Beyond the Misty Shore (25 page)

He nodded and she leaned into him, curling on her side against his chest. He looped his arms around her biceps and rested his hands on the swell of her hips. Her bare toes inched up under the hem of his slacks then down at the top of his sock, setting his heart to pounding beneath her hand. She wanted to touch him, skin to skin. Surprise faded to pleasure. He smiled, dipped his chin and pressed his cheek flat against her sweet-smelling crown.

Upon realizing he had no intention of calling her down on the lie, Maggie relaxed. Her body contoured to his, hip to shoulder, and she expelled a contented sigh. They settled in, her half-sitting, half-lying across him, staring out the window at the moonlit night, her left arm wrapped around his waist, her right one crooked and her hand resting over his heart. Quiet, content, and, suddenly again at peace, T.J. let his hand drift up and down her silk-clad back, his mind drift outside, beyond the misty shore.

Long minutes later, Maggie whispered softly, “MacGregor.”

“Mmm?”

She arched her neck and looked up at him, her eyes wide and soulful, her voice thick with promise. “I’d have stuck with you, too.”

His heart lurched. He smoothed her hair back from her face, then dipped his chin and tilted hers into the moonlight, determined to see her eyes. “Why?”

“Because.”

So much emotion there. So much, he couldn’t absorb it all. His chest went tight, his throat thick, and his hand on her face began to tremble. He had to know. He’d be crazy to ask—he was crazy for even thinking it, but... but he had to know. “Do you love me, Maggie?”

Her eyes went misty then doe soft and, long before she answered, he heard her swallow hard. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone.” Regret seeped through her voice and drove into his heart like a sharp, piercing stake. “But I really... care.” She blinked then stared up at him wide-eyed, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, rasped puffs. “I do, MacGregor. I really do... care about you.”

Vulnerable. Her father. Opening herself up to caring was so hard. And yet she’d done it... for him. A tumbled jangle of senses and nerves, T.J. stilled to absorb the magnitude of her gesture, suffered the shocks of being given such a costly and precious treasure. His heart swelled, his eyes burned, the back of his nose tingled and, wanting to crush her in his embrace, he tightened his hold on her chin ever so gently, sensing her fragility, her fear of rejection. He’d asked her the wrong question, of course. Though she thought she’d loved Sam, she’d never loved a man, or been loved by one, or been in love with one. How would she recognize it? Maybe with that, T.J. could help her. Help himself.

He fought the urge to just tell her and have it done. But not only she was feeling vulnerable. And not only she was afraid. “If you could love, and you could choose, would you choose to love me?” Why was he pushing her? He knew the muddle her father had made of her emotions. He knew the risks his loving her would bring to her, as well. But he wanted her so—

Her lids dropped closed. A little shudder rippled through her. Her jaw lifted and her lips sealed together. A breathless moment passed, then another. She tensed, forcibly broke the seal, then opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I think I might.”

His heart nearly stopped.
I think I might.
The words echoed off the walls of his mind, slid down his windpipe, then rattled in his lungs. They pumped through the chambers of his heart, rousing emotions he’d thought dead and buried, then raced through his veins and pounded in his loins, swelling that turgid part of him until it thrust hard against zipper and placket, against the soft warmth of her side. The tender hitch he’d felt on her dragging him over the rocks, on seeing that tear slide down her cheek when he’d kissed her under the cobwebbed steps outside the Blue Moon Cafe, intensified, and more than anything he longed to tell her how much she meant to him. “You know I want you.”
Want? Want? Crave. I crave you, Maggie.

He tried, but couldn’t make himself give her the words. They both feared them, he realized. But he could show her. Body and soul, he ached to show her. “Maggie,” he choked past a lump of emotion in his throat. “Let me make love with you.”

She shivered and stretched, looping her arms around his neck. “Yes.”

“Without regrets later?” He swallowed hard, let his thumb caress her creamy cheek. “I don’t want regrets between us, Maggie. Our bond is too... special.” He’d die a thousand deaths each time he saw regret in her, too. Nothing was worth that.

