Chapter 42 #2
Now she understood. He felt responsible for Keith’s death. If Clint hadn’t come back . . . “Keith’s death isn’t your fault.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
She couldn’t stand it anymore. Clint stood only inches away. She needed to touch him. Her hand rested against his chest. “None of this is your fault. They all lied—we all screwed up and you paid the price.”
“I should go.”
She’d made herself a promise—to go after what she wanted from now on. Don’t let him walk away. She hadn’t felt anything real for so long, the memory of how he could make her come alive screamed inside her, begged for more. “You shouldn’t be sleeping in that old barn.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Say it! “I don’t want you to go.”
Hesitation filtered into his eyes. “You sure about that?”
“I want you to . . . touch me.”
Those lips she yearned to taste quirked. “I touched you.” He glanced at the cheek he’d caressed.
She gave her head a little shake. “Not like that.”
“Emily . . .” His gaze rested on her face.
“Touch me,” she ordered. She didn’t want to hear any more excuses. She’d spent her whole adult life wallowing in regret. “Please.”
The hesitation in his eyes cleared. “Show me how you want me to do it.”
She took his right hand and placed it on her breast. “This is good.”
He squeezed. Need keened low in her throat.
“Is that all you want?”
“No.” She took his other hand and guided it to the place where her robe parted at the top of her thighs.
His fingers resting against her had her heart thundering.
“Is that all?” His voice was gruff now.
“No.”
He drew his hands away and she made a sound of protest, wanted to grab on to him . . . to make him touch her again.
“Take off your robe and lie down on the bed,” he ordered instead of attempting to retreat as she’d feared he would.
She didn’t hesitate. The robe hit the floor, revealing her nude body. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, scooted back to lie against the pillows.
He looked at her for a long while. Her heart pounded twice for every second. Then he reached to turn off the lamp.
“I want to see,” she challenged.
He didn’t argue.
He toed off his sneakers first. Then he peeled the T-shirt free of his body, revealing that muscled chest with all its reminders that he’d spent ten long years in a prison criminals weren’t meant to survive.
He unfastened his jeans. Her pulse rate altered significantly.
The jeans slid down his long legs and he stepped out of them and shucked off his socks.
No briefs, just him. Ridged abdomen, narrow hips, muscled legs .
. . and that thick sex that hung prominently between them.
The bed shifted with his weight as he lay down beside her.
The heat of his body instantly warmed her, or maybe just seeing him this way had already done that.
He lay on his side, his head propped in one hand.
His well-muscled body exuded a kind of power that had hers humming with excitement already.
“What now?”
She tried to analyze what he was thinking. Impossible. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not taking anything else from you, Emily. Whatever happens now is going to be about you taking what you want.”
The idea sent power surging through her. She liked that he gave that to her.
She took him at his word and made her own choices.
She pushed him onto his back and straddled him.
The feel of his body beneath her was incredible.
He was hard and pressed firmly between her thighs.
She lifted her hips far enough to guide him where she wanted; then she slid down around him.
All the way. The sensation of being filled so completely took her breath, set her on fire.
He groaned savagely, his hands fisted in the pillow under his head.
She rode him until her body collapsed, sated, against his chest. His own climax had left him panting and damp with sweat.
She loved the feel and smell of him. Loved that she could make him come like that, with such intensity.
He stroked her back while the rhythm of his heart lulled her toward absolute bliss.
She refused to give in to her body’s need for rest. She sat up, grinding her bottom against his loins.
“I want you to take me from behind.” Butterflies took flight in her stomach at the idea.
With him behind her, he could go deeper .
. . she liked deeper. And she’d waited too long to play games or to pretend a shyness she didn’t feel.
He didn’t question her request. He rolled her over and sat back on his haunches. Shivering, she turned onto her stomach and waited for him to take her.
“Lift your hips.”
She scooted her knees beneath her, lifting her bottom into the air for his possession.
He moved against her. She moaned deeply, could hardly bear the sensation.
Slowly, as if he wanted to be sure he did this right, he guided himself into her.
That last inch or so had her charging toward climax before he’d even started to move.
He held still, let her adjust to his size and the new depth.
Then he pulled her up against his chest and held her close, cupping her breasts in his hands.
She moaned her pleasure, unable to tell him how awesome he was, how full and satisfied he made her feel.
Then he moved. He held her tight against him as he flexed and relaxed his hips in a slow, tightly controlled manner, his thrusts shallow but somehow mind-blowingly intense.
He kissed her temple, squeezed her breasts, all the while making those small, firm moves.
When she could take it no more she started to wiggle against him .
. . needing more . . . needing faster. As if he understood exactly what she required, he ushered her forward, until her cheek rested against the pillow.
Her entire body pulsed with the pleasure searing through her.
She wanted him to make it happen before she lost her mind.
He thrust. Long, deep, hard. Faster. Until she came just as fast and just as hard. Then he slowed it down, trembling with the effort of restraint.
“Please.” She wanted to feel him come undone. To feel him lose control.
He resisted . . . moved slowly, each flex of his hips a deliberate effort in discipline.
“Clint . . .” The rush of sensations started again, wave after wave, building, building . . . how could he make her come so many times?
He groaned softly.
“Hurry!”
He stopped completely, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. His breath was ragged. The damp contours of his chest branded the skin on her back. “I want to savor every second,” he murmured.
Then he started those slow, steady strokes once more.
Release crashed down on her . . . took her breath completely. He pounded into his own climax, grunting savagely with the force of it.
He collapsed onto the mattress, pulling her against his chest while their bodies remained connected so completely she wondered how she had lived this long without him.
The community—everyone she knew—considered him a killer. Even knowing his alibi was real, her parents would never think of him as anything but dangerous.
The never-ending tragedy. Shakespeare couldn’t have written a more unfortunate plot.