Falling Hard and Fast (17 page)

He gave her a slow, lusty wink. “Funny you should say that. I'm feeling remarkably healthy.”

She dropped the fork into the silverware holder, filled the soap container and slammed the door shut. Starting the appliance, she turned back to the sink, her cheeks hot. “I'm beginning to think that red meat is the last thing I should have fed you tonight.”

“Did you have something else in mind as dessert?”

Her hands stilled in the act of scrubbing the broiler and she resisted the urge to press a wet hand to her fluttering stomach. She might be the writer, but she was more than willing to admit that when it came to double entendres, he was the master.

“The only thing I have in mind—” her shoulders jerked as a loud crack of thunder reverberated overhead “—is getting out of here so you can catch some sleep. I should have realized when it got so late that you'd be too tired for company.”

One moment he was lounging in the chair, the picture of indolence, the next he was at her side. Her breath tangled in her throat as she looked up at him. He was so laid-back most of the time that it was easy to forget that he could move like a whip when he wanted to.

“I would have been too tired for company,” he agreed, lifting a hand to smooth the hair away from her face. “But I can't think of a more welcome sight than finding
you
in my kitchen waiting for me.” His hand lingered on her jawline, stroked lightly. “I don't think I can tell you how much I needed that tonight.”

His words warmed her as surely as his touch. And when his lips lowered to hers, a candle of heat sparked to life, flickering along each and every nerve ending. Her heart began to thud.

The pressure was light, a mere whisper of movement. Then his lips firmed, rubbed against hers once, twice, and
again. He savored her mouth with all the leisure and enjoyment of a man lingering over a prized wine. Or the decadent dessert he'd mentioned earlier. With a little sigh of pleasure, she leaned into the kiss.

For long moments thunder rolled overhead, rain pelted the windows, but she was oblivious to the elements. She sank against him, delighting in the feel of hard arms wrapped around her, of her breasts pressed against his muscled chest. If she'd been thinking, she might have been alarmed by how natural it seemed to be in his arms now; how
right.
But thought had danced capriciously away. Now there was only sensation.

Much too soon he lifted his head to rest his brow against hers, his voice slightly unsteady. “I believe I finally realize what Shelley meant. ‘I arise from dreams of thee / In the first sweet sleep of night, / When the winds are breathing low, / And the stars are shining bright.'”

A shiver cascaded down her spine. “Shelley.” Would he never cease to surprise her? “I'm impressed.”

His lips brushed against her eyelids, her temple. “English lit, senior year. Mr. Gilhardy had a gallbladder attack and our sub was a twenty-something dewy-skinned college grad with high expectations and short skirts. For three weeks I was a star pupil.”

She smiled, as he'd meant her to. But she was well aware that the bit of humor was meant to defuse the situation. She took a deep breath, and used every bit of willpower she could muster to step back.

“I was going.” The slight distance seemed to help her head clear, so she took another step away. She looked around for the dog, which seemed to have disappeared. “Oxy?” she called. “Where did you get to? Here, boy.”

The soft kissy noises she made to summon the mutt weren't particularly effective for Oxy, but Cage had to suppress his sudden savage urge to cover her mouth again, swallow the sounds. He jammed his hands in his pockets instead. One thing last night had taught him was the need
for patience. Zoey had to come along at her own pace; she couldn't be hurried or rushed. Because right now, patience had never seemed more distant, he turned and went to look for the dog.

They found him curled up in a corner of the parlor, one long ear lying across his nose. A ghost of a smile passed across Cage's mouth. “Looks like he's made himself right at home. Why don't you leave him here? I can deliver him tomorrow.”

She eyed the dog doubtfully. “I can't be sure he'll be this peaceful all night. He has a penchant for nocturnal wanderings, and I didn't bring any of his toys to chew on. I'd hate if he decided to chew on anything valuable. Ila would have my head.”

Lightning flashed and it seemed as though the wind would drive the rain right through the windows. Cage cocked his head. “I'm beginning to think both of you would be better off right here for the night.” A corner of his mouth pulled up when he saw her immediate reaction. “No need to worry. This house has about ten bedrooms, give or take. You can choose the one farthest away from mine, with the stoutest lock.”

Silently she looked at him. He was telling her she had nothing to fear from him, but he needn't have wasted his breath. It wasn't Cage's restraint she was fearing, at any rate, but her own.

With an edge of desperation prodding her, she turned and went down the hall to pull open the front door. The rain came down in sheets, slanted by the heavy wind. Except for the frequent flashes of lightning, the darkness was solid. She couldn't even make out the shape of her car next to the house.

