Chance of Rain (9 page)

Her head was tilted, looking faintly curious. “It’s okay. Sometimes heights freak me out too.”

He frowned. “I’m not freaked out.”

“All right,” she said, but her expression said she knew what she knew.

“And I’m not afraid of heights.”

“My mistake,” she said brightly. “I’ll go get washed up for dinner.”

He stared after her, bemused. He had once traversed the goddamn Hindu Kush Mountains with a couple of wayward missionaries in tow. He had scaled the southern face of the Cheekha Dar with insurgents on his tail. Him, afraid of heights?

He snorted. Women: can’t live with ’em, can’t fuck them over the railing.

Chapter Six

Natalie stepped into the bathroom on her way downstairs to wash her face, and also to make sure her nose hadn’t grown twice its length, because boy had she
lied.
She considered herself an honest person. That was how her Gram had raised her. But she didn’t want him to know she’d been tearing up over a bare album with a complete set of class photos and a few pictures of a thin young boy, alone and solemn. Neither could she explain to Sawyer why she’d stopped checking the phone.

It had been right around the time she’d brought him a snack. He’d been sweaty, covered in dirt and so handsome her insides had turned to liquid. When she’d handed him the apple, he’d given her this strange look and drawled, “Thank you kindly, Ms. Bouchard,” and what could she do? Good manners had always been a turn-on.

She’d thought she could stay the rest of the day without fretting about leaving. She wasn’t getting in the way of his farm work, and it was clear he was in way over his head with the household chores. She liked being here. She loved the diner too, but it was the idea that kept her going, the history, the tenuous thread of family running through the puce vinyl booths. Being here with him was purely for her.

So she’d stopped checking the phone line. No big deal. It wasn’t as if she’d unplugged the phone and hidden the cable, though the idea had occurred to her.

It wasn’t only that she wanted to be near him. At least part of the reason she’d brought him food so often was a sense of lingering unease. All day he had been stoic. But last night—something had been wrong. She didn’t want to think about him like that, alone, if she hadn’t driven here before the storm hit. What if she left today and he was back in the barn, with no one to comfort him? No. She would stay.

Downstairs, she served the meal she’d prepared, a savory ratatouille with garlic bread. She was really quite proud of herself for concocting a hearty meal out of some soft vegetables and spices of questionable expiration date. His kitchen had been sparse, not counting the entire wall of canned beans that filled the pantry. At least they wouldn’t starve. There was rice and beans, there was refried. There was even a selection of canned chili, and not a single one of them looked appealing.

She spooned a generous helping of ratatouille onto Sawyer’s plate, ignoring his amused look. She knew he thought this was all too domestic, that she was presuming a permanence here that wouldn’t happen. No doubt he would have been more comfortable had they heated up a can of pinto beans with jalapeño flavoring over a campfire or maybe snacked on some MREs as if in a military camp with his team.

Serving good food, making people feel at home—even if it was their own home—was what she did. And pampering such a strong, self-sufficient man didn’t diminish him, it made her feel powerful. A sense of satisfaction filled her as she watched him devour her meal.

He slowed during the second plateful and launched into some story about scaling a 5,000-foot rock face without a lead, which seemed weird, because he’d been so tight-lipped about his missions that she thought it was against the rules or something. Until she realized he was talking about a
vacation
where he’d gone rock climbing in Yosemite with his buddies.

“Good lord, that would have scared me half to death. I can’t believe you did all that for fun,” she said, because a) it was true and b) she didn’t want him to feel bad about his fear of heights when he had expended so much effort overcompensating for it.

She should have realized that suggesting Sawyer, a Navy SEAL, was afraid of heights was about as big a faux pas as suggesting a cowboy couldn’t ride. That reminded her of last night, when she had noticed the empty barn.

“Are you going to buy a horse?” she asked. “If you’re planning on a harvest this year, that’d really help. I think the Mallorys have some nice stock for sale.”

He looked bemused. “Do you know everything that happens around here?”

“The diner,” she reminded him. “Many a sale has been facilitated through me. I should probably have taken a cut all this time. I could’ve been rich.”

