Slow Fever (14 page)

“Yes.”
Yes, my love, for I can do nothing else but watch the beauty between us.

A wild flush rose in his dark cheeks and as his fierce gaze ripped down their entangled bodies, she knew he was locking the image in his mind. When he turned back to her, his expression was tender.

This is my first time,
Kylie mused.
No other has gone before, nor ever will go again. Not like this, with my Michael.
His hands were linked with hers, palms hard and callused, fingers strong and yet not hurting. She paused there in the first of their joining, holding her mind apart for just that heartbeat, before she gave herself to the fury. There would be no going back, no hiding what she felt, for she had decided to feast upon him, take what she wanted. She’d waited a lifetime for him, Kylie decided as Michael’s face hardened, his eyes dark and mysterious upon her. She’d remember the rough crisp cut of his hair, the way he breathed, just that slight flaring of his nostrils as if he was taking her into him, just as her body accepted him. He was a part of her now, lodged deeply, frowning in his concern, still taking care to hold his weight apart, not to hurt her. There was just the slash of light gleaming on his cheek
bones, his mouth slightly swollen from their kisses. It was a beautiful mouth, she decided and fit for a small boy who looked just like him. She listened to the beating of her heart, the thud of his, and gave herself to being one with Michael. He’d come home to her, filling her. Completed now, fully joined, she sighed and closed her eyes, taking in, remembering how it was now with Michael trembling and hot and hungry and his eyes burning down upon her. She inhaled his scent, that of wood smoke and soap, and storms wild and free and burning away everything else.

“Am I hurting you?” His voice shook with emotion, his eyes bright with it, as if it poured out of him, shaking the shadows around them.

“No, you’re not. It’s just so beautiful.” Then she opened her eyes to Michael, caught his concern and lifted her lips to ease his fears. “Take me,” she whispered in that dim shadowy room, amid the scent of freshly washed sheets, rain and Michael. Amid the future and the past and the leaping fire between them. She intended to tear his heart from him, to make him hers. She arched, ready to set about her work and her pleasure, and give him everything.

Ah, Kylie, love, you’re fearless and wild. You’re too small and fierce and determined to take us both too quickly.

Then Michael’s thoughts were torn away by his passion, by the woman claiming him, and by his taking of her. She rose and fell beneath him as smoothly as a warm wave, her hair spread out upon his pillow, her eyes narrowed as if she were closing in—her body echoed the tremors deep within, and Michael was lost, hurled into the red rockets bursting inside his head.

He’d cried out, giving himself to her, and through the slow clenching of her body, Kylie forced her eyes open to see him, her captive, her lover. The unique sense of being well-loved flowed through her, as she floated down to earth, Michael resting upon her. She stroked his back, damp as
her own flesh, for they had burned in fire. She listened to his uneven breath and smiled as she sensed him trying to reclaim himself. She couldn’t have that, letting him draw back into his shields and his shadows. “Michael?” she murmured against his ear and floated when he lazily caressed her breast.

“Mmm. I’ll move—” His voice was dark and deep and drowsy, enchanting her.

She held him tight, locked upon her. She wasn’t letting him get away, not after her first experience with the ultimate sensual pleasure. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m heavy, love. Let me move aside.”

She flicked her tongue against his ear, felt the jolt of his reaction deep within her body. She’d have him again and on her terms. “If that’s all there is—”

He raised up on an elbow, scowling at her, his hair wild from her hands. She grinned up at him and slid him another torment, because Michael could be arrogant when he chose and she couldn’t have that. “Was this a sampler?”

She delighted in his dazed, stunned look. It quickly changed to desire and she reveled in the changing of his expressions, the hardening of his body as he took her again.

By evening, the mist had become rain, pattering gently on the windows, and Michael watched Kylie sleep in his arms, curled trustingly against him. She had the look of a kitten, of a child he remembered from long ago, yet the brush of her breast against his side took his thoughts to the fiery woman she’d become, matching his needs, tearing him away.

He had to tell her,
he thought, even as he turned her gently, kissing away her drowsy protest. He smiled against her lips, now warming to his. She sighed luxuriously, dreamily, her body welcoming him as he slid within.

