River's End

  star?

  How many men would have walked in and out of her life? Did she ever wonder? Would all that energy and intelligence have been channeled into the entertainment field, or would she still have gone back to her mother’s roots and chosen the isolation?

  Considering it, considering her, he let his notebook rest on his knee and just looked. The stream gurgled by. The trees towered, their topmost branches spearing through sky and dancing to the wind. The stillness was broken by the music of the water, the call of birds that nested and fed in the forest around him. He saw a lone elk, its rack crown-regal, slip out of the trees and pause to drink downstream.

  He wished he had the skill to draw, but contented himself with etching the memory on his mind as the elk strode without hurry into the deepening shadows of the great firs.

  She would have come back, Noah decided. Perhaps her life wouldn’t have been centered here, but she would have been pulled back to this, time and again. As her mother had been.

  Sense memory, he thought, or the roots that dig themselves into the heart before we’re old enough to know it. She would have needed this place, the smells and the sounds of it. She needed it now, not only for her work and her peace of mind. It was here she could find her mother.

  The cry of an eagle had him looking up, watching the flight. She spread her wings here, too, Noah decided. But did she realize that for every time she soared, she offset it by running back to the closet and closing herself into the dark?

  He wrote down his thoughts, his impressions, listened to the life ebb and swell around him. When his mind drifted, he stretched out on the bank and slipped into dreams.

  She had three fine trout. She’d caught the first two within an hour, but knowing his appetite, she’d taken the time to wait for the third to take the hook. She’d found a nice bramble of huckleberries. Her hat was full of them, and their sweet taste sat nicely on her tongue as she wandered back to camp.

  The time alone had quieted her mind, and soothed away the edge of nerves being too close and too long in Noah’s company seemed to produce. Her problem, she reminded herself. She just wasn’t used to being with a man on the level Noah Brady insisted on. She was no more ready for him now than she’d been at eighteen.

  Sexually it should have been simple enough. But he kept tangling intimacy and friendship so casually she found herself responding in kind before she’d thought it through.

  Thinking it through was vital.

  She liked him well enough, she thought now. He was a likable man. So much so she tended to forget how close he could get, how much he could see. Until his eyes went dark and quiet and simply stripped her down to her deepest secrets.

  She didn’t want a man who could see inside her that way. She preferred the type that skimmed the surface, accepted it and moved on.

  If admitting that caused an ache around her heart, she’d live with it. Better an ache than pain.

  Better alone than consumed.

  She thought they’d deal with each other well enough now. This was her turf, after all, and she had the home advantage. She’d made the decision to talk to him about her childhood, what she remembered, what she’d experienced. It wouldn’t be without difficulty, but she’d made the choice.

  A choice, she understood, she couldn’t have made when he’d come to her at college. She’d been too soft yet, too unsteady. He might have talked her into it, because she’d been so in love with him, but it would have been a disaster for her.

  In some part of her heart she’d always wanted to say it all, to get it out and remember her mother in some tangible way. Now she was ready for it. This was her opportunity, and she was grateful she could speak of it to someone she respected.

  To someone, she realized, who understood well enough to make it all matter.

  She saw him sleeping by the stream and smiled. She’d pushed him hard, she thought, and he’d held together. A glance around camp showed her he’d done well enough there, too. She secured her line and placed the fish into the running water to keep them fresh, then settled down beside him to watch the water.

  He sensed her, and she became part of the dream where he walked through the forest in the soft green light. He shifted toward her, reached out to touch. Reached out to take.

  She pulled away, an automatic denial. But the half-formed protest she’d begun to make slipped back down her throat as his eyes opened, green and intense. Her breath caught at what she saw in them, in the way they stayed locked on hers as he sat up and took her face in his hands. Held it as if he had the right. As if he’d always had the right.

  “Look, I don’t—”

  He only shook his head to stop the words, and his eyes never left hers as he drew her closer, as his mouth covered hers. And the taste was ripe and hot and ready.

  She trembled, maybe in protest, maybe in fear. He wouldn’t accept either. This time she would take what he had to give her, what he’d just come to realize he’d held inside for years to give her, only.

  His hands moved from her face, through her hair, over her shoulders as the kiss roughened, and he pushed her back on the ground and covered her.

  Panic scrambled inside her to race with desire that had sprung up fast and feral. She pushed at his shoulders as if to hold him off even as she arched up to grind need against need.

  “I can’t give you what you want. I don’t have it in me.”

  How could she not see what he saw? Not feel what he felt? He took his mouth on a journey of her face while she quivered under him. “Then take what you want.” His lips brushed hers, teasing, testing. “Let me touch you.” He skimmed his hand up her ribs, felt the ripple of reaction as his fingers closed lightly over her breast. “Let me have you. Here, in the sunlight.”