Without turning around, she knew he was behind her, could feel his breath in her hair. “There's no way I'm letting you go out alone in this.” As if he sensed a protest coming, he added, “If you're set on going home tonight, I'll follow you in my car. Just to be sure you get there all right.”

He'd managed to make her feel guilty. She knew he was exhausted. “That won't be necessary. It's only a couple of miles.”

But he was already crossing the hall, pulling a rain poncho from the hallway closet and tossing it toward her. “Won't take me but a minute. And I wouldn't sleep tonight if I didn't get you home safely.” His voice was muffled; he had his head deep in the closet.

She was being ridiculous. Already weary from little sleep and long hours on the job, Cage didn't need to be dragged out in the middle of a storm like this. And there would be no talking him out of this plan. He had an ingrained sense of responsibility that she'd only recently let herself become aware of. She took a deep breath.

“No, you're right.” He straightened to look at her quizzically, a second poncho in his hand. “There's no reason for both of us to go out in this storm. I'll…” Inexplicably, her throat went dry. “I'll just…stay here for the night. That is, if your offer's still open.”

There was a flicker of something indiscernible in his eye, then he turned away and replaced the poncho in the closet. “It's still open.” She shut the front door and went to him, handed him the second poncho. When he'd hung it up he turned to her. “Why don't I show you the bedrooms? I think I'm going to take a page from Oxy and turn in for the night.”

She nodded, then said, “Wait a second.” She went to the kitchen and retrieved the book she'd begun reading. Reaching him again, she held it up. “I browsed through the books in the den while I was waiting for you. I hope that's all right.”

He stared at the book for a moment, before giving her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “That's fine.” She followed him up a long, sweeping staircase that Scarlett O'Hara would have looked at home on, to a spacious hallway. The room he took her to was at the end of the hall. “You have
an adjoining bathroom. If you'd like something to wear, I can get you a T-shirt or something.”

Her skin went hot. She couldn't imagine anything less practical than spending the night wrapped in something of Cage's. Something that still held his scent, his warmth. Something that would guarantee that if she got any sleep tonight, it would be filled with disturbing dreams of him.

Her gaze met his and her words were soft.

“I'd like that.”

T
he wind continued to shake the graceful old Southern home and the rain continued to fall. But Cage couldn't blame his restlessness on the weather. It wasn't the occasional crack of thunder that kept him edgy. It wasn't the flashes of lightning that made it impossible for him to get the sleep his body so desperately craved. It was the woman down the hall from him. The one who'd probably been blissfully asleep for the past hour.

He stood shirtless on the porch that connected to his room by way of heavy French doors. The roof protected him from the worst of the rain, although the wind flung darting pinpricks of moisture against his skin. Outside he felt at one with the elements. The savage weather was a match for the frustrated emotions that churned within him.

Surely he was doing penance for some long-forgotten sin. Having Zoey only steps away and not being able to touch her was a temptation beyond description. He welcomed the occasional stinging needles of rain, the cold wind against his heated skin. But it didn't help. The only thing that would
bring him relief from this fire burning him from the inside was the one thing he wasn't likely to get.

Something in the fierceness of the weather drew him. He walked to the railing, braced his fists against it. Closing his eyes, he raised his face to the rain.

That was how Zoey found him. The open French doors attracted her gaze, the man outside held it. She stopped midway into the room, the inner argument she'd been waging for the last hour forgotten. Mesmerized, she couldn't take her eyes off him.

The darkness and the lightning warred around him, first painting him in shadow, then strobing him with flashes of brilliant illumination that etched his body against the sky, before the night swallowed him up again.

She was unaware of taking the steps that brought her closer to him. Logic vanished, to be replaced by pure emotion. The trouble with unleashing her feelings, she was discovering, was that they took on a life of their own. Restraint disappeared, caution faded. What was left was as raw and wild as the storm raging outside.

He stiffened then, like an animal scenting her presence, and turned around. She was close enough to see the play of bone and sinew in his back and arms, then to note the lightly padded muscles of his torso, and the fascinating line of hair trailing into his unfastened pants. Desire chugged through her veins.

Cage blinked once, then again. But the apparition before him didn't disappear. The hand she held out touched his chest, trailed a wake of fire down to his stomach. When her fingertips paused at his waistband, he closed the distance between them with two quick steps and took her into his arms.

His lips were wet, but heated. His skin should have been chilled but it warmed her wherever they touched. When his mouth met hers, she fisted her hand in his damp hair and let the riptide of pleasure pull her under.

