Errant Angel Page 12

  “I know,” she said when he trailed off, heat flooding her anew at the memory. “I mean it, Dalton. I don’t know why this is happening. It’s never happened to me before.”

  He turned then, facing her. “It’s as if...you can slip into my mind.” His sense of anger at the intimate violation swept over her, and she couldn’t blame him one bit.

  “And vice versa,” she observed, a little defensive in the face of his repulsion.

  That seemed to slow him down a little. “Today,” he said, “I kept getting bits and pieces. I’d be working, and suddenly there you were. I’m not even sure how I knew it was you.”

  “I understand,” she said honestly. “The same thing happened to me.”

  He studied her for a silent minute that became two, then three. Then, almost desolately, “You’re really not doing it, are you?”

  “Not intentionally. It...scares me. Not knowing what’s going on.”

  He expelled a long, compressed breath. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “I thought maybe it was because...we made love,” she said, using the gentler term almost defiantly. “But then I remembered the connection was there...before that.”

  He had drawn back a little at her first words, but then he nodded. “When I couldn’t think of what to say to Jimmy, when he was talking about his dreams, I thought of you, wished you were here, to tell me what to say. And then...you did.”

  He grimaced, as if knowing how ridiculous that sounded. She wondered how he would feel if she told him the connection had started long before then.

  “How did you know?” he asked. “How did you even know what we were talking about?” He bit his lip and turned his head away from her. “God, I’m talking like this was some logical thing. If you can climb into my mind, then of course you would know what we were talking about.”

  There was a look in his eyes that was a little wild. She wanted to probe, just for an instant, just for a clue as to what she should do, but she didn’t trust her ability to keep it one-way anymore, to keep him from knowing what she was doing.

  Reflexively, even though she expected no answer, she fingered the pendant. It was still dead. It would be too much to ask, she thought wryly, that they pop up at a time that would be convenient for her.

  “You always seem to be wearing that charm,” he said suddenly, like a man grasping at any question that might have a reasonable answer. “Why a steamboat?”

  She hadn’t expected that question, but was grateful for the change of subject. Until she realized it could open up a line of questioning no easier to answer. She opted for the literal answer about the golden charm.

  “It’s a side-wheeler. Like the ones that ran the Mississippi in the old days.”

  “You’re always touching it. Does it mean something special to you?”

  That, she could never explain. She borrowed a tactic she had seen so many women use over the years, for the first time understanding why they did it: she tried to deflect the unwanted questions with an attack.

  “Does it matter? I got the impression you didn’t want me to think you cared enough to ask about that kind of thing.”

  He flushed slightly. “I didn’t mean that. I just didn’t want you to think...”

  His voice trailed off awkwardly.

  “That you loved me? I didn’t, Dalton. If you’d given me a chance, I would have told you that I didn’t expect anything from you.”

  He winced, as if her words hurt him in a way he’d never expected. “Why, Angie? You’re what, twenty-six or seven? Why did you wait all that time and then...”

  “Give myself to you in the backseat of a car?”

  The flush returned to his cheeks, darkening them to a dull red. “Yes,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Because,” she said simply, knowing he had no idea just how special this made him, “you’re the only man I’ve ever met that made me want to.” She held his gaze levelly. “You still are.”

  He sucked in an audible breath.

  “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I understand. I truly don’t expect anything from you.”

  “And that’s the biggest why of all,” he muttered. “You deserve better than...”

  “Than you?” He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “Perhaps.” Her tone was mild. “But it doesn’t matter, since I don’t want anyone else.”

  His head came up sharply then. “Are you saying you still— What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it’s up to you, Dalton. I’ve told you I understand. That I don’t expect you to...love me.” It hurt just to say it. Even knowing it was impossible for so many reasons, she wished, just for this moment, that things were different. That Dalton wasn’t so closed up and cold inside, that she could stay long enough to break him out of that flinty shell of isolation.

  But perhaps she could. She’d been deserted, hadn’t she? Perhaps they simply meant to leave her here. Perhaps she would have all the time in the world to try to free Dalton MacKay and bring him back to life.

  The thought of day after day with him, loving him, convincing him he was worthy of being loved, made her heart seem to expand in her chest. But on the heels of that thought came thoughts of night after night with him. Here, even, on that narrow bed behind him. There was so much more she wanted to know, she wanted to learn how to make him feel as he’d made her feel, she wanted to know if his nipples were as sensitive as hers, if caressing them would make him feel as she did. She wanted to look at him, at that beautiful body, wanted to see him naked and aroused, and then she wanted to touch him, to learn what he liked, what would make him writhe beneath her hands...and then her mouth. Echoes of the sensations he’d aroused in her made her pulse race and her body begin to heat.

  The connection leapt between them, and she knew her erotic speculations had cost her; she’d let her guard down—and let him in. Before she could consciously slam the doors in her mind, Dalton was in front of her, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders.

  “God, Angie, do you have any idea what that does to me? To know what you’re thinking, to know that you’re getting hot at just the thought of touching me, to know what you want to do to me?” He gave a sound that was half harsh laugh, half groan. “It makes me forget every vow I’ve ever made, every reason I’ve ever had for staying alone. Hell, it makes me want to strip and lie down for you, so you can do everything you were just thinking of.”