He got that funny look again, which she was beginning to understand was embarrassment and concern. “You do okay at the diner, though...right?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, I charge a dollar for coffee and there are only like three hundred people total in the tri-county area, so I probably won’t be able to afford Jimmy Choos anytime soon, but I get by.”

He grunted and took a bite of chicken.

“So, the horses?” she prodded.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “A horse is a big commitment.”

It was true. A horse
was
a big commitment, but the way he said it was almost directed at her—defensive when he didn’t need to be. “I understand. Cattle can take a lot of work.”

He frowned, not seeming to appreciate her attempt at peacemaking. “I don’t mind hard work. I just don’t know if I’m going to be around in a few weeks, let alone a whole year.”

Her eyes narrowed, because they really weren’t talking about the farm anymore. “Then why are you putting all this work into the farm?”

He put his fork down. “Maybe I like the farm. Maybe I’m having a good time, and I thought the farm was having a good time, so why does it have to be more than that?”

“The farm is having a good time?”

He looked strained. “What farm doesn’t like a good mucking?”

She burst out laughing, and after a second, he did too. When she caught her breath, she said, “I really was talking about horses. It wasn’t a veiled marriage proposal, you conceited ass. I know the score.”

He tilted his head quizzically. “Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“You’re a sailor. I’m a port.”

His amusement faded. “Yeah. A sailor.”

She didn’t like the sad light in his eyes, so she teased him. “I can’t believe you threatened to muck me.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” he mock-growled.

This was much better, with a playful quirk to his lips and a slightly predatory gleam in his eye. And the one thing never to do with a predator was...to run. She slipped from her chair and made it out of the room before he’d even gotten up, but he tackled her a few feet from the stairs. His back hit the floor with an
oof
a second before she landed on top of him.

A breathless laugh escaped her as she struggled against his hard body and unmistakable erection. She finally broke free, almost definitely because he let her, and scrambled up the stairs as he gave chase. In the bedroom, she scooted behind the large bed, holding up a pillow as a shield.

He strolled in after her, leaving his clothes in dark puddles behind him. It should have looked vulnerable, but on him, nakedness was impressive, powerful and a little intimidating. The sight of his lean muscles and tanned skin made her burn. His taut expression and the thick proof of his returned desire made her want to get on her knees.

She wanted to worship him, but still slightly annoyed by his presumption, she wanted to make him work for it. “What was in that box?”

“State secrets.”

“Ha! I had already looked inside. They’re medals.
Your
medals.”

He looked chagrined for a moment, then he snorted. “And?”

“And why’d you take them down? Your dad was so proud of them.”

“Surprisingly, this topic isn’t really working for me.” He glanced down pointedly at his very naked self.

She tilted her head, the better to mentally measure him. “You do okay.”

“I do
okay?
Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

“Promises, promises.” Backed into a corner, she watched him approach with growing anticipation and arousal. Twilight cast a soft glow through the window, bathing his skin in caramel.

He toyed with the hem of her shirt, growing suddenly sober. “I was telling the truth out there. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t promise to stay.”

She should accept that, should let him off the hook, but instead she asked, “What can you promise?”

The shadows lent his brown eyes an amber glow. “If it were anyone, it would be you.”

“Good answer,” she whispered, drawing him down for a kiss.

His hands framed her face as his mouth claimed hers. He invaded her senses. She tasted his heat and breathed his musk. She slid her body against the dusting of hair that marked him as male. His lips were soft, tender, a stark contrast to the rigid length nudging her thigh. Slowly his hands slipped down, his open palms so sure and possessive, they sparked white-hot need. She wanted him to possess her. She was already his.

He lifted her snug against his body and laid her down on the bed. The skirt of her dress rucked up between them, exposing her. He stood, but she didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her bared legs or blatant need, because he stared at her with something like awe.

He didn’t appear embarrassed like her, and why should he be? He was all planes and angles, all sleekness and strength. And his cock. It jutted from his body, stark and proud. Her sex pulsed. Her throat grew dry. Then he took himself in his fist, and she almost came at the sight.

He ran his hand up and down in leisurely strokes. The curved head disappeared on each upward motion and was revealed, glistening and thick, on every pull. The slow pace was a tease, making her heart beat faster and her breath speed up. It was almost a drawl; the lazy way he spoke, the lazy way he tugged his cock.

