Authors: Jo Goodman
Ryder leaned back against the stone shelf. His splayed, outstretched legs captured Mary between them. She allowed herself to be pulled closer and nestled against him. The kiss deepened. There was heat now. Hardness. A sense of demanding that had been missing before.
It seemed he was drawing on her air, forcing her to share his. The intimacy of the kiss stunned her senses. She felt as if she were completely open to him, that she was giving him the right to know her in a way no one had ever done before, that ultimately, and most frighteningly, he would come to know things about her that were a mystery to herself.
If he drew on her air, he also drew on her heart. Its steady thrum had quickened, and when his mouth touched the cord in her neck, she knew he could feel the wild pulse vibrate against his lips. Her throat arched when his mouth slipped to the base of it. His tongue tasted the hollow, and he sipped her skin in the curve.
Mary's fingers tangled in his thick hair, stroking, holding him to her. Her own sounds of pleasure rocked her as his hand caressed her breast.
Ryder placed his hands on Mary's waist as he slid off the stone bed. In the same motion he lifted her and set her upon it. Kneeling at her feet, he removed the soft buckskin moccasins. His palms caressed her skin from ankle to knee, sliding under the leather skirt and parting the fringe. She was warm and taut. As he stood again his hands went higher, raising her skirt while he moved beneath it to learn the shape of her thighs. She watched his face, then his hands, then his face again when his fingers slipped more intimately between her thighs.
Her mouth parted. A protest hovered. A plea was formed. Ryder heard none of it as his mouth covered hers. Now Mary's pleasure was partly expressed by a humming sound at the back of her throat as she returned the kiss in full measure.
Ryder cupped Mary's bottom and pulled her to the edge of their bed. Her thighs were parted and when he leaned into her she cradled him naturally. He raised her pelvis for a moment, letting her feel his arousal between her thighs, warming her to the shape and strength of a man; then he eased back down and took the bottom of her shirt in his fingers and lifted the garment over her head.
Mary's first instinct was to raise her arms to cover herself. It was the small, almost imperceptible shake of Ryder's head that gave her pause, and the warmth in his gray eyes that stopped her. She could not look down at herself, but at seeing his admiring stare, her embarrassment slowly faded, replaced by an unfamiliar wash of pride and the realization that she liked being looked at as Ryder was looking at her now.
Her breasts were full, slightly swollen even before he cupped the undersides. His thumbs passed tenderly over the coral tips and stiffened them to pebble hardness. His head bent and he touched her neck first, then the hollow of her throat and the curve of her shoulder. He forced anticipation on her as his mouth went lower, skimming her skin until he reached the curve of her breast. Mary's back arched and Ryder accepted the offering. His lips closed over her nipple, laving the tip with his tongue, drawing a response from her with the hot suck of his mouth.
Cords of heat traveled from her breast to her thighs. It seemed sparks had been struck in her fingertips and in her toes. She could not get close enough to him. Her hands slid beneath his buckskin shirt. His skin was hot and smooth. It retracted as her fingers explored. His abdomen was taut, the muscles defined. She traced the edge of his rib cage with her knuckles. Her fingers dipped just below the belt that held his breechcloth in place.
Mary felt the loss keenly when Ryder pulled back. Her small gasp sounded loud to her own ears, as if it echoed in the chamber instead of being caught in her throat. Ryder's smile was wicked, and she knew he understood and was even enjoying making her experience the pleasure and then the absence of it.
His mouth brushed hers. "All in good time." The husky voice complimented his smile. He pulled up on the back of his shirt and removed it, tossing it behind him. "Now you can touch me."
She wanted to, but it was with her eyes that she first covered the breadth of his shoulders and the smooth expanse of his chest. She stared at the firm curve of his arms and the way his waist tapered in clean, strong lines. His nipples were already hard. Mary placed her hand between them, covering the beating of his heart. It raced on at the same frantic pace as her own.
