Man of Her Dreams (11 page)

“No,” he said, refusing to release her. He lightened his tone at her startled look. “I don't want you more than an arm's length away from me while you're prancing around in that dress. Jeepers cripes, it's a wonder you didn't melt the ice sculpture when you walked past the head table.”

“You like my dress, Ry?” she asked with a smile, stepping close again as the orchestra began another song.

He rolled his eyes.

Maggie drew one hand down the lapel of his jacket, smoothing her fingertips over the fine wool, feeling the solid strength of the muscle beneath. Lord help her, how she wanted this man! How she wanted him to hold her naked in his arms, loving her, letting her love him. In some primitive little corner of her mind she kept thinking if she could show him how much she loved him, if she could express that love physically, it would make it easier for him to fall in love with her.

Softly she asked, “Ry, are you as sick of being ‘just friends' as I am?”

He didn't answer her. He didn't need to. Maggie could see his gaze heat, could feel that heat linger on her mouth, on the exposed upper slopes of her breasts. She wanted to melt against him, over him.
Cards-on-the-table time, Maggie.

She leaned into him, raising on tiptoe to brush a kiss across his jaw, and whispered, “Let's go home, Ry. Take me home.”

SIX

A
STROM WAS
gathering—outside the car and inside. As Ry piloted Maggie's Oldsmobile along the winding, climbing road toward Quaid Farm, lightning skittered across the night sky in spidery lines. Inside the car, brief looks and touches sizzled with promise. The electrical display heightened anticipation of the coming storms.

Maggie sat beside Ry reminding herself every few seconds that it wouldn't be a good idea to attack him while he was driving. She had waited a long time for this, she could wait a little longer. Still, it was impossible not to touch him. She had wanted to for so long, and he finally had given her permission by leading her out of the party at an indecently early hour. Neither of them had spoken a word since she'd asked him to take her home. They both knew where they were going and what was going to happen once they got there.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and bit her lip at the ache that was gnawing inside her. Her hand slid from her own thigh to his. His muscles were like iron, iron that began to quiver as her fingers moved upward.

Ry's hands tightened on the steering wheel until it was a wonder the thing didn't crack. He swore through his clenched teeth, his eyes riveted on the road ahead. “Jeepers cripes, Mary Margaret, if you move your hand another inch, I'm liable to drive us right off the damn road.”

Her hand retreated, only to move up and slide inside his jacket. It took no imagination at all to picture him without the tux jacket and white shirt. She had seen him shirtless more than once as he worked around the farm, bulging, rippling muscles slick with sweat and gleaming under the sun. More than a hundred times she'd pictured him the same way arching over her as they made love. That dream was soon to become a reality.

What kind of lover would he be? She had dreamed dozens of different possibilities. Would he surprise her with his gentleness, or would his lovemaking be rough and earthy? What would he like? Where would he like to be touched? Would he be patient enough for teasing, or was his need as urgent as hers? She didn't have long to wait before finding out, she thought as they started down the driveway of Quaid Farm.

Ry tried to distract himself from the woman molding herself to his side. He tried to think of the thunderstorm that was brewing overhead, what the rain would do to the course at tomorrow's show. The wind had picked up considerably and was whipping at the bushes and trees, tumbling fallen leaves across their path. But the weather outside didn't seem nearly as turbulent as what was going on inside him, and his attention wandered back to Maggie.

Sweet Lord in heaven, how he wanted her! He wanted to stop the car and take her right there on the seat. He had walked her out of the party with her half in front of him so no one else could see how badly he wanted her. Now the wait was almost over, but if he didn't get a better handle on his control, it was going to be the first and last time he made love to Maggie. Seeing her in her new dress had not only aroused every molecule in his body, it had also reminded him of how soft and feminine she was. If he hurt her, he'd never forgive himself—and she'd never forgive him either.

What he needed was a few minutes to compose himself, a few minutes away from her, where he couldn't see her lush curves or feel her hands on his body or smell her perfume. Passion's Promise. Gosh almighty, why did he have to go remember that name now, he asked himself as parked the car and gritted his teeth against a surge of desire.

“Go on up to the house,” he ordered Maggie without so much as glancing at her. “I have to check on something in the stables.”

Hurt by his tone of voice, Maggie sat in the car and watched him stride across the yard and disappear into the first of the two dimly lit barns. How could he walk away like that? Who did he think he was, getting her all steamed up and then walking away? Something in the stables to check on? How about checking on her—she was about to experience spontaneous combustion from wanting him!

