Chapter 7 #2
Silk. Her skin was like hot, fragrant silk.
He was certain he could never get enough of it.
With his face buried in her hair, he felt his system drift back to earth like a feather on the breeze.
How could he tell her that no one had ever moved him as she did?
How could he explain that at this moment he was more at home than he had ever been in his own world, or in the sky he loved so much?
How could he accept that he had found his match in a place, and in a time, where he was a stranger?
He wouldn’t think of it. Cal turned his lips into her neck. For as long as it was possible, he would live from minute to minute.
“You are so lovely.” He propped himself on an elbow so that he could see her face, the paleness of it in the moonlight.
It was flushed from the afterglow of lovemaking.
Her eyes were clouded with the last dregs of spent passion.
“Very lovely,” he murmured, and kissed her.
“Your skin’s still warm.” He began to nibble, as though she were a delicacy he couldn’t resist.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.” Fresh desire began to tingle within her. “Caleb—” Her breath caught on a fast, hot shudder. “You make me feel . . .”
“How?” With his tongue, he traced her parted lips. “Tell me how I make you feel.”
“Magical.” Her fingers curled into the sheets. “Helpless.” And went lax. “Strong.” She gripped his forearms, rocked by a dazzling array of new sensations. “I don’t know.”
“I’m going to love you again, Libby.” He crushed his mouth to hers in a soul-wrenching kiss that left them both breathless. “And again, and again. Each time I do, it’ll be different.”
There was a power building in him. It might have frightened her if she hadn’t felt its twin growing in her. Her eyes stayed open and on his as she lifted her arms and rose to meet him.
***
Limbs entwined, they lay together in the deepest part of the night and listened to the wind rising through the trees. He was right, Libby thought. Each time was different, excitingly different, yet beautifully the same. She could, she hoped, live out her life on the memories of this one night.
“Are you asleep?”
She settled her head more comfortably in the curve of his shoulder. “No.”
“I might enjoy waking you.” He slid his hand up to cup her breast. “In fact, I’m sure I would.” He nestled his leg cozily between her thighs. “Libby?”
“Yes?”
“Something’s missing.”
“What?”
“Food.”
She smothered a yawn against his shoulder. “You’re hungry? Now?”
“I’ve got to keep up my strength.”
A quick, wicked grin curved her lips. “You’ve been doing pretty well so far.”
“Pretty well?” When she chuckled, he pulled her on top of him. “But I’m not finished yet. Why don’t I watch while you fix me a sandwich?”
She traced lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “So, male chauvinism survives in the twenty-third century.”
“I fixed you breakfast this morning.”
She remembered the little silver bag. “More or less.”
Had it only been that morning? Could a life change so unalterably in just a few short hours? Hers had. She wondered if that should frighten her, but all she felt was gratitude.
“All right.” She started to push away, but then he gripped her hips and shifted her.
“First things first,” he murmured, and sent her soaring again.
Later, Libby struggled into a robe, wondering if her mind could handle the simple task of slapping some meat between two slices of bread. He’d drained her and filled her, aroused her and soothed her, until her limbs were weak and her mind was mush.
He switched on the bedside light as he rose out of the bed, unabashedly naked. “Got any cookies to go with that sandwich?”
“Probably.” She didn’t want to stare at him. Yes, she did. Though she knew it was foolish, her color rose as she lowered her eyes to watch her fingers fumble with the belt of her robe. When he walked toward the door, she looked up quickly. “You’re not going downstairs like that.”
“Like what?”
“Without . . . You need to put something on.”
He leaned a hand against the doorjamb and grinned. Watching her blush delighted him. “Why? You should know how I’m built by now.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
Giving up, she gestured to the pile of clothes. “Put something on.”
“Okay. I’ll put on the sweater.”
“Very funny, Hornblower.”
“You’re shy.” A glint came into his eyes, one she recognized very well by now. Even as he took the first step toward her, she snatched up the jeans and tossed them at him.
“If you want me to fix you a sandwich, you’ll have to cover up some of your . . . attributes.”
Still grinning, he struggled into the jeans. If he put them on, she’d just have to take them off him later. Enjoying the idea, he followed her downstairs.
“Why don’t you fill the teakettle?” she suggested as she opened the refrigerator.