She slid over the cushion, then stood up and looked back at him, her silk blouse creased from where it had been crushed between them, her pulse pounding at her throat. “No regrets, Tyler.”

His heart ricocheting off his ribs, he stared at her bare toes and gave her yet another chance to change her mind, scared dry-mouthed that she would, and that she wouldn’t. “This is what you want, too?”

She nodded.

A niggling fear her nod didn’t nullify grew full-blown. “This has nothing to do with the entity, right? I mean, it didn’t tell you to—”

“No, it didn’t tell me to do this.” She smiled and let her appreciation for him shine in her eyes. “Is it that hard for you to believe that a healthy woman would find you attractive, MacGregor?”

“Not really. I mean, I haven’t had—” Well, hell. Now he was coming off as a conceited jerk. God, he hadn’t been this nervous since he’d hit puberty.
Life-altering.
This was.
Changed forever.
They were.
Believe, Tyler. Believe.

She laughed. “I know what you mean.”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “I just thought that you might feel differently. You don’t, um, react to me as other women do.”

She laced her arms over her stomach, akimbo. “I hope not.”

He bit a smile from his lips, gave in to the urge to tease her. “Some of those reactions are darn nice, Maggie Wright.”

“And some of them, no doubt, are responsible for that attitude of yours. I adore you, MacGregor”—she walked the three steps to him and, breasts to chest, lifted her hands then curled them around his sides—“but your attitude just has to go.”

Sweetheart. Darling. I think I might.
She
adored
him? This room
definitely
held magic. They might just stay in it forever. “I kind of like the attitude. Subtle revenge isn’t so hot, but I’m developing a real liking for avoiding it.”

She worried her lip with her teeth. “Then avoid it right now, mmm?”

Believe, Tyler. Believe.

Trembling inside, T.J. scooped her up into his arms, then walked with her over to the high four-poster bed.

The woman in his arms came across as sassy, nipping at his neck, but she was every bit as nervous as he. Her heart raced like a rabbit’s against his ribs. He lowered her onto the bed then pressed her shoulder back against the pillow. Her hair spilled over her eyes and, one knee near her hip, one foot on the floor, he threaded his fingers through the silky strands, smoothed it back from her face, stirring her intoxicating scent. Soft light from the lamp spilled over her cheek, and he saw it blush rosy. “I’m sure about this, Maggie. I want you to know that. I mean, this isn’t just sex.” What was it? What could he tell her to make her understand? He couldn’t love her. He didn’t dare to love her because his love could kill her. How could he explain? “It’s... more.”

She nodded and looked up at him. No words passed her lips, but she lifted a fingertip and touched it to his nose, let it drift down its slope, then settle over his mouth.

Needing reassurance, he nipped at her fingertip. “Are you sure?”

Maggie didn’t smile. Deep down inside, a part of her wanted to, but she couldn’t do it. Words once spoken flashed through her mind, declared war within her. And the battle raged.
When you only have a little left and you lose anything at all, it’s a lot, Maggie.
How right he’d been. How very right he’d been. She had so little left to lose!
It’s like quicksilver. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.
No, no she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. If not that rare love like Cecelia and Collin’s, like Miss Hattie and her soldier’s, if not love at all, then whatever these feelings for MacGregor inside her were, she wanted to share them with him. “I’m not sure about anything. Not anymore,” she said, giving him the only answer she could.

Oh God. Was she going to change her mind? He stilled, stared at her, his breath trapped somewhere between his throat and lungs, knowing if she stopped now he couldn’t blame her, he wouldn’t blame her, but he’d regret. God, but would he regret. Them stopping was the sensible thing to do. Already the emotions stirred between them raged too powerfully. They both should be sensible. Should... God, but would he regret..

The wait for her decision ended. Possible regret died. Her hands skimmed up his sides to the buttons of his shirt, her eyes determined, courageous, her chest heaving and the side of her left breast brushing against his ribs. When the last of his buttons came undone, she tugged the tail of his shirt from his slacks and it fell open, baring his chest to her. Trembling, she slipped her fingers beneath his shirt, then smoothed their tips over his shivering skin, clavicles to navel then ribs to back, as far as the fabric stretched taut would allow, studying the peaks and coves and contours of him. Pressing her palms flat on his chest, she hissed in a slivered breath and a little moan erupted from her throat. “Tyler.”

