Cinderella's Big Sky Groom (8 page)

“Pretty,” he whispered. “So soft…”

She smiled to herself. After all, he must be talking about her. About her skin. About her body. He certainly couldn't mean her everyday, unadorned underwear.

His steely forearm encircled her. He applied a gentle but definite pressure. She did moan then, as her body melted backward into his.

His hips cradled hers. He was still very much aroused. She could feel him, all along her back. She moaned again.

And he slipped his other arm around her, moving both hands up enough to cup her breasts. She looked down, saw his hands there, so tan against the plain cotton whiteness of her bra.

“Oh…” She sighed. “Oh, my…” She knew he could feel her hardened nipples, even through the bra. His thumbs were tracing them. “My oh my oh my…”

He chuckled in her ear, the sound as arousing as what his hands were doing to her breasts. He nuzzled her hair, then lower, putting his mouth on the side of her throat. She felt his tongue, moist and warm, tracing a circular pattern onto the tender skin of her neck.

Still holding her close with one encompassing arm, he used his free hand to take her bra straps down.

Seconds later, her bra was at her waist. And those hands of his cupped her naked breasts.

She let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her eyes drooped closed. “Tell me…I'm not doing this….”

She felt his lips against her hair. “Sorry, Ms. Taylor. But you
are
doing this….”

He slipped one hand between them and with laudable dexterity unhooked her bra. It dropped away. She didn't even bother looking down to see where it fell.

As a matter of fact, she was not going to open her eyes. Not for a while, anyway.

This felt absolutely lovely. But things had moved so very far beyond dangerous. She wasn't taking any extra chances.

She kept her eyes closed.

His hands were roving again. The right one glided down over her stomach—and lower. She shuddered and gave another small, hungry cry as that hand slid between her thighs.

He was…cupping her.

She shuddered again. She could feel her own wetness—wondered wildly if
he
could feel it, even through the fabric of her panties and panty hose. With that cupping hand he pulled her up even tighter to him—was it possible that she could get any closer?

He whispered something soft in her ear. It might have been the word
yes
—or something else, something that wasn't really even a word at all. His cupping hand stroked her. She thought she just might faint.

And then at last he broke that intimate hold—to take her panties and panty hose away. He slipped slow, insistent fingers under both waistbands and then eased them down.

She helped him. Blindly, still not daring to look,
her hands meeting his hands, at her waist and then lower.

The nylon clung. Their hands kept brushing, fingers almost entwining, warm and eager and a little hurried now. Together, they managed to push the fabric down over her hips at last. She handled the rest of it herself, somehow getting it all down over her knees and her ankles, yanking her feet free, kicking the wad of stocking and panties aside.

She rose again, her eyes still shut, still with her back to him. He was waiting for her. His arms went around her, the muscles flexing, hard and so very warm. He went on caressing her, roaming her body freely now, over her breasts, down her belly—to the nest of curls below.

He touched her. There, in her most private place. And she had nothing, no last stitch of cotton or nylon, to protect her from that touch.

Gently he parted the curls, finding the slick, heated center of her.

And stroking.

Oh my oh my oh my oh my…

Did she cry those words aloud? Or were they only in her head? She couldn't tell. Couldn't separate one sensation, one sound from the other. His body was her body.

Everything was spinning magically, gloriously out of control.

Her legs couldn't hold her. She bent forward, found the bed to brace herself. He curved himself over her, not letting her go, his hand at the female heart of her, calling forth…

An explosion. A pulsing burst of purest sensation.

She did cry out then, tossing her head back. Still
he stroked her, till the pulsing took all of her, rushing out along every nerve ending, spilling through her whole body in a shower of heat and light.

She whimpered, stiffened. And went limp.

Gently he helped her to crawl onto the bed. She lay there on her side, her eyes still shut, feeling shattered and boneless, and he wrapped himself around her, spoon fashion, his bare chest against her back, his still-clad legs cradling hers.

Minutes passed. She didn't know how many. But he was so tender, just as a prince should be, stroking her arm, kissing her shoulder, touching her hair.

