Skin Deep (12 page)

She felt that flutter in her belly again, and time was measured in heartbeats as he watched her, waiting for her answer. Some part of her was afraid their little experiment would fail. Some part of her was afraid it would succeed.

There’s no point in trying. You know how this will end, girl.

But did she? Everything had been different with Nate so far.

She drew a steadying breath. “How would we do it?”

“We could do it like we did last night.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing how to change a tire. “I’ll sit close to you and kiss you nice and slow, and we can see how that makes you feel.”

She nodded. “O-okay.”

In a single slow motion, he shifted so that he sat beside her, his face inches from hers, his arm stretched out on the back of the leather sofa behind her. “You tell me if you start to feel queasy or repulsed, all right?”

It was hard to think with him sitting so close. “All right.”

“Ready?” He reached out, stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his right hand.

“Uh-huh.”

Without closing his eyes, he leaned in, brushed his lips over hers again and again and again, the feather-light contact sending shivers through her.

“How are we doing so far?” His eyes looked straight into hers, his voice husky.

“Good.” She didn’t wait for him this time, but rested her palms against the hard wall of his chest, rose up on one knee, and caressed his lips with hers, increasing the pressure.

More shivers.

His eyes drifted shut, his lashes long and dark. One big hand came to rest on her hip as he steadied her. He caught her lower lip between his, and gave it a soft tug.

Belly flutters.

Her eyes closed, her hands finding their way up his chest and over his shoulders as she drew herself against him, needing to be closer to him, her arms locking behind his neck. She tilted her head, kissed his upper lip, then his lower lip, then the corners of his mouth, her tongue tracing the outline of his lips, her senses stirred by the taste of him, by the masculine scent of his skin, by the hard feel of him. And Megan forgot she’d always been repulsed by this.

All she knew was that she wanted more.

# # #

Nate fought back a groan as Megan deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with tentative strokes of her own, her body soft and pliant, her breasts pressing against his chest. His heart beat hard and fast, scotch mixing with pheromones, running hot through his veins, rushing straight to his groin. He held himself in check, yielding the moment to her, letting her set the pace, wanting her to feel safe, in control.

He would never claim to be an expert on women or sex. While other men on his team had spent every moment of their free time trying to get laid, he’d been a quality-over-quantity kind of man. Still, he knew enough about women to be pretty damned sure she wasn’t feeling repulsed or sick to her stomach right now. Her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, her heart beating so hard he could feel it against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, drew her closer, meeting the strokes of her tongue with his own, until she whimpered. His instinct was to kiss her hard and long, but he didn’t want to ruin this for her by moving too fast, so he drew back instead, gave both of them a second to catch their breath. “How do you feel?”

Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed. “Like I want you to kiss me again.”

And
that
was the invitation he’d been waiting for.

“
Megan.
” His left hand slid into her silky hair, cradling her head as he claimed her mouth in an all-out kiss.

Her lips parted to give him access, her tongue welcoming his as he teased his way inside her mouth, savoring his first full taste of her.

Jesus!

How long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? Hell, he didn’t know. It felt like the first time, a jagged bolt of heat lancing through him from the base of his skull to his balls, awakening his very blood.

He held her tighter, gave in to his need for her, drinking in her taste, her sweet scent, the feminine feel of her body, his hand sliding up the curve of her spine.

She whimpered, trembling in his arms. He gentled the kiss, brushing his wet lips over hers. She moaned in protest, her fingers sliding up into his hair, dragging his head down, pressing her lips to his once again, opening her mouth to him.

He hungrily took what she offered. There had to be a thousand different ways to kiss a woman, a thousand different ways for lips and tongues to meet, caress, tease. He wanted to find every single one of them.

He kissed her slow and deep, then drew away, nipping her lips with the sharp edges of his teeth, teasing the places he’d nipped with his tongue, before taking her mouth hard, exploring the softness of her inner cheeks, the slick velvet of her tongue.

She shifted in his arms, straddling him, holding his face between her palms, her lips leaving a trail of fire across his forehead, down his left cheek, over the bridge of his nose to the disfigured side of his face. And there she stayed, pressing soft kisses against scars that had no nerve endings.

