The Reckless Bride (23 page)

Before she joined their household again.

Stepping onto the deck, she wondered if, given how much she’d already changed, she could ever live under their roof again.

She doubted it.

“Forward.” With her whispered direction ringing in her head, she determinedly set out across the deck, her goal the large, commanding figure leaning on the rail on the starboard side. One swift glance around the deck confirmed they were alone.

He turned to face her as she neared, straightened.

She’d never seduced a man, never even set herself to tempt one into kissing her. She really had no idea what to do, how to go about it.

Their last exchange on the deck replayed in her mind. Although nothing had been openly stated, the directness of his tack had surprised her—enough to have had her following instinctively…. Two could play at that game.

Her eyes locked on his, she slowed as the distance between them shrank, but she didn’t halt—not until she’d walked into him. Her breasts met his chest. She reached up, clasped his face in both palms and tugged him down as she stretched up on her toes, and kissed him.

Pressed her lips to his in blatant demand.

Her strategy proved sound. After an instant of surprise, he kissed her back.

His arms closed around her, locked her to him as he bent his head. She parted her lips, lured him deeper, and he came.

She sighed in relief, pressed closer in expectation. She needed to know more, experience more, and more was here, within her reach.

Within the steel bands of his arms, inside the thoroughly masculine cage that enclosed her. That held her trapped, albeit willingly. His strength wasn’t rocklike but tensile, like a well-tempered blade, flexible yet unbreakable, supple yet ungiving.

Her senses waltzed as she drank in the sensations. The hardness of his muscles, the solidity of his heavy bones, the alluring masculine heat of his body. The wide planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the long, hard columns of his thighs braced on either side of hers as in large part he supported them both.

His hands had spread over her back, holding her, then, at the flagrant invitation she poured into their kiss, infused into the heated duel of their tongues, urging her closer.

She went. Gladly.

She had only one aim. More.

More of whatever it was that sparked and arced between them, that sent thrills of anticipation licking over her skin, shivers of excitement slithering down her spine, and sharp awareness sizzling along her nerves. Heat bloomed and spread beneath her skin, then sank in, down, pooled low in her belly.

Sliding her hands back from his cheeks, she gripped his nape with one, sank the fingers of the other into his thick hair. Ruffled the silky locks, then clung. Clung as he kissed her back, and she tasted fiery need, desire, and passion.

One of the hands at her back eased, drifted lower. Smoothly slid over the full curve of her derriere, a slow,
exploratory caress that had her senses reeling. Then he gripped, lifted her against him. His tongue brazenly filling her mouth, distracting and demanding, he tilted her hips to
his so she could feel the rigid column of his erection riding against her taut belly.

She gasped through the kiss, clung and gloried.

More. She wanted more. More of this.

More of his passion.

Rafe was lost—for long moments utterly lost—in the fiery demands of the kiss. Of her. Lost in the sensation of her curvaceous, intensely feminine body pressed to his. Of her softness, her warmth, filling his arms. Given, surrendered, pressed on him like an offering.

Want was a solid thud in his blood, need a lash that scourged him.

Desire flashed, flared, then roared to a conflagration, potent, red-hot, urgent and demanding.

When had passion ever been this acute, this desperate, this overwhelming?

The dizzying realization shook him. Enough for sanity to briefly resurface in his desire-razed mind.

The reins of his control were almost gone, frayed and flapping. He seized the ragged remnants, gripped harder, hung on.

His lips melded with hers, his tongue captured by the honeyed delights of her mouth, he struggled to find wit enough to think.

Reason was well nigh beyond him, yet …

They’d talked of their plans. Yes, he remembered that. Talked of the impending danger. Talked of the cult waiting, close ahead.

Too close. Danger and threat, to her and the others, were far too close to indulge in this. To allow him to indulge and be distracted.

He wrenched his lips from hers, raised his head. High enough so she couldn’t drag him down, couldn’t lure him back to her succulent sweetness. He was breathing hard. So was she.

Eyes closing, tipping his head back, he struggled to slow his whirling wits. “We can’t do this.”

