Walker's Widow Page 12

  She undid the next button on the fly of his jeans, and the next, and the next, until her hand fit between the thick fabric and his searingly hot skin. He wasn't wearing drawers, she noted with surprise. Likely because he'd dressed in such a hurry to follow her out here.

  The lack of a second layer of clothing allowed her knuckles to come into direct contact with the rough hairs forming a narrow triangle down his lower abdomen, her fingers to bump the long, hard length of his erection, which strained upwards and gave an involuntary quiver when she wrapped her hand around it. She felt Clay's body tense, the muscles of his stomach spasm and his chest rise sharply with a deep inhalation of air.

  Regan lifted her head to look at him, only to find his gaze burning back at her. For a moment, she considered stopping, considered returning to the passive role and letting Clay take over. But then the brave, willful woman inside her came to the fore once again and she not only left her hand where it was, she began kissing the smooth flesh of his chest. She started at his collarbone, parting her lips and licking all the way across the protruding ridge.

  As she moved lower, Clay's fingers curled into the hair at her temples. With her free hand, she traced the curve of his pectoral muscle, reveling when it quivered beneath her fingertips. She kissed his tiny male nipples, circling them with her tongue.

  Clay's grip tightened and he arched an inch off the ground. “You're killing me,” he groaned.

  She lifted her head—at the same time tightening her grasp on his throbbing manhood the tiniest bit. “I can stop,” she offered.

  "Don't you dare,” he said with a strangled laugh. This woman would be the death of him. He wanted her so badly, his blood boiled in his veins. Her hand on his manhood was enough to end their encounter in a matter of seconds, and he didn't want that. Considering this might be his only chance to make love to Regan, he wanted tonight to last and last.

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist at the opening of his pants, breaking her hold on him. Coming to his knees, he quickly shucked his jeans, then brought Regan up to kneel beside him.

  "I love what you're doing,” he told her, feathering the ends of her drying hair, which was already returning to its usual unruly curliness. “And I'll let you finish later, believe me. But for now, it's my turn to drive you to the brink of insanity."

  Regan licked her lips in what Clay assumed was a nervous gesture. A nervousness that certainly hadn't been there moments before when she'd seduced him like a practiced courtesan. And he doubted her current anxiety was due to any real fear of what he was going to do to her. A healthy dose of anticipation, he thought smugly. And he'd make sure it was well worth the agitation.

  He settled his hands at the indentation of her waist, massaging the pads of his thumbs up and down on her silken skin. Nuzzling the lobe of her ear, his caress traveled over her ribcage, to the undersides of her breasts.

  Her breath was coming in short little pants that raised his temperature to an almost fever pitch. He wondered if his cousin had ever shortened her breathing this way. Ever caused her to shiver and lean toward him like a baby rabbit seeking sustenance.

  And then he wiped the thought from his mind. His cousin was dead, and Regan's past was her own. None of it had any bearing on their time together. Besides, even if James had been the greatest lover north of the Mexican border, Clay had every intention of erasing the man's image from Regan's memory. She could hang on to any shred of her everyday life as a married woman that she chose, but after tonight, she would know she had never truly been loved until Clayton Walker touched her.

  "Lie back,” he whispered, and was filled with lofty delight when her lashes drifted closed and she let herself fall backwards simply on his say-so. He held fast to her waist and lowered her to the blanket as though she were the most delicate of hothouse flowers.

  Following her halfway down, he crossed her arms and positioned them below the cushion of her breasts. She cast him a questioning glance, and he grinned.

  "Trust me."

  She raised a doubtful brow, but held the pose he'd orchestrated.

  Knowing he had her full—if not most confident—cooperation, he brushed his hands past her hips, over her thighs, beneath her knees. When he bent her legs and lifted them wide apart, she gasped, her mouth forming a small O of astonishment.

  His grin only widened. “You'll like this, I promise."

  She didn't seem to believe him.

  Silly girl. He'd just have to prove it to her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Supporting her hips, he lowered his head and began to explore the soft inner folds of her body with his tongue. She was already wet and smelled of musk and woman.

  When she whimpered and tried to clamp her legs tight together, he knew he was on the right track. He slowed his ministrations, taking more care with the budded pulse point at the very center of her femininity until she tensed from head to toe, arched her back, and gave a high, keening scream of pleasure.

  Clay brought her down slowly, kissing her inner thighs and belly as he made his way to lie above her.

  She raised glassy, satisfied eyes to his and smiled. “You were right,” she sighed contentedly. “I enjoyed that very much."

  He'd never in his life seen a smile like that, so wide open and at ease. Just knowing he'd been the one to put that look on her face made him feel ten feet tall.

  "There's more, you know."

  She stretched languidly. “Mmm, I can't wait."

  He chuckled. God, she was marvelous. So honest and enthusiastic about her passion. So eager and willing to trust him.

  But truth be told, he couldn't wait much longer, either. He brushed his lips over her swollen, pouty mouth. Explored her deepest corners and recesses. Drank in her warmth and desire.

  With her breasts pressed flat to his chest, he raised her legs to wrap high around his waist and thrust inside. They both gasped at the sudden contact, the heady feel of his engorged shaft fitting so snuggly within her damp heat.