He tried to turn his face away, not wanting to subject her to that ugliness, but she stopped him, their gazes colliding for one brief moment.

“Let me.” She took up where she’d left off, kissing him with a tenderness that stunned him.

His heart gave a thud, a single hammer stroke of shock, then picked up, beating so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. Some part of him had hoped that a woman might one day see beyond his scars to the man he was inside. But Megan was doing far more than just ignoring his ugliness. She was
accepting
it with a woman’s gentleness, her touch soothing memories of savage pain, grief, loneliness.

Christ!

He fought to breathe as she kissed her way down his cheek to the scarred side of his throat, his battered body able to feel only pressure, not the soft heat of her lips or their wetness. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

He recaptured her mouth, hunger for her surging inside him. His instinct was to get horizontal with her, to draw her beneath him so that he could kiss her and touch her everywhere. But afraid that would kindle memories of violence—and determined to do nothing more tonight than kiss her mouth—he lay back, taking her with him, letting her stretch out on top of him. She came without a hint of reluctance, not even breaking the kiss. He cupped her face between his palms, lifting his head off the arm of the sofa to better meet her lips, his tongue curling with hers, her hair spilling around him in a cascade of scented silk.

He lost all sense of time after that, nothing in his world beyond her breath, her hair, her skin. Drunk on the taste of her, he kissed her until his lips ached, until his body burned for her, until they were both breathless, her whimpers and the soft writhing of her body against his driving him crazy, making him want her in all the sweet ways he couldn’t have her. And then he could take it no longer, desire shaking him apart.

He broke the kiss, raising them both into a sitting position. Eyes closed, he simply held her, aware only of the rush of his pulse, the mingled sound of their breathing, the sweet feel of her in his arms. Bit by bit, the world returned around him. The crackling of the fire. The distant roar of the wind. The bite of his zipper cutting into his still-hard cock.

He kissed her hair, shifted, tried to adjust himself without being obvious, refusing to relinquish his hold on her. He was pretty certain he knew the answer to this question, but he asked it anyway. “So, did I make you queasy?”

She looked up at him through wide eyes, her lips swollen and wet. “I never imagined it could be like that.”

He felt a surge of protectiveness—and a primal desire to crush all the men who had ever hurt her. “It’s always supposed to be like that.”

She looked away, then met his gaze once more, seeming to hesitate. “Can we try that experiment again?”

# # #

They tried the experiment again the next morning when they ran into each other in the hallway on their way down to breakfast. They tried it when Jack was busy showing Emily what put the waffling in waffles. They tried it when Jack and Emily were occupied feeding Buckwheat bits of a sliced apple. They tried it when Emily left them alone for a moment in the snow fort Nate had built in the back yard. They tried it sitting in front of the fireplace in the library after Megan put Emily down for her afternoon nap.

Quick kisses. Covert kisses. Slow, deep kisses. Tongue. No tongue.

They tried it all, and every time, the result was the same. Never once, not even for a second, did Megan feel queasy or repulsed. Instead, her pulse raced, her knees went weak, and her blood ran hot.

For the first time in her twenty-eight years, Megan felt desire for a man.

No one had ever made her feel the way Nate did—both completely safe and totally out of control. She wanted to touch him, wanted him to touch her. She wanted to give herself over to the heat of being with him, to see where it would carry them.

And if they ended up having sex?

The idea ran through Megan’s thoughts all afternoon, making her belly flutter one minute, filling her stomach with butterflies the next. She wasn’t sure whether she’d say yes or no if Nate asked her. A part of her was afraid that her fear and revulsion would return the moment they took off their clothes and got into bed together, and yet she’d give almost anything to be able to enjoy a normal sex life—whatever that was.

Oh, she knew what it felt like to have an orgasm. She was able to do that for herself. But to have sex with a man, to share her body with him and to enjoy it…

In her experience, that kind of sex only happened in romance novels, and she’d quit reading those because the stories only served to highlight what was missing from her own life—love, intimacy, physical pleasure. It had been a long time since she’d even allowed herself to consider the possibility of having a man in her life.