His voice was all gravel.

Opening his eyes, he looked down, into her face. Into her wide eyes, periwinkles drowning in passion.

Her lips, swollen and slick, parted. “Why not?” She appeared to be struggling to marshal a frown.

“Because it’s not the right time, not a good place … and we’re going too fast.” That was another truth, one equally important. He dragged in a breath, set his jaw, and forced his arms to move, to set her back on her feet, then ease her back from him, putting space and cool air between them.

Her frown materialized. Before she could think of words to go with it, he continued, “This sort of exchange … leads rather quickly to the other.” She was quick; she’d know what he meant. What he was alluding to. “And if I’m not yet sure about us, you can’t be either.” A brutal truth, but one that clearly needed to be stated.

Of course, especially after the last few minutes, he was as close to certain as he could possibly be without being one hundred percent sure, but she couldn’t possibly have made up her mind—to anything. Not so soon.

For some reason he couldn’t at that moment formulate, that she had to be certain—logically, rationally certain—was fundamentally important to him.

She opened her mouth.

“No—don’t argue.” Easing back along the rail, he ran a hand through his hair. “Please—just go to bed.” He met her eyes, voice even lower said, “Don’t just stand there. Tempting me.”

Her lips had firmed. At his words, her lashes flickered, then she tilted her head slightly, regarding him. “I tempt you—just by standing here?”

“You tempt me just by breathing.”

She blinked.

“Please.” His accents had grown clipped, his tone more terse. “Just … go below.”

He didn’t want to think of her in her bed.

She looked at him as if debating whether to glare, then she let out an exasperated sigh. “You are an extremely
irritating
man.”

With that, she spun on her heel and stalked back across the deck.

He watched her go. Felt the warmth of her flow away.

Tried, hard, not to even think of surrendering to his reckless instincts, following her downstairs, and deflecting her from her bed into his.

This time when the agonized sound shook her from a restless sleep, Loretta instantly knew what it was.

Flinging back the covers, she grabbed her robe, slid her feet into her slippers, and headed into the stateroom.

Shrugging on her robe, she belted it, then opened the door into the corridor. As before the narrow passageway lay in darkness. Two steps took her to Rafe’s door. She opened it and went in, shutting the door behind her.

As before, he lay on his bunk, largely wrapped, trapped, in his tangled covers. One long leg lay free, bared to midthigh.

The night was cloudy; what light leached through the cabin’s porthole was weak. Her mouth still dried, her breath still caught as she stared at his leg while her mind absorbed the implication. Bare shoulders. Naked leg. He lay naked beneath his sheets.

Shaking aside her tantalized fascination, she walked to the side of the bunk and looked down at him. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light. He was clearly still fast asleep.

Clearly still in the grip of his nightmare. His head twisted violently. He muttered something, then his body turned partly away from her. She noticed the dampness of the hair clinging to his brow, then his features contorted and his body stiffened as if in pain.

Gripping his shoulder, she shook him. “Rafe.”

She might as well have tried shaking a mountain.

His body contorted again, a raw sound escaping his clenched teeth.

“Rafe!” She couldn’t yell, but infused his name with every ounce of command she possessed.

She called his name, poked his chest, pinched him. All to no effect.

“Damn it!” She could feel her own emotions twisting every time he twisted in the bed. Jaw firming, she gathered her robe and gown, hitched one hip onto the edge of the bunk, and leaned over him.

Leaned her forearms on his upper chest, pressing to hold him in place with her weight as she grasped his face between her palms, held it steady, bent and pressed her lips to his.

Hard. Hard enough to jolt him and break the nightmare’s hold.

His lips parted. He stilled, then his arms were around her, trapping her against him. His lips broke from hers only to return with crushing force, covering hers, forcing them apart, ravenous and greedy.

Her wits went flying.

He turned, and she was beside him, sunk in the mattress, trapped between the hot, hard, living wall of his body and the cool wood of the cabin wall.

She locked her hands on his shoulders, not to push him away but to hold onto him. To anchor herself as her world spun.

