Widow Woman (18 page)

"No. I didn't—"

He stopped the lie with a look. He opened the buttons of his undershirt. Fabric gaped, revealing the full length of the golden, muscled chest that had held her memory more than half a year.

"Look all you want.” He yanked his arms from the sleeves and let the shirt hang down his back. “And touch."

He reached toward her. She backed a step, knocking the rocker's seat. Nick closed the space, not fast, not angry, but denying retreat. He reached again, and this time he took hold of her hand, still clasping the quilt.

Without hurting her any he exerted enough pressure to straighten her fingers one by one.

"I don't...” Her protest faded because she didn't know what words to add.

I don't want to?
No, that wasn't right.

I don't know how.
How to touch or be touched.

The thoughts fled along with the words to speak them when his hand carried hers to his chest, spreading it so her palm and fingers pressed against the heated strength.

"You do.” His voice was as unyielding as his flesh.

Her palm absorbed the faint prickle of black hairs that wedged down his chest. Below that, she felt the surprisingly smooth skin covering another layer, muscle that rippled and shifted under her hand as he dragged it slowly across his chest.

"I won't..."

I won't do it right.

I won't please you.

"You will."

She drew in a sharp, quick breath before she reminded herself he'd answered her words, not her thoughts. He could give no reassurance to her thoughts.

His arms circled her, and before she could adjust to that, he lifted her off her feet and set her on the bunk. She'd lost the quilt shawl somewhere, and his fingers were busy at the buttons of his shirt she wore.

"Nick."

The first touch of his fingers to her skin, slipping below her chemise, turned her protest into a quickly drawn breath. She raised her arms to help him tug the shirt over her head, also freeing tendrils of hair from her braid.

Smoothing the wisps, he cupped her face between his large palms. When his mouth met hers, she opened readily. His mouth fascinated her. Lips that spoke so little, that formed such an uncompromising line, that now expanded on pleasures they had introduced her to in a shadowed pantry.

It wasn't that she didn't feel his hands opening the waist of her skirt and fumbling loose the fastening of her corset. It wasn't even that she didn't care.

She felt his movements—they drew movements from her, some cooperative, raising an obliging arm, some exploratory, pressing herself against his hard, warm chest. Oh, yes, she cared that he peeled away layers of her clothes—she cared because she wanted him to. She wanted to lie with this man, and she wanted nothing between them.

How odd, an isolated part of her mind marveled even as she rubbed her bare shoulder against Nick's arm to enjoy that light friction. She'd always been in her nightdress when Edward had entered her bedroom, and had never considered removing it. The opposite, in fact. She had kept as much of it between them as possible. When he had grunted and rolled off her, she had drawn the gown down to her ankles and the covers up to her chin.

Nick abruptly released her mouth. Pulling in air greedily, she yet felt the loss. She also felt a renewed sense of her situation. Only her chemise and one stocking covered her nakedness. She half reclined on the bed, held up more by Nick's arm than her own inclination, her fanny snug in his lap and, against her hip, his heated, hardened shaft very much in evidence through his opened trousers.

"Don't you want this?” Clipped and hard, his words came each on its own short, impatient breath.

"What?"

"Do you want to stop?” he demanded.

No!
But she couldn't scream that. “Why are you asking this now?"

"You went still."

"I...” She met the dark intensity of his look, and ventured a question. “Don't you want me to be still?"

His hold on her tightened, but for too short a time to be painful. Then it relaxed. “Is that what he told you?"

"He didn't tell me anything,” she said, trying to be fair. “But it seemed faster that way."

The stream of words Nick released were in another language, Spanish, she presumed, but neither that nor the cold of his voice changed Rachel's belief that his wishes wouldn't do Edward Terhune's soul the least bit of good.

"Do, uh, do you want something different, Nick?” If she knew, maybe she could please him.

