Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (6 page)

His heart hammered. His loins ached, his desire soared, and the hunger, the thunder, the beat within him was unbearable. Fight me, damn you! he longed to cry to her.

But she just stood, trembling, her fingertips on him seemed so erotic, her scent filling him, her incredible ivory-skinned body an aphrodisiac that threatened to engulf him. He saw the darkness of his hands against the pale cream of her body. Fight me, he thought again. Dammit, make me stop this before I find myself damned.…

But she didn't fight him. And from that point, it didn't matter. He bent down until his face lay against the warm silk of her belly, his lips touched and tasted, and his hands curled around her buttocks. Then he was rising, sweeping her into his arms and striding across the room. He laid her on the bed, the blue bed, with its clean sheets and soft plump comforter and feather pillows. Her hair spread across the sheets like gold against a blue sky, pure fire and elegant softness. Her eyes had fallen, but they didn't meet his. Still, she didn't move, and the beat of her heart seemed to thunder within her chest, her frantic pulse visible at her throat.

The length of her stretched before him. She didn't reach for the covers, didn't turn, just lay there as his eyes raked over her, her elegantly slim throat, the fine bones of her shoulders and collarbones, her breasts, firm and erect, the slimness of her waist, the curve of her hip, the long, shapely length of her legs, the soft, blazing gold enticement between them.…

His boots hit the floor first. His shirt and pants quickly followed. She heard him strip, heard his clothing hit the floor, and still her eyes didn't open. But she knew what she was getting. She had seen him before.

Naked, he came down beside her. He felt the heat of her body with the length of his own. Desire erupted, hard and searing within him. Longing, aching. He straddled her, found her lips, and kissed her with a strength that was far more hunger than force. He found her tongue and filled her mouth. Dropping his head lower, Blade caressed and tasted her breasts once more, stroking her belly with the flat of his palm, threading his fingers into the down of her triangle, lower, touching her, stroking her …

A sound emitted from her. She moved, just shifting, gasps catching in her throat, her body trembling against his touch. She seemed exquisite. He eased himself down the length of her, forcing her thighs apart with the weight of his body. He touched her with the wet heat of his tongue, stroked, delved.

Another sound escaped her, one that caused her to twist violently, burying her face in the pillow lest her cry be heard. She trembled wildly as he held her, stroked her, caressed her.

He rose above her, cooling the fire that swept through him with a soaring need. Her eyes remained closed. She trembled wildly, but when he took her lips they parted swiftly at his touch, answering the hunger within them. He stroked down the length of her body with his thumb, parting her. Then he entered her, taking her with a hard, swift movement.

She uttered a cry that she could not swallow quickly enough, a ragged sound of pain. And, of course, he knew why, even as it was too late to possibly erase it, for he had already torn through the barriers of her innocence. He went dead still, cursing himself, cursing the hunger and drive and anguish that still pulsed through him.

The one cry was all that had left her. She lay silent, unmoving. She was pale, and her eyes were closed. He remained impaled within her. Words, harshly spoken, tore from his lips.

“Open your eyes!”

She did so, their emerald depths glittering, defiant.

“You can't be any Mrs. Dylan.”

“I am Mrs. Dylan,” she whispered. There was a film of wetness on her eyes. Tears. She wasn't going to let them fall. “I swear to you, I am a Mrs.”

“Mr. Dylan was an abstainer?” he asked mockingly. He was still furious with her, furious for what she had allowed him to do, furious with himself for having done it. Furious for wanting her so desperately even now.…

“Mr. Dylan died,” she said flatly.

“Damn you, Jessica!” he swore at her suddenly. “We could have stopped this at any time. Now the damage is done—”

“There is no damage!” she cried. “I did what I chose—”

“Because you will not go home where you should be?” he asked.

“I—”

“Have it your way, Mrs. Dylan!”

