His fingers delved into her moistness and she groaned, her hips thrusting upward, anticipating. She clung to him, wanting more, nearly begging him to take her. Closing his mind against any more recriminations, he climbed over her, pried her knees farther open with his own. Then, staring down into the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, he pushed forward and entered her swiftly, feeling only the slightest resistance, watching as her face twisted in pain and she cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. He withdrew, pushed again, and she gasped.
“Casey—”
“Don’t stop!” she cried, and he thrust forward, letting his animal urges take over, feeling her warm and wet and willing as she met each of his strokes with her own.
It had been so long.
He tried to wait, but couldn’t, and within a few more short strokes, he poured himself into her, collapsing against her, holding her close. “Casey, Casey, Casey,” he whispered into the sweat-dampened strands of her hair. “What have you done to me?”
Casey heard the words and blinked back tears. What have you done to me? she asked silently, for her world had changed this night. Forever. And he didn’t even know. Hadn’t even bothered to take off his sweater. Rolling to one side, he held her close, one arm draped over her breasts, the other around her abdomen, pulling her spoon fashion against him.
She felt cheap and told herself it didn’t matter. This wasn’t the nineteenth century and she was in her late twenties—which must be some kind of record these days. She’d decided over a week ago to change her life, to become a woman and shake off the shackles of being Jonah McKee’s little girl, so she wasn’t going to cry, not when everything was going her way.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes. Like Scarlett, she’d worry about everything tomorrow.
She awoke later in the night and felt him kissing her back, his fingers teasing her nipples. Her entire body tingled and she didn’t resist as he licked her spine, but rolled over to face him. His eyes were at half-mast as he kissed her, his moans low and primal.
His sweater was gone and his naked skin surrounded her. Flesh upon flesh. She kissed his shoulders and neck and eyes, then slid lower to press her tongue wetly against the nipples buried in the swirling hairs of his chest. Sweat dampened his skin as it dampened hers. His abdomen retracted as she traced an imaginary line with her tongue to his belly button.
“Casey, wait,” he groaned, hands twining in her hair. Pulling her upward, he kissed her and the hands caressing her explored her back, her breasts, her rump. He rolled her onto her back, and slowly, while staring at her with eyes as dark as obsidian, he parted her with his fingers, delving deep, causing a deep rumble in the back of her throat.
She arched upward, moist and hot and wanting, and he didn’t deny her. This time he spread her legs, kissed her, and then he eased into her and moved slowly, back and forth, deeper and deeper. She felt the world begin to tilt and spin and she called out his name, her voice rough as she moved against him in a timeless dance. His rhythm increased and the stars behind her eyes collided in a fiery shower of sparks. Her body convulsed, and he cried out and fell atop her, spent and loving, kissing her temple and holding her close. “Casey...” He murmured her name as if it were a caress. “Oh, Casey.” Snuggling against him, she wished the night would last forever.
“You were a virgin?” Sloan stared at her in disbelief and she saw the condemnation in his eyes as he looked from her to the sheet.
“Does it matter?”
He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Of course it matters.”
“Not to me.”
“Damn it, Casey, why didn’t you say something?”
“Like what?” she countered, picking up her clothes and feeling a stain of embarrassment wash up her cheeks. “Excuse me, Sloan, could you stop so I can give you my complete sexual history?”
“No, but—”
“It’s not that big of a deal.” She’d decided that much during the night when she’d slept nestled soundly in the warm protection of his arms, and now he was acting as if she was some kind of criminal.
“Not a big deal. Then why—”
“I never met the right man, okay?” she said quickly, then when his black eyes flashed with regret, she bit her tongue. “I—”
“Damn it all to hell!”
“Look, just forget it, okay? Pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Can you?” His eyes bored into hers.
“If I have to.”
“I don’t do casual sex.”
She smiled cynically. “Neither do I, and I guess I can prove it.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Let’s not argue about it. It’s too late to change anything, anyway. I’m going to clean up.”
She tried to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, spinning her so quickly that she dropped her sweater and stood naked in front of him. He, on the other hand, had the advantage of having stepped into his jeans.
“We can’t just shrug this off.”
“I’m not trying to.” She angled her chin up defiantly. His eyes, still flashing angrily, moved from her face to her breasts and lower still to the dark curls at the apex of her legs. He swallowed as he lifted his gaze, his fingers digging deep into her arm, and for a second she thought he might kiss her.
“This was a mistake.” But desire flamed in his eyes.
“Then we won’t make another one, will we?” Yanking her arm away, she strode to the bathroom not bothering to lock the door behind her. She was disappointed in his reaction, but what had she expected? Not that she was going to tell him she’d never been with a man, of course, but the telltale signs on the bed had been her undoing. She hadn’t been able to lie and say that she’d cut herself shaving or something.
