Return to Oak Valley (25 page)

The strident ringing of the telephone by her bed interrupted the rude comment that sprang to her lips.

Sloan stopped his progress midway across the room and glanced from her to the ringing phone. “Want me to answer it?”

“No. No. I'll get it. Just go. Show yourself out.”

“In a hurry to get rid of me?” he mocked.

“Yes, dammit! Now get out of here so I can answer the damn phone.”

He grinned, not budging. “Nothing's stopping you. Answer it.”

Unable to ignore the insistent peal of the phone, Shelly scuttled into the room, keeping well away from him. Snatching up the phone, she barked, “Yes! Who is it?”

A voice like warm brandy flowed through the phone lines. “Now, sugar, is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?”

A delighted smile curved Shelly's lips. “Roman! It's so good to hear from you.” Waving a dismissal to Sloan, she sank down onto the side of the bed and prepared to let Roman's Southern charm soothe her shattered nerves. “How is everything in New Orleans?”

“Dull as dust without your charming company. Tell me, please, that you have changed your mind about living in that little jerkwater community and that you're coming back soon to bring joy and light into my life once more.”

Shelly laughed. “Surely, you exaggerate, kind sir. If I remember correctly, there are any number of nubile young ladies eager to bring joy into your life. You don't need me to add to your harem.”

“Ah,
ma belle
, you wound me. As if one of them could take your place.”

She laughed again and absently began to unlace her ropers. “Well, one of them is going to have to—I'm staying right where I am.”

“Then I am afraid that you leave me no choice—I must join you in your wretched exile from all that is worth living.”

“
What?
You're coming out here?”

“Hmm, yes. Will it be all right?”

The thought of the ever-elegant and urbane Roman strolling arrogantly down the streets of St. Galen's was mind-boggling. Leaving off struggling with her bootlaces, she demanded, “Are you serious about this?”

Sloan decided he had been ignored long enough, and he walked over to where Shelly sat. Dropping down to one knee, he took her foot in his hands and deftly began ridding her of the boots.

Shelly yelped at the first touch of his hands on her foot. Lips parted, eyes wide she stared down into Sloan's features, Roman forgotten.

“Something wrong?” Roman asked.

“N-n-no,” Shelly stammered breathlessly, as Sloan slid off first one boot and then the other, his hands lingering warmly against her skin as he completed his task. She snatched her foot away from him and, covering the phone with one hand, hissed, “Go away.”

Sloan smiled, a slow intimate smile that made her heart turn right over in her breast. He stood up and to her outrage and horror, settled himself comfortably on the bed behind her.

Twisting around, she glared at him. “Did you hear me?” she hissed again. “Go away.”

“Is someone there with you,
ma belle
?” Roman laughed huskily. “Never tell me that I have called at an inopportune moment? Can it be that some tough, swaggering cowboy has stolen your heart?”

“Absolutely not! And no, no one is with me,” she said, throwing daggers at Sloan before turning her back on him.

“Now that's downright rude, honey,” Sloan murmured, and, pleasing himself, he ran a finger along that stiff spine of hers. Shelly tried to wiggle away from him, but he thwarted that action by the simple expedient of sitting up, putting his hands around her waist to hold her still, and dropping a soft kiss just under her ear.

Her breath left in a whoosh the instant he touched her. Worse, his hands showed a distressing tendency to wander, and his teeth were nibbling at the side of her throat. “Roman,” she said hastily, “I have to go now. I'll call you back. I promise.”

She slammed down the phone. Heart hammering, she tried to calm herself. She had to be cool. She had to be firm. Common sense had to overcome her treacherous body. That treacherous body that wanted nothing more than to offer itself to the one man that could break her heart. Had broken her heart, she admitted bleakly.

Having accomplished his purpose, Sloan had lain back down on the bed, ready to outwait her. The next few minutes, he mused, should be…interesting.

She took a deep breath and half swung around to face him.
Oh, God
, she thought helplessly as she stared at him,
I'm in big trouble.
He looked so right lounging against the pillows of her bed, his hands behind his head and that mocking smile on his lips, the half-shuttered eyes full of sensual promise.