Indeed, the damage was done, and he was as explosive as gunpowder, fevered, in agony. He cupped her chin in his hand and found her lips once again. He kissed her hard, deeply—near savagely—and began to move inside her. What cry she might have emitted was swallowed by his lips. His hands roamed freely over her body, cupping her buttocks, holding her, guiding her, stroking her soft flesh. Her hands fell upon his flesh, nails biting into his shoulders. Her lips soothed his wounds. She seemed to sheathe him with warmth and wetness, her body a sweet glove, her warmth a golden fire. His hunger built, the speed of his thrusts multiplied. No matter that he had tried to take care, and perhaps it mattered no longer. Her gasped breaths were escaping sweetly by his ear, coming faster and faster. She moved beneath him, body held too tightly to his by the force of his hand upon her buttocks, yet melding so sensually to his, naturally finding his rhythm, his hunger. He whispered to her, assured her, led her, lifted her. The fire exploded inside of him and he knifed even more deeply into her, shaking with the force of the climax that had seized him. He eased himself again and again into her and from her, watching her face, but her eyes were closed again. Before he would move from her, take himself from her, he needed to
see
her.

“Look at me.”

She did so. Eyes still liquid. Her face still pale. Her lips trembling just slightly.

“Damn you, I never meant to hurt you—”

“You didn't hurt me. Well,” she murmured, her eyes falling, “perhaps—a little. But—”

He groaned, falling to her side at last. She was struggling for the covers. He kept the weight of his body hard upon them.

It was too late for her to cover up now. Too late, because he was so damned aggravated, so furious. And more.

He was entrapped. Just as if she had cast some gold-and-fire net around him, a fragile web that, nonetheless, held him powerless. He couldn't leave her.

Blade had touched her, had her, held her. He wanted her again and again. He wanted to teach her that there could be so much more. He wanted to feel the movement, the heat of her kiss upon him, the liquid movement of her limbs. He wanted to know her—what went on in her mind, what gave her reckless courage and raw determination. …

“It was my choice!” Jessica said angrily. He could hear the pain in her words, and he winced.

He came up on an elbow, staring at her. “I wouldn't have been in here if I had known!” he nearly roared.

“Shh!” she whispered as wild alarm filled her eyes.

He gritted his teeth. “So you don't mind sleeping with a half-breed, you just don't want the world knowing about it?”

She inhaled sharply between her teeth. Then, she tried to leap away. He dragged her back, the weight of his body pinning her to the bed when she struggled.

“Damn you—” Blade said again. He could feel her lie still, rigidly still, her emerald eyes staring into his, her face so very beautiful, so very proud.

“How dare you!” she said angrily. “Don't blame me for whatever chips you carry on your shoulders!”

He started. He had never really known that he carried a chip on his shoulder. He'd spent his life being proud of being Sioux. But his father had been a fine man, too, a good man, a strong one, a fair one. And he'd lived in his white father's world for a long time. He'd learned that there were many men and women who considered any Indian a savage, a different breed, untamed, uncivilized. And so he'd spent most of his life making damned sure that everything he did, he did the best it could be done.

Once, his fastidiousness had made him invaluable to Quantrill, and when he walked away from Quantrill's white man's savagery, he had used his running, shooting and fighting abilities to fight with Mosby in the East, in the Shenandoah. He'd known all along that the Union generals were determined to hang Mosby's men when they caught them, and so he had been determined never to get caught. It hadn't mattered. If they'd known him from before, he'd have had a price on his head. He hadn't planned on staying with Quantrill long, it was just that Quantrill had been the one after the Red Legs, the Kansas Jayhawkers.

He had learned early a certain stoicism. That had helped him on the day. His Rebel troops had lain down their arms. Surrendered. Surrender had meant that it was time to go after those men again. The men who had stripped him of his life.

Blade rolled his weight from her once again, stepping to the floor. Naked, he padded to the window in the silence of the night. Jessica went for her sheets, instinctively. He could see her movement from the corner of his eye.

From somewhere near, a wolf howled. He saw Jessica shiver, yet he didn't think it was from the strange cry of the wolf. How could she be such a damned strong-willed woman and yet seem so achingly vulnerable and beautiful, binding slender ribbons inexorably around his soul? She made him want her again. Made feelings beat within him once again, just looking at her there. He knew that if he touched her …

“Damn you!” he said softly, to the night.