She twisted on the hot water, waited while rusted, ancient pipes groaned, then stepped under the spray. She washed her body and tingled a little when she touched herself between her legs. Smiling as the water cascaded over her head and shoulders, she felt a small triumph. True, she’d always thought she’d save herself for the man she loved, but she didn’t regret making love to Sloan. In fact, standing here in the hot spray, she imagined the touch and feel of his hands and mouth all over again. Maybe it hadn’t been a well-planned, romantic act, but it had happened, and she was a firm believer in dealing with reality.
It wasn’t the end of the world.
In fact, a silly little part of her thought it might be just the beginning. She lathered her body and imagined an affair with Sloan. He was exciting and mysterious and sexy, and while he wasn’t perfect husband material, she wasn’t looking for a husband.
So what is it you are looking for?
What about love?
Well, what about it? She had always wanted to believe in love, though her parents’ marriage was proof enough that either love didn’t exist at all, or didn’t endure. Lots of her friends were already divorced and working on their second marriages. But deep down, true love must exist. Max and Skye, Beth and Jenner seemed proof enough, though both couples had suffered through hell before they’d found heaven and true love.
She had to believe that love endured, but not for everyone, and certainly, from her limited track record, not for her. Her few dates in college and short-term relationship with Peter didn’t give her much perspective. As for Sloan...she bit her lip. He’d already had his taste of love; she knew that from the look of adoration that came to his eyes whenever he spoke of his deceased wife. Now that was love, the kind a person only finds once in a lifetime, and only if he’s lucky.
Rinsing her hair, she decided to be pragmatic. She’d made love with Sloan and enjoyed it, and though she really didn’t believe in affairs, she saw no other option with Sloan. So she’d have to be content to be with him today and perhaps tomorrow and then, once they were back in Rimrock, she’d have to steel herself to say goodbye. Lucky for her she wasn’t in love.
Her throat clogged at the thought and she leaned against the wall of the shower stall.
Her knees were suddenly weak when she thought about how easily she’d given herself to him, how much she’d wanted him, how easy it would be to fall in love with him. Don’t be silly, she told herself. It was just sex, nothing more. But it felt like more. A lot more.
She took in a bracing breath and squared her shoulders. She couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. Sooner or later she had to face him. She was about to step out of the shower when she saw him through the hot mist. Naked, his jaw set, he stepped into the shower.
“Hey!”
“You want me to leave?” he asked as the water splashed and cascaded over him.
She wanted to lie, but couldn’t. She shook her head and he came to her, took her face between his hands and kissed her until her knees were weak. His slick body pressed hard against hers and his mouth was everywhere.
His hands tangled in her hair and he kissed her hard. “Tell me no,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Oh, hell, I should be shot for this.” His fingers found her rump. Lifting her off her feet, pressing her back up against the shower stall, he entered her. Gasping, she grabbed his shoulders and held on as he moved upward, groaning and straining, his body filling hers. Closing her eyes, feeling the water wash over them, she wrapped her legs around his waist and hung on as he pressed her ever upward until the world seemed to splinter. She collapsed against him, her head bowed against his shoulder.
“Casey,” he gasped. “Sweet, sweet Casey.” He held her tightly and brushed soft kisses against her wet skin.
When she finally lifted her head, she managed a smile. “I guess you don’t call this casual sex.”
“With you, nothing’s casual.”
“Mmm. But still a mistake.”
His grin was positively wicked. “Of the highest order,” he admitted before kissing her again and making her lose all concept of time and place.
Sloan mentally kicked himself over and over again. He’d seduced Casey McKee. Jenner’s little sister. No, Jenner’s virgin little sister. Not once, not twice, but three times within twelve hours. How could he have been so stupid? He’d always been cool when it came to women. Only Jane had turned him inside out.
And now Casey. He ran a hand through his hair and listened to her humming—humming, for Pete’s sake—in the bathroom. The sheet mocked him. Idiot! What was the matter with him? He was supposed to protect her, for crying out loud, not steal her virtue, not climb into the shower like a lusty beast. He threw the covers over the evidence that reminded him of how he’d put himself and his needs above hers.
This was crazy. Yet he couldn’t blame only himself. She was responsible, too. And she had been more than willing. But that didn’t make it right. He kicked his duffel bag and sent it flying across the room. Even now, when he knew better, when the proof of his mistake was right under the crumpled bedclothes, he imagined kissing her again, touching her and making love to her until they were both exhausted.
He remembered the texture of her slick skin, how it looked in the shower, rosy from the hot water. How easy it had been to strip, press her against the tile walls and enter her sweet moistness. He grew hard just thinking about her. He closed his eyes, cursed and was thankful that the sanding crews were out. He’d heard them early this morning, working on the roads, making it possible for him to return Casey to her home and family.
His guts twisted at that thought. If Jenner ever got wind of what had happened, he’d come at Sloan fists flying. Sloan didn’t blame him; he’d do the same. Even in these days of equal rights, women’s open sexuality and guilt-free sex, he believed that a man should live by a strict moral code, as should a woman. As he’d told Casey, he didn’t believe in casual sex, and though he wasn’t old-fashioned enough to think that a person had to be married to have sex, he thought it was probably best to love a person before knowing them physically. As he had with Jane.
