Dream Trilogy (86 page)
Authors: Nora Roberts
His body was so tight, so relentlessly male, muscles bunching under her hands, ridges of old scars sliding under her questing fingers. His skin was hot, burning, and bloomed damp when she bit desperately at his shoulder.
The air was ripe, thick, and tasted of him on each gulping breath she took. Whatever he did to her, she welcomed; whatever he demanded, she gave.
He lifted her hips, high, and his eyes burned into hers. With one violent thrust, he was inside her, hilt deep. The hands she’d gripped on his arms slid limply to the hay as her body simply erupted.
“Stay with me, Laura.” His fingers dug into her flesh, and he began to move. “Stay with me.”
What choice did she have? She was locked, trapped, steeped. Her breathing was slow now, shallow, her vision misted at the edges, but she moved with him. Stroke now for stroke.
He shuddered when she came, when she closed around him like a damp fist, and he fought a vicious war with himself not to follow. Not yet. There was more. Even as the blood roared like the sea in his head, he wanted more.
And so he dragged her up until her legs locked around him, until her body flowed back so fluidly it might have been made of water. Worked her until her new frenzy was met, matched, until her head dropped on his shoulder.
Then, and then only, he buried his face in her hair and let himself fall.
His weight pinned her to the floor. It was an odd and drugging feeling, having a man’s full weight on her again. And it was a triumphant feeling to know that he was incapable of moving, that he was as dazed, as sated, as she.
She didn’t have to doubt it. She’d seen his eyes, felt his hands, heard the gritty groan sound in his throat. He had been caught, trembling, on that stunning moment when he had lost himself and come inside her.
There, in the darkened stables with the sweet smell of hay and horses, her clothes in tatters and her blood singing, she felt like a woman again. Not like a mother, a friend, a responsible member of society. Like a woman.
She didn’t want to fumble now, to begin stuttering out foolish truths. That it had never been this way before, that she hadn’t known it could be. Better, she thought, for both of them, to keep it light.
So she smiled, found the strength to lift her hand and stroke his hair. “Looks like I redeemed that rain check.”
His chuckle tickled her throat. “What was your name again, sugar?”
Gathering his reserves, he rolled lazily over, pulling her with him until she was sprawled on his chest. Her smile was both smug and sleepy. There was hay in her hair.
“God, you’re pretty. Such a pretty little thing. The proper Laura Templeton with the surprising, and flexible, steam engine of a body. Who’d have thought it?”
She certainly hadn’t, and she raised a brow. “I can’t say that I or it has ever been described quite that way before.” Her lips quirked. “I think I like it.”
“Since you’re in such a good mood, why don’t you tell me now why you came here tonight.”
“To see the foal.” Fastidiously, she picked hay out of his hair, then shifted her gaze back to his. “On the way to you. You knew I’d come.”
“I was counting on it. If you hadn’t I’d have had to breach the castle walls and drag you out. I don’t know how much longer I could have done without you.”
“Michael.” Moved, she laid her hand on his cheek. “Would you have ravished me?”
“Sugar, I
did
ravish you.”
did
ravish you.”
“It’s the first time anyone has.” She waited a beat, watched her own finger trace down his throat. “I hope it won’t be the last.”
“I wasn’t looking for one quick romp in the hay.”
Satisfied with that, she nodded, smoothed his hair again. “Then I’ll come back.” She lowered her mouth to his, lingered over it. “I should go now.”
He merely shifted their positions, pinned her again. “Laura, you don’t really think I’m going to turn you loose tonight.”
She felt the quick, hitching thrill of being overpowered. “You aren’t?”
“No.” That rough-palmed hand slid up, closed over her breast, and his mouth became busy at her throat.
She arched under him, shuddered out a sigh. “Good.”
Still, she hadn’t meant to stay until morning. Hadn’t meant to fall into twilight sleep in a pile of hay with her body curled around his. Hadn’t realized she would awake fully aroused with his mouth on hers, and his hands . . . his hands.
“Michael.” And when her eyes fluttered open, he slid slow and deep inside her. Moved inside her with long, lazy strokes that had dreams misting over reality.
