Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning (10 page)

She was doing this. She was really doing this. She wanted to. She wanted him . . . She did.

“Donna, honey, we don’t have to —”

“I want to. I really want to.” Her hands stilled. They hadn’t made much progress anyway for the shaking. “Unless you don’t —”

“It’s pretty clear I do.” He pressed tighter against her derriere, and she knew that to be fact.

“Good, then we’ll get rid of these clothes.”

She sat up, partially turning toward him as she pulled the shirt over her head, shook out her hair, gave him what she hoped was an alluring smile . . . and slid off the side of the bed.

“Donna! Are you okay?”

“Other than my pride, I’m fine.” But she didn’t lift her head. She sat against the side of the bed, knees drawn up, head down, so her hair curtained her face.

He adjusted so he could get up without having his own pride issues, and moved around the bed. He sat to stroke his hand over that silken hair, down to the nape of her neck, let it rest there.

When she still didn’t look up, he went for more direct action.

He stood, stripped his jeans and socks, then started on his shirt.

Apparently feeling the flutter of fabric as he let the shirt go, she turned her head, still cradled in her arms. When his t-shirt followed, she finally looked up.

He bent and picked her up, carrying her high to avoid contact with the part of him clamoring for total contact
now
.

“Wha— What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

“Ed.”

He stopped, still holding her. “If you say no, we won’t.”

Apparently addressing his chest, she said, “I’m not saying no.”

“I could use more enthusiasm.”
Like hell. If he were any more enthusiastic, this would be over before they started
.

“Yes.” It was a bit subdued, but not uncertain. Then she put her mouth over his skin and sucked lightly.

Exultation surged through him, dampened only by the need to corral his . . .
enthusiasm
.

He hitched her to one arm, pulling down the covers, then placed her carefully on the bed.

Before he considered what next, she unzipped her jeans, bent her knees, lifted her rump, and shucked jeans and underpants off in one, fluid motion that made his knees go weak.

Then she pulled the sheet over herself in instinctive caution, all the way over the bra she still wore and up to her chin.

To give her time and to put himself on the line first, he removed his briefs.

Her eyes widened in a way that made him swell even more, at the same time he dredged up every bit of restraint he had to put on a condom taken from the nightstand drawer.

Making no effort to dislodge the end of the sheet she clutched by her chin, he pulled it loose from the bottom, leaving it covering her from mid-thigh up. God, her legs were beautiful. Dancer strong and curved and smooth.

He stroked the one closer to him, but only once. He couldn’t take more.

He started to join her on the bed.

That’s when things began to slide out of his control.

Under the sheet, she shifted as he lowered himself to the bed . . . and he nestled directly into the cradle between her legs.

He closed his eyes, and swore to himself. He’d intended to put his legs outside hers, to delay this contact, just a little.

She squirmed, the sheet slid away from between them, and that was nearly the end of it right there. He breathed, slow and deliberate. Grasping for something else, anything else.

She still wore her bra. He shifted to the side slightly to free one arm, careful not to get too near the bed’s edge. He stroked the soft, sweet rise above the cup of her plain bra, toying with the fabric to let his finger slide under.

She reached back, unhooked the bra, and tossed it away. So much for that delay.

He kissed down the elegant curve of her breast, absorbing the softness with tongue and lips. Then the beaded, rounded tip that came into his mouth so perfectly. He drew on it, flicked it with his tongue, then drew again.

She arched her back, drawing him deeper into the cradle of her legs, and he rocked with her. She moaned, a sound felt through every part of him that touched her, that covered her, that sought entrance to her.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Couldn’t.

He positioned himself and slid in.

Sucking and rocking.

Harder and faster. This wasn’t going to last. It wasn’t going to be long enough.

He felt her straining to get the rhythm.

He was an idiot.

“Relax,” he said, trying to keep torment out of his voice.

She raised her hips, hard, and fast, just as he shifted slower.

He slid out, then returned, barely inside her. Muscles taut with the effort of not driving into her.

She made a sound of frustration.

“Slow. We have time.”

“I
want
you,” she said. What man wouldn’t want to hear that, then multiply it by a couple billion because she said it to him. But then subtract a few because it came through gritted teeth.

“You have me.”

Her eyes flew open.

“You have me,” he repeated. And stroked into her, deep and deeper. Slow. Agonizingly slow. Allowing himself what he craved only in a time measured in eons.

She gasped, gasped again with the second, slow deep thrust, then another. He would die in this slowness. He would die, and that was okay. He stroked again, sweat slicking his limbs, his muscles and nerves and tendons tortured by slowness. And again.

Until she pulsed around him with short gusts of breath that held music in them, because they were hers.

His release came then, hard, held back it seemed forever, surrounded by that music of her.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he dropped onto her, and he felt her sigh across his face.

It was a beginning.

He rolled off her, but at the same time, slid his arm under her neck, curling her toward him, so her head rested against his shoulder.

That was the most in sync they’d been.

She knew rhythm, and they hadn’t had it.

She tugged the sheet up, even though it didn’t separate them at all, and only covered one of her breasts and a shoulder.

He gave a
Mmmm
of . . . what?
Satisfaction
? Well, she supposed, technically, they had both been satisfied.

But . . .

Maybe she’d built it up too much. Gearing herself to seduce him four nights in row. Maybe that made it natural to feel some . . . awkwardness?

He made the sound again and she tipped her head to see his face.

“Why are you smiling?” She felt both surprise and suspicion.

His mouth stretched into the grin she loved. Her nipples tightened, one under the sheet and the other pressed against his chest, apparently feeling no suspicion at all.

“Because we got past the first time.” He opened his eyes, shifting so her head rested on the pillow while he propped himself on an elbow over her, his eyes burning with heat. “And now we get to start the practice that makes for perfect.”