“With what?”
“Water,” she said with a sigh. “Just water. Put it on the front burner of the stove and turn the little knob under it.” She pulled out some packaged ham, some cheese and a hothouse tomato. “Mustard?”
“Hmm?” He was studying the stove. “Sure.”
People now had to be very patient, he decided as he watched the electric coil of the burner slowly glow red with heat.
Still, there were advantages. Libby’s cooking was a far cry from the quick packs he was accustomed to.
Then there were the living arrangements.
Though he had always loved the home he’d grown up in and was more than comfortable in his quarters aboard his ship, he liked the feel of real wood under his bare feet, and the smell of it burning when she had a fire going in the main room.
Then there was Libby herself. He wasn’t certain it was proper to call her an advantage. She was distinct, unique, and everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. His mouth fell open an instant before the heat from the burner singed his finger. With a quick yelp, he jumped back.
“What is it?”
For a moment he just stared at her. Her hair was tousled around her face, and her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. The robe she wore seemed to swallow her up.
“Nothing,” he managed, nearly overwhelmed by an emotion that he prayed was only desire. “I burned my finger.”
“Don’t play with the stove,” she said mildly, then went back to making the sandwiches.
Everything he wanted in a woman? That wasn’t possible. He didn’t know what he wanted in a woman, and he was a long way from making up his mind. Or had been.
That thought put the fear of God into him. That, and the uncomfortable suspicion that his mind had been made up for him the moment he’d opened his eyes and seen her dozing in the chair. Ridiculous. He hadn’t even known her then.
But he knew her now.
He couldn’t be in love with her. He watched as she tossed her hair back from her face with a flick of her hand, and his stomach tied itself into knots.
Attraction, however outrageous, was acceptable.
It wasn’t possible that he was in love. He could love being with her, love making love with her, laughing with her.
He could care for her, find her fascinating and arousing, but as for love, that wasn’t an option.
Love, here and in his time, meant things neither of them could ever have together. A home, a family. Years.
As the kettle began to sputter, he let out a long breath.
He was simply magnifying the situation. She was special to him, and always would be.
The days he spent with her would be a precious part of his life.
But it was essential for him to remember, for both their sakes, that his life began two hundred years after Libby no longer existed.
“Is something wrong?”
He glanced over to see her holding two plates, her head cocked a bit to the side, as it did whenever she was trying to work out a problem.
“No.” He smiled and took the plates from her. “My mind was wandering.”
“Eat, Hornblower.” She patted his cheek. “You’ll feel better.”
Because he wanted to believe it could be that simple, he sat down and dug in while she fixed the tea.
It seemed natural, Libby thought, for them to share tea and sandwiches in the middle of the night—just the two of them sitting in the cozy kitchen, with an owl hooting somewhere in the forest and the moonlight fading.
The awkwardness she had felt—foolishly, she believed—before she’d tugged on her robe, was gone.
“Better?” she asked him when he’d downed half of his sandwich.
“Yes.” The tension that had slammed into him so unexpectedly had nearly dissipated.
He stretched out his legs so that the arch of his foot rubbed over her ankle.
There was something soothing in the contact, like a long nap on a rainy afternoon.
She looked so pretty with her hair mussed and her eyes heavy.
“How is it,” he murmured, “that I’m the first man to have you? ”
She nearly choked before she managed to swallow the tea that was halfway down her throat. “I don’t . . .” She coughed a little, then tugged the lapels of her robe closer. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Do you consider that an odd question?” Charmed again, he smiled, leaning closer so that he could touch her hair. “You’re so sensitive, so attractive. Other men must have wanted you.”
“No . . . that is, I can’t say. I haven’t really paid much attention.”
“Does it embarrass you for me to tell you you’re attractive?”
“No.” But when she picked up her teacup with both hands she was flushed. “A little, perhaps.”
“I can’t be the first to have told you how lovely you are. How warm.” He pried one of her hands from the cup to soothe her fingers. “How exciting.”
“Yes, you can.” Almost unbearably aroused, she let out a long, shaky breath. “I haven’t had a lot of . . . social experience with men. My studies.” Her breath snagged as he kissed her fingers. “My work.”
He released her hand before he went with his impulse to make love with her again. “But you study men.”