“We should get some sleep,” he said, closely watching her every expression. “We’ve had a tiring day.”
The sun had set and full darkness was rapidly chasing the twilight. Soon, she thought as she stretched out and nestled under their cover. He put on his shoes to go out and feed the fire, then returned to lie down beside her. His heavy arm draped over her waist and he pulled her to him, turning her so her face was nestled against his throat. He smelled like the aloe wipes, and wood smoke, and man.
He put his hand under all the shirts she wore, cupped her breast, rubbed the roughened side of his thumb over her nipple and brought it to tingling erection. She inhaled sharply. She’d meant to be calm, but calmness was beyond her. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe. This shouldn’t matter so much. He shouldn’t matter so much. Unfortunately, what should or should not be had no relation to what was.
He kissed her, his mouth light on hers. She was so tightly wound that for a moment she couldn’t relax, couldn’t respond. Just as she was beginning to sink against him, return the pressure of his mouth, he moved his lips to her temple. “Good night.”
Good night?
Good night! She stiffened in disbelief. She’d worked herself into a frenzy of worry and anticipation, and he wanted to sleep?
“No!” she protested, outrage in her tone.
“Yes.” He kissed her again, his hand still heavy on her breast. “You’re tired. I’m tired. Go to sleep.”
“Who died and put you in charge?” she demanded furiously. Oh, great; she’d descended to teenage taunts. This was twice in one day he’d destroyed her poise, she who never let turmoil ruffle the smooth surface of her life. She’d always been so careful not to let anyone matter this much to her, for this very reason…
She went very still as she gave up on her last shred of avoidance, which wasn’t working anyway. She could rationalize and hedge her bets all she wanted, but she was wasting both time and effort. Could she have fallen in love with him in just four days? As he’d pointed out, the time they’d been together was now the equivalent of about nineteen or twenty dates. Logically, he was right.
This was love. This was what people talked about, this painful, giddy, sorrowful, joyful, confusing explosion of emotion that didn’t respond to reason. It was like being drunk without the depressing effects that slowed thought and function. It was feeling helpless and revved up all at the same time, as if her skin were too tight for her body.
He didn’t respond to her taunt, other than to kiss her forehead as if he understood the turmoil that gripped her. Well, why wouldn’t he? He’d been in love before. He had experience. Maybe with enough experience she wouldn’t find herself acting like a fool, either, but she hoped to hell she never felt like this again. Once was enough. If this didn’t work out, she’d join a convent or maybe move to Florida where she’d be surrounded by people old enough to be her parents and she wouldn’t be tempted again.
She jerked his hand away from her breast and threw it to the side. “If we aren’t going to have sex, then keep your hands to yourself.” Realizing she was probably in love with him just made her angrier. Also realizing that she was on the verge of a temper tantrum was humiliating. She’d be damned if she’d beg him for sex. She’d be damned if she’d let him even if he begged for sex. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to grab his penis and twist it. That would teach him. Instead of Good Time Charlie, he’d have to rename it Corkscrew Charlie.
She could feel him shaking, just a little, feel the ragged edge to his breathing. He was laughing, damn him, though he had the good sense to try to hide it.
Bailey turned away from him, her fury renewed by the simple fact that she couldn’t even move so she wasn’t touching him. They had to touch; they had to lie close together, had to share their warmth.
Just to show him how little he mattered, she would go to sleep. And she hoped she snored.
Temptation gnawed at her. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to mangle him. Oh, hell—it had to be love.
She’d rather have plague. At least it was curable.
Calming herself took a good half hour, a half hour during which she felt him awake and watchful, attuned to every breath she took. How dare he be concerned about her? If he was truly that concerned, he’d have given her what she wanted.
It was a testament to her willpower that she truly did go to sleep.
30
BAILEY GENTLY SURFACED TO THE PLEASURE OF HIS WARM, hard hand moving from one breast to another, massaging and stroking. There was no sense of disorientation; she knew him immediately, knew who held her so securely. He lightly pulled and pinched her nipples, his hand slow and sure as he brought them to hardness. Pleasure eddied from her breasts in lazy ripples, flowing through her, beginning to call up the heat and fullness of desire.
She floated drowsily between pleasure and sleep. If she wanted more, all she had to do was push back against the erection that was prodding her. A simple invitation was all that was needed…
Her eyes snapped open as memory flooded back.
“Get that damn thing away from me!” she snapped, jerking away and trying to fight free of the heavy layers of clothes as well as his imprisoning arm. If he thought he could blow hot and cold and she’d jump to his tune, then his powers of perception sucked.
He fell over onto his back, laughing so hard she thought he’d choke. She thought about helping him choke. Finally she managed to roll over onto her stomach and lift herself on her elbows. She glared at him through the curtain of hair hanging in her face. He must have just replenished the fire, though she hadn’t awakened when he left the shelter. The light from the fire was flickering brightly, reflecting on the rock behind him and casting enough light into the shelter that she could see him fairly well as he clutched his stomach and howled with laughter. Gimlet-eyed, she waited for him to realize she didn’t see any humor in this at all.
