Jane Bonander (15 page)

Grabbing her arms, he wrapped them around his neck and crushed her to him, raising her, supporting her so that her pelvis met his.

“There’s heat between us, Libby,” he whispered against her mouth. “You feel it too.” He hiked up her skirt, his palm grazing the back of her thigh.

For the first time in her life, she thought she might swoon. “I … I … can’t stand ups Jackson.”

He sank to the ground with her in his arms and pulled her, facing him, onto his lap drawing her legs to either side of his hips. His hand returned under her skirt. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest, loving the feel of the hair as it teased her palm.

The ache between her legs was impossibly strong. Her blood felt thick as warm honey as it pulsed through her veins. She pushed herself closer to him, pressing against the hard bulge, moving her burning flesh over it.

Beneath her, he fumbled with his fly, and in her eagerness, she assisted him, gasping in surprise when he sprang free. Unwilling to think further, she drew him into her through the slit in her drawers, sinking onto him, feeling an urgency well up inside her even through the pain of his entrance.

He stopped briefly.

“No, no,” she murmured, her hunger causing a madness she yearned for.

She sank deep, gasping as she felt him inside her. His hands were on her hips, helping her move, teaching her to please him as his thumb nudged the hot, wet flesh at the apex of her thighs.

He lowered himself onto his back, so that he was lying on the ground. His hands still guided her hips, his own jutting upward with each thrust.

Something was building, boiling inside her, a pressing urgency that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with passion. She loved it. She wanted it. She let herself go
,
reaching and grasping for that which she’d never known before.

When it came, rolling over her in swelling, spasmodic waves, she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The sensation was too strong, but before her keening moans of satisfaction echoed through the night, he pulled her to him and kissed her, swallowing her sounds of pleasure.

A brief moment later he stiffened beneath her, gripping her hips hard. He came inside her, groaning into her mouth once again.

She lay on his chest, the drumming of his heartbeat against her ear. She should get up. Really, she should. But having him fill her was glorious. Blocking out conscious thought, she gave herself up to her feelings and nuzzled his neck with her nose.

“Ah, Libby, Libby …”He stroked her rump through her underwear, dipping inside to run his fingers over her flesh. When he couldn’t seem to touch enough, he tugged at her cotton drawers, loosening the string that was tied at her waist. Both of his hands went beneath her dress, and she dragged herself to a sitting position, allowing him to touch her.

His thumbs nudged her where they joined. She felt the urgency build, causing her to move again, slowly, seductively, on his shaft. Her breathing became erratic, and she knew nothing but the eagerness of impending fulfillment.

Suddenly he rolled her beneath him, moving inside her once again. She drew her legs up, pressing her heels into his back, rising to meet his thrusts.

The explosion was no less exquisite than the first time, and Libby wept as the wild pleasure of climax rocked them both. They stayed joined, Jackson resting on his elbows over her.

He bent to kiss her. “God, Libby, you were a virgin?”

“No! N-no, of c-course not,” she stuttered. “Don’t be a fool. It’s just been a while, that’s all”, she lied.

All at once, regret reached like clammy fingers into the farthest recesses of her soul. She pushed him off her, sat up quickly, then rose, fastening her drawers.

He gazed up at her from the ground. “That wasn’t pity, Liberty O’Malley.”

As usual, his baritone touched a chord inside her, but her shame went deeper.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have … I mean, I’ve never …”Shaking her head, she picked up her skirts and raced toward the house, trying to ignore the stinging pain between her legs.

L
ibby took the steps two at a time and tore into her bedroom, stopping short of slamming the door behind her. She sagged against it, pressing her palms into the wood. Good Lord, what had come over her?

Still awash with shame, she stumbled across the room and threw herself onto the bed, covering her face with her hands. They shook. And why wouldn’t they? In one reckless moment she’d not only lost her virginity, which, in her mind wasn’t that big a thing at her age, but had experienced something she’d heard about but hadn’t believed existed: ecstasy. It was almost absurd. Lord, they’d rolled around on the grass like a couple of dogs in heat.