Finally he left her. She remained on her side, not daring to look as she felt the bed shift, felt him slide to the edge of it.

He was taking off the rest of his clothes. She heard his boots drop, one by one. The bed moved again as he got rid of his socks. And then yet again, as he stood. There was the whisking of his belt sliding free of its loops, and then more sounds: the slide of a zipper, the rustling of cloth.

She heard a drawer open—the one in the stand beside the bed. He took something out. Pushed the drawer shut. She heard a tiny tearing noise.

She closed her eyes even tighter. She might be totally lacking in experience. But she knew enough to realize he was taking the necessary precautions to protect her from pregnancy.

The bed gave once more. And he was back with her, wrapped around her again, as naked as she. His warmth felt so good. The hair on his legs scratched a little. And now…oh, now she felt his hardness quite intimately.

He grasped her shoulder. She didn't want to face him.

But she knew it was time to face him.

She let him turn her, so she lay on her back, though she couldn't stop herself from crossing her arms protectively over her breasts.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty.” He said it so low, so very softly. “Open your eyes.”

She looked at him. He was smiling, just the kind of smile she needed right then, a smile that was careful and tender as his touch.

“All right?” he asked.

She nodded and kept looking at his mouth. She didn't quite dare to look into his eyes.

He rested his hand on her stomach and then moved it lower.

She stiffened.

He asked, “No?”

She gave a tiny whimper and another nod. “Yes,” she said. “Honestly. Yes…”

So he touched her again, down where she was very wet now, threading his fingers through the bronze curls, finding the sensitive nub there and stroking it—until her arms forgot to protect her breasts and instead reached out for him. He lowered his dark head and tasted her bared breasts, kissing one and the other, drawing the aroused nipples into his mouth.

She pulled him closer as she felt her body rising again toward fulfillment, opening her legs wider, to give him better access.

He took what she offered, sliding fully on top of her, his big body crushing her a little as he positioned himself between her thighs.

She could feel him there, at her entrance. She gasped at the shock of it and stared into his face, seeking—what? Reassurance?

She found none. By then, he had none to give. He looked wild now, and primitive, poised there above her. All chance to stop, to go no further, utterly lost to her now.

He pushed in, a sure, firm flexing of his hips. It hurt. But not unbearably. Her tender inner muscles, relaxed by his attentions, gave to accommodate him.

He pushed again. And that time she cried out.

He lowered his mouth to hers, as if he could drink the pain from her lips, take it into himself and turn it to pleasure. He breathed her name; she parted her lips for him. His tongue delved in, hot and seeking.

Another deep thrust of his hips.

He filled her now.

She moaned into his mouth. He drank that sound, too, kissing her so hungrily, his hips pressed tight to hers below—tight and hard, but absolutely still.

Then, with a moan of his own, he dragged his mouth away. He buried his head in the curve of her shoulder.

And he began to move.

It really did hurt. It
burned.
She felt torn in two.

Still, she held on, lifting her legs and wrapping them around him, instinctively knowing that if she gave him her body fully, if she moved with him and didn't resist him, it would be better, not hurt quite so much.

And it didn't. Or rather, it did still hurt, but beneath the burning there was pleasure now.

A growing little glow of pleasure. She focused on
it, thinking of a tiny spark that only needed fuel and tending to burst into brightest flame.

He moved faster. And she tried to go with him. But his rhythm was so wild now, she couldn't quite keep up with it, couldn't make the magical little explosion come upon her again.

He stiffened, and she felt him, pulsing inside her. She clutched him closer still, her nails digging into his broad shoulders, her mouth making soft woman sounds as his climax rolled through him.

At last he went still, his full weight settling upon her, pressing her down.

She took his weight as she had taken his sensual invasion of her body, by relaxing into it. By not fighting it. She stroked her hands down his broad back, rubbed her cheek against his hair.

He whispered something sweet and apologetic, about being too fast.

But she only held him closer and softly commanded, “Shh…”

He smiled. She felt that, the movement of his lips against her throat. She sighed in real contentment.

