Catch a Falling Star (15 page)

Raising his hand to
take hers, his heated brown stare fixed finally on her blues.
His stomach muscles tightened and his hand reflexively followed
suit. There was nothing doing but to act and the pilot drew her
to him, his other hand moving to the small of her back where it
lay firm, holding her against him where nothing could hide the
need he felt for her. Yet he did not bring his lips to hers; he
merely held her against him, close enough that the luscious tips
of her breasts were made to rub against him.

The contact wasn't
enough for her. She deliberately, slowly, undid his shirt
buttons and pressed herself against his chest. She was caught up
in the new fires igniting inside her until she was having
trouble focusing her thoughts or even thinking at all. Her
eyelids lowered partway as she kept her gaze locked on his, a
smile teasing the corners of her mouth. When she felt his hard
erection move against her, her mouth opened on an exhaled breath
at the elevation of desire it awoke in her.

She knew what sex was
in all the forms the farm boys had the vocabulary to describe.
She'd just never experienced it for herself. Her breath caught
and she rubbed her belly against him, a sensual smile on her
lips as she put her hands in his hair and pulled his head down
so she could cover his mouth with hers. She wanted him, oh, did
she ever, but...

Pulling her head
back, her eyes once again locked on his, she held on to his
shoulders as she stepped into the hot water, only momentarily
distracted by the sting emanating from her ankle. “I really,
really need...“
you
, she managed to stop herself from
saying it, though she made no attempt to hide its unsaid
implication, “...to get this day off my skin. Perhaps if you can
help, it will take less time?”

Miguel grinned
wolfishly at her and helped her get settled into the deep tub.
It had enough of a lip that he could partially sit upon the
porcelain back with little danger of getting water on his coated
burns. His hands slid down over the woman's shoulders until his
fingertips touched the hot water, then drew back to collect soap
into his palm.

“You are out of
Freeze-It for your ankle,” he commented, thinking of the painful
looking bruising. That didn't concern him nearly as much as the
swelling did. “You are going to need to keep it up.”

After a quick glance
at his hips she refrained from making a naughty comment that had
nothing to do with her foot. “Some ice will take care of it.”
She managed the response through a wicked grin while she rotated
her ankle to emphasize that it was nothing serious, trying to
force herself to behave.

Snorting rudely to
let her know he did not buy it, the pilot let his eyes roam over
her hair, watching it wave upon the water before partially
submerging. Rubbing his hands together until he had a good sud
going, Miguel carried his slick touch to her smooth neck,
lifting the heavy hair aside before running them in a leisurely
pace to her shoulders where his fingers slid over the delicate
bones before sliding down her arms. He hadn't forgotten the fat
neighbor. At best he figured they had a couple of hours before
the house was stormed and he was arrested. Until then, he
intended to have some epic memories to take with him.

Submerging his hands
in the water enabled him to caress the silky swell of the sides
of Lyrianne's ample breasts. Using his thumbs, he stroked them
in a teasing glide that deliberately avoided the tight peaks he
could just see beneath the soapy water.

Holding a sponge in
her hand, she kept trying to concentrate on scrubbing her legs.
It wasn't working and she finally slid from under his hands to
submerge herself. With her hair soaked, she sat up again and
smiled at him as she poured shampoo into one hand then raised
both hands to lather up her hair.

Turning her back on
him, though she honestly didn't want him to stop what he'd been
doing, she released her hair and pulled the tub's stopper to let
the water drain. As the sudsy water began to swirl away, she
turned the water on again then reached for the large pitcher
kept beside the tub for rinsing.

“If I'd been
thinking, I'd have used the shower downstairs.” She raised an
eyebrow when she found herself finishing the thought with the
image of pulling him into the shower with her. Perhaps she could
pull him into the tub... She gave him a considering look over
her shoulder, contemplating it, then grinned at him before
forcing herself to behave once again.

She wiped at the suds
that cascaded down her face then filled the pitcher again for
another rinsing. The soapy water ran down and into the drain
until she was satisfied her hair was free of shampoo.