Her misery deepened. She had to be some sort of freak. How could the feelings she’d experienced be right, or even normal, for that matter? And why, God help her, hadn’t she had any inkling of this feeling before now? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed and groped before.

She crossed to the dry sink, poured water into the bowl, and wet a cloth. As she dabbed at the soreness between her legs, she scolded herself again for submitting to Jackson.

There was a quiet rapping at the door.

She threw the cloth into the porcelain bowl and slipped quickly into her nightgown. “Who is it?”

“Jackson.”

She gasped. “Go away.”

“Libby, if you don’t open the door, I’ll make a scene and wake up the Bellamy brothers.”

Leaning her forehead against the door, she ordered, “Go away and leave me alone.”

“I mean it, Libby.”

When he started to sing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” she flung open the door.

“You are such an ass,” she said accusingly.

He stepped inside, his size dwarfing her. “I wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all.”

She swung away. “I’m fine. Now will you leave me alone?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him step to the dry sink. And at that very moment, she realized what she’d left there. She sprinted to beat him, but was too late. She felt such a richness of embarrassment that her skin prickled with sweat.

In the porcelain dish, immersed in water tinged pink with her blood, was the soiled cloth she’d used to cleanse away the remnants of her maidenhead.

With a soft curse he took her hands, and although she tried to pull away, he held her firm. “I don’t know what to say, Libby.”

Through her misery, she heard herself say, “It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

She couldn’t look at him. “Fine. I accept your apology. Now please just leave me alone.”

He left without another word, and Libby rinsed out the cloth and poured the water into the chamber pot, all the while feeling her heart pounding so hard, it gave her a headache.

How in the world was she going to face the man in the morning?

When she woke, nothing had changed. She still felt shame deep inside for allowing herself to be seduced by him. And she was sore, both in mind and in body as well as angry, with herself and with him. He wanted her—of that she was certain—but only because Dawn wouldn’t go with him if she didn’t marry him. At least not willingly. She rose and dressed, cringing at the soreness between her legs, then hurried downstairs.

She prepared oatmeal, viciously stirring it, the metal spoon clanking angrily against the sides of the pot. Each movement reminded her that the night before, she’d lost something on which most women placed great value. But not her. She’d decided long ago, after Sean died, that she would give away her virginity whenever she pleased. It just so happened that she hadn’t found anyone she wanted to give it to.

She wrinkled her nose. Until now, it appeared.

Mahalia stomped into the kitchen wearing a frown, Libby’s tan frock—the one she’d worn the day before—over her arm. “What’s this on your dress?”

Libby glanced at it. “Where?”

Mahalia spread the fabric, exposing a green stain. “This.”

Libby felt herself color. “My, my. What do you suppose that is?”

“Looks like grass stain to me. Now,” she continued, “if this were Dawn’s dress, I could understand. I’m forever scrubbin’ grass stains off her clothes. But yours …”She clucked, her gaze probing, as if she expected an answer.

“You’re waiting for an explanation? Sorry,” Libby apologized, continuing to stir the cereal, “I can’t imagine how that stain got there.” Had Jackson not so boldly entered her room and discovered her secret, she might have felt embarrassed about a little thing like grass stains. Now she was angry, and the stain only served to remind her of her shame.

Again Mahalia made sounds in her throat that foretold her mood. “If’n I didn’t know you so well, I’d be givin’ you some suggestions.” She cackled. “Or maybe some advice.”

Libby slanted her a look. “I don’t think I care to hear either.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Mahalia answered with a chuckle that jiggled her breasts and her belly. She turned to leave as Jackson entered the room.

“Why, good mornin’, Mistah Wolfe. I was just showin’ Libby, here, these funny green stains on the back of her skirt —”

“Mahalia.” Libby’s voice had a threatening ring to it, but Mahalia merely chuckled, then was gone.