"What I want—” He stopped. When he started again, his voice echoed dark and low. “I want to be inside you, Rachel. And I want you moving because it feels so good—No, don't look away.” His tone was harsh, and when she met his eyes there was nothing gentle there, but Rachel felt her nervousness cracking. “It's part of nature, Rachel. We didn't choose it, but it's there. It's there between us."

She had thought at times that he was a force of nature, not to be controlled or denied. Or maybe it was this that she'd sensed, this connection between them that would not be controlled or denied.

She looked at him, and knew that there was no more ignoring or putting off. In the harsh lines of his face, she saw the truth. He had recognized the power between them long before she had. He had fought it. And lost.

She put her fingertips to the bronze skin along his high cheekbone. Above the prickly line of his beard it was surprisingly soft. Leaning forward, she tested his taste with the tip of her tongue. She trailed her lips across his cheek until they met his mouth. She slipped her tongue inside, and felt his hard, powerful body shudder at her entry.

It happened fast then.

She tried to focus on each touch and motion, but there were so many, and each worth memorizing. They seemed to flow past her, around her, inside her.

She knew the instant his broad hand cupped her breast as he had yesterday in the rocking chair. But now nothing separated his touch and her flesh. His fingers on her were warm and strong, firing a rivulet of yearning to the base of her stomach. His mouth on her nipple was moist and demanding, deepening and widening the rivulet to a torrent.

She knew, also, the moment he moved between her legs, opening her thighs with the pressure of his knee, the stroke of his hand and the urgency of his need. She could see that need in the etched lines of his face, hear it in the forced bursts of his breath, smell it in the sweat that liquefied his scent, touch it in the banded muscles of his arms and shoulders as he slid higher against her.

He paused at the entrance to her body. The muscles of his braced arms gave a slight tremor, and the light shifted on the line of his jaw as he clenched it. And she knew him well enough to know he gathered in a measure of control that most men wouldn't have even thought of.

Instinct told her that, in this, his control was her enemy. She needed him without the restraint of that control.

Rolling her hips, she brought their lower bodies into full contact and opened to him. He thrust inside her, so quickly and so powerfully that she gasped.

"Rachel."

"It's all right."

I want to be inside you, Rachel. And I want you moving because it feels so good.

She rolled her hips again. And it did feel good. It felt good like something that was good by itself, yet made you wish for something more, something even better, that wasn't quite there. Like the unexpected warmth of a late winter sun that made you ache with the promise of spring.

"Rachel..."

That was the last word he said that she understood. But she didn't need words. She had the pulse and beat of his body thrusting into hers. She had the hoarse sounds of his desire. She had the taut, carved planes of his face as his need drove him—his need for her.

And then she felt him inside, where he already filled her so completely, growing even harder, even larger. He threw back his head to face the ceiling, or perhaps the heavens above, and his body shuddered. And she felt the surge of his seed coursing into her.

She had never known such contentment.

Rachel woke during the night with her pulse already beating to the stroke of his hand.

He'd gotten up some time ago and turned down the single lamp. The fire had burned low; she felt the chill air on her cheek, but within the narrow cave of the bunk's covers, her senses extended no farther than the heat of Nick's body, and his touch.

Soreness lingered in her inner muscles, as well as a sensation that seemed the memory of being stretched and filled. Neither the soreness nor that less definable sensation was unpleasant. Yet she was mildly surprised that while they remained she would greet his touch so willingly.

But she did.

And soon, in a dark so deep she wondered if her sight came from more than her eyes, she recognized in his face and his body a need as intensely honed as before. It washed over her like a stream made of starlight. Nick Dusaq wanted her, needed her.

And he took her again, as she gave herself over to that greatest seduction of all.

The sound of the wind and the pellets of snow it drove against the small cabin woke her. Nick was gone.

Over the protests of her muscles, she got up, washed quickly with water he'd left warming by the fire he'd stoked before leaving. A pair of practical tendernesses. Lifting the window covering, she caught a ghost reflection in its surface of her silly smile.