He had to tell her. He’d been a fool to unleash his passion for her before she understood his heart and his intention. Michael breathed in Kylie’s scents, their earthy warm scents combined and haunting him in his bedroom. She curled against him, exhausted and trusting. Marking the times they’d made love, bluish shadows glowed beneath her closed lids, her face pale within her tousled, wild hair. The easy sweep of her breath across his throat caused him more fear than confidence. Rain streamed down the windows, leaving patterns upon her pale face, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. A cold wash of fear paralyzed him;
he could lose her easily this dreary morning, with the wrong words or actions.

He had not cared about other women. They’d long ago faded by time and by his need of Kylie that burned bright and hardened his body even now, after they’d made love several times. For Kylie, he had to make this morning right, to correct his failure to tell her about asking for her and about his life.

She’d come at him once, surprisingly strong, her sleek muscles stronger than he’d suspected as she’d moved over him, taking him within. She’d been glorious then, fighting him and diving into her passion, tearing away everything else but what ran true and wild between them at that moment—

Desperation and fear thundered through him as he wondered what would please a woman the morning after they’d made love. It hadn’t mattered before; he’d never stayed the night. He’d never wondered if he were romantic enough, tender enough.

Kylie stirred against his bare shoulder, burrowing her face against him. Tangled in her soft limbs, Michael feared waking her, but he couldn’t think clearly with her so near. Gently he eased her aside and slid from bed. He showered away from his bedroom, letting the hot water sluice over him, trying to grasp what he must do, what he must say. He skipped calling the florists for a delivery of roses—Freedom was a small town and Kylie’s honor had to be kept. He settled for digging through a gift box of sea salts and bubble bath sent to him by Rosemarie, a woman now on her own but grateful for his help. He’d heard Anna speak of the calming use of chamomile tea and brewed a cup for Kylie, then foraged through Rosemarie’s box until he found a small vial labeled Chamomile de Bain.

He hurried to the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, ran
Kylie’s bathwater, checked its heat and planned the breakfast he intended to serve her. His thoughts careened wildly—he had to give her something, but there was nothing. Another man would have had his mother’s ring to give, a sweetheart necklace, or pearl earrings, tiny and perfect for Kylie’s small ears. He had no family treasures; he’d had no family to cherish. He’d set his goals to survive, to become financially secure. Reassured that he’d never again live in poverty, hunger clawing at his belly, he’d settled into a life that was safe. He found mild excitement in testing security systems and rewarding pleasure when he could help women like his sister.

No more than a small lump of curves in his bed, Kylie stirred and sighed. Michael paused in midstep, fearing that she would awake and he’d have nothing to give her. “Yum,” she murmured, snagging his pillow against her, and Michael knew he’d better hurry. Kylie was always in a better mood when well fed.

He had little time, before she awoke and he hurried to the kitchen, breaking eggs with shaking hands. He slathered butter and raspberry jam on her toast, and made another cup of chamomile tea because the first had grown cold. He was just filling the tray when Rosa called. Jeanne had fought her last battle and wanted peace and a new life for her baby. Michael glanced at the clock and knew he had little time to tell Kylie.

A second call from Karolina grimly reminded him that he had planned to make thoughtful, careful love to Kylie. “You bought enough for a year, according to the druggist. You’d better be treating my friend right, Michael Cusack, or I’ll—”

She gasped when Michael interrupted, “Butt out, Snoop. I’m taking care of her. We’re doing this trial marriage thing.”

“She doesn’t know that! You’d just better tell her what you did, Fast Hands. You’d better tell her that you spoke your intention at the Women’s Council. In fact, I’ll tell her myself. She ought to know what a jerk you are. Any man who had enough nerve to go in front of the Women’s Council and ignored the one little fact of telling the woman—the bride-to-be—that he had spoken for her, deserves whatever Kylie can throw at you—plates, bricks, whatever. This is a two-way deal, and you took her thunder. A woman is supposed to know this so she can wallow in what everyone says, blush a little and swish around in a pretty dress. Kylie has been wearing sweatsuits. She’s not going to be happy, Fast Hands.”

Michael relied on a time-proven method to shut up Karolina. “Do you want me for yourself, sweetheart?”