“I can’t exactly take it off and put it in my pocket when I’m not using it,” he finally managed to say, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I don’t care where you put it,” she said flatly. “Just stop poking me with it.”
“I would ask if you’re in a better mood than when you went to sleep, but offhand I’d say no.” He was still smiling as he settled on his side again, curling a muscled arm under his head and with the other reaching to hook his hand around her waist and drag her back into position. She went stiffly, unhappy with the situation but knowing they pretty much had to sleep in that position. The only other options were to lie face-to-face in each other’s arms, which she wasn’t willing to do, or for her to spoon him, which she also wasn’t willing to do. His thighs slid against hers, her shoulders rested against his chest, and his body heat once more surrounded her—and the bulge in his pants nestled against her bottom, just like before.
He smoothed a tendril of hair out of her face, and irritably she jerked her head away from his touch. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for half an hour,” he murmured.
“I don’t know why. You wanted me to sleep; I was sleeping. Leave me alone.”
His arm tightened around her. “I was trying to be considerate. You were so nervous you wouldn’t have enjoyed it,” he explained.
Her lips tightened. “How would you know? You didn’t give me a chance.”
“No point in taking the chance. You’d been getting more and more tense all afternoon. I don’t know what was bothering you, but I could wait until you were either ready to talk about it or you came to terms with it yourself.”
“Stop trying to be so understanding,” she said grumpily. “It doesn’t suit you.” But she didn’t elbow him when he snuggled her closer.
“So, are you ready to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Have you come to terms with it, whatever it is?”
“No! Leave me alone, I told you. I want to go to sleep.” She wasn’t at all sleepy now, but he didn’t have to know that.
He pushed her hair to
the side and nuzzled the nape of her neck, his lips and breath burning on her skin. “I know this isn’t easy for you, trusting someone,” he murmured, the movement of his lips the softest, lightest caress. “You like being alone.”
No, she didn’t. She was more comfortable alone. There was a difference.
“It’s risky, caring about someone,” he continued in that soft tone, barely above a whisper. His voice soothed over her like aged, mellow whiskey. “And you don’t like taking risks. You’ve kept people at arm’s length because you know you’re a softie, and the best way to protect yourself is not to let anyone get close.”
A small shock reverberated through her, leaving behind a spurt of panic. “I’m not a softie.” She acted calm and remote because she was a calm and remote person. She didn’t cry because she wasn’t a crier. She most definitely was not a softie.
“You’re a softie,” he repeated. “Do you think I don’t remember you talking to me, after the crash, when you still thought I was a stick-up-my-ass sourpuss? Your voice was as gentle as if you were talking to a baby. You patted me.”
“I did not.” Had she?
“Yes, you did.”
Maybe she had. “I don’t remember,” she grumbled. “But if I did, it was because I was grateful.”
“My ass. You’d have pulled me out of the plane because you were grateful. You wouldn’t have nearly killed yourself trying to take care of me. You wouldn’t have given me your warmest piece of clothing when you were freezing and obviously needed it.”
She sniffed. “I take my gratitude seriously.”
“Uh-huh. I think you’re a complete marshmallow.” He repeated the charge as he slid his hand down her arm and around her waist to slide under her shirts, where it rested on her stomach. The slight roughness of his fingertips rasped against her smooth skin as he began making little circles with them. “But I like marshmallows. I like the way they taste, the way they feel.” His lips moved from the back of her neck to where the curve of her shoulder began and he gently closed his teeth over the muscle there, biting down ever so slightly.
Bailey’s entire body clenched. The wave of desire was so sudden and intense that her head fell back as her spine arched.
“I like biting into a marshmallow.” His tongue soothed over the barely noticeable sting, then he plucked at the muscle again with his teeth while his hand swept up to her breasts and mirrored the action with her nipples.
Abruptly her heart was hammering and her breath was coming in rapid little pants as a deep throb began between her legs. She had never before been aroused so fast and so intensely, but her body was already accustomed to his touch. This was the fourth night she’d slept in his arms. He’d kissed her, touched her. Her body had been ready a long time before her mind caught up.
In one long caress he slid his hand down her stomach again, slipped his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of her sweatpants. The heat of his palm scorched the coolness of her butt as his hand moved down, then back up. When he reversed its path yet again, she felt the tug on her pants, felt them being pulled down to bare her.
She was so tense she was trembling, but it was a tension that was far different from what she’d suffered before. Even though she was still fully clothed except for her buttocks, still covered by all their protective layers, that part of her felt excruciatingly naked, the damp folds between her legs exposed and vulnerable.
He went straight there, to the heart of her. Those lean, hard fingers delved into the folds, found her, opened her. “I like peaches, too,” he whispered as he worked two fingers deep into her. “All juicy, and warm from the sun. Pull your legs up a little, sweetheart. That’s good.”