It faded as she studied the storm. There was little light, only a grayish haze blending earth and sky. The wind whipped snow into every uncovered crack. A wet, solid snow to penetrate the skin and chill to the bone.

An arm's reach away, pegs stood empty of Nick's outer clothing. Even for a trip to the shed, he'd use his coat, hat, muffler and gloves. More telling was the absence of the rope he kept in the shack where it wouldn't freeze.

She'd never send a man out in this weather. But Nick hadn't waited for an order, he'd gone on his own.

If she could, she'd tell him this minute that Circle T hands waited for the storm to pass; no use in a man risking his life unnecessarily to save a few cows. But fretting herself about him would bring him back no sooner. When he did come, he'd be hungry, he'd be cold and he'd be tired.

By the time she heard hoofbeats approaching at a slow walk shortly after midday, she was adding cooked potatoes to chopped onions and beef frying in a skillet, and feeling tremendously productive. She had enough time before he came in to roast the green coffee beans in the remaining skillet.

The door opened and she turned, still holding the skillet of nicely browned beans.

Only meeting his eyes, did she give a thought to what it would mean to face him now.
After
.

It meant having her muscles melt like wax and her insides tighten and heat as she saw desire still burning in his eyes.

A gasp escaped her before she spun away, putting the skillet down with a clatter; maybe he'd think the hot handle caused her reaction.

"Smells good,” came his familiar, low voice.

"I figured you'd be hungry."

"You figured right."

Neither said more. With his outer clothes hung up, he came nearer the warmth of the fire. Without asking, he took over making the coffee. She used the emptied skillet for batter biscuits, and in minutes, she'd served the hash and first few biscuits to him.

"Good,” he muttered around a mouthful.

He was finishing his second plateful and his second half-dozen biscuits before he slowed.

"Didn't stop for breakfast,” he said.

"You shouldn't have gone out at all."

He raised his head and eyed her. “Wanted to check on the stock and I thought you might like to be alone a spell."

She jumped up from the table, busying herself with moving skillets away from the heat before bringing the coffeepot to refill his cup.

Without taking his eyes off her, he took a mouthful.

"We don't expect or want you to go out in such weather. You might not know, coming from Texas, how easy it is for a man to get turned around in a blow like this—"

"I know.” His quiet words didn't stem her flow.

"It can even happen to someone who's known this land all his life. It's dangerous,” Automatically, she refilled the cup. “Shag would tell you the same—wait until a storm's passed."

"Okay."

She deflated at his lack of fight. “Oh.” She put the pot down.

"Couldn't find a single steer in that mess anyway."

She caught the tilt of his grin, and this time her “Oh!” held indignation that he'd agreed because it matched his thinking, not for any other reason. Before she added words, he caught her around the waist with one arm.

While she tried to absorb the impact of that touch, his hand slid higher and cupped the underside of her breast

She jolted, breaking away, and grabbed both plates and her cup, carrying them to the washbasin. Drinking his coffee, Nick tilted back on the stool and openly watched her.

She continued washing. When he rose and brought his empty cup, she left plenty of room for him to put it down without contact. But after he'd slid the cup into the water, he moved directly in front of her, his hand on her wrist stopping any retreat.

"It's done, Rachel. There's no use pretending it's not, or wishing it undone."

And no use pretending she didn't know what he meant.

"I'm not, uh, I mean I don't. But..."

He looked at her, relentless.

"It's daylight. Nick,” she said at last in an agonized whisper.

His stare continued. “No arguing that."

"You can't ... I can't ... Touch. That way. I mean, it's for the night.” The touch, kisses, maybe even more kisses wouldn't have been so bad, but after last night she knew they wouldn't stop there.

He tipped his head, regarding her from slitted eyes. “No need to keep it to the night."

"It's not ... seemly otherwise.” She wondered if he remembered how easily he'd ignored her objection to his unseemly talk the day before. She'd have used a stronger word but she couldn't think of one, not with him this close.

"I can't see you at night."

"See me? Whatever for?"