Tugging up the slipping bodice of her dress, Maggie slid out of the car and started across the yard, cursing her spike heels as she nearly turned an ankle walking across the gravel. The cold wind snatched at the skirt of her dress and wrapped its chilly fingers around her bare shoulders. Thunder rumbled overhead in warning. The storm was coming. Not even Rylan's dozen or so stray dogs were poking their noses out into the night.

Maggie stepped into the stable ready to light into Rylan, but the sound of his voice, low and soothing, stopped her. She stepped out of her shoes and quietly padded down the smooth, clean cement aisle with her heels dangling from the fingers of one hand.

Ry was in one of the box stalls. The door was open, and Maggie could see him squatting down in the stall, his head bent as he spoke. All the while, his hand moved in a slow, comforting rhythm along the neck of a foal that was curled up on the floor.

“You're gonna be all right, little guy. You're gonna be just fine. Your mama's gone, but we'll take care of you. Sure we will.”

The tenderness in his voice hit Maggie broadside. Still unnoticed by Ry, she leaned against the door of the next stall, trembling with emotion. Here was the sweetness she had dreamed was inside him. It was real. It was there inside him hidden behind all the gruffness. Tears flooded her eyes, and a smile lifted her lips as she listened to him comfort the orphaned foal.

“What happened to his mama?” she asked softly, stepping into the doorway of the stall.

Ry glanced up at her and back to the foal. What must she think of him, leaving her in the car so he could come down to the barn and talk to his horses? No gentleman would have done that. Then again, no gentleman would have done what he would have done had he not left her in the car. Remarkably, she didn't look angry with him.

“Colic,” he said, still feeling bad that he hadn't found the old mare in time to save her. “She died Wednesday. Left this little guy behind.”

Maggie hitched her dress up with one hand and stepped into the stall. The colt was a bay with a star on his forehead and a snip on his nose and big, sad brown eyes. He lay in the fresh pine shavings that bedded the stall, his long, spindly legs tucked under him.

“We had a time getting him to suck from a bottle,” Ry said, “but he's coming around. Your dress—” he started as Maggie awkwardly lowered herself to kneel by the baby's head.

“—will go to the cleaners Monday,” she said, not giving a single thought to the fact that she had blown practically half her life's savings on the gown.

Here was a horse she wasn't afraid of. How could she be, he was just a baby. It was a perfect opportunity for her to get acquainted with the species. She let her hand follow Ry's down the colt's neck, over the slick, soft, blood red coat. “Why did you have to teach him to take a bottle? I thought it was about time to wean the foals anyway.”

Ry's straight dark brows lifted in surprise. She'd been doing her homework. “It is. In fact, we weaned a bunch of the early babies a month ago already. But this little guy wasn't born until the end of June. Clever Trinket's last baby. She was Rough Cut's mama.”

“Oh, Ry.” Maggie laid a hand on his forearm, her brown eyes full of genuine sympathy. “I'm so sorry you lost her. She must have been very special to you.”

He gave a little shrug, surprised at how deeply it touched him that she really cared. “She was a good old girl.”

“Poor little sweetheart,” Maggie crooned to the foal, scratching gently between his ears. The baby's eyes drifted shut at the same time Maggie began to shiver.

Ry slipped out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders as he stood and drew her to her feet. “What you must think of me, keeping you out here in the cold. Let's go up to the house. I'll fix up something hot to drink.”

“Will he be all right?” she questioned.

Ry smiled with a gentleness he wouldn't have credited himself with. “He'll be fine. Come on. Let's see if we can beat the rain to the front porch.”

They couldn't.

They were halfway to the house when the sky opened up and drenched them. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking them instantly. Without breaking stride, Ry swung Maggie up in his arms and dashed for the front porch. When he set her down under the light in front of the door, they were both breathing hard and shaking the rain from their faces.

Maggie wanted to throw a tantrum. Her carefully arranged hairstyle was now plastered to her head. The makeup she had brushed on with an artist's care had been washed off in the downpour. The image she had worked on so hard to seduce Rylan with was gone. She looked up at him expecting the flame of desire in his eyes to have been thoroughly doused.

What she saw in his eyes was need and passion. The harsh lines of his face seemed cut from stone as he stared down at her, the flame of desire burning even brighter than it had at the party.

He was soaked as well. His dark hair was slicked to his head, accenting the high, hard cheekbones, the narrow, watchful eyes, the bold nose, the wide, sensuous mouth. He looked fierce and hungry, and a bolt of anticipation shot through Maggie with more force than if it had been lightning.