  I wish you would, she thought, then gasped as she realized he was still reading her. His fingers tightened on her shoulders. And then he released her, backing up a step. Her breath leapt to her throat and was choked off as, his eyes fastened on hers, he began to unbutton his shirt.

  Ten

  Dalton tried to remind himself that this had been his idea. He had, after all, done willingly what she’d wished of him. He’d stripped and offered his body up to her for all the exploration she’d craved, so he had no right to whimper about it now.

  But whimpering was what he was doing; she was killing him. He’d never guessed how her tentative touches would inflame him, or how the change from tentative to confident and daring would turn that flame into a conflagration. He was beyond caring that his entire body was trembling, beyond worrying about the groans that broke from him every time she discovered a new place that made him jump, beyond thinking of anything except hanging on to the edges of his narrow bed with both hands, whether to keep himself from grabbing her or to keep from bucking so wildly beneath her that he’d throw them both to the floor, he didn’t know.

  Nothing like this had ever happened to him, even in his wildest days on the race circuit. Because, he thought with the tiny part of his mind that was still functional, no one like Angie had ever happened to him. And no amount of telling himself he didn’t deserve either one, the pleasure or the woman giving it to him, could slow down the avalanche of sensation she’d unleashed.

  And when at last he broke, when at last he could take no more, when he knew he was going to explode with the next touch, her name
became a litany on his lips as he pulled her beneath him and claimed the haven he’d never thought to find in this life.

  She cried out when he slid home with one fierce thrust, but it wasn’t pain, it was a cry of his name that was so sweet he nearly lost control right then. Only his need to be sure she was with him enabled him to hold back, and he shifted his hips to be certain his swollen flesh stroked the core of her with every movement. He felt her tremble. Or it could have been him; he wasn’t sure. Nor did it matter; nothing mattered except the feel of her, accepting him, welcoming him. Welcome. It had been so long since he’d felt welcome. He drove deep, half afraid the feeling would vanish. It only heightened when she accepted his invasion with a joyous cry of his name.

  The moment she lifted her legs and wrapped them convulsively around his waist, lifting her hips to drive him to the very heart of her, he knew he was lost. He felt the explosion boiling up inside him, and in the instant he surrendered to it he heard her cry out. Her deep, inner muscles contracted fiercely at the precise moment his flesh was expanding to its fullest. He nearly screamed at the intensity of it, and clutched at her desperately as wave after wave racked him.

  And when he collapsed atop her, gasping, Dalton MacKay knew he would never be the same. He tried not to question the gift, but he couldn’t help wondering what the price would be for this joy he didn’t deserve.

  You have a right to be happy, you know.

  Angie’s words rang in his ears, and for the first time since Mick’s death, he wavered. In his sated, exhausted state, he had the oddest thought: Angie wouldn’t be here with him if she didn’t care, and she wouldn’t care if he wasn’t worth it. Not Angie. She was too wise, too caring herself to waste her time and her spirit.

  But before he could dwell on that surprising idea, she was moving again, and proving to him that he wasn’t nearly as exhausted as he’d thought.

  * * *

  For the first time Angie felt she was truly learning what it meant to be a woman. Being a woman meant loving the differences between male and female, and how perfectly they complemented each other. Being a woman meant thrilling to the sight of a special male body, beautiful in its strength. And being even more thrilled at the knowledge that she had the power to arouse that body.

  And it meant appreciating his restraint, his holding back and letting her do as she wished to him, because it was what she wanted, when he’d been aching to take over and sate the urgent need she was creating in both of them.

  Being a woman meant loving the taut look of need on one man’s face. Savoring the low, husky sounds of pleasure he made when she stroked the right place in the right way. And taking the cry that broke from him when he erupted into the depths of her body, a cry that seemed to her like the sound of a barrier breaking, and knowing she would hold it in her heart forever.

  And once again, it was Dalton who had taught her, Dalton who was still showing her what she’d never understood.

  She crouched over him on the narrow bed, running her hand yet again over the ridged flatness of his sweat-sheened belly, then down until her fingers tangled in the thicket of hair surrounding the part of him that was so eager, so ready for her. She felt the deep muscles ripple, then felt his hips move convulsively beneath her thighs.

  She’d been too shy to speak before, but this time she asked, “You...like that?”

  “I think you discovered that—” his breath caught as she pressed slightly harder “—the last time.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, but I missed a few places. A few very important places,” she said, sliding her hand along the outside of his muscular thigh, then tracing a path back up the inside. She saw his belly tighten again in the instant before she heard his rapid intake of breath. Then, as she reached her goal and cupped rounded male flesh gently in her hands, he let out that breath in a fervent hiss of pleasure.

  “Yes-s-s.”

  Angie smiled again. “Yes, I missed this before, or yes, it’s important?”

  “Both,” he groaned, his eyes closing as his head pressed back into the pillow beneath him, making the cords of his neck stand out with the urgent strain.