She raised her eyes to his. The smile had vanished. His features were calm, the silver eyes implacable; yet there was the unmistakable stamp of desire as he returned her stare.
Ryder slowly bent his head again and took Mary's other breast in his mouth. Her fingers clutched his arms at first and then moved hungrily over his back and shoulders. She felt herself being eased backward against the stone bed. Blankets twisted beneath her as he removed her buckskin skirt. He placed kisses on the underside of her breast before he moved lower, down her rib cage and across her flat belly.
Mary tensed. Ryder raised himself up on the bed and removed his moccasins and breechcloth. He straddled her thighs and leaned forward, stretching like a predatory cat, sleek and beautiful above her. He caught Mary's wrists and held them lightly just above her head. Her slender frame was taut, the muscles rigid, and her struggle was reactive, not intentional. Her head was turned to the side, away from him.
"Give me your mouth."
Mary lifted her face. As Ryder claimed her mouth pleasure coursed through her and she returned the kiss, their shared pleasure increasing tenfold. Her arms looped around his neck, and her back arched. Her breasts scraped his chest, the tender nipples radiating sensation, and Mary moaned softly.
Ryder released her wrists. His hands caressed her arms, her shoulders. They slipped along her back and raised her hips. His knee parted her thighs as he adjusted his position. He watched her face as he probed, watched the play of shadows on her features as she gave herself up to him. He was achingly hard for her, but his first thrust was restrained. Mary was biting her lip. He held himself still and waited.
"Ryder?" She said his name softly, uncertainly.
It was almost his undoing. He raised her hips a little more and felt her body begin to accommodate his. He thrust into her hard as she yielded to him, and this time she closed around him like a silk sheath.
Mary moved with him now and the pleasure of it was almost beyond bearing. Every sensation was outside the realm of her experience, of her imagination. Ryder leaned close to her as their bodies rocked in unison. His breath moved strands of her red-gold hair. She could feel the moist heat of it on her skin. She liked the way his body pressed into hers, the way she could accept him and hold him and keep him to her. She liked the way the pleasure kept building.
In some ways it was like being underwater, sensation washing over her in waves. The surface was there, just out of her reach, but she knew it was there because of the cascade of moonlight shimmering across it. She swam toward it, challenging the current, moving with it and through it with the sleek, undulating curves of her body.
Mary twisted, stretching, and finally cried out as she broke through, exhilarated as much by the journey as the destination. She sucked in great draughts of air as her muscles contracted and her spirit was lifted. She held Ryder close, felt his thrusts become quick and shallow, heard the tempo of his breathing change.
His features were taut, his skin pulled tightly across the bones of his face. His eyes closed at the moment of his final thrust. He arched, his hard, lean body shivering with the force of his release. He rested his face in the curve of Mary's neck and recovered his uneven breath.
The warmth of him was comforting. Mary raised a knee and rubbed her leg slowly against his skin, aware of the inward curve of his hard buttock, and the contrasting texture of his leg. The sole of her foot lightly caressed his calf. She was disappointed when he withdrew from her and rolled away, even more bereft when he left the bed altogether.
Mary watched him pad unself-consciously to the well of water in their chamber. He hunkered down, dipped a basin into it, took up a cloth, then rose and turned toward her. She closed her eyes as if she hadn't been watching him greedily all along. His deep, rolling laughter let her know she had been caught out. Ryder sat on the edge of their bed, set the basin down, and wrung out the cloth. Mary was searching for a blanket to cover herself, but he stopped her and applied the cloth instead to her thighs, wiping away the evidence of her virginity, first from her, then from himself. Mary was mortified. When Ryder finally removed the basin and returned to the bed, she was wrapped tightly in a blanket, clinging to the last remnants of her composure and wondering if she would ever recapture her dignity.
Ryder tugged on the blanket but she held fast, refusing to shed her cocoon. He pulled a blanket loosely over himself and stretched out beside her, propping himself on an elbow. "It was my pleasure, you know," he said, bending to kiss her cheek. "All of it."
