Follow My Lead (39 page)

Gently, kindly, her lips pressed to his.

“Thank you,” she said, into his shocked gaze.

It was the space of a breath, the length of a decision. And then, Jason knew . . . he could hold back politely no longer.

He tore at her mouth, whether she wanted it or not. And from the way she wound her arm around his neck, he knew that she was as desperate as he. He took the steps, taking her with him, backing her against the staircase wall, his strength holding her small weight up to his height. He cared nothing for the clamor of the kitchens, the voices in foreign tongues, growing less foreign by the day, calling out orders for roast and chicken, or the threat that the owners of those voices could step around the corner and they would be seen. He cared only that after two days of hell, sitting next to her in the carriage, he was finally able to touch her—truly touch her in ways that were more than polite, or necessary.

But then again, this . . .
this
was necessary. He moved from her lips to her neck, taking in her scent and pulse. She gasped for air, then plunged her hands beneath his wet coat, grasping to get closer to skin.

“Tell me you want me,” he growled into her ear.

She nodded desperately.

“I . . . I want you,” she breathed.

It was like fire in his blood. He lifted her in the air—God, how was it that someone who weighed so little could have such a force on his life? With her legs over one arm and her body cradled in the other, he carried her up the steps, all the while never stopping kissing her, she never stopping running her hands through his hair.

Never stopping when he kicked the door to their room open.

Never stopping when he dropped her on the mattress, placing the tray of half-eaten food on the floor.

Never stopping as boots came off, wet shirts, a dress, trousers.

Never stopping . . . until he had her gloriously naked, and all to himself.

The candle was still lit, flickering its light against her gorgeous skin.

The rain beat down, the only sound made other than their breathing.

He lay his own naked body next to her, and suddenly . . . the rush was gone from him.

Oh, the need was there. The need was ever present and at attention. But, it was as if he had been holding his breath and then allowed himself a great gulp of air, and now . . . now he needed to breath steadily again. Slowly.

“What is it?” she asked nervously, making to cross her arms over her chest.

“No, don’t.” He stopped her hand. “I want to look.”

Her eyes darted back and forth, confused, frightened. He kissed her eyelids closed, smoothed her nerves. “Keep your eyes closed,” he commanded.

She lay still, wearing only candlelight, her eyelids opening briefly and then fluttering trustingly shut. Achingly gentle, he let his fingers drift over that skin, barely skimming its surface. He started at her waist, narrow and soft. She jumped at his touch, startled by it, but eased herself back down, accepting his hand smoothing over her flesh.

His fingers danced their way up, over her ribs, up to the soft mounds of flesh shaped like raindrops, that responded to his touch as he responded to her.

“These are perfect, you know,” he breathed, his thumb playing with one’s peak.

She lifted her eyebrow skeptically at that, kept her eyes closed. He grinned madly.

“I’ve dreamt of having you like this. Riding Wolfgang with you pressed against me, my arm around you just . . . about . . . here. But you, keeping yourself rigid. Forever out of reach.”

She opened her eyes then, met his.

“I won’t spend the next few days at arm’s length, Winn,” he admonished softly. “I can’t do it anymore. I haven’t the discipline.”

“I don’t want you to,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her then, reverently, but heat building inside of him. His hand moved up her body, over her shoulder, dancing lightly against her neck . . .

“Wait.” He pulled away and began looking feverishly around them on the bed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly, trying to come up to sit, but being kissed back down onto the bed.

“You’re missing something.”

And then he found it. In the pile of her clothes on the floor, he plucked out the shine of gold on a chain. He resumed his leisurely position beside her, resting his hand on his head as he dangled the necklace above her, letting it come to rest in that notch at the base of her throat, its cool weight making her suck in her breath sharply. He let the chain fall against her skin and then, with more dexterity than he knew he had, reached around her neck and clasped it.

And she was perfect.

After that, nothing came between them. He became bold, letting his hands roam over her body, dipping down below her waist, grazing her navel, her soft patch of light brown fur that marked her womanhood.

She became ever bolder, let her hands mark his body, perverse in their strength. How could she have held herself back from him for so long? Two days of stiff posture, of jumping at every accidental brush . . . when all she’d wanted was
this.
This glorious touch.

Emboldened by need, she let her hands fall down his body, down to that hard shaft that had made her feel full and frantic all at once. He made a strangling sound when she stroked him, hesitantly, tentatively. She giggled softly.

Whether it was the courageousness of her touch or the gentleness of her laugh, something drove him mad enough to grab her hand by the wrist and place her arm over her head as he pushed her into the cushions. The thrill of it sent a spike though her body, and she smiled dazedly in her shock.

“What has you smiling?” he asked.

“I didn’t know”—she grinned at him—“how much power there was in a touch. In the tips of my fingers.”

His face broke into that devilish, charming grin as he took his free hand and dipped it between her legs, reveling in her sharp gasp of pleasure.

“Or mine,” he countered, skillfully working his fingers there, in ways she could not see and did not comprehend, only that she wanted more of it, more of his touch, more of him.

And then, just when she thought she could not live without that “more” any longer, he gave it to her.