But kissing Nate had opened that door again, made her long for things she’d given up on long ago. Did Nate even want to make love to her? And if he did, was she brave enough to say yes?

This question was still running through her mind when Marc called, interrupting a quick kissing session in the great room.

“No lead on Donny yet,” he told her.

Her stomach sank. “So the men you arrested aren’t speaking.”

“Darcangelo and I managed to get one of the assholes to talk. It seems Donny was selling meth for them and some of the money disappeared. He promised to get it from you, and when they heard about the court settlement, they decided to come after you themselves. They claim they haven’t seen Donny since the night he attacked you.”

“God, I hope you find him.” She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.

“Now that these gangbangers are jail, there’s a possibility that Donny will just disappear. If he attacked you for money because they were threatening him, he might decide to leave you alone and get the hell out of Denver while he can.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “That would be nice.”

“How’s West treating you? Is everything okay? Do you feel safe?”

“Yes. We’re fine. Nate and his dad have been wonderful to us. Emily is having the time of her life. She’s gotten to ride a horse a couple of times, and yesterday, we went sledding.”

“Good. I’m glad. Call me if you need me.” He paused for a moment, and there was noise in the background. “
Shit.
One of these fuckers just tried to kick Darcangelo. I need to go before Julian kills him.”

“Be careful!” But Marc had already ended the call.

Nate stood, walked over to her. “They haven’t found him yet.”

Megan shook her head, the weight of reality settling like lead in her stomach.

“He’s gotten lucky so far. That’s all. I’m not going to let that bastard hurt you or Emily.” Nate drew her into his arms, kissed her. “Come with me. I want you to meet someone.”

They got dressed in coats, snow boots, gloves and hats—Nate let her borrow one of his ski hats—and walked out through the garage. The day was bright and cold, a landscape of white stretched out beneath an endless cerulean sky. A frigid wind blew snow through the air, the icy little flakes stinging her cheeks. All around them, mountains stretched toward the heavens, their crystalline summits sparkling in the sunshine.

“It’s beautiful!”

“My great-grandfather picked the right spot when he built this place. Watch out. It’s slick.” Nate took her hand and led her around the barn to a paddock where a single horse stood, munching hay. “This is Chinook.”

The big stallion walked over to the fence the moment he spotted Nate, a green blanket over his golden body, his nearly white mane and tail catching in the wind. He gave a snort, his breath rising in a frosty cloud, blowing snow caught on his long, dark eyelashes.

“Hey, boy.” Nate held out a carrot, patted the animal’s neck.

Chinook was taller than the other horses, his neck and chest thicker and more muscular than Buckwheat’s or those of the mares Megan had seen. He seemed to ripple with vigor, all taut muscle and sinew, a tension about him she hadn’t felt with the other horses.

“He’s huge!” She reached out, patted him on the neck. “He’s a palomino, too?”

“A world champion.” Nate glanced over at her from beneath the brim of his black cowboy hat, pride on his face. “We charge a twelve-hundred dollar stud fee, and he’s usually booked during breeding season.”

“How many mares does he, you know…?” Heat rushed to Megan’s cheeks when she realized what she was asking.

Lips that had kissed her until she’d melted—lips she wished she could kiss right now—curved into an amused and sexy grin. “Like I said, he’s got a powerful sex drive. He could easily cover a half-dozen mares a day if we let him, but I like to keep him rested, keep the quality of his semen high, so I limit him to no more than three mares a day.”

Chinook mated with three different mares a day?

“He must be a happy horse.”

Nate chuckled. “Come on, boy. Time for you to get some exercise.”

Megan watched as Nate led the stallion into the riding arena and saddled him. Chinook was all energy, snorting and shifting impatiently as Nate took the reins and mounted, clearly eager to be ridden. Megan knew the stallion was strong enough to buck Nate off, to trample him, even to kill him, but there was no doubt as to which of them was in control as Nate urged the stallion into a walk, then a trot, and finally to a slow run, which he called a lope.