“Why!” she cried, a note of passion in her voice. “You can turn now and walk away. You won, I lost, remember? I always pay my debts. You're free. You can leave whenever you want. I've paid—”

He swung on her. “Paid? I think I said for the
night.
It's only half over, the best that I can see!”

Jessica fell silent, a blush staining her cheeks. Blade strode to the bed, newly aroused, and not giving a damn that she would see his hardness. She had nothing against half-breeds and she was willing to sell her soul to stay. She wanted to play the game no matter how rough it became.

He wrenched the sheets from her and straddled her. She clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing, her hands coming up against his chest. But he caught them.

“One month,” he told her. “You wanted me, you've got me. One month. So you manage to do whatever it is you have to do out here in that amount of time.”

“But—”

“What is it that you're so determined to do?” he demanded.

Emerald eyes locked with his. “Land,” she said softly. Her lashes swept over her eyes, then her gaze met his once again. “I want to claim the land. It was my husband's.”

She was lying—or at least, she wasn't telling him everything, Blade thought. “One month,” he said. “Then you're on your own.”

“I'll pay you well—”

“Damned right,” he said very softly. “Here's the deal. You get me. And, Mrs. Dylan, I get you.”

“You've had—”

“A taste,” he murmured, and bent down. Slowly, slowly he captured her lips. Teased them, played with them. He waited for her mouth to part, to accept his sensual invasion, to return the touch, sweet motion by sweet motion. …

Her arms wound around him, and he made love to her again.

So slowly. So sensually, teaching, exploring, discovering. Touching, laving, still tasting, whispering, having.… Becoming one with her. Bronze flesh against ivory, slick, fluid. Hungry. Creating a storm, a sweet tempest, bringing her with him until she writhed so erotically beneath him.

And when he finished, he captured her lips to keep silent the cry he had wrung from her being. She lay beside him, dazed, panting, flushed. Then she turned away.

“No!” she whispered.

“A month,” he reminded her. His arms around her then, he pulled her to him gently. She was so warm, silken still. It seemed just as sweet to hold her. And she did not pull away. She paid her debts—

And kept her bargains, so it seemed.

Golden strands of hair softly entangled him. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he had done. A month. Had he cast them both into the fiery pits of hell …? Or the sweetest heights of heaven?

Chapter Six

J
essica woke early, as she was accustomed to doing, yet it seemed that her eyelids were heavy, that it was hard to open them. Her lashes fluttered. The first thing she saw was his hand. Large, powerful, long-fingered, bronzed, nails clipped, not manicured, but clean. It lay around her waist, holding her close against his body.

She closed her eyes tightly again, recalling the night, assuring herself that she must be absolutely horrible, yet not feeling that she was in the least. She had to get to the land, she reminded herself. She was determined to get to the land, and maybe she had been willing to pay almost any price to get there.

But … this price hadn't quite occurred to her until she had first seen McKenna. And no matter what she tried to tell herself, a certain fire had stirred and burned deep within her from that moment. He was beyond a doubt the most intriguing man she had ever seen. He was perhaps an inch or two over six feet, lithe, graceful, silent, his every movement one of perfect ease—startling in a man with such broad shoulders, such fine, taut muscle structure, she thought. He was straight as oak and hard as stone, his face something handsomely chiseled from granite. His sleek, thick, pitch-black hair and ebony eyes were a striking giveaway to his Indian heritage, while the hard planes of his face somehow combined white and Indian characteristics into a visage that was arresting, strikingly handsome, and still so very rugged. He had fascinated her from the first seconds she had seen him. When she heard him speak, she felt tremors steal down her spine. When he looked directly at her, she felt fire seep into her bones.

She'd never felt anything quite like it before in her life. Ever. She'd been in love, or, rather, she had loved, and perhaps there was a difference. Charlie had been a part of her life forever. She had known him so very well. It was circumstance that had come between them, war that had split them apart.