The disconnect buzz followed her gasped “Dog.” With that minor success, Michael grinned and set about defining just what would appeal to Kylie this morning. He mentally foraged through the gifts he wanted to give her later and started working.

Kylie sighed luxuriously in the bubble bath and forced herself to rise from it. She quite simply loved Michael, for his tenderness and his care of her, for his hunger and the trembling, reverent way he touched her. She’d heard him take a shower, but she’d been too achingly exhausted to rise and— She smiled softly and thought of other mornings they would have and how she’d soap and tend Michael’s hard, lean body.

His muffled shout of release had shocked him, as though he’d been tossed over an edge he hadn’t expected. Then there in the brooding silence before they began again, Michael’s thoughts had stalked him. A private man, he would take his time telling her whatever nagged at him.

She slid aside the mirror to search for toothpaste and frowned at the odd assortment of fingernail polish bottles, all unopened and in various shades. She pushed away the slight burn of jealousy; she’d known Michael had other women. She closed the mirror and her thoughts of Michael touching other women. The morning was too glorious and ripe with expectations to be ruined.

She stretched and yawned and noted the well-loved woman in the steamy mirror. The curl of her lips said she’d been pleasured. Her eyes were dark with the mystery of life, as if all her rivers ran smooth as warm cream, pooling gently in her relaxed muscles. The tender aches were her victory, for she had claimed pleasure, taken it into her, and returned the gift. There was more than their bodies’ hunger between them. That truth rang through her as she toweled dry and slipped on his flannel shirt, carefully placed out for her. Michael had definite possibilities, she decided, and followed the lovely aroma coming from the kitchen.

She found him there, jaw dark with morning stubble, wild hair tousled by her fingers and dusted with flour. Dressed only in boxer shorts, he paced nervously back and forth across the kitchen floor, also dusted with flour. Oven mittens were an odd contrast for a big man, corded with muscles. The kitchen warrior muttered to himself, stooped to peek into the oven and muttered again. He ran a finger down an open recipe book, glared at the clock and checked the oven again. He glanced at the lovely tray he’d prepared, tested the warmth of the cup with his finger and glared at it. “She should have china and all I have is stoneware. I am not prepared for this. I am not ready and what if—”

“Michael?” If he hadn’t appeared so distressed, pacing his lair, she might have laughed. The slightly reddish marks on his shoulder and back reminded her that she had dived into him and had taken. She decided to taste and kiss those
slight wounds and apologize while doing so. He reacted so nicely to her mouth against his skin, his body.

Michael pivoted like a gunslinger caught off guard, glaring at her. “Go back to bed. I’m not done here.”

He fascinated her, simply enchanted her as he stood there glaring at her, legs wide spread, bare chest dusted with the flour that ranged from the countertop to the floor and back again. He tore the oven mittens from his hands and tossed them aside when she leisurely leaned against the counter to snatch a slice of bacon. “It’s cold. Everything is ruined. Give me a break, Kylie.”

“What’s up?” she asked, and tried to smother a grin.

“The damned pie takes forever. Apple. First you have to roll out this dough—I’ve watched Anna use a rolling pin often enough, but the damned thing is too complicated. Pie dough is delicate, you know. It tears. The apples turn dark if you’re not fast enough.”

“‘Delicate,’ like you? I’d say that at times, you’re very firm.”

He stared at her blankly, as if she’d just jumped galaxies. “Don’t start with me, Kylie. I’m trying my best here.”

She flicked the flour from the hair on his chest and thought how lovely he looked. She couldn’t resist teasing him and tucked a strip of bacon into his mouth. He chewed it as though it were leather. He glared at her, a man with flour clinging to the peaks of his hair.

“Would you just go back to bed and let me handle this?” he asked in the wary, frustrated tone that could delight her.

“Yum,” she purred, taking in all that long, lean body, those powerful legs and rippled stomach and beautiful muscled chest. Then because she was feeling sensually powerful and feminine and wanted to distract Michael from his frustration, she tore open the borrowed shirt and flashed him.

He gaped quite beautifully, as if his mind had gone blank, and she loved him more. Then as if it took all his control, Michael closed his eyes, trembled and the dark flush upon his cheeks dimmed. When his eyes opened again, they were slitted and shielded and brooding. “We have to talk…. That day we rode into town, I went before the Women’s Council and spoke my piece for you.”

