Taboo (16 page)

Watching him now, the same sensation she had experienced the first time she'd seen him naked resurfaced. It left her needful, with a damp, aching want that was so strong, it was almost unbearable. It was torment. It was delight and reassurance that she
could
embrace the fullness of womanhood. A glance, a thought, a casual brush of his hand... No more was needed to tap into the dam of her sensuality that Grant had yet to partake of—except in careful, gentle, small measures.

His patience, his insight, was a tonic, nourishing her. He had given, she had taken, until she was strong enough to nourish herself. To feed her soul and fill her body with him, and to give equally in return.

The circle was complete—almost. Her fragmented life was whole—almost.

Tonight. Yes, tonight they would make love and the almosts would be no more.

The decision left her light-headed, dizzy with excitement. A little scared, but proud. Because even if she failed, she knew it would be a victory for them both.

Elated with the decision, her adrenaline pumping in anticipation, Cammie pushed away from the sink. Grabbing a can of beer on the way out, she left the cabin with a light step that didn't seem to quite touch the ground.

"Thought you might be thirsty."

Grant stopped in mid-arc as she pressed the ice-cold can between his shoulder blades. The October breeze wisped across his skin, bringing the tangy scent of sweat mingled with a fading hint of soap to her nostrils.

He looked, he smelled, he
was
the epitome of man.

Grant turned. His slow smile reached inside her heart and spread all the way down to her toes.

The excitement of his nearness, the victorious decision finally made, swirled into the vivid red and yellow leaves, raining like nature's confetti over their heads and about their feet.

Jubilant, Cammie hoisted the can up. With a mischievous smile she taunted, "You want it? You'll have to catch me first."

She took off at a fast sprint, stealing the advantage while Grant dropped the ax against the growing stack of logs. Laughing all the way, she dodged his grip and ran to the other side of the woodpile.

Grant could feel his heart accelerate, and it had nothing to do with the game of chasing Cammie. Her laughter washed over him, the spontaneity he'd missed of late a welcome assurance, a sign the time was drawing near.

"Come here, you little—" With a lunge, he grabbed for her around the side and just missed.

She moved the beer can back and forth and stuck her tongue out, the juvenile gesture unpardonably risqué for his starved sensibilities.

"Okay, folks, it's a tie and the clock is running out," she announced in a good imitation of a sportscaster. "She's got the beer, but
can
he block the touchdown—"

"Tackle!"

Cammie screeched in laughter as Grant knocked her to the ground, cushioning her fall with his own body. He wrestled with her while she held the can high above her head.

Pinning her down in a sea of autumn leaves, he feathered her ribs with his fingers, exactly where he knew she was the most ticklish.

"I give up! I give up! Take the beer, it's yours," she squealed in surrender.

Grant took the can and popped open the top. Conjuring up his most menacing expression, he tipped it forward a fraction.

"You're gonna pay for this, Cammie Walker. Get ready to take your medicine."

"No. You wouldn't. Oh no, you—Ah! That's cold!"

The pale yellow liquid pooled exactly where he wanted it—in the small hollow of her throat. Lowering his head, he lapped at the ale until there was none, then pressed his tongue against her pounding pulse, feeling the fading vibration of her laughter.

And then there was only the sound of their rapid breathing, the call of migrating birds, the crunch of leaves as he settled himself firmly within the cradle of her thighs.

As quickly as the game had begun, it ceased. Raising up on his elbows, Grant looked down into her face, flushed from exertion, flushed with desire. There were leaves in her hair, and he stroked his fingers through the strands, plucking away each one.

She reached up and locked her hands around his neck, tracing the corded muscles there. He shivered, responding quickly to her light but evocative caress. When she pulled his head down to hers, he resisted only long enough to search her eyes.

Yes. The answer he craved was there.

Their mouths melded together. They rejoiced at the silent vow.

"Now?" he whispered, gliding his hand up her side, then cupping her breast. "Here? We don't have any—"

Shyly, she shook her head. "Tonight. I..." She looked away and whispered, "This sounds silly, but I wanted to wear my nightgown. It's always been a reminder and it seems only—"

"Perfect." He smiled, before his expression gave way to one of sensual need. "But in the meantime... I want to give you something to remember. Just to ensure you don't have a change of heart."

"I won't change my—"

Her breath caught. She exhaled his name on a trembling sigh as he pushed her breast upward. He kissed her through her shirt, wetting the fabric and puckering her nipple. The blood pulsed hotly through him, expanding his loins in anticipation.

"I've got a bottle of wine," he murmured, skimming his teeth back and forth, while his other hand fit beneath her buttocks and lifted her higher. "A cold front's blowing in, and there's plenty of wood for the fireplace."

He heard her small gasp and exulted in the signal of her escalating need as he rocked into her. Knowing what he did now, he was glad he had waited for her to initiate this. That he could do this to Cammie, that she could want him so much when she had never wanted anyone this way before, was there a happier man alive?

"Yes," she whispered. "Wine, a fire. I'd like that."

"As much as you like this?" Unable to withstand the temptation, and greedy to reassure himself he had the power to woo her body, he pushed up the old flannel shirt she wore, the one he'd outgrown by his thirteenth year.

She wasn't wearing a bra, and the wetness of the shirt had seeped over her areola. The wind whisked around her nipple and she moaned. He blew his warm breath onto her, then bent his head to toy, to kiss, to tease, and at last to open his mouth and take as much of her as he could.

She burrowed her hands deep into his hair, clasping him tight, tighter. She arched her back off the ground, seeking to bring him closer. As her hips strained upward, seeking his heat, he ground himself against her.