  He lowered his mouth to within a whisper of hers, then shifted it to her jaw and heard her moan. The taste of her there, just there along that soft, vulnerable spot where her pulse beat thick and fast, flooded into him.

  He said her name, only her name, and she was lost.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders, then dragged through his hair to fist hard, to bring his mouth back to hers so she could pull him under with her.

  A savage rush of delight, a raw edge of desire. She felt them both as his mouth warred with hers, knew the reckless greed as he yanked her shirt up, tore it away and filled his hands with her.

  Strong and possessive, flesh molding flesh with the rocky ground under her back and the primitive beat of blood in her veins. For the first time when a man’s body pressed down on hers, she yielded. To him, to herself. As something inside her went silky, her mind went blissfully blank, then filled with him.

  He felt the change, not just in the giving of her body, the deepening of her breath. Surrender came sweet and unexpected.

  She was still the woman he’d fallen headlong in love with.

  His hands slowed, gentled, soothing trembles, inciting more. With a kind of lazy deliberation that sent her head reeling, he began a long, savoring journey.

  Pleasure shimmered over her skin, warmed it, sensitized it. She rose fluidly when he lifted her, cradled her. With a murmur of approval, she stripped his shirt away and reveled in the slick slide of flesh against flesh, of the surprising bunch of muscles under her hands, the comforting beat of his heart against hers.

  “More.” In that dreamy altered state, she heard her own breathless demand and arched back to offer. “Take more.”

  She was willow slim and water soft. The lovely line of her throat drew his lips over and down. The curve of her breast a fascination, the taste of it fresh and his. Her breath hitched and released as he closed his mouth over her.

  Need leaped in his belly.

  There was more. More to taste, more to take. As her skin and muscles quivered, his mouth grew more urgent. Every demand was answered, a moan, a movement, a murmur.

  He unhooked her jeans and when he skimmed his tongue under denim, her shocked jerk of response had dark and dangerous images swirling in his m
ind. He dragged them over her hips, and even as she reared up, took what he wanted.

  It was a hot, smothering swell of sensation, air too thick to breathe, blood roaring to a scream in her ears. With mouth and teeth and tongue he drove her toward a peak she wasn’t prepared to face. She choked out his name, fighting against a panicked excitement that threatened to swallow her whole.

  Then her hands were gripped in his, held fast. Heat pumped through her, dewing her skin, scorching through her system until pain and pleasure fused into one vicious fist. The pressure of it had her strangling for air, straining for freedom even as her hips arched.

  Then everything inside her broke apart, shattered into pieces that left her limp and defenseless.

  Her cry of release shuddered through him. Her hands went lax in his. Everything he wanted whittled down to her, this place, this moment. So he watched her face as he drove her up again. Again.

  Her eyes flew open, wide with shock, blind with pleasure. Her lips trembled as her breath tore through them. Sunlight scattered over her skin as she poured into his hand.

  Blood screaming, muscles quivering, he held himself over her. “Olivia.” Her name was raw in his throat and full of need. “Look at me when I take you.” His eyes were as green and deep as the shadows behind them. “Look at me when we take each other. Because it matters.”

  He drove himself deep, buried himself inside her. Even as his vision dimmed at the edges he held on. The woman, the moment, and his certainty of each. Clinging to that clarity for another instant, he lowered his brow to hers. “It’s you,” he managed. “It’s always been you.”

  Then his mouth took hers in a kiss as fierce as the sudden plunging of his body.

  She couldn’t move. Not only because he pinned her to the ground with the good, solid weight of a satisfied man, but because her own body was weak and her system still rocking from the sensory onslaught.

  And because her mind, no matter how she fought to clear it, remained dazzled and dim.

  She told herself it was just sex. It was important to believe it. But it had been beyond anything she’d ever experienced, and beneath the drugged pleasure was a growing unease.

  She’d always considered sex a handy release valve, a necessary human function that was often an enjoyable exercise. Orgasms ranged from a surprising burst of pleasure to a slight ping of sensation, and she’d always considered herself responsible either way.

  With Noah she didn’t feel she’d had a chance to be responsible. He’d simply swept her up and along. She’d lost control, not only of her body but also of her will. And because of it she’d given him a part of herself she hadn’t known existed. A part she hadn’t wanted to exist.

  She needed to get it back and lock it away again.

  But when she started to shift, to push him aside, he simply tucked her up, rolled over and trapped her in a sprawl over him.

  She wanted to lay her head over his heart, close her eyes and stay just as they were forever.

  It scared her to death.

  “It’ll be dark soon. I have to get the cook camp set up, a fire started.”

  He stroked a hand over her hair, enjoying the way it flowed to a stop at the nape of her neck. “There’s time.”