On a mental gasp she kissed him back—met him, clashed with him in the maelstrom their kiss had become.

Hot, wild, delicious. The taste of him drew her in, the texture, the heat. The glorious sense of reined power that thrummed beneath his skin.

She wanted it. Her fingers flexed, digging into the resilient muscles defining his shoulders.

She wanted him. The knowledge lanced through her, sharp, exciting. Igniting desire, sending it careening through her.

Passion soared and rode its wake.

Like a wall of flames it rolled through her, spreading decadent heat that swelled and filled her. That melted, then coalesced, then built to a raging inferno, a molten furnace, empty and aching.

Yearning.

That was the only word to describe what she felt, a need so potent it drove her. Relentlessly propelled her on.

Releasing her grip on his shoulders, she spread her hands and reached as far as she could, running her palms over the long planes of his back, over the bunched muscles of his upper arms.

His hands shifted in concert. Up her back, to her shoulder, to her breast.

His fingers closed and she shuddered. They eased, searched, found, and tightened—and she moaned into their kiss, riding a wave of exquisite sensation, one he fed, one his talented fingers sent lancing through her again and again.

Those wicked, clever hands shifted, drifted, stroked, sculpted, caressed.

Not possessing but learning. Not compelling but persuading.

Heat built within her, as insistent as a heartbeat.

Clinging to their kiss, savoring the answering heat and hardness beneath her palms, she gave herself to it. Drank it in and let it swamp her.

Rafe sensed her surrender, that evocative, elementally primitive, moment of triumph. Everything male in him gloated, savored … then moved on.

Moved in. Blindly he searched and found the buttons closing her nightgown. Seconds later, the bodice gaped enough for him to slide his hand beneath and palm her breast. Soft flesh, already firm, firmed even more at his touch. He kneaded and possessed the swollen mound,
then circled her nipple, stroked, caressed, then trapped the tight bud and squeezed.

She arched in his arms. He drank in the evocative sound she made, one every scintilla of maleness within him gloried in. Fed on.

Pressing her back, he shifted his attention to her other breast. Continuing to kiss her, to plunder her willing, wanton lips, he drove her on, until she gasped through the kiss and moaned her pleasure.

He took that as an invitation to push aside the fine material and bare her breasts, to slide his lips from hers, tracing a path down the long column of her throat to taste the tortured peaks—to lick, lave, then suckle first one, then the other, until she writhed against him, until the hand sunk in his hair gripped wildly and she arched beneath him on a strangled shriek.

Loretta couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had locked tight under the onslaught of sensation. Sensation of a sort she’d never felt before, had never even dreamed existed.

Intense. Lancing sharp.

Mesmerizing and addictive.

She only wanted more. This, he, was a drug she couldn’t get enough of, would never gain her fill of.

With her lips, with her tongue, with her body she pressed him, caressed him, and urged him on.

Wherever on led, she wanted to go there, to reach whatever peak her giddy senses insisted loomed ahead, beckoning, but as yet beyond her reach.

He could take her there, she knew it. Would take her there. That was the promise implicit in the hard body pinning hers, in the heavy rigid rod of his erection pressing against her hip.

With wild abandon she embraced that promise, embraced him, and drew him on.

She heard her own heartbeat thudding in her ears in the same instant he reached down and his hand cruised her calf, skin to skin. Her breath suspended as that
questing hand rose, beneath the fall of her nightgown rose inexorably higher, gliding over her knee, up the quivering tautness
of her thigh, to brush, then touch, the curls covering her mons.

Her body quivered on the cusp of revelation.

Anticipation streaked lightning fast down her nerves.

The heated emptiness within her swelled, a compelling imperative.

She grasped his face between her hands and kissed him. Drew his tongue into her mouth and caressed.

His fingers firmed, slid further, past her curls, dipped between her thighs.

He touched her there, gently yet insistently exploring the soft flesh. She sensed slickness that made his fingertips glide, slip, slide over her, around and over the increasingly sensitive lips.