Yes,
she thought dimly.
Yes, and yes and yes.
The inner
war she'd waged in her room was forgotten now, flooded by a sea of sensation. There was only the keen blade of desire, honed to an almost-painful edge, slicing away all semblance of control. He was as hungry as she, as fierce as the storm, when his mouth twisted over hers. Tongues battled, teeth scraped, while each strove to dive closer. She was vaguely aware that stray drops of rain still reached them; the only surprise was that they didn't sizzle upon impact with their skin.

He moved his hands up under the tank top she still wore. She was warm and smooth to the touch. He stroked her, fingers discovering the delicate vertebrae of her spine, the intriguing curve of her waist. Patience was elusive. He pulled the top over her head and dragged his mouth from hers, drank the rain from her skin.

A path of flame lingered on every inch he touched. Neither of them noticed that the grumble of thunder sounded slightly farther away; that the slashing rain was lessening to a steady drumming. They were immersed in a storm of their own making.

She arched her throat to him, forgetting the bargain she'd struck with herself to take what he offered and retain her distance. What had seemed entirely possible in the solitude of her room was swirling out of reach now. He could make her lose that carefully crafted control. He could make her
want.

Her hand wedged between their bodies, fingertips trailing across the sculpted muscles of his chest. When her fingernail scraped his nipple she felt the hiss of his breath, the tightening of his arms around her. She made a pleased sound in her throat. She'd never before considered how much pleasure could be had in bringing pleasure to another. It was a discovery rife with promise.

Cage released the back catch on her bra, dragged the straps down her arms and dropped it at their feet. For the first time that evening, he damned the darkness. He wanted to see each curve and hollow, wanted to explore the contrast
where light skin turned into rosy nipple. Since the shadows prevented that, he went on the sensual discovery by taste alone.

When he drew her nipple into his mouth, Zoey gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair. Colors fragmented behind her closed eyelids, a brilliant contrast to the surrounding night. Each flick of his tongue, each scrape of teeth, pulled her deeper into a vortex from which there was no return.

His mouth sealed hers again. She greeted it eagerly. Dimly aware of moving, it wasn't until she heard the quiet click of a door closing and the muting of the rain, that she realized they were in his room. He released her for a moment, then his arms were around her again, lowering her to the comforter he'd dragged from the bed. The down quilt cushioned them from the carpet beneath. Cage's hard body pressed her into the softness. Outside, the weather still raged. But the sensual storm had moved indoors.

Their hands lowered and battled, releasing zippers, tugging at clothing. Aided by determination and dexterity, they were soon free to touch. Damp skin glided against damp skin. Muscles jumped reflexively beneath heated fingers. Hearts thudded in unison.

They rose to their knees. Dreamily Zoey lifted her arm to his neck, only to have him catch it, press a kiss inside her elbow, before allowing it to complete its journey. If she opened her eyes she could see the doors behind him, the occasional flashes of lightning, throwing their bodies in sharp relief against the shadows. But she was too absorbed in Cage to notice. Everything else had ceased to exist.

His hands were everywhere, stroking and caressing, just a few degrees shy of desperate. He moved behind her, lifting her hair from her nape, dropping kisses there, trailing them across her shoulders. She leaned back against him, turned her head to meet his lips, reveling in the freedom the position gave him.

He buried his mouth against her neck, cupped her smooth breasts, trailed his fingers down her flat stomach and then
lower. He couldn't see her response, but felt it in the way her muscles tautened as he traced the apex of her thighs. He waited for her to gradually soften against him before he cupped her damp center and slid a finger inside her.

Her breath came in whimpers, and she arched against him. Her skin was smooth and soft, and quivered helplessly beneath his touch. The evidence of her passion was brutally satisfying. He'd thought he'd known all there was to know about intimacy. A month ago he'd have sworn that pleasure was the same, regardless of the partner. A month ago he hadn't dreamed of the depths a man could fall to when he was steeped in one particular woman; the degree to which a man could want, his desire honed to a wickedly keen edge.

Zoey was no longer able to pinpoint the focus of her pleasure. Sensations were careening and crashing inside her. The unyielding muscles at her back thrilled, the faint tremors that spoke of dark and desperate needs enticed. His hands could be heartbreakingly gentle, mind-shatteringly knowing. This was the man beneath the layer of lazy affability. This was a measure of the ferocity that lurked beneath the easy charm.

She shivered, sensing danger even in the rising crest of passion. Need warred with doubt. Caution had served her well in the past. If she'd never before felt this level of emotion, neither had she worried about losing too much of herself in the process. As if he sensed her conflict, his touch slowed, became more languorous.

It was a measure of trust that had brought her to him tonight. Cage realized that, even as he felt her try to shut herself away from him. But it wasn't enough. He wanted more than she'd given to anyone else, more than she'd ever before allowed herself to give. This first time, with him, he'd settle for nothing less than all of her.