Replacing the pitcher
on the shelf, she stood. Pulling her dripping hair over one
shoulder, she squeezed and pressed it in long strokes to rid it
of as much water as possible. Her skin glowed and she felt
renewed, her exhaustion replaced for the moment by the
exhilaration of being clean. “Help me out? There are towels
behind you in the cupboard.”

She didn't appear to
mind that he was looking at her. In fact, she liked that he
didn't seem to mind, either. Perhaps she was a hussy and had
never had a chance to find out until now. But, hussy or not, and
though she blushed, she stood and waited, having to be satisfied
with a sheen of water and long strands of wet hair for covering.

He had stood when she
did and was already looking for the towels, using it as an
excuse to hide the very evident way her bathing had affected
him. Finding a soft fluffy one, he turned with it in hand and
decided not to give it to her. It was far more preferable to
admire the figure of this fine creature, naked save for the
water that dripped and ran on her skin, and the tantalizing
screen of her hair that did nothing to hide her from him.

Lowering his hand, he
let the towel drop to the floor before he stepped over to the
tub and simply scooped her out into his arms to better avoid
knocking her injured ankle on the hard sides. Rather than set
her down with the towel, however, the pilot walked right out of
the bathroom with her.

“Point me in the
right direction,” he told her, his voice low and quiet to keep
the growl in it at bay. He might have been feeling particularly
amorous but he was still a gentleman, mother save him.

Point him in the
right direction to what? His unexpected action and request –
order? - had her confused for a moment. Only for a moment,
however. “Oh.” She put her arms around his neck and nodded to
the closed door next to the bathroom. Her room.

She pushed away the
shock and censure that part of her still insisted on clinging
to. What was she doing? He was a stranger. Gorgeous and more man
than she'd ever thought would give her a second look, true, but
she didn't know him. Yet, she felt more comfortable and trusting
with him than she had ever felt with anyone outside her family.
But, he would be gone soon. She'd never see him again. She'd
never have a chance again, either.
Stop thinking
, she
told herself.
Just go with it.

She reached out and
turned the knob, giving the door a little push. This was her
sanctum. It wasn't girly and frilly but that wasn't her. The
color blue dominated the room. From the strong deep azure of the
curtains to the quilt on her bed which covered just about every
shade of blue there was. The secondary colors of the room were
green and gold, found in the glass base of the lamp and the
upholstery of the chair that sat in front of her vanity.
Bookshelves lined one wall with real books. Received as gifts or
scavenged treasures from years of searching, they filled each
shelf. The room was peaceful and ordered and just as she liked
it to be. Yet, she was suddenly worried he'd think it shabby and
ugly. She said nothing, though, as he entered with her in his
arms.

Shabby wasn’t what
came to mind, as it turned out. Miguel did pause and let his
eyes search the room, not expecting that it would look as
comfortable and appealing as it did. What had he expected? Mouse
holes and cobwebs? Peeling paint and broken floor boards?
Shaking his head mutely, he turned to the bed and away from the
woman’s collected treasures, more interested in discovering the
bounty she naturally possessed.

As he set her down
gently upon the bed, he wondered what made him think she was
devoid of hardware and why that intrigued him. Even the poorest
farmers back on Earth could afford some of the cheaper
enhancements that had become so important to daily living. And
what did it matter either way?

Lowering himself to
the floor and one knee, he propped his arms up on the side of
the bed and gazed at this fascinating woman. What was he to do?

Lyrianne watched him
for bit, impatient as well as insecure in her inexperience,
wondering why he hadn't joined her on the bed. Had she been
right with her first thoughts? He didn't find her attractive.
She knew that men's bodies sometimes reacted despite their
mind's protest. He was strong enough to resist and that was to
his credit, she told herself, though it made her feel strange to
think he'd want to.

She'd thought the way
he'd looked at her meant something but how much of that was
wishful thinking on her part? Who knows, maybe he had a girl –
or a wife! - at home. Hell's bells, maybe he didn't even like
girls at all. Or, it might just be he wanted nothing to do with
her; a girl from a nothing planet with nothing to offer him that
was even close to what he could find where he came from. What
must he think of her?