Then, from downstairs, she heard a single chime. Nine-thirty.

“Don't listen to that,” he muttered thickly. “It's still early….”

She said nothing, only moved her hands in long, slow caresses, up and down his back.

“That feels good,” he said. “Don't stop.”

“I won't.”

“And don't get any ideas about leaving any time soon.”

“Ross, did I say I wanted to leave any time soon?”

He chuckled. “No, Ms. Taylor. I guess you didn't.”

She knew very well that she
should
leave. The later she stayed, the greater the chance that someone would find out just how she'd spent her birthday night.

But then again, tonight was all she had with Ross. And when tomorrow came…

Nope. Bad idea. Better not think about tomorrow.

This was now. This was tonight. There had been no night like it in her entire life. There would probably never be a night like it again.

And she refused to let it end until the clock struck twelve, at least.

T
hey were in his bathtub when, far away downstairs, the clock struck ten. It was a very large bathtub, with massaging jets. Lynn lay back against Ross in the steamy bubbling water and they listened to the faint chimes.

“It's nothing.” He made a trail of kisses, down from her temple, over her cheekbone, to her ear. “Ten o'clock,” he whispered. “Nothing. Early.” His hands cupped her breasts, which floated just near the surface, the nipples pointing pertly at the ceiling, the bubbling water covering them, then sliding away to reveal them with each pulse of those lovely massaging jets.

“Nothing.” She sighed. “Ten o'clock is nothing….” With a sinuous flexing of her whole body, she rolled so she was facing him and braced her
hands on his shoulders. She felt like a mermaid, a mermaid adrift in a hot, bubbly sea.

He hooked a hand around the back of her head and brought her mouth to his.

 

By ten-thirty they were back in his bed. The clock struck so distantly, sounding so far away. They smiled at each other. Only ten-thirty. They still had time.

By eleven they'd wandered downstairs to raid the refrigerator. He was feeding her vanilla bean ice cream straight from the carton. He held the spoon poised an inch from her mouth as the eleven chimes marked the hour.

When at last the clock was silent, he gave her the ice cream. And then he kissed her, urging her to open her mouth and share the treat with him.

She did.

And soon enough, both of them forgot all about what time it was.

Eleven-thirty?

That went by without Lynn even knowing it. They'd gone back upstairs. To the big bed. And the things that they did there were terribly distracting. If the clock did chime, Lynn certainly didn't notice it.

But she heard it at midnight.

She'd been dozing, drifting in and out of sleep, all wrapped up in Ross's arms. At the first faint, deeply melodious sound, she came fully awake.

She sat up, clutching the covers to her breasts, and counted off each chime, right up to the magic number.

Ross sat up beside her.

She turned to him. “Midnight.” She felt…dazed. How could it be over so soon?

She shook herself and started to rise from the bed.

He grabbed her arm. “Time for my pop quiz.” His voice sounded joking, totally offhand, yet his grip on her arm was anything but.

“Ross. I really can't stay any longer.”

He gave up trying to tease her. “You can. For a while. For hours. We have hours yet.”

“No. It's too dangerous. It really wouldn't be wise.”

“To hell with ‘wise.' Stay.”

She could have resisted the command in his voice. But the plea in his eyes? How could she resist that?

“Stay,” he said again.

“Not for too long…”

He muttered a low oath and pulled her against him.

 

Lynn woke to the distant sound of the clock striking.

She turned her head and looked at the clock by the phone on the nightstand.

Six o'clock.

It couldn't be.

But the room
was
growing light.

Oh, God.

She pressed her eyes shut again, but it didn't help. Memories from the night before assailed her. All the bold things she'd said. All the brazen, shocking things she had done. She had sipped brandy. She'd drunk champagne. She'd begged a man to make love with her.

And he had. Repeatedly.

Her eyes popped open again. Keeping them shut wasn't helping.

She turned her head slowly.

The man beside her lay on his stomach, his face turned away from her. The sheet was rumpled at his waist, revealing a broad expanse of muscular back.