Mary cast him an uncertain look out of the corner of her eye. He appeared to be quite sincere. "I could have bathed myself. I've been doing it for years."
Lantern light flickered in Mary's hair. Ryder's fingers grazed the edge of her short curls, brushing them back, twisting them around the tip. "It was for me to cleanse the wound," he said. "I was responsible for it."
It is all in the perception, she thought. When he put that meaning to his actions it seemed to tilt her world right again. It was intended to be a kind, healing gesture, not an intrusion. Mary's eyes softened, and she edged a little closer to him. His fingers felt good in her hair. The way he played with the strands sent a parade of warm feelings marching down her spine. "I wish it were longer."
"It's as it should be," he said. "And when it's twice this length it will still be as it should be." Did she understand, he wondered, that her hair was perfection in his eyes? It rivaled silk in its texture and the dawn in its coloring. Its length neither lent it beauty nor took any away. His fingers continued to sift through the strands. "Josanie admired your coloring."
A small vertical crease appeared between Mary's feathered brows. "Then it was all she admired," she said. "She didn't appear to be pleased with your choice of a bride."
Ryder did not deny it. "Josanie holds you to different standards than I do."
Mary doubted that Josanie was alone. The welcome she was extended by the family group was not without a hint of pity. "What standards?"
"Chiricahua maidens usually marry before their eighteenth birthday. There's no place in the society for unmarried people—the economics of the band work against remaining single—so they're to be pitied."
That explained it, thought Mary. "So I was much too old to take a husband."
"Something like that."
"You mean there's more?" How else hadn't she measured up?
Ryder couldn't help but grin at her indignation. "Well, you didn't come with a bride price. Your father didn't ask anything for you, and I didn't offer. A Chiricahua suitor showers his intended bride's family with gifts. Horses. Goats. Baskets of food. Your father and mother left the camp empty-handed. To Josanie and the others it seemed that you were worthless because there was no demand."
"Jay Mac is going to demand your head on a plate," she said tartly. "That should satisfy Josanie."
Ryder's rueful smile flickered again as he rubbed the back of his neck. He could imagine the blade Jay Mac Worth would use to do the job. It wouldn't be sharp.
"What is Josanie to you?" Mary asked with quiet, restrained curiosity. She slipped her hand into Ryder's and rubbed her thumb across his palm.
"I told you. She's my father's wife. Naiche took her in marriage when his first wife, my mother, died. Josanie was my mother's youngest sister, and it was expected that Naiche would continue to care for the family."
Mary remembered that the son-in-law was supposed to lift the burdens of his wife's family. Apparently it was a promise that extended past her death. "All my sisters are spoken for," she told him, half in jest, half in earnest. "In the event that something should happen to me and you feel obliged to remarry in the family."
"I don't hold to all the customs."
Still, Mary was glad they were all married. "How is it that you call Naiche your father?"
"He adopted me."
Mary realized that all she knew about Ryder she could write on the back of her hand. She stared at him wonderingly.
"I was seven," he told her, offering for the first time without being asked. "Part of a wagon train crossing the Southwest with my father and mother and my little sister. We were headed for California where my father had a new teaching post. He'd been a professor of mathematics in Cincinnati."
Mary recalled that Ryder had studied mathematics at West Point. Her eyes strayed to the books in the basket by the wing chair, treasures, she realized now, that had belonged to his family. She recalled the inscriptions written at the front of each book and put names to the parents Ryder was describing. His father was Jackson, his mother Anne. She could not recall anything with his sister's name.
"We covered half the distance—as far as Saint Louis—by a more conventional train," he continued. "But at that point my parents decided joining a wagon party was more practical and educational, so they signed on." He paused. The hand that gripped Mary's was unconsciously tighter now. "It was an adventure," he said quietly. "Right until the very end."