There was no pain this time, no ache or tear, just the overwhelming feeling that she was exactly where she wanted and needed to be. She lifted her legs around his strong thighs, his slim hips, pulling him tighter to her, trying to get closer, as he moved with old rhythms, touched her here, pushed and pulled there, driving her closer to an edge that seemed impossible to climb.

Jason, for his part, considered it his very good luck that he had lowered his head to kiss her at that moment, effectively taking her cries into himself when she finally allowed herself to break free. Her warmth, her aching tightness pulsated around him, and he allowed himself a few glorious moments of reveling in her joyous abandon before removing himself from her sweet, tight body, and spilling himself away, joining in the abandon himself.

In the moments after, as he wrapped his body around hers and their senses and wits returned to them, they realized that it was still raining outside. Realized also that they had been in such a frantic state that they had not even availed themselves of the covers—and yet a singular, albeit separate thought occurred to each of them individually.

For Winn, it was that she could feel Jason’s heart beating through his chest, in time with hers.

For Jason, it was that for someone who had lived his life carelessly, leisurely, somehow he had still managed to find his way into this moment, and know it was exactly where it was he was supposed to be.

And it didn’t frighten him at all.

Winn awoke just before dawn, her body entwined with Jason’s. It was no longer raining; instead, she could feel a cool cut of sweet air coming from the tiny window and assaulting her uncovered backside. As she rose to adjust the covers, Jason moaned in protest and pulled her back into his arms.

“Stay here,” he commanded, not even opening his eyes.

It was all she wanted to do. To stay in their little room, in their little world. But . . .

“You know we cannot stay here forever,” she intoned, her words weighted.

Her meaning sad but clear.

They could not stay. Their paths would veer.

“I know,” Jason said, sad as well, but accepting. “But stay for now.”

“For now,” she agreed.

T
HIS, the last leg of the journey, would perhaps prove the most difficult.

They set off on foot the next morning, after their chores were completed and the innkeeper kept to his bargain and gave them a decent breakfast. The innkeeper’s wife slipped them hot rolls from the oven, which they accepted gratefully, and managed to save until that evening, when they ate under a tree on the banks of the Danube, miles away from any town or village.

“We shouldn’t have stopped,” Winn said as she bit into her roll. “I could easily walk another two hours tonight.”

“We’ve walked for the last twelve. Give your feet a rest,” Jason replied, kissing the top of her head.

It was as if a détente had been issued. As if they had both silently discussed and agreed that as long as they were still on their journey, they had no idea when the journey would end. And if they had no idea when it would end, there was no reason to act as if they were mere acquaintances stuck together. So Jason felt free to kiss the top of Winn’s head, and Winn felt free to press herself against his side, taking up the empty space under his wing that was made to fit her shape, and only hers.

There was no holding themselves apart, no awkwardness or pretense. But they both knew the time was coming when they would have to give up their comfort with each other. And Jason had a feeling that time would come when they reached Vienna.

If only Winn wasn’t in such a hurry to get there!

It was over a hundred miles down the Danube from Linz to Vienna, and Winn seemed to think they could conquer it in a day and a half. The next morning when they woke up, Winn as per usual before him, she was fifty yards down the road before he caught up to her, eager as she was to start the day.

The next morning she was a hundred yards in front of him.

These days were heady, sun filled. And Jason knew that despite their hardship they were magic. They talked. About books read, races attended. About home. Opening up parts of their lives they wanted known to the other.

They occasionally managed a ride. A journeyman or farmer with a bit of kindness in his soul would allow them to ride as far as the next town in the back of his ox cart, allowing them a little relief. But most of the time was spent on foot, his hand holding hers, or his arm around her shoulder or him caressing that small spot at the back of her neck.

But the magic lasted only as long as they had the strength and temper for it, and the road sapped them both quickly.

The difficulty was not the road they travelled on—indeed, following the river made it so the road did not traverse any steep hills or unexpected detours—rather, it was that as the days went on, they were increasingly hungry and therefore slower in their movements. And thirsty. Terribly, gutwrenchingly thirsty.

“We have a river,” Jason argued.

“We need a well,” Winn countered.

“The last town we found a well in was Melk, and it was yesterday,” Jason reasoned. “The river is here, it’s fine. The fish drink it. Have a sip.”

Jason decided it was thirst that drove him to this decision, one he knew was risky, and likely foolish. Therefore, thirst was to blame for the pain that occurred thereafter.

Both he and Winn were struck at the same time, the meager contents of their stomach revolting and demanding exit from their bodies, through whatever egress was closest.

“Oh God,” Jason moaned, for perhaps the fortieth time that hour.

“I told you . . .” Winn admonished, before practically crawling behind a tree and a horrible retching sound told Jason of her state.

“Then you should not have listened to me,” Jason replied, agonized.

But tortured as they were, they could not stay by the river that was the cause of their distress.

“We have to go inland,” Jason said, his face sweating from the strain of standing. “The road veered away from the river. We have to find it.”

“Why?” Winn asked. “Why can’t we just die here?”

“Because if we don’t get help, death is a distinct possibility,” Jason replied.

She looked up at him, pale under the sheen of perspiration. “You’re being serious.”

“I am.” They hadn’t had food or (good) water in long enough time that if they didn’t get help, they would be dehydrated to the point of immobility. They had to find the road. They had to hope for help.