Still asleep.

He was still asleep. And it was six o'clock in the morning. Dawn was breaking. She had to get out of there.

She sat up. Her heart was beating so fast it scared her. Adrenaline raced through her system.

Think, she commanded her panicked mind. Think logically.

But she just couldn't stand to think. Not right then. If she started thinking, she'd only realize what an awful mess she'd gotten herself into.

She'd only start picturing his face, what it might look like—when he opened his eyes and saw her in his bed in the harsh light of day. Maybe he'd look at her tenderly.

Then again, what if he didn't? What if he looked at her as if he wished she wasn't there?

She recalled what he'd said last night.

All I want from you is one night. I'm not looking for anything more than that.

No. Better not wake him.

Better…what?

Get up. Get out of there. Just get up and get out.

Willing him not to stir, she slid from the bed and rushed around on tiptoe, grabbing for her scattered clothes. Her dress, slip and bra lay across a chair, her panties and panty hose in a knot on the floor. And her shoes…

Well, there was one of them, right by the bed. She snatched it up. The other was…where? She remembered. It was somewhere on the stairs.

She fled across the hardwood floor, past the sitting area with its big leather chairs, over the beautiful kilim rugs. The door was open. They'd never bothered to pull it closed when they came back up the stairs from their visit to the kitchen—where the clock had struck eleven as he was feeding her a bite of ice cream.

Memory stunned her again: the cold, creamy sweetness melting on her tongue. And then his kiss…

No. It was not a time to think of kisses.

It was morning now.

And she had to go.

She went through the door, rushed along the hall and paused at the top of the stairs to struggle awkwardly into her clothes. The panty hose were torn. And she didn't want to waste time wiggling into them anyway. She dropped them on the floor as she yanked on her panties, put on her bra, her slip and the dress. She had to fight with the zipper a little, but she got it most of the way up. She grabbed the panty hose again, knowing she needn't have bothered. They were ruined. But she simply couldn't bear to just leave them there, for him to find.

With the wad of panty hose in one hand and the shoe in the other, she ran down the stairs, looking wildly for that other shoe.

Where was it? She distinctly recalled the moment it had dropped from her foot. It had to be here somewhere. She got all the way to the bottom and looked around on the floor there. Nothing. She turned and
sprinted halfway up again. But no. It really wasn't there.

And what was that? A noise, from upstairs?

Was he awake? Would he leave his room and find her here, running up and down the stairs, rumpled and frantic, looking for her silly shoe?

Forget it. Just forget it.

Forget it and get out.

She dashed for the front hall and the closet there. Yanking open the door, she ripped her coat from the hanger, which banged around on the rod and then clattered to the floor. She tried to catch it—and then let it fall. So silly. What did it matter if she left a hanger on the floor?

She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her coat, scooped up her purse and stuffed the panty hose inside it. The hanger wedged itself in the closet door when she tried to shut it.

Fine. She left it open.

She whirled, clutching her purse and her single shoe, and raced for the front door.

The latch gave with a heavy click. He had never locked it. She pulled the door open, paused briefly to shut it behind her, and ran out into the cold autumn morning.

The rough deck boards were icy under her naked soles. She tried to ignore the chill as she fled down the wide steps and onto the front drive, which was lined with tall, proud evergreens.

The trees gave way to open land about halfway to the road. And the pavement ended, too. The rest of the driveway was hard-packed dirt. Dirt and sharp pebbles that dug into the tender skin of her soles.

She kept running, the chill morning air rushing
hard in and out of her lungs. She could see the two-lane road, Route 17, where the drive met it, not two hundred yards away.

What would she do when she got there?

Flag someone down?

A stranger?

No. She'd never have that kind of luck.

The odds were that, if anyone did come along, she would know them. And they would know her. Some cowboy from one of the local ranches. Someone driving into town to run errands, to enjoy an early breakfast at the Hip Hop Café.

And wouldn't that someone have a tale to tell over his biscuits and gravy?