His body demanded immediate gratification; his mind rebelled against it. He had never been more frustrated, and yet, he was wonderfully satisfied that tonight would be perfect, unhindered by stray misgivings.

He laved each breast with his tongue while his hands worked the snap and zipper of her jeans. She raised her hips to help him, and he exulted in her lack of complacency, her eagerness to assist as he pushed her jeans aside.

"Just a taste," he murmured, pressing his lips against her stomach, the tip of his tongue dipping into the small, perfect navel. He rubbed his nose against her, inhaling her womanly scent.

"Grant," she whispered suddenly, and he could feel her stiffen. "Grant, I don't think—"

"Shhh. Don't think. Don't think at all, except about us. About how good this feels." Heedless of her small retreat, the faint pushing at his shoulders, he took his pleasure, certain that once she knew how good he made it for her, she would succumb.

And never refuse him again.

He sighed deeply with delight at the same time his breath quickened with the press of his lips into the haven of hers. She was moist in spite of her dwindling protests. As he probed and tasted and teased, he could hear her protests transform into muted moans, until her hands were no longer pushing, but pulling him deeper, closer.

He ached to forswear his patience, to strip right there and pump his body into hers until they were too exhausted to do more than cry their release. But it wouldn't work that way. He could hurt her and destroy this newfound bond that even now he strengthened. And even now he did what he could to make her more ready, to prepare her body and, he hoped, lessen the hurt.

His fingers sought her, learned her, and skillfully stretched until she was no longer moist, but ecstatically
wet.

"Please," she suddenly cried. "Please, Grant. I
need
you...
now."

Her body began to tremble, and he gave her what he could. Though what he gave wasn't nearly enough, it sufficed.

"It—it happened," she whispered with awe. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. I prayed so many times, but I never dreamed... never..."

"I'll make it even better. This was only a taste, a tiny taste," he whispered against her ear, lapping at the tears trekking downward. "Tonight, we'll feast together."

"Yes, yes." She sobbed, not completely fulfilled, yet in wonder at the ecstasy she was feeling. "Tonight. Together at last."

* * *

Grant stirred the fire, glad the cold front had given them the excuse to build it. He'd even mulled the burgundy wine. Dinner was over, but the candles still burned.

He'd showered, shaved, put on a fresh set of clothes. He'd never married, having hung on to illusions that had now miraculously come true. A proposal was in the making and a honeymoon imminent.

"Grant?"

Savoring the anticipation, he put aside the bellows, then turned. What he saw was a vision. A woman in silk scarlet and out of a dream he'd replayed too many times to count. It gave him a sense of déjà vu.

"Are you real?" he asked, his voice almost cracking with urgency, with too many years of anticipation. "Or am I going to wake up and discover this really was too good to be true?"

Panic surged within Cammie, tempting her to delay. Turning her back to the old ghosts, she walked bravely forward, not stopping until she was less than an arm's length away. She notched her chin higher, internally challenging the demons.

"Why don't you touch me and see?" she asked. The words hadn't come easily, but still she had said them and was proud for that.

Grant held his hand over her right breast, not touching, but hovering close enough for her to feel the heat, feel her breast tauten and strain toward him.

"Once I touch you," he said, "I won't be able to stop. I want to feel you, I want to taste you, and I want to hear you cry out my name. It's driving me mad; I've needed you for so long. I want to make sure you realize that from here, there's no turning back. Tell me you understand that."

She swallowed hard. "I understand."

"And you want me too."

In answer, she stepped forward, bringing his palm flush against her breast. She covered his hand with hers and pressed. Her flesh seemed to burn through the silk, hotter than the fire crackling in the hearth.

She heard his indrawn breath, matching hers. His eyes narrowed, while his features blended into a mixture of self-control, limitless love, and a rapacious hunger that was frightening in its intensity.

"Touch me," he commanded in a hoarse voice. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Just do it and don't ever stop."

The second her fingers began to work the buttons of his shirt, he slipped a thumb beneath each lacy strap and nudged the gown off her shoulders.

"I want to touch you," she said. She pushed aside his shirt, but hesitated at his belt. "It's still... not easy. Even when I want you as much as I do now."

"Practice," he murmured wisely, while shifting the fitted bodice down to her waist. "It'll never become easy unless you do. And besides, you're doing a wonderful job. No woman's ever had this kind of hold over me, Cammie. Just looking at you half-dressed is more arousing than any act of sex I've ever indulged in."

"Then at least I'm not the only one," she said, peeking from beneath lowered lashes. Wanting no secrets, she rushed on. "I have a confession to make, Grant. I—I saw you that night, climbing out of the hot tub. I ran away, but not before it was too late. I wanted you then. It appalled me, but I couldn't help myself."

"Thank God," he said, then added with a chuckle, "When we get back, I think I'll have that hot tub enshrined."

"I don't think you were alone that night. You were aroused."

He furrowed his brow, remembering. "No, I wasn't alone. But it was because I couldn't have you that I went to someone else."

"I hated her," Cammie confessed quietly. "I hated her for having you when I couldn't."

"Jealous, were you?" he prompted with a satisfied smile.

"Insanely." Encouraged, she reached for his belt with shaking hands. "There have been a lot of women in your life, haven't there?"

"Too many. And all the wrong ones." He guided her hands to shed the last of his clothes. The makeshift bed of blankets on the floor welcomed them as Grant led her down. "Only you were the right one. They simply helped numb the void. Without you, Cammie, I'm empty inside." He leaned over her, cradling her face between his hands.
"Fill me,"
he whispered urgently, "while I fill you."

"Yes. Oh,
yes,"
she said, and reached for him, suddenly more afraid of the emptiness without him than she had ever been of taking his forbidden offering. Nothing existed except the awful need, except the two of them and the craving to become one.