Chapter Eight
Austin was pretty sure the top of his head was no longer there, blown off by the intense sensation of her lips, tongue, and mouth sliding up and down along his—Christ, it wasn’t like no one had ever . . . but when she—he sucked in air, tensed, shocked to feel the surge begin to gather. He’d just come an hour or so ago . . . no way was he going to—but damn, it sure felt like it.
He spent a split second thinking he should tear her away, pull her up, bury himself deep, so he could come inside her sweet, hot body—but just the thought of it was enough to send him flying over the edge.
Del kept him pinned hard to the wall, not letting him take any control. Taking him. And taking him. Until there was nothing left, and he could barely stand upright, his knees were suddenly shaky. He wanted nothing more than to slide down the wall, pull her into his lap . . . and just drift on the intense waves of pleasure still flowing over and through him.
His head was tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut. “Never,” he managed. “Twice. Jesus.” He shook his head. He was still half hard; in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever go limp again. His body had been hard-wired for her and it simply wasn’t going to quit until they were both either completely spent . . . or unconscious.
“Austin,” she urged, her voice all throaty. She kissed one rigidly locked thigh, then the other.
Something in her voice had him opening his eyes, looking down at her, still kneeling there, looking up at him, eyes still dark with desire, mouth curved in a damned dry smile. It was the smile that did him in completely. He laughed even as his throat grew strangely tight. Unsure what to do with all the emotions she so easily elicited, he only knew she shouldn’t be kneeling before him. He yanked her up, tugged her so she fell against him. “I want to feel all of you,” he said, not aware of what words he had to say until he was saying them. “Against all of me.”
Her smile faded, and maybe her throat was a little tight, too, because she swallowed hard.
“I want us out of these clothes and up there,” he jerked his chin toward the bunk he’d used as a bed. “I want to feel your legs entwined with mine. I want to lie there and imagine how it would feel to sleep with you all wrapped up with me.” He stroked her cheek, ran his thumb along her lip, knowing this was probably way too intense, yet unable to stop. “I want to fall asleep with you in my arms. And I want to wake up next to you in the morning.” He brushed a kiss across her lips. “At least once.”
She shifted enough to look into his eyes. Held his gaze for the longest time. Then moved out of his embrace . . . and slowly took the rest of her clothes off. He kicked free of his own clothes as she turned, placed her hands on the upper berth, intending to push herself up. He moved in behind her, tugged her hips back against his. Would he ever get enough of her?
Leaning over her, he dropped kisses along the nape of her neck as he wrapped his arms fully around her waist, nestling himself between her legs. Her grip on the berth tightened as she pushed back into him, arched her neck to give him greater access.
His pulse raced again, the blood pounding in his veins. It was almost like a sickness, the depth of need she stirred in him, so effortlessly. The clean line of her neck, the supple curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the soft roundness of her buttocks. He ached to capture them on film, so he could forever remember this moment, each perfect instant of her body meshing with his. And yet he already knew he wouldn’t need a tangible reminder. Not when so many images would be forever indelibly burned into his brain.
She moaned softly as he slid one hand up to cup her breast, and slid the other down between her legs. He groaned as she moved against him, against his questing fingers. Her nipple grew hard and tight as he rolled it between his fingers. Her breathing grew ragged as he moved to the other breast, her moan deep and long as he slid first one finger inside her, then another.
She pushed down, moaning, gasping . . . swearing.
Smiling, he pushed himself between her thighs from behind, gently bit the ridge of her shoulder, then soothed it with his tongue. She started moving faster, clenching around his fingers. He shifted her so her back arched more fully, then slid his fingers forward, to play with her, so slippery and wet, then slid them back inside her. The moment he pushed them fully inside her, she came hard, spasming around him, crying out.
He continued to stroke her, toy with her nipples. He bit her ear, licked her neck, and drove her up and over again. Dear God, he could lose himself completely in her. In her scent, her sound, her softness.
Intoxication. Addiction. Obsession.
She was trembling, her legs shaky, when he finally withdrew. Rather than turn her in his arms, he lifted her up onto the berth, and followed behind her. Saying nothing, he stretched out and pulled her to him. Legs and arms flowed together far too easily. But nothing about her, about them, surprised him any longer. He was deep in a sensual fog and he had no desire for the mists to clear, for reality to rear its often ugly head. She snuggled against him, her breathing slowing until she dozed on him. He stroked her hair, her back, the length of the arm she’d draped across his belly . . . and tried not to think about what would come next.
Too many things were in turmoil in his life at the moment. Well, one thing, but it was a major one thing. This trip home. Had he so willingly leaped into this . . . whatever it was he was having with Del, as a way to avoid dealing with what lay ahead? Or, at least, forget about it for a while? Possibly. She’d certainly taken his mind off things. But he’d been under all kinds of stresses throughout his life, and he’d never once reacted by having spontaneous, mind-blowing sex with a woman he’d only just met.