  Regan's white, even teeth appeared as she bit down on her bottom lip. Clay imagined she did it to keep from yelling out. He was gnawing hard on his own control to hold back the clamoring ecstasy pounding through his veins.

  The storm raged on outside the barn. Thunder boomed and rain barreled down on the shingled roof. Inside a completely different tempest raged, one punctuated by rustles and moans.

  Her legs tightened about his waist and her nails dug into the solid flesh of his back. She sighed as wave after wave of pure delectation washed through her body.

  "Clay.” His name tumbled from her lips as her head tipped back and her breath began to come in shallow pants.

  He stroked deep, pushing into her welcoming warmth, then pulling out, only to plunge in once again. “Say it again,” he commanded. “Say my name."

  She obeyed at once, bringing her hips up to meet him thrust for thrust. “Clay,” she repeated breathlessly. “Clay, Clay, Clay."

  "Regan, Regan, Regan,” he followed suit.

  Accelerating his movements, he grasped her hips and pummeled into her. She welcomed the pressure, the pounding, the rapid motions that promised to bring much-sought-after release.

  And then it did, as her entire body tensed, and her inner muscles convulsed around Clay's hardness. She cried out as the climax hit her, shaking with its intensity.

  A moment later, he followed her over the edge. With a few last, quick thrusts, he stiffened and came inside her, gripping her close, his arms around her waist.

  For long minutes afterwards, they lay perfectly still, their chests rising and falling as they gasped for air, the thunder rumbling about them and livestock shuffling below.

  Clay's head rested between her breasts on her bare chest, and she raised a weak arm to run her fingers through his silky, short-cropped midnight hair. “Thank you."

  At her soft statement, he lifted up and fixed her with a surprised, questioning stare.

  She tried to shy away, embarrassed by her abrupt admission. But he wouldn't let her hide. He captured her chin and turned her to face him.

  She expected him to demand an explanation, to, at the very least, ask why her voice had trembled when she'd spoken. Instead, he kissed her lightly on the lips, reminding her of why she decided to follow him up to the loft in the first place.

  "I'm the one who should be thanking you,” he told her, his mouth still resting against her own. His arms bracketed her body while his hands cradled the base of her skull.

  Even though she never wanted to move ... even though she'd have liked to stay in the barn with Clay forever, she knew that was impossible. It was the middle of the night, but morning would come soon enough. Mother Doyle would wake, and Regan would die if Martha or anyone else discovered she and Clay had been rolling around in the hay loft.

  She wasn't ashamed—far from it. Her time with Clay was her concern and no one else's. But that didn't mean she wanted people privy to her business, or to know with whom she'd been spending private, intimate moments.

  "The rain has let up,” she said quietly.

  Clay gave an answering grunt, pressing light kisses along the line of her jaw. He was still inside her, and she felt him once more growing firm. She was afraid to let things get carried away, to let their passions kindle and burn and blaze again like an out of control forest fire.

  "Don't you think we should go in?"

  He sighed—a deep, ragged, rueful breath—and let his brow rest against hers. “I'd rather stay here and make love to you again."

  Even as he said it, though, he rolled aside and tugged the corners of the old Army blanket about her shoulders. “But if you're determined to protect your reputation"—he shot her a teasing wink—"then I suppose it's my duty as a gentleman to help you dress and see if we can get you back to the house with some degree of dryness."

  He was trying so hard to be noble that she laughed. “And what do you plan to do with me once you get me into the house?"

  He'd gathered her discarded clothing into a pile at her side and was tugging on his still-drenched trousers when her words stopped him cold.

  The question had popped out before she'd thought it through, and a stain of color flew into her cheeks as she realized its double meaning.

  With the button fly of his pants still half open and his eyes burning bright, he stepped forward. He reached down to where she sat, grasped her hands, and pulled her to her feet. The blanket began to slip, but he caught the edges and tucked them around her bare form.

  "Is that an invitation?” he asked huskily.

  She pictured him in her room, in her bed, yellow flowers and eyelet lace tucked to his ears. The thought made her smile. Until Mother Doyle entered the vision and she realized how mortified she would be if Martha found out that her daughter-in-law and her nephew were cavorting about naked.

  In answer to his query, she shook her head vehemently. “No. No, no. I don't think that would be wise at all."

  His gaze fell to her mouth, as though he was considering kissing her. A very big part of her wanted him to—wanted that, and everything she knew would follow. A more intelligent part of her realized the foolishness of such an action, however, and she did her best to tamp down on her own desires.

  Unfortunately, his attention remained focused on her lips, even as he spoke, which continued to distract her and sent little shivers of need dancing down her spine.

  "You're right. Spending the night together under Aunt Martha's roof probably isn't the smartest idea. But if you ever change your mind...” His hands slipped beneath the ends of the scratchy woolen blanket to stroke back and forth along her upper arms. “Just give a whistle, and I'm there. A herd of stampeding longhorns couldn't keep me away.” He gave her arms a little squeeze. “Got it?"

  His meaning couldn't have been more clear, and her heart swelled at the knowledge that this man seemed to want her so very much.

