If You Believe
Page 40

Please, God, let him stay. ...
Tears stung her eyes. She didn't bother to wipe them away. Never again would she be afraid to cry. There would be no more hiding for her, no more emotional armor.
From how on, she'd face life head-on and fight for her happiness.
She'd give him everything she had to give, her heart and soul and body, and hope that it was enough.
It was all she could do.
A pleasant, tingling sensation spread through Mad Dog's body. He shifted his weight, tangling in the warm sheets that curled around him. An unfamiliar scent filled his nostrils, teased him to a woozy state of semi-consciousness. He flung one arm sideways, stretching.
His arm landed across something warm and solid. Flesh, he realized groggily. He was sleeping next to someone.
Flesh. The realization ripped the last clinging clouds of sleep from his mind. He opened his eyes.
Mariah lay snuggled against him, her chin poised lightly on his chest, her lips a hairsbreadth from his left nipple. He felt the whisper-soft caress of her breathing against his skin.
He almost groaned aloud at the sight of her. Heat slid through his body and landed in his groin.
She gave him a slow, lazy smile, and pushed a tangled skein of hair from her still sleepy eyes. "Morning," she said in a soft, throaty voice that made him think of sex.
He blinked, tried to sound casual. "Mornin'. I guess you're feeling better... ."
"I feel great." Her gaze melted into his. Slowly she pushed the tip of her tongue past her parted lips and licked his nipple. "And you," she drawled, "taste even better than I feel."
The warm, wet tip of her tongue scalded him. He shivered in response. Arousal hardened his body, saturated his senses. He'd never had a woman initiate sex before—not even when he paid for their attentions. Jesus, it was nice... .
She licked his nipple again, tugged at it with her teeth.
Another low, gravelly groan escaped him. "Where did you learn that?" he said, trying to force laughter into his breathless voice.
"From you." Her mouth closed around his nipple, teased it into hardness.
Mad Dog sank deeper into the pile of pillows and closed his eyes. Who in the hell would have known this felt so good? No one had ever done this to him before; he'd never thought to ask for it. One of the drawbacks of sleeping with whores, he thought lazily. You got what you paid for, and not a goddamn thing more.
But it was more than that, and he knew it. He was feeling something that went beyond physical sensation. She was touching his body with her tongue, and he felt it there, but somehow what she was doing went deeper. As if that gentle, moist tongue of hers were flicking his heart as well.
She looked up, smiling. Their eyes met, and in the bourbon depths, he saw a reflection of his own emotions. The power of the moment hit him hard. His chest tightened, his ability to breathe melted away.
"What are you doing?"
She stared at him through steady, honest eyes. "I'm loving you."
Before he could respond, she moved down. The blankets bunched up behind her, peeling away from him until more and more of his naked body lay exposed. Cool air breezed across his skin.
Her head slipped under the blankets.
"Oh, Jesus ..."
The warm tip of her tongue traced the hard line of his pelvic bone, left a searing streak of fire. Goose bumps studded his trembling flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Oh, God ...
She trailed moist, openmouthed kisses along his hipbone. Her movements were slow and leisurely, tasting, exploring, touching. Desire pulsed through him, made him tremble and ache and need. Never in his life had he felt this way ... desperate and out of control.
He grabbed hold of her shoulders and yanked her up the long, hard length of his body. A tiny mewl of sur prise slipped from her lips. It was the only sound she made before his mouth came down on hers.
He kissed her long and hard, with all the pent-up passion of a man who'd had sex a thousand times but never once in his life made love. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, tasting the exquisite sweetness that was hers alone.
She kissed him with abandon. Her tongue twined with his, explored the moist cavern of his mouth, traced his teeth. Her arms curled around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest.
Everywhere they touched, there was fire. Their skin burned together, fused. Mad Dog had never wanted a woman more in his life. He wanted her inside him, wanted to feel the very essence of her body melting into his.
He fumbled desperately with the tiny buttons of her chemise, trying to force his shaking fingers to function. Frustration burst past his lips in a growl. He cursed, wanting to rip the flimsy fabric from her body. She laughed shakily and drew back.
"Where are you going?" He winced at the breathless-ness of his own voice.
"I'd rather take it off than have you rip it off," she answered in a voice that matched his own. With nimble, practiced fingers, she unbuttoned the lacy chemise and shrugged out of it. The ivory fabric slid down her silky arms, pulled gently away from her small, pink-tipped breasts.
He moaned at the sight of her. Need twisted his in-sides into a hard, throbbing knot.
He'd never really understood the full impact of that word before; it had always been synonymous with simple desire, but now he saw the truth. There was nothing simple about it.
He needed Marian, needed her in this moment more than he'd ever needed anyone in his life. And not just her body—though he wanted her with a desire that bordered on desperation. He needed her smile, her laughter, her ability to care. That part of her that couldn't say good-bye to the people she loved.
She let her gaze move away from his. Slowly, with a seductiveness she couldn't possibly understand, she began to untie her drawers. The creamy linen slid down the trim, concave curve of her hip. A shadow of curly brown hair peeked out from the sagging, beribboned waistband.