Something primal stirred inside her, almost violent but completely feminine. She wanted to make him insane with lust, wanted him panting and desperate. But she also didn’t want him to stop pleasuring himself. So she was stuck, frozen in indecision and longing so great she ached with it. She physically hurt, and her fingers slipped down to assuage that ache, and oh, oh.

His eyes narrowed at the sight. His nostrils flared, his cock jerked.
Oh
,
yes.

She rubbed at her clit, slow at first, then built up a rhythm. There, he caught it too. She reached lower, sliding her fingers inside, not surprised to find herself slick and hot and ready. He leaned closer, his body straining toward its goal, their fingers working faster and harder, bumping together, clumsy with need. It was almost cruel, knowing that she was seconds away from being filled if she wanted it, and she did. She wanted him inside her, but the wanting was delicious.

She watched his body change in front of her like a storm rolling in. A flush of arousal darkened his already tanned skin. His lip curled up at the side. She knew him well now—he was close. A subtle thrusting motion jerked his hips in time with their mutual rhythm.

“Hell.” His voice was hoarse, but she loved the way he said it, all low and drawn out.

Suddenly she knew what she wanted, what would push her over, and him too. “You like this?” she asked, her breath coming short.

He groaned. “How can you ask me that? I’m dying.”

“You’d like it better if I took this off, right?” She would too, because her dress had never felt more constraining, the soft fabric abrasive against her sensitive nipples.

“Yeah.” His eyes had narrowed to slits. “I want to see you.”

“You sure? I think I could come like this, and we’d be done.”

“Ah, shit.” Faster now,
yes.
“I want to see those pretty tits before I come. Let me see you, baby.”

She paused in her own self-pleasure to pull the dress over her head. His gaze was glued to her breasts, his hand working his cock so hard it had to hurt. He looked like a man at the end of his rope, and it filled her with a feminine pride. “What do you say now?”

“Fucking gorgeous.”

“Oh, I like that. But I did something you wanted.” She paused, feeling nervous but determined. “What do you say?”

His gaze met hers, the barest tilt of a smile on his lips. After a beat, “Thank you.”

“Miss Bouchard,” she whispered, unable to dampen her answering grin. She found her clit again, circling, waiting.
So close
.

His gaze alight with humor and heat, he drawled, “Thank you kindly, Miss Bouchard.” It was exaggerated but no less sexy—more.

She touched herself, laughing. She came laughing too, her heart overfull, her lust imploding. And then he was on her, inside of her, bringing them both back to the edge. She gasped her approval, mouth open, everywhere open.

In time with his thrusts, he grunted, “Jesus, you are so...”

When nothing came, she laughed breathlessly. “Silly?”

He shuddered and jerked and ground himself against her body. “Perfect,” he mumbled in the throes of his climax.

At the word, her own orgasm dropped out of reach, leaving only ripples of pleasure where a tidal wave would have been. As he recovered on top of her, as his cock twitched within her, she sobered. No one had ever said such things to her before, romantic and raw.
If it were anyone
,
it would be you.
But it was rejection all the same.

The sweat cooled on her body, his breathing evened. He’d fallen asleep, she realized with some wonder. She had turned into a giant pillow, but instead of feeling objectified, she felt complete. He needed softness, and she provided it. It was incredibly intimate to be joined this way, providing a cushion for his body. It was almost kinky, being used this way. The more she thought about it, the sexier it seemed, which was crazy and probably just a result of oxygen deprivation—he
was
heavy. Even so, her sex clenched. His cock throbbed in response. She could have laughed. Asleep, and he was still responsive. Even when they were still wet and sticky from...
Oh
,
no.

No condom.

No
,
no
,
no.
How had they forgotten? Okay, she knew the answer to that, but God. What a mistake. With a sigh, she rolled him off her and went into the bathroom. Flustered, hurting, she reached between her legs. Her fingers came up sticky. She swallowed hard at the proof of her recklessness. How much would it cost her?

She found a washcloth and washed the remains from her body, knowing it wouldn’t do any good now but needing to try. Her movements were jerky. It made her angry, how quickly she had forgotten her diner, her town, her
life
for a few hours with a man who wouldn’t even give them a fair shot as a couple. She stared at herself in the mirror, accusing.
Who are you?