  "Got it?” he asked again.

  She nodded. It took all her strength not to put her lips together right now and trill, just to see how quickly he would move.

  He bent to retrieve her clothing, handing her the camisole and drawers. “You'd better get dressed,” he said, “before the storm kicks up again."

  Keeping the spread around her as best she could, she struggled into her wet purple underthings. Then Clay held the blanket while she covered herself with the equally damp black robe.

  Their eyes met and they seemed to inhale the same reluctant breath.

  "Ready?"

  She moved toward the ladder, turning to back her way down. She reclaimed her boots at the bottom and made her way to the front entrance. Clay followed and slid open the wide barn door, using the blanket as an umbrella to protect her from the rain as they ran across the muddy yard. Hurrying up the steps and onto the porch, they wiped their dirty feet as best as they could with the overused Army blanket and left it and Regan's oversized boots to be washed the next day.

  They headed upstairs, being sure to tiptoe past Martha's room. And even though their rooms were side by side, Clay walked Regan to her door.

  She considered inviting him in, once again replaying her earlier daydream. But the end result remained catastrophic, and she stepped past the open doorway before the impulse to pull him with her became overwhelming.

  Turning to face him, she offered a quiet, “Goodnight."

  Clay ran his wide, callused fingers through the hair at her temple and gave her a temperate smile. “Sleep tight, green eyes. I'll see you in the morning.” And then he leaned in to press his warm mouth to her slightly parted lips.

  As soon as the contact was broken, he turned and entered his own room, closing the door behind him.

  Regan stood where she was, committing to memory every stroke, every breath, every nuance of that kiss. And wondering how she would ever fall asleep now, with the taste of Clay lingering on her lips, and the man only one thin wall away.

  Regan awoke the next morning to the sound of her name being called. She rolled over and stuffed her head under the nearest pillow. She was too tired to deal with life right now. Another hour and she'd be good as new, but at the moment, she was simply too exhausted to move.

  She had just drifted back to sleep, was enjoying the hazy edges of a lovely dream, when someone knocked at her door. With a groan, she let the pillow fall away and rolled toward the side of the mattress.

  "What?” she bit out, knowing it was completely out of character for her to snap at anyone; to laze about past dawn and not jump up to immediately see to Mother Doyle's needs. But she was so tired.

  "Regan?” came a muffled male voice. No doubt Clay's.

  At the thought of Clay, she shot out of bed like a pebble from a sling and grabbed for her robe. In her struggle for a few more minutes of peace, she'd forgotten the probable reason for her exceptional lethargy.

  "Regan?” he called again, before another knock sounded and the door slowly squeaked open.

  Though it was a futile gesture—since he had already seen her in much less the night before—she put a hand to her collar to hold the sides of her hastily donned wrap closed. She was naked beneath it, because she'd only taken the time to remove her wet garments last night before falling into bed.

  Clay wore his characteristic outfit of denim trousers, dusty cowboy boots, and a light cambric shirt—this one an off-white that brought out the bronze of his skin and black of his hair. He'd shaved and apparently gotten a good night's sleep, as he didn't look the least bit tired.

  Regan wanted to hit him. Worse yet, she wanted to take two steps forward and run her fingers over the material of his shirt to see if it was as soft as it looked. That way lay madness, of course, but for just a moment, she let herself imagine doing that very thing.

  It didn't help that he was watching her, studying her with those gray, penetrating eyes that had captured her attention almost from the first moment they'd met.

  She saw his gaze travel to where she clutched the folds of her robe, then back to her face, one side of his mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. As though he knew what she was trying to do by covering herself, and that it would do no good if he decided to launch an attack.

  "I thought maybe you'd climbed out the window to escape Martha's screeching."

  Her lashes fluttered guiltily. “Is she all right? I didn't mean to ignore her, I was just so sleepy."

  Clay's lips curved even wider. Cocky. That was the word; he looked cocky, correctly assuming that he was the reason she'd been unable to get out of bed at a decent hour.

  "Aunt Martha's fine. She was a little surprised you weren't up at the usual time, but I told her how hard you worked in the garden yesterday"—he slanted her a wicked, knowing glance—"and fixed her some breakfast so she wouldn't have to wake you."

  Ignoring his suggestive mien, she zeroed in on the second part of his statement. “You cooked breakfast?"

  With a bark of laughter, he said, “Don't sound so shocked. I've spent a lot of time on the trail. Not to mention, my mother is a lousy cook. Growing up, I often had to choose between a couple hours over a hot cookstove or the risk of starvation."

  She frowned, not completely convinced. “What did you make?"

  "This morning, or when I was a kid?"

  She shot him a quelling glare.

  "Porridge and fried ham,” he answered quickly, tempted to stand at attention and give her a mock salute.

  When her nose crinkled in distaste, he rushed to justify his choices. “It's what Martha wanted. I'll admit the oatmeal mush was a little ... well, mushy, but she seemed to enjoy it. And it bought you a couple more hours of sleep."

  He couldn't believe he was defending his cooking skills. If he was smart, he'd tell her he'd overcooked the ham and almost burned down the kitchen so he'd never be expected to prepare a meal again.