"Jesus, Marian," he whispered, "you're beautiful."
She eased the undergarments from her body and threw them behind her. The chemise landed half-on, half-off the dresser; the pants draped across the bedpost like a flag of surrender.
"Come here," he breathed, his gaze locked on hers.
She shook her head. Her long hair brushed against her nipples, hardening the pink tips.
"But—"
She leaned down, pressed a finger to his lips. "Shhh ..."
Slowly, she drew back the heavy coverlet and exposed his naked body. He lay there, legs partially spread, hands clenched at his sides, breathing heavily. Her hot, pointed gaze studied him, moved leisurely to the hardened shaft of his desire. He couldn't move, his body felt weighted down. His breath came in fast, choppy bursts that sounded like cannon-bursts in his ears. He licked his lips and tried to swallow, but he couldn't. He lay stiff and unmoving, feeling exposed, vulnerable, out of control.
And painfully aroused.
She leaned toward him, placed her hands on his chest. Sweaty dampness seeped from her flattened palms and scalded his skin.
She gave him a slow, enigmatic smile . . . and straddled him.
He shuddered hard and closed his eyes. Gently, feeling her way, she lowered herself onto him, encased him in the tight, velvet sheath of her body.
He grabbed her bare buttocks and pulled her toward him. She leaned closer, curling her fingers around the scrolled oak bedrail. Her breasts wavered before him, taunting him with their perfect, pebbly tips.
He pushed up, took one in his mouth.
A moan of pleasure slipped from her parted lips, ruffled through his hair. She started to move, slowly at first, as if unsure of what to do, then faster and faster.
Sweat broke out on his chest. His fingers curled into the warm, solid flesh of her buttocks, squeezing, holding, guiding. Her hips moved in an artless, instinctive motion that drove him crazy with need.
He sucked her nipples, first one, then the other, drawing the puckered peaks deep into his searching mouth. Above him, she made quiet, gurgling sounds of passion that plunged through him, aroused him even more.
Their bodies turned hot and slick and melted into each other, until he didn't know where she stopped and he began. They found a thrusting, grinding rhythm of flesh on flesh.
He couldn't breathe for wanting her. His every sense felt stretched and heightened to painful intensity. A dark emotion tugged at his heart, consumed him. For a heartbeat of time, he felt vulnerable and afraid.
She came down on him hard, twisting, thrusting, driving the air from his lungs. He clung to her, sucking one nipple, pulling the other with his fingers.
She writhed, moaned, arched. Her head flew back in a spray of brown hair.
He glanced up at her, saw her curved above him, her eyes sealed shut, her lips parted, her cheeks bright with passion.
He tried not to come. For the first time in his life, he cared about making this good for her. As good as it was for him.
Ah, Jesus, how good ...
Agony twisted his insides at the effort, made him swell and ache and hurt. The urge to release himself inside her, lose 'himself in her hot, wet warmth, was a driving, burning need.
He gritted his teeth and held back. Her name may have slipped from his lips, he wasn't sure. His body shook with the effort of control, sweat burned across his forehead.
She thrashed atop him, whimpering, then suddenly she stiffened. "Oh God, oh God
..."
She plunged down on him, grinding herself against his hips with moist, desperate abandon. Her hands left the bedpost and curled in his hair, clutching his head to her, breasts.
He squeezed her buttocks and arched upward, driving himself deep into her body.
She tensed, cried out. The rhymthic pulsing of her release squeezed him.
"Oh, God .. . Matt ..." she moaned.
At the sound of his name, he was lost. He grabbed her hard and thrust upward again, arching off the bed. Relief exploded through his body, tingled all the way to his fingertips in waves of painful pleasure.
He clung to her sweaty body, feeling suspended, dizzy. Darkness hovered at the edges of his mind. Her! name slipped from his lips in a sigh as he drifted slowly f back to earth.
Exhausted, he sank into the mound of pillows and! pulled her close. She snuggled up to him, slipped her arm around his waist, and buried her face in the crookl of his neck. The harsh scent of sweat and the sweet| smell of passion filled the air.
He had a moment's utter bliss, then reality crashed in.| He frowned, remembering the things he'd thought about! her, the way he'd needed her, and for the first time in his life, he was truly afraid. He'd never needed anyone in his life; it was something he made certain of. He| lived without restrictions, without commitments. Whenl he wanted to walk, he walked; when he wanted to stop,| he stopped. No one and nothing told him what to do.
That kind of freedom was as necessary to him as? breathing. He couldn't live without it, couldn't live in safety behind a white picket fence. Couldn't grow old on some nothing little apple farm in the middle of nowhere.
And yet, a few moments ago, he'd needed her. Not as a physical release, not as a way to pass the time. Really needed. For a few heartbreakingly perfect minutes, with him inside her, holding her, he'd felt . . . complete.
Ah, Mariah, he thought, groaning, what are we doing? What in the hell are we doing?
But he knew.
It wasn't just great sex. It was love.
Mariah curled against Matt, holding him tightly. He stroked her hair in gentle, sweeping motions but said nothing.