His teeth tested the rounded curve of her shoulder, and he was rewarded by a soft helpless sound she made in her throat. He explored her damp flesh with heated fingertips
and felt the precise moment when she stiffened against him, surprise and pleasure drawing her up into a tight fist of need.

His whisper sounded in her ear, harsh and low. The words were lost in the roar of her blood. She twisted against him, reaching for something just beyond her grasp. And when the explosion rocked her, leaving her soft and pliant, drifting slowly into sweetness, she thought of nothing but him.

He lowered her to the blanket, caught her hands in his, laced their fingers. Then he pleasured them both by creating a moist path from her mouth to her throat, to her breasts where he lingered and savored, and then lower, his teeth nipping at her trembling stomach muscles, his tongue dancing in the indentation of her navel. Her breath caught; she twisted beneath him, sensing his intention, and perhaps even then, struggling against total submission. But when his tongue caressed her moist heat, her body once again betrayed her. It reveled in the hot intimacy, shuddered and strained beneath his teasing attentions.

He waited for her body to grow lax and weightless. He fought off the pounding in his veins, the hot clench of need in his gut. He wasn't ready to give in to the beast of his own carnality yet. There was more he wanted from Zoey. Much, much more. He released her hands, cupped her hips and devoured her.

Her breath strangled in her throat. He'd flung her effortlessly from contentment back into sensation. Her hands slid to his damp shoulders, clenched there. Her body softened, welcomed him. Wave after wave of pleasure battered her, one after another. Gone were the long fluid touches, the slow languid gentleness. In its place was a ruthlessness that was as arousing as it was unanticipated.

Greed took over—an urgent race born of hot sultry nights and need too long denied. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips lifted to his mouth—until it wasn't enough; until he wasn't close enough, deep enough, fast enough. She pulled at his shoulders frantically, and he raised his head
from her and slid up her body, his muscles tense with tightly leashed passion, his skin damp with a sheen of perspiration.

He entered her with a long velvet stroke that had the breath shuddering out of her, and a mist fogging his brain. When he braced himself above her, he could feel his muscles quivering with restraint. He was desperate to see her face, to watch the flickers of unexpected pleasure chase across it before the culmination rocked her.

In the darkness he could see her eyes open, dazed and huge, to fix on his face. And in that moment he was desperately certain that what they shared here, right now, was a first. For both of them.

His hips lunged against hers and with each frantic movement the culmination shimmered just a bit closer. He felt her climax beneath him, swallowed her helpless cry. Her satin sheath was clenching and releasing around him, milking his own response. He fought the ending. It was too soon, too good, too much. But it wouldn't be put off any longer. With his gaze still locked on her face, the sensations slammed into him, and he surged violently against her one last time before following her in a dizzying freefall into pleasure.

 

When she found the strength to move, she raised her hand, stroked his damp hair. In response he pressed a moist kiss to the curve of her breast and shifted their positions. Now she was sprawled on top of him, her head pillowed in the hollow below his shoulder. He made a contented sound that rumbled in his chest, and swept his fingers up her spine and down again.

“The rain's letting up,” she whispered. For the first time she realized why he'd chosen this spot to make love. The storm inside had reflected the one that raged without. The cocoon of intimacy that enveloped them had kept them safe from the ravages of the weather, engaged in their own tempest.

He didn't bother to glance outside. “A little. But it won't
be done until morning.” He tipped up her chin and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. “If you're thinking of going somewhere, forget it.”

She shook her head, stretched her leg along his. “I don't think I could if I wanted to.”

He seized her words and interpreted them to suit himself. She didn't want to leave. A knot he hadn't known existed loosened within his chest. To lighten the feeling he said, “That's good. I'm known around these parts as a dangerous man to cross.”

She smiled against his skin. “I can see why. I saw the awards in the den when I was picking out a book.” She felt him grow tense beneath her and wondered at the cause. “I didn't know you were a sharpshooter.”

He was silent for a moment, but when she didn't refer to any but the parish-fair awards, the tension eased from his limbs, one degree at a time. “You could say I followed in the Gauthier tradition. My daddy was a hunter, used to take me and Tanner out in the woods with him for whatever was in season. I never did get the taste for it. He and Tanner did some trapping and hunting. I preferred to practice on targets.”

It was a talent that had proved useful in his line of work. Unbidden, one of many scenes from
Hogan's Alley
flitted across his mind. The heavy ear guards to protect hearing, the outline of a man fifty feet away. Examining the target after he'd fired a round, satisfaction filling him as he realized he was still one of the steadiest hands in the NOPD. He never recalled wondering, back then, if the time would come when he'd doubt the ability he'd taken for granted for so long.