The white tuxedo shirt clung to Ry's broad shoulders, transparent in its wetness. He had shed his bow tie the instant they'd left the party and popped open the first two buttons on his shirt. Now raindrops clung to and nestled in the dark curls of his chest hair.

Slowly, as if mesmerized, Maggie reached a hand up and touched one crystalline drop with the tip of her finger. The tuxedo jacket slipped back on her bare shoulders, then dropped off. Ry caught hold of her, his big hand circling her wrist, drawing her arm down to the side. Then his hands were on her cheeks, holding her face as he bent his head and kissed her.

The kiss was wild. There was no token show of control from either of them. As the storm broke around them they stood under the shelter of the porch, out of the rain and wind, but battered by their own storm, the storm of desire that had been building for weeks. As thunder crashed overhead, Ry's mouth slanted across Maggie's, hot and wet. His tongue slid against hers, branding her, staking his claim, teasing her with the kind of strokes that imitated more intimate contact.

She met fire with fire, kissing him back with equal fervor. Her tongue dueled with his as her hands dragged his shirttail from his pants then slid beneath to caress the slick, steely muscles of his back. Her teeth grazed his lower lip. He groaned deep in his throat and kissed her harder, bruising her lips as he bent her back over his arm. His other hand came between them to stroke the exposed skin above her gown. Then his fingers curled inside the bodice, and he tugged it down.

Maggie moaned as her breasts sprang free, one into Ry's waiting hand. He kneaded the full round globe aggressively, almost roughly. His thumb found her already distended nipple and stroked it until the pleasure became so intense, it bordered on pain.

Needing to touch him, Maggie's trembling fingers caught in the opening of his shirt. Buttons flew and bounced on the floor like tiny hailstones as she tore the garment open. Greedily her hands roamed the vast planes of his chest, delighting in the warmth of his skin, the crisp texture of the hair that covered it, the flex and strain of his muscles.

“Ah, Maggie,” he said with a groan, his voice as rough as gravel as he dragged his lips along her jaw to her ear. “I want you so bad. I want to taste you. I want your breast in my mouth.”

“Oh, Ry, yes.” She whimpered. Desire hummed through her body until every nerve ending vibrated with it. “I want that too.”

What little control he had left was vaporized by the raw desire in her voice. He kissed her again as he straightened and took a step backward. His legs hit the seat of the old bentwood rocker that had been on the porch as long as he could remember. He sat down on it, pulling Maggie with him so that she half sprawled across him, one foot remaining on the floor, one knee skidding across his thigh. Her hands went out automatically to save herself and landed against the wall on either side of his head, her breast thrust directly into his mouth.

He welcomed the eager peak, loving it with his lips, tongue, teeth. He kissed the very tip, then drew it into his mouth, sucking hard, wringing a cry of pleasure from her. His hands, meanwhile, had found their way into the slit of her gown, and his big fingers fumbled with the tabs of her garters. Their hands collided on her left thigh as Maggie reached down to help him. She stroked his forearm with her fingertips then curled her fingers around his wrist and held his hand against her satiny inner thigh when he started to draw it back.

“Touch me,” she whispered, unable to take in enough air to do more than that. “Touch me, Ry, please.”

As his mouth sought out her other breast she guided his hand up her thigh, then sighed and moaned as he cupped her through her lace panties.

It was too much, Ry thought, to touch her this way, to see, feel, and hear her respond, and not have all of her. His fingers slipped inside the leg of her panties, seeking out the soft heat of her womanhood. He found her ready for him, eager for him, practically begging for him as her hips began to move.

The decision was made. Not consciously, because he was well beyond conscious thought, but on a basic level where there was only male and female and a need that raged out of control.

Muttering a stream of hot, blue words, Ry worked down the fly of his trousers.

“Oh, Ry.” Her lips moved against his wet dark hair as she arched against him. “Now. Please, now.”

Too urgent to wait any longer, he tugged her panties aside and pulled her onto his lap, his big hands bracketing her hips and working up the skirt of her dress. He entered her forcefully, his need to be enclosed by her tight hot warmth shutting out all else, including her sharp cry.

Maggie's fingers bit into the muscles of Ry's shoulders as she was impaled on him. The sensation was powerful, painful, wonderful. Her body was full of him, achingly full, magnificently full. She finally knew what it was to be possessed by this man she had loved for so long. It was nothing less than she had dreamed, nothing less than perfect. These thoughts passed through her mind very clearly but very quickly as need took over.