Now, I’ve done it,
Michael thought as he watched Kylie draw together the edges of his shirt, covering her body, her face paling with shock.

“What?” She shook her head as if she hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood him.
“What?”
she asked again, her hand closing around the cup of chamomile tea.

Perhaps her chamomile bath hadn’t worked, hadn’t calmed her enough. A quick glance at the oven said it would be minutes before he could serve her pie. He recognized that taut stance, those blue, angry eyes burning him. He had only a few minutes before she exploded. For a woman with a loving heart, Kylie left nothing to question when she was angered. “Drink your tea, Kylie. Sweetheart. Dear heart. Now, Kylie. I meant to tell you. I meant to do things the right way, and then I just decided to do it.”

“Without telling me.” Her voice was too quiet now, deadly.

Michael ran his hands through his hair, realized that the burning smell was coming from the pie he’d hoped to serve her. He jerked on the oven mittens and bent to take the pie from the stove. Latticed on top and simmering in butter, sugar and cinnamon, it had not burned, but merely bubbled over onto the bottom of the oven. “Treacherous, damned things,” he muttered, thinking more of his heart than the pie.

“Michael?” Kylie asked too quietly. “What did you say to them—the Women’s Council?”

“Nothing is going right,” he said to himself, as his morning after making love to Kylie went sliding into the flour at his bare feet. “I said the usual things. Welcomed the Committee for the Welfare of Brides to make their inspection.”

He’d been embarrassed then by the depth of love he could feel, by the future he’d dreamed of with Kylie. Even now, with her, the words were stuck tightly in his throat. But then, with Fidelity nodding encouragement, the words had begun to flow and when he was finished, he wondered why the women were teary. They were odd phrases, unfamiliar and tumbling over his tongue, much like he’d heard other men speak of their loves. He’d called her his “Sunshine” and his “morning dew,” his “buttercup” and his “rose.” There was something about holding her hand and watching the sunset when they were both gray and rocking on their front steps. He wished he could snag something of what he’d said now, as Kylie seemed to shimmer in the kitchen’s morning light, her hair frothing around her like a silky storm.

“All this time everyone knew, but me?”

Clearly, the discussion wasn’t going well as noted by the rising hitch in Kylie’s tone. “I wanted to give you more time,” Michael stated quite logically, he thought. He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter, watching her. He wasn’t taking back anything he’d said. “But I couldn’t wait. I’m usually pretty methodical about getting what I want, but with you, nothing is expected. There was Leon, using you, and the gossip, and it seemed the right thing to do. I haven’t done many right things in my life, but I knew that morning, that speaking for you was what your father would have done in the same situation. I respected him and my decision was logical.”

“Oh, it was, was it?” she asked before hurling the cup
at him. Michael dodged as it went hissing by him, only to clatter against the kitchen counter and fall to the floor.

The saucer followed and Michael caught it, carefully placing it aside. “It’s done,” he stated, wanting his love to know he cared enough for her to make a fool of himself.

“Yes, it is,” Kylie agreed with a hard jolt of finality, his shirt fluttering around her thighs as she stalked back to his bedroom.

“Look, princess. You’re not going anywhere until we get this ironed out,” Michael said as he watched her furiously tug on her clothing.

“Try and stop me,” she returned, punching him in the stomach as she passed.

Michael snagged the back of her sweatshirt and hauled her back to his scowl. “I made you a pie. I got emotional that morning, okay? I woke up at Anna’s and thought how you should have a home just like that and I wanted— My first pie…you’re my first and it’s damned hard to be reasonable with you in a snit. You’ll stay and eat it and we’ll talk this out.”

“Oh, will we?” she asked and delivered another punch that took his breath away. “Let me go. I’ll need time to think of all the ways I’m going to murder you.”

When she tromped out of his house, Kylie scooped up his pie in a dish towel and left with it and his heart.

Kylie sat on the floor, cross-legged, cuddling the warm pie that Michael had baked for her. She dug her spoon into the flaky crust, the juicy cinnamony apples and ignored the ringing telephone as she ate. “Pick up this call, dear heart,” Michael growled into the message machine.