“Mmm?” It was all he could manage.

She tilted her chin ceiling-ward and smiled. “Hurry.”

Something warm and wonderful burst inside him, and he pushed himself onto the bed and claimed her lips. Her arms closed around him. She hooked the back of his knee with her foot and urged him closer, then closer still, her silky blouse sliding between them like a thin, slick film, and again he heard her words race through his mind:
Believe, Tyler. Believe...

Awash in a sea of sensation, Maggie slid over the threshold from lucidity to sensual madness. For a man she’d so often accused of blowing her fantasies, MacGregor had created even more. And those fantasies, borne of deep-seated needs and hungers unfulfilled, all paled to the reality of being in his arms. He trembled at her slightest touch, whispered lover’s secrets into the shells of her ears, the soft hollow of her throat. Husky, tender words so dear to the heart, awaited so long with the fear she’d never hear them. Breast to chest, his heart clamored in sync with her own, and she cursed her clothes yet again because they touched him, an unwelcome barrier that kept her from feeling him flesh to flesh. He lifted her, jerked at the coverlet beneath her, then tossed it back to the foot of the bed. With a muttered oath and a lack of patience, he sprawled out. MacGregor was a big man, and that he wanted lots of room to love her had a thrill of sheer pleasure rippling through her woman’s heart. He shoved a pillow aside. It tumbled onto the floor. He kissed her triumphantly, then stretched over her to turn off the lamp. She locked her arms tighter around him, refusing to let him. “No, leave it on. I want to see us loving.”

He smiled.

She smiled back and rubbed his calf with the arch of her foot.

“Maggie,” he murmured throatily and took her mouth in a searing kiss.

The swirl of tongues, the roaming of hands, the luxurious sounds from deep in his throat had her senses rioting, rich and thick and as sweet as honey. Nuzzling her thigh with his hips, that part of him most longing strained, seeking that part of her most yearning. She twisted, knees bent, feet flat on the crumpled sheets, then let them fall slack and he stretched out full length atop her, his placket and the hardness of him surging against it, burrowing deep at her belly. His lips glided over her face, cheek to chin, down her throat to the vee in her blouse, then he nibbled at the top button, working it loose, mimicking his fingers, freeing the others. His breath hot against her quivering flesh, his welcome scent filling her lungs, he ignited fire upon fire in her, flames that burned far deeper than the skin he touched.

Her blouse fell open and he let his weight slide down, angling his hip close to hers, sandwiching her legs between his thighs. His chest tight against her side, he reached up and spread the silk, baring her smooth stomach, a scrap of enticing lace, then looked down into her eyes. ‘I’ve dreamed of this, Maggie,” he whispered, trailing his fingers over the cut-lace iris that shielded her nipples and dipped low in the valley between the swells of her breasts. He traced the edge of the lace, let his full palm smooth over and cup her gem-tipped fullness, then fit fingertips between band and skin beneath the center clasp. The fabric went tight, digging into her flesh, then fell slack, baring her breasts to the cool night chill, to his hot, hungry eyes.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to the valley between, the mounds grown heavy, eagerly awaiting his touch.

With lips and hands he adored her, fulfilling dreams she never dared to acknowledge must less to dream. Slumbering nerve endings awakened a gnawing need to rid them of barriers of clothes and secrets and lies, to feed the desire to give and give and give. She grazed his sides, rib to hip, circled the waist of his slacks, supped on his skin at shoulder and throat. Squaring her hands, she loosened hook from eye. Her hands grew sensitive, the fabric grew rough, and feeling him beneath it, hard against her palm, she stroked him once... twice... then a third time with the heel of her hand. Feeling his tremors brought sheer delight and, empowered to explore, she caught the zipper between her forefinger and thumb then lowered it to the sounds of metal teeth grinding, to breath being sucked in that hollowed abdomen. He shuddered hard. It rippled through her fingertips to her core and she whispered urgently, “MacGregor, hurry.”