“We have to talk,” she said levelly, holding on to her churning emotions by a thread.

“No, we don't,” Sloan said. Before she realized it, she was caught and dragged across the bed. “Talking,” he muttered against her mouth, “always seems to get us into trouble. But never this. Never this.”

His lips took hers in a kiss that sent her senses spinning. Too well did she remember the power of his kiss; too well did she remember the hungry thrust of his tongue, the demand of his lips, the sting of his teeth. He used them all, teeth, tongue, and lips, to arouse, and her body responded as it always had, the world around her exploding in a fireball, leaving behind only the fierce ache of wildly spiraling desire.

Hands on either side of her head, he held her still and kissed her a long time, the drag of his lips against hers, the stroke of his tongue deep within her mouth coaxing and demanding at the same time. Denial was impossible. She gave him everything he asked for, her lips parting fully for his exploration, her tongue mating with his and her arms closing hungrily around his shoulders.

He was half-lying on her, the warm weight of that muscled length familiar and yet not. It had been a long time since she'd made love, and it had been an eon ago, a lifetime ago since she had lain in Sloan's arms, a very long time since she had felt passion this overwhelming, this primitive.

When his hand swept down and fondled her breast, she arched up, the brush of his thumb against her nipple sending spears of pleasure through her. His lips followed his hand, and the sensation of that insistent, tugging mouth made her breath catch and her heart pound. But it was the touch of his hand between her legs, the subtle slide of his finger against her damp aching center that startled a cry of need from her. Even with the barrier of clothing between them, the caress was potent, turning her brain to cinders.

The sexual tension had been building between them all day, and that soft cry destroyed Sloan's restraint. With a low, frustrated growl he began to strip her, his fingers fighting with buttons and zippers as he sought to expose all the naked beauty that had haunted him for years. Shelly was no better. She had fought to avoid precisely this situation, but it had been a futile battle. She wanted him. She ached for him, wanted desperately to feel the power of that big body moving over hers. Every cell in her body was clamoring for the sweet completion she would find in his lovemaking; her body was screaming for the blunt invasion of his, and having lost the fight with herself, she wasn't going to be denied satisfaction.

In a frantic fumble of hands and seeking mouths they dispensed with clothing. Sloan sat on the side of the bed, cursing as he fought free of his boots and his jeans and briefs, holding on to just enough sanity to grab the foil packet from his wallet. It took him an agonizing second to prepare himself, then he came back to her.

On their knees they met in the middle of the bed and the sudden sweet shock of naked flesh against naked flesh was almost more than he could bear. Her arms twined around his neck, and they kissed deeply, hungrily. His hands were everywhere, exploring, caressing, his fingers leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.

Shelly indulged herself, rubbing her breasts against his hard chest and squeezing her thighs against his heavy, swollen organ where it lodged between her legs. Mouths and bodies molded together, they rocked gently, his thick penis sliding against her damp throbbing flesh, arousing a frenzy of desire. Aching, frantic for more, her hands swept down his back and squeezed the taut flesh of his buttocks. She'd always had a fondness for his butt and apparently still did—his skin was warm even here, the flesh smooth and resilient.

Precariously close to the edge, Sloan tore his lips from hers and bent his head to find her breasts. As his lips closed around a tight, sweet nipple, Shelly shivered in his arms. When she touched him a moment later, when those exploring fingers closed around his penis, he writhed, and blind, primal need consumed him.

“I can't wait,” he muttered. “I want you…
now.
”

Sultry green eyes met his. “No one's stopping you,” she said breathlessly.

Half-laughing, half-growling, he pushed her down into the bed and fell upon her like a starving man at a feast. For wild seconds, his mouth and hands were everywhere, her throat, her breasts, her flat trembling belly, then his lips were on hers, his tongue delving deep. His hand slid downward, seeking the heat between her legs. Finding that heat, he cupped her, a feral smile crossing his face when she shuddered. Parting her, he inserted first one finger then a second into the damp welcoming heart of her. Her hips arched, a mewling sound escaping from her as he stroked deep within her, and finding the swollen nub in the midst of her folds, he brushed it, once, twice with his thumb. His mouth hard on hers, he captured the scream that erupted from her as her body jerked and pulsed and she climaxed.