Although—and he felt guilty for acknowledging the fact—his lovemaking with Casey had been every bit as satisfying as sleeping with Jane. Maybe more so. Before last night, he wouldn’t have believed that he could be so emotionally attached to a woman, but Casey had changed all that.
Damn her.
Still being in love with Jane had been safe, and it had helped assuage the guilt he felt whenever he thought of her and little Tony. “Forgive me,” he said. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet and flipped it open to a picture of Jane and Tony taken years ago. Their images had faded with time. Behind the photograph, in a secret pocket, was his wedding ring—a wide gold band. What a sentimental fool he was. And a hypocrite. The same wallet that held his gold band also held a small supply of condoms—just in case.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered just as the door to the bathroom opened. Casey, her hair still damp, her face flushed, her gorgeous body covered with wrinkled clothes, stepped into the room. He closed the wallet and slapped it into his back pocket. “We’d better go.”
“Yes, well...” She picked up her belongings and seemed embarrassed.
“The roads are clear.”
“That’s good.”
“We might make it home today.”
Her shoulders hunched a bit. “Great.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the stubble of beard on his jaw. “Look, I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of Neanderthal, that I go around bed hopping and jumping in showers and—”
“Don’t apologize.” Her head snapped up and there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “Why do you always think you have to apologize?”
“Because whether you admit it or not, this was a big deal to you.”
“Male ego talking,” she quipped.
“Male ego? After you’ve waited for twenty-odd years to—”
“Let’s not talk about it. Not yet. It was just sex, okay? And it was time I got my feet wet—or whatever other body part was involved.”
“Jeez, Casey, I’m just trying to say that—”
“What?”
Her eyes beseeched him and he wanted to tell her that she was special, that whenever he was around her he got a little crazy, he did become a Neanderthal, an overprotective, sex-starved Neanderthal, who wanted to hold her all night long, to touch her hair, to kiss her lips, to whisper his most intimate secrets. Instead he cleared his throat. “It won’t happen again.”
One of her dark eyebrows arched. “Not even if I try my best to seduce you?”
He sucked in a swift breath. “You’re something else.”
“I certainly hope so. Shouldn’t we be leaving?”
“Fine.” He checked his watch, though he didn’t know why. “Right.” She had a way of turning his thoughts around. “Let’s go.” Slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he reached for White’s shotgun and took a final look around the room. He’d remember this place. For a lot of reasons. Some of which he’d rather not examine too closely.
Again Sloan stopped by the restaurant, had his thermos filled with coffee and ordered a bag of hot corn bread and scones, then hauled it all to his truck.
Outside, the air was crisp, and dawn was creeping over the mountains, allowing sunlight to slide into the town. Casey stepped off the front porch and reached for the door handle of the truck.
CRACK!
The report of a rifle blasted through the still morning air.
Casey’s heart froze. The bullet whizzed past her head and bored into the fender.
“Oh, hell!” Sloan, on the other side of the truck, vaulted the vehicle, grabbed Casey and dragged her around to the driver’s side. “Stay down,” he growled, scanning the surrounding hills.
Casey was shaking as Sloan threw open the pickup’s door. “Wh-what was that?”
“What do you think it was?”
“Oh, God, someone’s shooting at us.”
“Looks that way.” He pressed her body against the truck, using his as protection. “Wait here,” he whispered against her ear.
“But—”
He’d already slid along the seat
of the truck. He reached forward and started the engine. With a roar and a plume of exhaust, the pickup came to life. Casey trembled.
“Can you drive this thing?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Do it.” Tucked low, he shifted across the seat to the passenger side. People peered through the windows of the hotel. “Get in and keep your head down!”
“Are you sure?”
“Now!” He was crouched on the floor of the truck, the shotgun at the window, and Casey climbed in behind the wheel, hunching down. She slammed the door, stretched to find the pedals, shoved the truck into gear and tromped on the accelerator. The wheels spun. Snow flew.
Another blast from the rifle. Snow in front of the truck sprayed onto the windshield.
“Go!”
With a silent prayer, Casey, ducked so low that she could barely see over the dash, drove like a maniac down the main street of the little village. Her heart pounding, she watched as Sloan stared through the open window, the shotgun poised.
“There’s a turn at the far end of town. Take it and drive over the bridge. Whoever he is, he won’t be able to get a clean shot at us there.”
“Where is he?” she cried.
“On the ridge above town. Somewhere.” Frustration sliced through his words.
By this time, people were peering out the windows of the few cabins that lined the road. With Sloan tensed beside her, looking out the window, shotgun propped against his shoulder, she cranked the wheel. The truck swung wide, tires spinning wildly before the body straightened just as they reached the bridge. The truck shimmied over the icy surface, skidding sideways. Casey sucked in her breath, eased up on the gas and they slid over the crossing.
“Just keep going,” Sloan ordered, and Casey did exactly as she was told, hitting the accelerator as the tires gripped the road again. The snow was deep, but the truck plowed through the drifts and eventually she saw the turn to the main road.