He shifted, looked down at the woman sleeping in his arms. She didn’t strike him as a woman who trusted easily, or probably often. Her background intrigued him. Hell, everything about her intrigued him. Would he have given her a second look had their paths crossed anywhere else? He had no way of knowing. He only knew that from the moment he’d stepped onto that tiny, snowy balcony, she’d had his complete attention.
He brushed at the spiky ends of her hair. She wasn’t his type, if he had such a thing. She was a quixotic mix of hard and soft, both physically and emotionally. The women he spent his quiet time with were usually easier, less complicated. Less likely to snag at his heart? Probably. He moved around a lot. Women, clingy women, complicated that. He’d never consciously made the decision to stay unattached, but subconsciously? Yeah, he could see now where he might have kept things light, easy, simple, on purpose.
So when, he wondered, had he stopped taking risks? His work challenged him. He was good at what he did, demanding of himself. He didn’t settle, but neither had he truly pushed himself lately. Professionally . . . or personally. Until today.
His thoughts drifted to the call he’d gotten from Tag, telling him Taggart Sr. had succumbed to a heart attack. He hadn’t known what to feel about the news. He’d always thought he’d be indifferent to the bastard’s passing. Their lives hadn’t intertwined in over a decade, hadn’t impacted each other’s really in even longer than that. But the fact was, he was his father. The man who, for better and oftentimes worse, had raised him. Austin had always thought he’d become the man he was despite his father’s harsh hand and even harsher mouth. But perhaps he was who he was because of those things. It was an unsettling thought.
He shoved it all aside. For now, he was tucked away on a snowbound train, with a naked woman sprawled across his chest. He had no idea how he was going to feel, walking into the house he’d been raised in, how it would be between him and his brothers, all together after so many years apart. So many memories. Most bad, but maybe some good. He stroked his hand down her spine and his lips curved a little as he smoothed his palm over the sweet fullness of her buttocks. Like Cindy Harper on that lake. That had been a good day.
There would be other memories. When four boys grew up under one roof . . . there would be stories, plenty of them. He smiled, wishing he could be more cynical about the little spurt of hope that sprang to life inside him. The hope that he and his brothers could concentrate on those times. It wouldn’t be so simple. There was a will to be read. Ancestral property to be dealt with. Who would stay? Who would be responsible?
No. He didn’t want to think about it. Much better to dwell on the more immediate concern. What to do about Del? Did he want this to be the perfect interlude? The one golden fantasy that he could resurrect at will, and likely would, repeatedly, in years to come? Or did he want to push it beyond this chance meeting? This chance blending of bodies . . . and souls. It was a little sappy, but that’s what he was feeling at the moment. Two souls, buffeted about by life, victorious either despite or because of their pasts . . . tossed into each other’s paths. Was it any surprise, then, the tempest their meeting had created?
He shook his head, closed his eyes. Soul mates. He’d never believed in such a thing. But it was hard to deny the connection he felt to Del. A connection that had begun physically, but had already expanded beyond that. The . . . fear? Yes, fear, that he’d wake up and find it had all been a dream. Or worse, that she’d somehow slipped away from him before he could convince her to . . . what? E-mail him? Have intercontinental phone sex?
He swore silently, not wanting to deal with things like logic and reason. Nothing about this was either of those things. And yet, the fact was she was rooted in New York. He wasn’t rooted anywhere. He thought about her revelation, that she wanted to travel. Be an artist. A writer. What if he offered to give her an opportunity to do those things, discover what might be? Both within herself... and between them? It might amount to nothing. They might be horrible together day-to-day. Or it might open a world for her in which he’d be no more than a steppingstone. It might lead to pain, heartache.
Or, it could lead to something even more terrifying to contemplate. Something like happiness. Contentment.
Love. Commitment.
He turned his face so that the tips of her hair tickled his cheek. Risk. It all came down to risk, to his willingness to chance it. “Well,” he murmured, “what the hell do I have to lose?” The idea of never seeing her again seemed a far worse, very immediate reality. He knew if he didn’t try, he would forever ask himself “what if?”
He blew out a surprisingly shaky breath, shifted to his side and pulled her more fully into his arms. Her body was warm, pliant. And his, he couldn’t help but think. A man who had never had a possessive bone in his body. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need to wake her, demand to know if she felt that same sense of possession. Was she, even now, dreaming of what a life with him could be like?
He tucked her head on his chest, amplifying the beat of his heart as it thumped against the pressure of her cheek. Would he wake up tomorrow and ask himself what in the hell he’d been thinking? Would she?
There was only one way to find out.