  She massaged and caressed him tentatively, until he pressed upward against her hand in a silent plea. Then she shifted, her hand moving upward, her fingers curling around him as she hadn’t dared to before. He arched upward like a drawn bow, a hoarse cry breaking from his throat as she squeezed and stroked.

  “You’re so smooth,” she said in awe. “And hot. And hard.”

  As if to test her own words, she slid her hand up and down his length, then again, quicker this time, touching him as if she’d never felt anything so wondrous.

  “It doesn’t seem possible,” she murmured, circling him again with eager fingers, “that you fit inside me.”

  “Angie,” he began warningly.

  She stopped, and he reached for her. She twisted out of his grasp.

  “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Now I get to start over.”

  “Over?” he said a little weakly. “I thought you just did.”

  “That was just touching. Now I have to learn kissing. In all the same places.”

  His eyes widened, and she didn’t need to probe to see that he was remembering all those places. And imagining her mouth on them. He groaned, low and deep and husky with anticipation.

  “I’m not going to last through this,” he predicted grimly.

  She began slowly, blazing paths with her lips and following them with her tongue. In minutes he was twisting beneath her mouth, breath coming in audible gulps. She explored every inch of him, tasting now everything she had touched before.

  In fact, he lasted until she caressed the tip of his distended male flesh with her lips. Then he came up off the narrow bed in a rush, grabbing her at the waist. She shivered with heated sensation when she felt his fingers probing at her body, and shivered again with emotion when she realized that even now, as he growled that she’d driven him completely out of his mind, he was making sure she was ready, so he wouldn’t hurt her.

  “It’s a damn good thing,” he muttered as he found her slick and wet, “because I can’t wait another second.”

  He proved his words then, lifting her swiftly over him.

  “Help me,” he rasped, sweat beading up once more on his forehead.

  She reached down to grasp him, guiding him to her. The instant the tip of him began to arrow home, he brought her down hard on him, making her gasp at the sudden, thrilling shock of it. He cried out her name as she sheathed him, arching his hips up off the bed to drive himself fiercely home.

  She felt as if she’d captured some wild, uncontrollable beast who nevertheless was taking her where she wanted to go. She held on, barely hearing her own moans, her attention fastened on the hot green of his eyes, the sleek, satin-over-muscle feel of his skin, the guttural cries that tore from him at the depth of each stroke, and the incredible, hot thickness of him pounding into her.

  She savored the knowledge that, at least in these moments, Dalton was thoroughly, completely alive. Alive and teaching her yet another truth; as good as it had been, it could get even better.

  * * *

  Angie awoke slowly, reluctantly relinquishing the feeling of soft, warm contentment. The room was still warm with the heat of the afternoon sun, but the light was changing, on the edge of fading as twilight approached.

  Twilight.

  She was widely, rigidly awake now. It wasn’t morning, and she wasn’t in her own room. She was naked, and curled up with Dalton MacKay on his narrow bed. Other memories rushed back, and the comfortable warmth she’d been feeling rapidly became heat.

  She shifted slightly to look at him. He didn’t seem to find it odd to sleep in the afternoon. He’d seemed to welcome it. Not, she thought ruefully, that they’d had any choice. He’d made his earlier words come true, and they had made love until they were too exhausted to move. He had, as promised, fallen asleep still buried inside her—and it had been the most mirac
ulous feeling of her life.

  She reached out to gently smooth back the stubborn lock of dark hair that always wanted to flop over his forehead, near the scar, then stopped; she didn’t want to wake him. He so rarely slept at all, she couldn’t bear to disturb this peaceful slumber.

  She lay back down, snuggled up to him, her cheek pressed against his chest, and tried to return to that marvelously sleepy state.

  She became aware of the acceleration of his pulse first through the pounding of his heart under her cheek. She thought at first he was awake—she’d certainly felt his heart take off like this before, when she’d been indulging her desire to learn every spot on his body that made him gasp when she caressed it—but realized quickly that he still slept.

  His breathing also quickened, and she realized he was dreaming. She wondered about what, and thought for an instant about probing to find out. She discarded the idea immediately; she couldn’t possibly invade him like that, not when she knew how it disturbed him. Not after this afternoon.

  Besides, it didn’t seem to be a bad dream. In fact, he seemed almost to be smiling. He was—

  His eyes came open, sleepily, as hers had. And then, instantly, he sat up rigidly beside her. A low sound, a gut-deep moan of despair, broke from him. She felt the emotion that drove it, knew it was ripping away at him with heedless, bloody claws.

  She couldn’t bear it. She reached out to take his hands.

  “A bad dream?” she asked softly, sending every bit of calm and warmth and safety she had to him.

  Slowly, a bit dazedly, he stared down at her fingers, clasped around his. His lashes lifted, and his eyes met hers. She thought he was going to resist, thought he might just be the one strong enough to do it...and then he broke and let her in.

  “No,” he said at last, the words coming in short bursts. “The dream isn’t bad. It’s...good. In the dream...everything goes right. I’m down on the line. I see the hole. I punch it. And then I’m through, in the lead...and Mick is right behind me...I can tell he’s grinning at me...then...”