She really was a
hussy, she thought with shame. She was no different than the
whores who went after anything wearing pants, ready and willing
to spread their legs at the crook of a finger or the wave of a
credit chip, just as Fat Farley had accused her of in the
basement. Was that what Miguel was thinking, too?

Suddenly feeling
naked, exposed, and no longer warmed by what she'd stupidly
thought was his mutual desire for her, she felt like four kinds
of a fool. She slid down to the foot of the bed, taking the
quilt with her. Wrapping it around her, she went to her closet
and pulled down a big box. Going back to the bed, she sat on the
edge of it, her back to where she'd left him, too ashamed to
even look in his direction. She pulled out a roll of gauze and
an ankle brace that had been in her family longer than the
twenty years she'd been alive. It still worked so it remained
and she'd claimed it. Releasing her leg from the quilt's
confines, she set the ankle brace on the mattress and began to
release the gauze from its wrapping, deliberately avoiding
acknowledgment of his presence.

She had no idea what
to say to him. Sorry? I was totally in the wrong? Yeah. She
should. She probably owed him an apology, but knowing it didn't
make it any easier to say. No easier, in fact, than looking up
and seeing what he really was thinking of her confirmed in his
expression. She couldn't even do that.

That she couldn't
read the very obvious desire in his eyes did not occur to him.
Every part of him -
every
part- was hungry to touch her
and yet by him showing restraint and not simply going feral
hound dog on the woman, he appeared to have missed his
opportunity at all.

Muffling a sigh on
his shoulder, he sat back and raised his knees. Watching her
cover up and putter about, he started to cool off; his ardor and
his skin where her bathwater wet him. What really told him he
was a jerk was when she started fussing with her ankle. Yeah,
real sleek of him. Thinking of sex when she was obviously in
pain.

“Want me to help you
with that?” he asked, not expecting she wanted it but offering
all the same.

“If you'd like, I
guess. But, you don't have to. I can do it myself.” When she
looked up, picking at the edge of the gauze, she felt her cheeks
burn. The smile she'd meant to offer him trembled and she
quickly looked down again, a single tear trickling down her
cheek. Why did it hurt so much to know he didn't want her? She'd
only just met him and very soon she'd never see him again. What
was
the matter with her?

Miguel got to his
feet smoothly and walked over to join her, seeing the tear as it
rolled across her cheek. Frowning with concern, he reached out
and tenderly brushed his knuckle across it and asked, “Did I
make you cry,
querida
?”

“No! Of course you
didn't.” The denial came quickly. Probably too quickly but she
didn't blame him and she couldn't stand the thought that he
might think she did. It was all her doing. All of it. Including
making a fool of herself and then feeling sorry for herself. She
uncovered her leg even more then extended it for him.

“I guess I've just
had a rough day all around and, before you think otherwise, I'm
glad I'm the one who found you. I wouldn't have wanted it any
other way.”

She gripped the top
of the quilt just above her breasts, holding it in place with
one hand while looking down at her other. She couldn't look at
him. She couldn't stand seeing the disdain, or pity, or, worst
of all, disinterest that his look might hold. She had to be able
to leave some fragment of her fantasy alive to help keep her
warm once he was gone.

When she continued,
her voice held nothing but the genuine concern she felt for his
safety. “You need to get out of here, Miguel. You've wasted too
much time already.” Her free hand, her stubborn, rebellious free
hand, wanted to touch his lips, his jaw line, his bare chest,
his gentle hands. She wanted to kiss him again and again. She
wanted... Chastising herself, she tightened her grip on the
folds of the patchwork bed cover. “I meant it, by the way. Take
the hoverbike. It will allow you to get further away.”

Lyrianne handed him
the gauze then brushed his hair back from his forehead. She
continued the motion by combing her fingers through his thick
dark hair, thinking there was nothing particularly seductive
about the gesture. He shouldn't have cause to worry she was
throwing herself at him yet again and still it was intimate
enough to satisfy at least a tiny bit of her craving to touch
him.