette’s head didn’t stop the second wave of nausea, and she hurried to the art building next door, slamming into her office and falling to her knees in the small bathroom. Her gagging soon turned to weak sobs.

Marc. Baby.

The thought of her being tossed about like a doll wasn’t what crushed her now. It was thinking of Marc, in pain, alone in the hospital. Was there anyone who held her hand, wiped her brow, and spooned ice chips into her mouth after surgery?

It was too late to push her away, too late to be friends. At that moment, she knew with concrete certainty that she was in love with Marc Ryder.

Losing Stephan hurt because she had wanted him to always be there for her.

This was different. She wanted to be the one who was there for Marc, holding her, loving her, healing hurts and protecting her from new ones.

Even worse, she knew Marc was in love with her. She had known it, had felt it the night they made love in Eleanor’s mansion.

She covered her face with her hands and groaned. What was she going to do?

“It’s not really anything driving me, just nothing stopping me.”

She climbed to her feet and hunched over the sink to splash her burning eyes with cold water. She dried her face and straightened.

She needed to see Marc. She stuffed her exam materials into her laptop bag.

The two of them had to stop running—from their fears and from each other. It was time to pony up, and she wasn’t taking this ride alone.

It was three in the morning, and Marc looked adorable.

She had answered the door in black boy shorts and a faded T-shirt with the logo of a jumping horse and slogan that said G
RAND
N
ATIONAL
H
UNT AT
A
INTREE
. She had cut her dark hair short, and the spikes stood up like a halo. Her eyes were sleepy, her mouth open in surprise. She blinked.

“God, I hope this isn’t just a dream.”

“No talking,” Bridgette said. She pushed Marc back into the condo and followed her inside. She closed the door and locked it. “You just need to listen.”

“Bridge—”

She pinned Marc against the wall.

“I said no talking.”

She brought her mouth close, as close to Marc’s as possible without touching. She ran her hands under Marc’s shirt and smiled when she jerked. Her hands wouldn’t be cold for long because Marc’s skin was warm and soft as velvet. Her nipples were hard.

“Pay close attention to everything I’m saying to you,” she whispered.

And then she kissed her. She kissed Marc tenderly with every emotion she’d been holding back, then deeper with every ounce of passion that bloomed inside her. She kissed her until she moaned, they both moaned, and Marc sagged against the wall.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

Marc started to answer, then closed her mouth and pointed. She took Marc’s hand and led her upstairs to stand beside the king-sized bed where, moments before, Marc had been sleeping. She hadn’t considered the possibility, but she paused to mentally thank the gods another woman wasn’t snuggled among those rumpled covers.

“Watch, but don’t touch,” she said softly as she stepped back and began to undress.

She slid her blouse from her shoulders and Marc stared at her breasts. She swirled her middle fingers over her own erect nipples, their outline clear under the silky material of her bra. Marc licked her lips in anticipation and her gaze locked on Bridgette’s chest as she slowly reached behind to unclasp her bra and let it drop to the floor. She pinched her own nipples and groaned. Marc’s hands twitched.

Then she turned her back to Marc and slowly lowered her jeans and panties in one movement. She heard Marc suck in a breath when she bent over to slip off her shoes and remove the clothes now pooled around her ankles. Marc’s hands were moving again as she faced her.

“No touching until I say so.”

Marc’s hands twisted the tail of her T-shirt in an effort to restrain them. Her eyes were no longer soft and dazed. They were hungry.

She went to Marc and caressed her cheek, then freed her hands from their entanglement. “Off,” she said, tugging the shirt upward until Marc raised her arms to let her remove it.

Bridgette edged closer until their nipples were almost touching. Almost.

“You are a warrior goddess,” she murmured, running her fingertips down Marc’s sides and blowing gently across the stiff nipples. Her mouth watered to suck them, but she would get to that later. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a stronger, more beautiful female body.”

She drifted slowly lower, until she was on her knees, and drew the boy shorts down Marc’s hard thighs. She breathed in the scent of Marc’s arousal and, without stopping to think, buried her nose in the dark, wet curls. Marc trembled under her hands and she knew this was how she’d claim her first.

She gently pushed Marc down onto the bed and shouldered her legs. Propped on her elbows, Marc watched her, eyes blazing as Bridgette rubbed her cheek against her thigh and met her gaze. Could Marc see how much she wanted her?

“I love the way you smell.” She smoothed her hands up Marc’s taut belly and brushed her palms over her breasts. “I love the way you feel. Hard, yet so soft.” She fingered Marc’s rigid nipples, rolling them between her thumb and fingers until Marc closed her eyes and moaned.

Then she tasted her, salty and sweet. Marc’s clit was firm under her tongue, and she wasted no time sucking it into her mouth and scraping her teeth across the swollen flesh.

“Bridgette. Oh, Christ. I can’t—”

She filled Marc with two fingers, stroking her inside and out. Marc’s breath hitched and her body bucked. But she held on, riding out Marc’s orgasm until she collapsed, panting and jerking with the aftershocks.

She wiped her wet cheeks against Marc’s belly, but kept her fingers inside as she moved to lie beside her. She kissed Marc’s slack mouth, laving her tongue across the full lips before plunging inside. When Marc responded, dancing their tongues together, she began to stroke with her fingers again. Marc whimpered but opened her legs, surrendering to her.

She moved over Marc to straddle her thigh and assuage her own burning need as she added a third finger. She thrust, slowly and gently at first, and Marc slid her hand down to wedge her fingers between her thigh and Bridgette’s sex to reciprocate. She pumped harder and with purpose, and Marc moved with her.