He took her mouth, his tongue plunging in, at the same time he slid a finger inside of her, with his thumb brushing across her nub. Her back arched off the bed as she came hard, just that fast, gasping out his name.

They’d determined they were both hungry. But with no all-night room service at the Rockton Hotel, and absolutely no possibility they were getting out of this bed, they shared a candy bar he’d had in his bag, and two miniature packets of peanuts from her purse.

His stomach rumbled. She patted its flat surface and instructed, “Pretend you’re having turkey for Christmas dinner.”

“Beef.”

“Unh-unh. Has to be turkey. And stuffing.”

“Scalloped potatoes.”

“Asparagus.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “No sense filling up on vegetables with dessert still to come.”

“Cookies.”

“Pie, pie, and more pie.”

“That’s Thanksgiving,” she protested.

“Then, too. Pie. Also for my birthday.”

“You have a birthday
pie
?”

“No, I have birthday pies.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “What kind of pie?”

“Every kind I can get.”

“But what’s your favorite?”

“My grandmother’s apple pie.” His eyes closed in bliss. “There is nothing better.”

She bit her lip. She baked cookies, but she’d only made pie a couple times. Could she — not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to be making him pie.

“What?” he demanded.

“What what?” She blinked fast.

“Why’d you get all misty on me?”

“Christmas, I guess.”

“Huh. I thought maybe you felt the same way I do about pie.”

She swatted his muscled abdomen. He caught her hand to slide it over his ribs, then lower. Pie was forgotten.

Ed Currick definitely believed in practice. Lots and lots of practice. His approach took all the pressure off.

Even when they’d both fallen out of bed. That time, he’d calmly scooped her up, placed her gently on the bed, then shoved it against the wall so they only had one side to worry about.

Then he’d gotten back into bed as if nothing had happened. All part of the process.

They were practicing, learning each other’s bodies. Nothing was a mistake, nothing was awkward. It was all learning. All practice.

No need to expect fireworks. If they came, fine . . .

And they did. Her. Him. And the fireworks. They all came. And came again.
Oh, my
.

She found enough energy to raise her head from where she was wedged between his big body and the wall, and watched him as he slept.

She’d first seen him Wednesday. Had first talked to him Thursday. Had first kissed him that same night. Had first made love with him Monday.

Never had she fallen so precipitously into a relationship. Days? Her usual style was months. Sometimes years.

If she had it to do over again, she would climb over that pile of luggage and right into his arms.

He woke from a dream that felt nothing like a dream.

He’d been on the Slash-C. Riding. Mid-summer. He knew that with utter certainty from the look and smell and
feel
of everything around him.

The light was a particular clarity that came to his home, just before the sun dropped behind the Big Horns. As if the last beams of the day held enough brightness to imprint each mental snapshot through the longest, darkest night.

He was in the foothills, in a spot he knew so well he could plot out each rock, bush, and gully. It afforded a sweeping view across his family’s land.

The land he belonged to. The land had filled him, as he’d told her, making him bigger and smaller at the same time. Making him who he was. It felt entirely right.

Then he’d seen, unexpected, a mass of snowberries.

Their bright white berries caught his eye. They’d looked so perfect, so right.

Only now, awake, did he recognize the dream’s flaw.

He’d never seen snowberries there before. Ever.

It was a southern slope at a lower elevation, home to tough native grasses and sage that could take the dry. Snowberry needed a lot more moisture to grow anywhere near that low, so it would be only on a northern slope. Never a southern slope. Not there. Made no sense.

And the wrong season completely for the berries. Spring they bloomed, summer the shrubs held their green leafs. Fall into winter, that’s when the clusters of white berries came.

In the heat of summer? No.

Dreams made things like that happen — snowberries with dazzling white berries in the heat of summer — but that wasn’t real.

The Slash-C was real. That was his life. That was
him
.

But that wasn’t what she wanted.

He stroked her hair from her cheek, so softly he was sure it wouldn’t wake her. It didn’t. Yet she turned into his touch, making a low, soft sound.

But he
was
what she wanted
.

Heat surged through him with memories of her body, opening and welcoming him, until he had to shift with the swelling.

But, no, it wasn’t only physical.

The words hadn’t been spoken between them — maybe neither of them wanted the importance of those words to hone the knife that would soon cut them apart. But he recognized her feelings for him in her touches, in her need for him.

If he cared for her less maybe he’d even use that against her, to try to get her to give this up, to come to Wyoming with him.

Except he couldn’t imagine caring for her less. Only caring for her more and more. He already knew the one thing he could give her was to never ask her to give up what she wanted for him.

He closed his eyes and hoped he wouldn’t dream again.

Because it had been all wrong, his dream. No matter how beautiful the snowberries had looked, no matter how he had felt seeing them there. Snowberries didn’t grow as his dream had imagined.

The wrong place, the wrong season.

He gathered her to him, and held her.

Donna’s hand stopped mid-swipe across the fogged bathroom mirror. Their efforts to work around the disparity in their heights to make love in the shower had filled the room with steam, even after Ed’s exit let billows escape.

It was her reflection that stopped her.

Her eyes looked tired. Like someone short on sleep. Her mouth was puffy. There were pink patches on her throat and jaw from Ed’s stubble. Lower, too.

She had never looked better.

They’d finally gotten up for something to eat around noon. Then they’d returned to the room, and bed. Only with the winter afternoon waning to evening had she accepted the need to prepare for tonight’s performance.

The real world of make believe was about to intrude on the make believe reality of these past hours.

Try
to intrude.

They had only these few days. With such a short time, surely they could sustain the sense that nothing existed beyond the two of them. Like the bubble they’d been in at the Mexican restaurant.