  She pushed off, he pulled her back. It infuriated her that she was continually underestimating his strength—and his stubbornness. “Look, pal, unless you want to go cold and hungry, we need wood.”

  “I’ll get it in a minute.” To make sure she stayed where he wanted her to, he reversed positions again, studied her face.

  “You want to pull away, Liv. I won’t let you. Not again.” He tried to disguise his hurt. “You want to pretend that this was just a nice, hot bout of sex in the woods, no connection to what we started before, years ago.” He fisted a hand in her hair. “But you can’t. Can you?”

  “Let me up, Noah.”

  “And you’re telling yourself it won’t happen that way again,” Noah said angrily. “That you won’t feel what you felt with me again. But you’re wrong.”

  “Don’t tell me what I think, what I feel.”

  “I’m telling you what I see. It’s right there, in your eyes. You have a hard time lying with them. So look at me.” He lifted her hips and slipped inside her again. “Look at me and tell me what you think now. What you feel.”

  “I don’t—” He thrust hard and deep, hammering the orgasm through her. “Oh, God.” She sobbed it out, arms and legs wrapping around him.

  Driven as much by triumph as frustration he took her in a wild fury until he emptied.

  When she was still shuddering, he rolled aside and, saying nothing, rose, dressed, then went to gather firewood.

  She wondered why she’d ever believed she could handle him or herself around him. No one else had ever managed to befuddle her quite so much or so often.

  He’d convinced her to be with him alone when she knew it was best if she conducted business with him in more traditional surroundings. He made her laugh when she didn’t want to find him amusing. He made her think about things, about pain she’d so carefully tucked away.

  Now he’d lured her into sex on the bank of a stream in daylight, along a route that, while not well traveled, was public land. If it had gone according to her own plans, they would have had their evening meal, perhaps some conversation, then some civilized, uncomplicated sex in the dark privacy of the tent.

  Once that was out of the way, it would have been back to business.

  Instead, everything was tangled up again. He was angry with her for something she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, change. And yes, something she hadn’t quite forgiven him for. She was left feeling unsteady, inadequate and uneasy.

  To compensate, she ignored him and went about the business of setting up the cook camp several safe feet from the sleeping area. She hung the food high, then gathered her tools and got down to the business of cleaning the fish for their dinner.

  He was just like every other man, she told herself. Insulted because a woman isn’t tongue-tied with delight at his sexual prowess. Miffed because she wasn’t moony-eyed in infatuation, which he’d use up then discard anyway the minute it started to cramp his style.

  It was a hell of a lot smarter to think like a man yourself, she decided, and avoid the pitfalls.

  Let him sulk, she thought as she carefully buried the fish waste. When she heard him approach, she sniffed in derision and had no clue just how sulky her own face was when she lifted it to look up at him.

  “What do you want?”

  He decided, wisely, that she’d kick him in the ass if she had any idea just how easily he could read her. So he just held out the wine he’d poured. “I brought some along. It’s been cooling in the stream. Figured you’d be up for a glass about now.”

  “I need to cook this fish.” She ignored the wine and strode back toward the fire.

  “Tell you what.” Tongue tucked in his cheek, he strolled after her. “Since you caught it and cleaned it—neither of which I have any experience in—I’ll cook it.”

  “This isn’t your pretty kitchen. I don’t want my catch going to waste.”

  “Ah, a direct challenge.” He pushed the wine at her and snatched the skillet. “Sit down, drink your wine and watch the master.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and plucked a berry out of her hat. “You screw it up, I’m not catching more.”

  “Trust me.” His eyes met hers, held. “I won’t disappoint you, Liv.”

  “You don’t risk disappointment if you handle things yourself.”

  “True enough, but you miss some interesting adventures. I had to learn to cook,” he continued, and changed the tone to light as he dribbled oil in the skillet. “Out of self-defense. My mother believes tofu is all four of the major food groups. You have no idea what it’s like to be a growing boy and be faced with a meal of tofu surprise after a hard day of school.”

  Despite herself, her interest was caught. He’d unearthed the bag of herbed flour she’d packed and w
as expertly coating the fish. Without thinking, she sipped the wine and found the light Italian white perfect.

  She barely managed to muffle a sigh. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Good, that’s progress. You’ve spent most of our time together this round being sure you did and getting it dead wrong.” Satisfied, he slipped the fish into the hot oil to sizzle.

  “An hour ago you were furious with me.”

  “You got that right.”

  “And now you’re pouring wine, frying fish and sitting there as if nothing happened.”

  “Not as if nothing happened.” For him everything had happened. He just had to wait for her to catch up. “But I figure you’re pissed off enough for both of us, so why waste the energy?”