Marc’s eyes widened when she pressed her pinkie lower, against her small puckered ring of muscle, but she didn’t protest as Bridgette plunged the small digit inside. She laid her thumb against Marc’s clit and held her gaze as she took her completely.

Something fragile and fleeting flashed in Marc’s eyes. Usually quiet and restrained in her orgasms, she dropped her head back and roared with her climax, soaking Bridgette’s hand. Marc’s fingers convulsed against her sex, triggering her orgasm, too.

They were both slick with exertion and desire when she collapsed, spent yet unsated. She didn’t worry whether the strong body under hers could bear her physical weight. But could the heart that beat against hers hold up under what she was feeling, what she was still afraid to confess?

She felt Marc’s chest hitch and caught a glimpse of tears before she turned her face away. She bit back the words that had been on the tip of her tongue, and they lodged in her throat to choke her.

She gently withdrew her hand and dried it on the cast-off T-shirt. Marc took a deep breath and rolled them to the other side of the king-sized bed, holding Bridgette tight against her.

“Stay.” Marc’s voice was low and rough, almost pleading.

She snuggled against Marc’s neck and gentled her with her hands. She felt Marc slowly relax, and she did, too. The late hour, the long day, and the emotion of their coupling had exhausted them. Her deep sigh matched Marc’s as they found comfort in the intimate warmth of skin on skin and let sleep claim them.

They would have time for words later.

*

Ryder woke with Bridgette spooned in the curve of her body, warm in her arms. When Bridgette shifted onto her back, the sheet pooled around her waist and Ryder studied her in the early morning light.

She was beautiful.

She fingered the blond curls that spread across the pillow. Her gaze caressed the fine planes of her brow, sculpted bones of her cheeks, and the soft, full lashes that fluttered as Bridgette dreamed. She itched to kiss Bridgette’s soft breasts. When she looked up again, drowsy hazel eyes were watching her.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Good morning.” Bridgette covered her mouth with her hand. “I probably have morning breath.”

She pulled her hand away. “Let me see.” She kissed her, gently pushing her tongue into Bridgette’s mouth and tasting her. “Mmm.” She pulled back. “No morning breath, but you do smell like sex…in a good way.”

She had slept only a few hours, but it was the deepest, most restorative rest she could remember experiencing. She hadn’t realized how much energy she exerted each day to keep up the wall that guarded her feelings. She’d been building that wall since she was a child, but Bridgette had come to her and obliterated it the night before, if only briefly. Her heart jerked. What now?

“Just happen to be in the neighborhood?” Her voice sounded more casual than she felt.

Uncertainty flashed in Bridgette’s eyes and she pulled the sheet up to cover her chest. “I flew out here to talk with you.”

“About the auction?”

Bridgette’s hand trembled and she covered it with hers, entwining their fingers.

“About us.” Bridgette took a deep breath, avoiding her eyes. “But now that I’m here, I’m not sure where to start.”

Words were never easy for her, either. They had only spoken their feelings with their bodies, and she was suddenly terrified they would fail in a conversation with words.

“Come shower with me and I’ll make some breakfast. Then we’ll talk.”

Bridgette seemed relieved at the reprieve and allowed her to draw the sheet down and feather kisses across her shoulders and breasts. She took Bridgette’s hand to lead her into the large, decadent bathroom. Bridgette smiled as she surveyed the Italian tile, triple-head shower, and the whirlpool half sunk into the floor under a large one-way window.

“What can I say? I’m a hedonist.”

She released Bridgette so they could brush their teeth while the water warmed, and then they stepped in together. She carefully washed Bridgette’s hair for her, and then they teasingly soaped each other’s bodies.

The night before, she had given control to Bridgette, something she had never done with another woman. But Bridgette seemed tentative this morning, and she was determined to reinforce what they’d shared.

Drawing Bridgette to her under the heated spray, she kissed her deeply. Their hips, their breasts fit perfectly together. She pressed her against the warmed tile and slowly kissed her way down. When she finally knelt before her, she carefully guided Bridgette’s legs onto her broad shoulders, opening her as she balanced against the shower’s wall.

She gazed up at Bridgette for a long moment before she pressed her face into her sex, bathing her with broad strokes of her tongue until Bridgette squirmed.

“Marc, oh, God, Marc.”

She burned the words into her memory. No one had ever, would ever utter her name with such passion. No one had ever, would ever touch her so deep. She wanted to cry and sing at the same time.

“Please, darling. Make me come.” Bridgette’s voice trembled with her need.

As much as she wanted it to last forever, she was helpless against Bridgette’s plea. She flicked her tongue over the hard tissue, then sucked her until Bridgette climaxed. She stroked her through her orgasm with the flat of her tongue, then quickly stood and wrapped Bridgette’s legs around her hips. She pumped her swollen clit against Bridgette’s heat quickly and growled out her own orgasm.

She let Bridgette regain her feet but kept her pressed against the wall, her forehead resting on Bridgette’s shoulder.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” she murmured. Did Bridgette know she was in love with her?

Bridgette sighed and stroked her back. “I need coffee, and then we need to talk, Marc.”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

They dried each other wordlessly, then dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen where she brewed coffee, warmed bagels, and quickly scrambled eggs for them. They sat at the table for two and picked at the food for a while before Bridgette finally found the words to begin.

“You scare me,” she said.

She was surprised and a little irritated at that confession. “Scare you? I scare
you
? Every time we get close, you disappear on me. I feel tossed back and forth, worse than the first time I rode a bronc. Is sex all you want from me?” She was so bad at this. She wanted to say something different, something sweet. Instead, she sounded like a petulant child.

“No.” Bridgette stared down at her plate. “But what I want, what I need might be more than you can give.”