Libby’s heart was bumping her ribs, but she kept an icy facade, until Jackson stepped up behind her. Oh, heavens, he was so close she felt the heat of him the entire length of her, and her body began to betray her. Her facade nearly melted. Nearly.

His hands touched her shoulders, and she swung away, the pot of oatmeal in her grip. “Be careful,” she threatened.
“I wouldn’t want this hot kettle to slip and accidentally land on the front of your jeans.”

“Libby, I had no idea—”

“Stop right there,” she interrupted. “The status of my innocence is my business.”

“The hell it is.”

His deep, rich baritone sent involuntary shivers over her flesh. “Well, it certainly isn’t your concern.”

“But you were married, dammit.”

“So that makes seduction all right?”

He straddled a kitchen chair. Her gaze automatically went to his spread thighs, but she forced it away.

“I was seduced as well,” he informed her.

She flushed and turned on him, the spoon gripped in her fist. “Listen, I may have been … celibate, so to speak, but I was in no way innocent. It was … it was time to get rid of the thing anyway.”

“The thing?”

Ignoring the laughter in his voice, she put the cereal on the table with a thud. “You know precisely what I’m referring to.”

He studied her for a long, taut moment. “Most women save themselves for the man they love.”

“Well, I’m not most women. And that’s hogwash, anyway.

I’d have gotten rid of it years ago if I’d had a mind to.” And she would have. She was almost certain she would have.

“I’m surprised you were still virginal, considering you’d been married.”

“Well, there are all sorts of marriages. All of them don’t lead to the bedroom.” Her anger simmered.

“Obviously yours didn’t,” he offered.

“Brilliant deduction,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “It changes nothing. Don’t think I’m going to capitulate and marry you. If that was your plan, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” She was foolish to accuse him of such a thing, but at the moment, she wanted to blame him for everything.

“My plan?” He snorted a laugh. “We were both ready to explode, Libby. Don’t deny that.”

“Be that as it may,” she retorted. “What we … what we did last night in no way expedites my decision.”

“You think I purposely seduced you so that you’d feel obligated to marry me?” He sounded more amused than surprised.

She turned away, fussing with the bowl that held the bread dough. “Don’t try to tell me that idea didn’t occur to you.”

“No. It didn’t.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She dumped the dough onto the counter and laced it with flour.

“Why?”

“Because you know that without me, Dawn won’t go with you.” From behind her, she heard him chuckle. “And what’s so darned funny?”

“You are.”

She gave the bread dough a savage punch, picturing his arrogant face. “I’m happy you find me so amusing.”

“You’re itching for a fight, aren’t you?”

She continued to attack the dough, kneading, pummeling, folding. “I’m simply telling you your plan didn’t work.”

The chair scraped, and suddenly he was behind her. “Do you want to fight, Libby?”

She didn’t rise to the bait, but his breath ruffled the hair on her neck, causing a recurrence of the feelings he’d stirred within her the night before.

“Don’t take your anger out on the bread dough. Look how you’re punishing it.” His hands caressed her shoulders and her neck, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t pretend to feel nothing.

“Wouldn’t you like to do that to me? Ah, think of it, Libby. Think how much you’d like to come at me, pounding and screeching and screaming.”

She clamped her jaw tightly. “It’s rude to lose control,” she managed.

“It’s not healthy to keep your anger inside, either. Come on, Liberty O’Malley, let it go. Show me how you
really
feel.”

His voice had an annoying baiting quality, a tone she abhorred because it was so often used to intimidate.

“All right, you bully.” She swung around, her hands sticky, and shoved at his chest, leaving splotches of dough and flour on his shirt. He didn’t budge, so she pushed him again. The twinkle in his eyes and his smug smile were enough to make her want to double up her fist and punch him.

“Come on, Libby, you can do better than that,” he coaxed, egging her on. He put his fists up, fighter style, and danced the boxer’s dance before her.