“Picked up Horace Taylor's girl, the kindergarten teacher, this mornin'. Out on Route 17. Barefoot, and lookin' wild as a corn-crib rat. Like she'd been out all night. Yep. Strayed off the main trail, that's for certain….”

Oh, she could just hear the tongues starting to wag.

Once Lily Mae Wheeler got the news, it would be over.

“Well, I do not like to carry tales. But I have to say I saw her last night, sipping champagne at the State Street Grill. With that lawyer, Ross Garrison. I guess we don't have to wonder where they went next. We all know that new house of his is out on Black Bear Lake. And that the way to Black Bear Lake is on Route 17. And honey, here in Whitehorn, we also know what you get when you add two and two….”

But no. That wasn't fair to Lily Mae. Lily Mae wouldn't sound like that. She wouldn't judge Lynn. She did have a good heart. But she would talk. Her
words would be kinder, but they'd say the same things.

And there would be others ready, willing and able to judge.

Because in Whitehorn they not only knew how to add two and two. They also expected their schoolteachers to keep to the main trail.

Oh, God, maybe she should have thought a little harder, after all, before she'd grabbed up her clothes and fled the bedroom and the man sleeping there.

Her feet slowed.

She clutched the collar of her coat at the neck and looked around her.

The wind had died during the night. The still air smelled of pine. Overhead, a hawk wheeled through the endless sky. Off to the northwest, the twin peaks of the Crazies rose up, craggy and tipped in white, the shadow of one dark across the other as the sun sent a wash of golden light from its rising place in the east.

A slight dusting of frost lay crisp and sparkling over the yellowed grass. Barbed-wire fences stretched on either side of the drive. Cattle, mostly black-baldies, but some Herefords as well, grazed beyond those fences. They lipped up grass, then chewed away patiently, raising their big heads and turning to watch her through eyes that appeared both utterly empty and infinitely wise.

Whose cattle, Lynn wondered, in a pointless effort to distract herself from the absurdity of her predicament. What ranchers grazed their herds out here, along Route 17, by Black Bear Lake?

She didn't know, offhand.

And it didn't matter anyway.

What mattered was that she would have to go back.

Go back and wake him, if he hadn't awakened already.

Go back and ask him to please take her to her Blazer, which still waited in the parking lot at her school.

Her feet dragging now, Lynn reached the two-lane road. She stopped on the cowcatcher, a wide grate across the drive that kept cattle from straying. The air beneath the grate seemed even colder than the ground.

Oh, her poor feet. Covered with dust and aching with cold. And cut up a little bit, too. They'd be in even worse shape by the time she limped back to the house.

But what else could she do? She never should have lost her head and run off on her own in the first place.

And what was that sound?

The hum of an engine. Someone was coming. It looked like a pickup, but it was still too far up the road to be sure.

Lynn whipped her head to the left and right, shamelessly seeking someplace to hide.

There was nothing. Just open land and barbed wire and grazing cattle. A single spindly-looking pine stood about twenty feet away. No time to reach it, though, before the vehicle went past. And what kind of cover could it provide anyway? The branches were too thin, the trunk way too narrow. She'd only look like the guilty ninny that she was, trying to crouch behind it.

The engine of the approaching vehicle roared
louder. Closing in. There was little doubt now that the driver would have spotted her.

She had two choices. She could take off at a run back the way she had come and pray that whoever it was had failed to recognize her—in which case, he'd probably decided she must be some crazy woman, stranded alone out here, someone who needed help.

That would mean he would come after her.

Oh, that would be lovely.

So she could run—and probably get caught anyway.

Or she could stay and face the music.

Her whole body was shaking, with humiliation more than cold.

She gritted her teeth and commanded the shaking to stop. Miraculously, it did. Drawing back her shoulders, she sucked in a quivering breath and looked up the road.

The battered pickup trundling her way was close enough now that she recognized it. It belonged to Winona Cobbs, the woman most people in Whitehorn believed to be a psychic. Winona Cobbs, probably headed into town to pick up a few things.

And doubtless to have breakfast at the Hip Hop Café with her friend Lily Mae.