His control shattered, Sloan jerked her thighs apart, and, sliding between them, he buried himself inside her. Jesus! He'd forgotten the fire, the sweet tightness of her body. She fit him like a hot glove, the satiny walls clinging and dragging him helplessly under. Driven, racing for that final convulsing pleasure, he thrust urgently into her, his hips moving like pistons as he slammed into her again and again.

Shelly climaxed again, her body stiffening and jerking as the scalding wave took her; Sloan followed seconds later, his fingers digging into her hips and a cry, half snarl, half shout was torn from him as he drowned in ecstasy.

For a long while they lay there, both too boneless with pleasure to move. Eventually Sloan fell away to lie beside her, but he kept one hand on her hip, almost as if he feared she would disappear.

She didn't want to think about what had just happened, about what it might mean.
So I had sex with him
, she thought defensively,
big F deal. Leave it at that. Treat it like that. I shared the simple act of sex with him. So what?
It wasn't a crime. They didn't hurt anybody. They were adults. He'd worn a rubber. A half-hysterical giggle rose up through her. They'd even practiced safe sex.

Next to her, Sloan turned on his side, his gaze moving over the tempting, delicious length of her. Between his legs his sex twitched, and he grimaced. Why wasn't he surprised? She'd always had that effect on him. No matter how often they'd made love, he never seemed to get enough of her sweet passion. His lips thinned. And he wasn't sharing it either.

Tugging on a strand of her hair, he forced her to look at him. Unsmiling, he met her wary gaze.

“So do you get rid of the guy on the phone, or do I break his neck?”

Chapter Twelve

F
or a moment Shelly didn't have a clue. Then realization hit. Roman. He was talking about Roman.

“I think that Roman would have something to say about that and, knowing Roman, I suspect you'd find breaking his neck beyond even your capabilities,” she said, sliding away from him. Grabbing a pillow, she clutched it in front of her, suddenly modest.

“Get rid of him,” Sloan said flatly. “I'm not in the habit of sharing.”

Her mouth tightened. “First of all, there is nothing to share, and second of all, Roman is my cousin—and even if I was inclined to do so, which I'm not, I'm hardly likely to tell him to take a flying leap on your say-so.”

“Your cousin?” He frowned. “If memory serves me, you don't have a cousin named Roman.”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled sweetly. “He's a descendant of the branch of the Granger family that remained in Louisiana after the Civil War. The relationship may be distant and many times removed, but he's definitely my cousin.”

Sloan wasn't quite certain what to make of that information, but since this Roman guy was actually related to Shelly—even if distantly—he admitted that he wasn't going to be able simply to break the guy's neck to get him out of her life.

“You and, er, Roman close?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes. Very.”

Ignoring Sloan's scowl, pillow still clutched to her chest, she scooted from the bed and, after scrabbling around on the floor, found the green shirt she'd been wearing earlier. Shrugging into it, she was grateful for the extralong tails that fell halfway down her thighs. Once it was buttoned, she didn't feel quite so vulnerable.

Brushing back her hair, she looked at him, and said, “I think that about ends our conversation, don't you?” When Sloan simply stared at her, she added, “Shouldn't you get dressed…and leave?”

“Just like that? A quick screw, and now you're throwing me out?”

“I'm sure that we both agree that what just happened was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened, and it certainly doesn't change anything between us.”

Sloan considered her for an unnerving second, then, jaw rigid, he got off the bed. Grabbing his jeans and shirt, he disappeared into the bathroom. He came out a couple of seconds later, wearing his clothes, the shirt unbuttoned and the tails hanging out.

Shelly had used the time to scramble into her own clothing, suspecting that Sloan wasn't just going to leave. She was right.

The moment he walked out of the bathroom, he said, “You can't pretend it didn't happen. And it does change things between us.”

She shook her head. “No. It doesn't. I won't let it. You're still the same lying bastard I ran away from seventeen years ago.”

“I never lied to you,” he snarled. “You left me, lady. One minute you were swearing you loved me and wanted to marry me—the next you're gone. Poof. Vanished. Without one goddamn word of explanation.”