He played with her, the slow motion of his hand rasping over exquisitely sensitive nerve endings, bringing them achingly alive. She choked back a moan as it went on and on, driving her mad and pleasing her all at once. Then his fingers left her, left her body, left her panting and quivering, left her wanting. She lay motionless, paralyzed with anticipation, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she heard his zipper slide down, a whisper of sound as he tore open a condom and rolled it on, then he adjusted his position a little and pressed himself to her.
Her breath hitched, caught in an agony of suspense as she waited. She lifted her arm to reach back and touch his face, slide her hand around the back of his neck.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushed…just a little, then he pulled back. Her flesh had barely begun giving, opening to him. She waited, and he returned, with a leisurely rocking motion that applied just enough pressure to begin entering her before he pulled back yet again.
“Cam…” She whispered his name, the sound floating in the darkness. The air was cold but they were snug in their shelter, cuddled together, heat burning between them in the places where their naked flesh touched. She said his name, just his name, and nothing else was needed.
He came to her again. His palm flattened on her belly, bracing her, holding her as he applied pressure and steadily held it. She felt her flesh begin to dampen, to open. The urge to push back, to hurry the process, was almost irresistible, but what he was doing was too delicious to forgo. She heard a whimper, knew it was her own, and yet she held steady.
She had never been more acutely aware of her own body, or of the hot reality of the sex act. The thick, bulbous head of his penis simply pressed, demanding entrance, and slowly her body gave to the demand until suddenly the surrender was complete and she stretched around him as the tip sank into her.
He went no deeper, but held there while she shivered and trembled, accustoming herself to the hot bulk of his intrusion. She was surprised by the intensity of the sensation, bordering on pain. It had been a long time for her and she’d expected some small discomfort, but not this feeling of shock, of being overwhelmed.
With the same slow, agonizingly gradual movement, he pulled himself out of her. Her flesh released his as reluctantly as she had accepted it; her inner muscles clenched, trying to hold him. His breath hissed out as he dragged free.
“What are you doing?” she cried in protest.
“Playing,” he said, the single word rough, almost guttural. Once more his hips pressed, her flesh parted, and he lodged the head within her before pulling back. Over and over she accepted that shallow penetration until he was slipping easily in and out of her, until her body was burning and her mind was fogged so that she was aware of nothing but him, wanted nothing but him. Dimly she was aware that he was trembling, too, from the effort he was making at control, that his breath was ragged and that low, harsh sounds were tearing from his throat at every dip he made with his penis into her body. She was glad that he was also suffering. She wanted to come, she desperately needed to come, but their positions prevented that. She wanted her legs around him. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, it was only fair that he couldn’t, either.
She didn’t know how much time passed before suddenly his “playing” was more than either of them could bear for even one minute longer. He jerked out of her and rolled her to face him, pushing violently at her sweatpants in an effort to get them off of her. She tried to help, kicking and writhing in an effort to reach them, and managed to get one leg out before he was on her, pushing his legs between hers and spreading them wide before surging into her to the hilt with one strong thrust.
Bailey hooked her legs around his, clenched his ass in her hands, and pulled him into her as hard as she could, coming on that first deep stroke, her back arched and animal cries tearing from her throat. He rode her through it, and she was just beginning to fall away from the crest, her body going limp, when he began shuddering with his own climax.
She felt almost as if they had crashed again.
She drifted, surfacing toward awareness before sinking down again. Her heart was hammering, with an odd echo that she gradually recognized as the gallop of his heartbeat. His chest was rising and falling like bellows as he gulped in air. Heat rose from their bodies in waves, and though she was half naked and somehow comple
tely uncovered, she wasn’t cold. She thought she might never be cold again.
“Holy shit,” he finally said, his voice drained.
Her hand flailed limply for a moment before she managed to pat his shoulder.
With an effort he pulled himself off her and collapsed by her side, plucking at some of the garments that had been tossed aside until he was able to drag one or two of them over their bodies.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he warned, though he sounded as if he was halfway there, himself. “We have to get this straightened…get you dressed…I have to check the fire…” His voice trailed off.
After a minute he swore, and heaved himself to a sitting position. “And if I don’t do it right now, I’ll be asleep myself.” He peeled off the condom and cleaned himself, then spent a few seconds tucking, straightening, and zipping before crawling out to see to the fire.
That was the great thing about condoms, Bailey thought drowsily: no cleanup for her. All she had to do was sleep.
A wave of frigid air washed over her and she groaned. So much for never feeling cold again. Sitting up, she managed to get her sweatpants untangled from around her leg, got them back on and pulled up, and began restoring order to the complete disarray of their covers. Cam slid back into the shelter, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the light from the fire. He helped her get positioned, then he lay down beside her and arranged the last layer over them before collapsing on his back and pulling her close to his side.
She nestled her head on his shoulder, the fit as natural as if they’d been sleeping together for years. She felt a little dazed—no, a lot dazed. And relaxed. And sated. Maybe even a little sore. But most of all, she felt as if they fit together in a way that was terrifying because it was so perfect.