He watched her face, that lovely flush from sleep and sex that warmed her cheeks. The eyes smoky and dazed. The mouth, swollen from his, that trembled on each breath.
They would look at each other now in the light, see as they took each other up with a rhythm soft and silky.
Hay motes fluttered in the fragile light of morning, danced in the quiet air. Night birds gave way to the lark. In the stables, horses began to stir, cats stretched and hunted up sunbeams.
And her hands reached for him, cupped his face, guided his mouth once again to hers as they gently slid over.
“Michael,” she said again.
“I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
But he’d seen bruises on that delicate skin as she’d slept. “I was rough with you last night.”
“Did I forget to thank you for it?”
He lifted his head, grinned. “I guess screaming my name ten or twelve times was thanks enough.”
“Well, then.” She pushed his hair back from his face, and her eyes were sober. “I don’t ever want to be treated like some fragile piece of glass. Not ever again.”
“So if I want to break out the cuffs and whips, you’re game?”
Her mouth fell open in speechless shock. “I—I—”
“I’m kidding.” Christ, what a package she was, he thought on a roar of laughter. And all his. On a spurt of delight, he got to his feet and picked her up. “At least until we’ve established trust.”
“You don’t really—I mean, I don’t think I could, or would like . . .” When he laughed so hard he nearly dropped her, she lifted her chin. “I don’t care to be the butt of your sick joke.”
“It wasn’t that sick, and, sugar, you’ve got a first-class butt.” He planted a loud, smacking kiss on her mouth. “But since I doubt you want to stroll back to the house showing it off, let’s go get you some clothes.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would—what are you doing?” She all but squeaked it as he carried her out of the stall.
“Taking you upstairs to get you something to put on.”
“You can’t just cart me outside this way. I’m naked. We’re naked. Michael, I mean it—Oh, my God.” Sunlight and cool morning air slapped her as he stepped through the stable door.
“It’s early,” he said easily. “No one’s around yet.”
“We’re naked.” It was all she could say as he started up the stairs. “We’re standing outside naked.”
“Looks like it’s going to be a hell of a day, too. You got anything on for tonight?”
“I—” Didn’t he understand that they were standing on his little porch in the full light of day, buck naked? “Get me inside.”
“Chilly? I’m working on it.” He shifted her and managed the doorknob.
The insult, she fumed. The insensitivity. The outrageous-ness of it. “Put me down.”
“Sure.” He set her obligingly on her feet and waited for the show to begin. She didn’t disappoint him.
“Are you out of your mind? What if one of the girls had looked out the window and seen us?”
“It’s not even six in the morning. Do they usually stare out the window at dawn, with binoculars?”
Of course not. “That’s hardly the point. I won’t be hauled around that way because you, in your warped brain, find it amusing. Now get me a shirt.”
He ran his tongue around his teeth as he considered her. Even with hay in her hair, and flushed head to toe with embarrassment and temper, she managed to be dignified. It was . . . fascinating.
“Sugar, you’re getting me stirred up again, and I don’t think we have time for another round.”
“You—”
“Peasant? Barbarian?”
With an effort, she reined in. It was impossible to have a reasonable argument under the circumstances. “I’d like to borrow some clothes, please.”
“What the hell. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Michael.” She jerked back, stunned, when she saw the intention in his eyes. “Michael, I will not be—”
Dragged to the floor, kissed into mindless submission, driven to bone-splitting climax.
“Oh, God.” She fisted her hands on the rug and let herself be ravished.
It took more than a few minutes, so that Laura found herself sneaking like a thief into her own house. If she could just get upstairs, she thought, easing open a side door and creeping into the parlor. Into her room.
Her children would be waking for school any minute. Her children. Wincing, carrying her shoes, she tiptoed into the hall. Was she out of her mind? How could she possibly explain herself if—
“Miss Laura!”
If the worst happened, Laura thought fatalistically and turned to face a shocked Ann Sullivan.
“Annie. I was just, ah, out . . . early. Walking.”
Very slowly, Ann continued down the stairs. She had been widowed for more than twenty-five years, but she knew the look of a woman who’d spent the night in a man’s arms.