She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. “You’re an ass.”

“Come on,” he urged, punching her lightly on the shoulder.

She brushed him off and went back to her bread dough, but he continued to annoy her, tapping her shoulders, her spine, even her rump.

She swung at his arm, and missed.

“Oh, is that what it takes?” He tapped her rump repeatedly, all the while cajoling her.

“Stop that!” Turning, she swung at him, landing a punch on his arm.

“That’s better, Libby girl. Much better.” He continued to spar with her, touching her nose, her chin, her arm—in essence, becoming a prize nuisance.

She waved him away with both hands, fending off light punches, and felt a wonderful freedom. They remained locked in playful battle, Libby fighting off his feathery punches and biting back the urge to scream with laughter.

One of his hands grazed her side, just above her waist, and she gasped and pushed him away.

“Aha! The maiden is ticklish.” He touched her again, getting another rise out of her, and she shoved him. He was immovable and relentless.

Unable to stand his teasing and unable to keep from laughing and shrieking at his touch, she turned, grabbed a handful of flour, and tossed it at him.

He stopped, momentarily stunned, flour cascading from his long eyelashes and his nose. His expression was so comical that Libby doubled over, holding her sides as she laughed.

“Think that’s funny, do you?”

In a swift movement that belied his size, he spun her around and doused her with a handful of her own ammunition, causing her to sputter and cough.

Unable to keep the laughter from her voice, she shouted, “You wretch!” She brushed at her face and hair, flour filtering through the air between them.

“What in the devil’s goin’ on in here?”

The merriment stopped, and Libby turned toward the door to find a curious and puzzled Mahalia staring at them.

Apologetic, Libby began to stutter. “Oh … oh, Mahalia, I-I’m sorry we’ve made such a mess.”

“I don’t give a damn about the mess, honey, but I sure am curious about why y’all made it.”

Smoothing her hands over her dress and her hair, Libby tried to think of a logical explanation. There wasn’t one.

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Jackson interceded. “I was trying to get her to let her hair down a bit, and … well
,
I guess we kind of got carried away.”

Mahalia arched her brow, appearing not quite certain she believed him. “Well, that bread won’t get baked that way.”

“Never mind, Mahalia. I’ll finish up in here,” Libby promised. “After all, this mess is my fault. You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”

“And I’ll help her” Jackson offered.

Libby glared at him, her good humor having fled. “Don’t you have to arrest someone or something?”

He studied her, his eyes continuing to glisten. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll continue our discussion later, though. Count on it.”

Mahalia snorted. “In some other room, I’m hopin.’ My kitchen ain’t safe with the two of you around.”

Jackson gave her a quick wink and was gone.

Libby studiously began to clean up the flour that had spilled onto the floor.

“Lan’ sakes. I don’t know about the two of you. One week you’re tossin’ plates and skillets at him, the next you’re dousin’ each other with flour. Am I missin’ somethin’?”

“I could no more explain it than I could fly, Mahalia.” Libby felt her housekeeper’s gaze on her.

“Uh-huh.” She clucked her tongue. “You’d best go up and change that frock, honey. I’m just gettin’ clothes together to wash.” When Libby continued to wipe up the floor, Mahalia added, “Scoot, now. Let me finish in here. I’ll bring you fresh towels in a minute.”

Too embarrassed to argue, Libby took the stairs to her room and stepped out of her flour-spattered gown. Standing in her camisole and drawers, she finished rinsing the flour from her face, then took down her hair and was brushing it free of debris when there was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in, Mahalia,” she called out. “I’m as decent as I’ll ever be.” When she didn’t enter, Libby crossed to the door, realizing she probably had her hands full.

She flung it open and stood, rooted to the spot, as her gaze traveled up the tall, perfectly honed body of Jackson Wolfe.

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, attempting to close the door.

His foot became a doorstop, and he eased his way inside, closing the door behind him.