“You’re wearing a man’s shirt,” she said stiffly. “And there’s hay in your hair.”
“Ah.” Clearing her throat, Laura reached up and plucked out a bent shaft. “Yes, that’s true. I was . . . out, as I said, and . . .”
“You’ve never been able to lie your way out of an open door.” Ann stopped at the base of the stairs, facing down her quarry very much like a mother about to lecture a reckless child. With a mixture of amusement and apprehension, Laura recognized the signs.
“Annie—”
“You’ve been down at the stables rolling around in the hay with that sharp-eyed, womanizing Michael Fury.”
“Yes, I’ve been down at the stables,” Laura said shrugging on her cloak of dignity. “Yes, I’ve been with Michael. And I’m a grown woman.”
“With the sense of a peanut. What were you thinking of?” Ann continued, poking out a finger. “A woman like you wrestling in a hayloft with the likes of him.”
Because where she loved, she had patience, Laura’s voice was calm. “I imagine you know very well what I was thinking of. Whatever you think of him, or of my sense, the fact remains that I’m thirty years old, Annie. He wanted me. I wanted him. And in all of my life—all of it—no one has ever, ever made me feel the way he did.”
“A moment’s pleasure for—”
“A moment’s pleasure.” Laura nodded. If that was all it amounted to, she swore she would go to her grave grateful. “I was married ten years and never knew what it was like to be pleasured or, I hope, to pleasure a man like that. And I’m sorry you disapprove.”
Ann’s face pokered up. “It’s not my place to disapprove.”
“Oh, don’t give me that dignified-housekeeper-to-mistress routine, Annie. It’s years too late.” With a sigh, she laid a hand over the rigid one with which Ann gripped the newel post. “I know how much you care. I know that everything you say you say out of concern and love, but even that can’t change the way I feel. Or what I need.”
“And you think you need Michael Fury?”
“No. I know I do. I haven’t decided what to do about it, or where I want to go from here, but I do know that I fully intend to have a great many moments of pleasure.”
“Whatever the cost?”
“Yes. For once in my life, the hell with the cost. I need to shower.” She started up the stairs, paused, turned. “I don’t want you going down there badgering Michael over this, Annie. That is not your place, or anyone else’s.”
Ann inclined her head, kept it lowered until she heard Laura close the door to her room. Perhaps it wasn’t her place to speak to Michael Fury. But she knew her duty, and she would do it.
Without hesitation, she walked down the hall and into the library. The call to France wouldn’t take long. Then they would see, she thought, brooding out the window. They would see.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Templeton, if you please. It’s Ann Sullivan, the housekeeper of Templeton House.”
“In the stables. In the hay. All night?” In the second-floor kitchen of Pretenses, Kate swiveled on the stool and gaped. The ten-minute afternoon break was a great deal more interesting than she’d expected. “You?”
“Why is that so shocking?” Ignoring her tea, Laura drummed her fingers on the counter. “I’m human, aren’t I? Not some sort of windup doll.”
“Pal, it sounds like you were pretty wound up to me. And I’m not shocked, exactly. I mean, I wouldn’t have imagined bouncing on the hay was your style, but hey, whatever works.” She grinned and sampled one of the cookies Laura had picked up at the bakery. “And I take it that it worked just fine.”
Mollified, Laura took a cookie herself. “I,” she said smugly, “was an animal.”
With a snort, Kate raised one of Laura’s arms over their heads. “Way to go, champ. So, now—about the details.”
“I can’t. Well, maybe. No.” The gleam in her eye matched Kate’s. “No.”
“Come on, just one detail, then. One little detail of Laura’s Wild Night.”
She laughed, shook her head, nibbled on her lip. God knew, she could tell Kate, or Margo, anything. And it had been so rare lately for her to be able to share something so wonderful and reckless. Fastidiously, she brushed crumbs off the counter.
“He ripped my clothes off.”
“Metaphorically or literally?”
“Literally. Just tore them to shreds. Just . . .” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “God.”
“God,” Kate echoed, fanning a hand in front of her face.
“That’s it.” Laura scooted off the stool and dumped her cold tea into the sink. “I can’t do this. It feels like high school.”
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