Out of the Dark Page 16

  It was incredibly arousing, this mutual touching, this learning about his response and her own. She could feel her heart pounding, could feel its pace increase whenever she could gather her nerve to steal a glance at his strong hands stroking her body—or at her own hands, capturing and stroking him.

  At last he pulled away, shuddering at her last, lingering caress as he did so.

  “Now, Tory,” he ground out. “I shouldn’t...not on the damn desk...but there’s nowhere else here, and it’s got to be now.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her body already crying out at the cessation of his touch.

  She had a vague thought that it was lucky the desk was a heavy, solid piece, but it vanished as she watched him sheath himself, saw the unsteadiness of his hands as they moved over that part of him—familiar to him, so new and hotly fascinating to her—and found the process unexpectedly erotic.

  “Next time,” she said huskily, “let me do that.”

  “If I live that long,” he muttered.

  And then he was holding her, pulling her to the edge of the desk and steadying her as he guided himself forward. She felt the first probing touch of him, then the first moment of sliding entry, and her body clenched in anticipation, capturing the tip of him in a sweetly hot grasp.

  “Ah, Tory...I can’t...wait!”

  On the last word he let out a guttural sound and drove home hard and deep. Tory cried out at the sudden fierce invasion that made her shudder to her toes. She clutched at his shoulders, and he froze.

  “Did I...hurt you?” he rasped panting.

  “No. Oh, no. Please,” she whispered, “don’t stop now.”

  With a low growl he began to move, thrusting, driving. He lifted her legs until she instinctively wrapped them around his waist, and then he drove even deeper, wringing a pleasure-filled cry of his name from her. The sound seemed to fire him further, and Tory saw his hand go up to grasp the top of the desk as if to add even more force to his thrusts. She didn’t care, all that mattered was the exquisite pressure building, coiling inside her, stoked by the sweet friction of his body.

  She moved with the powerful motion of his hips, discovering as she did so that rising to meet him only increased the raging heat. Her head lolled back as she lifted her hips. She saw his hand, gripping the top of the desk so tightly his knuckles were white, and realized he wasn’t adding force, he was trying to hold back. And she remembered her first sight of that powerful hand on her breast, cradling the soft curve as if it were the most fragile of things.

  It was that image of power reined in that sent her over the edge, unleashing the coiled pressure inside her in a sudden fierce burst of heat and wild sensation. She arched upward, crying out, catching him as he plunged into her and making him cry out in turn as her body clenched tightly around him. And suddenly he wasn’t holding back any longer. He was the wildest of wild creatures, plunging, slamming himself into her, a harsh, driven sound breaking from him at the depth of each lunging invasion of her body, sending her spiraling upward until she convulsed, spasms undulating through her fiercely.

  His name broke from her again and again as she nearly wept from the sweet force of it, wave after wave that kept on and on. Through the haze she heard him call her name in turn, first in pleasure, then in wonder, then in shocked surprise as he shuddered violently, his muscles contracting into rigidness as his body bowed into hers. She felt his hands slide down to her buttocks to hold her body tight to his, as he groaned again and she felt another shudder ripple through him as her own body sagged into sated exhaustion.

  She was only vaguely aware of the movement as he turned them around, then realized they were in a tangle on the floor. She lay straddling him, cradled against his naked chest, his back half propped against the front of the desk. He must have held her as they’d slid down. If he felt anywhere near as limp as she did, it was a wonder he’d been able to cushion the fall at all.

  Tory shivered, an echoing quiver of that astounding explosion of pleasure. She truly would never be the same again, she thought dazedly. She supposed it was trite to say it had been a life-changing experience. But no longer would she wonder how people got themselves in such a tangle over love. Or why it seemed to occupy so much of their time, why they sang songs about it, wrote poems about it, wrote entire books about it. Or why her uncle still regretted, after all these years, that he’d never had a moment like this with the woman he’d loved.

  But this wasn’t love. No matter what it felt like, Cole had made that very clear. But it had been exactly what he’d promised: hot, raw and out of control. And she’d loved it. Reveled in it. Right here on her uncle’s desk, heedless of anything but the wondrous lessons this man was teaching her. And for that alone she knew she would never, could never, regret it.

  But even as she told herself that, she knew it had been more than simply sex. She might be naive, but not naive enough to think that this happened to everyone. Or every time. And even if she hadn’t known, Cole’s shocked surprise would have told her.

  But she wasn’t naive enough to think this changed anything, either. She’d made this decision with her eyes wide open. And now she had more than most to look back on. More than Hobie had. She couldn’t be sorry that she’d done it. Even if this was all she would ever have.

  * * *

  Cole felt the quivering of her body as she sagged against him. He barely suppressed a shiver of his own. Silence spun out between them. All he could hear was the pounding of his pulse and the still quickened sound of his own panting for breath.

  A million things to say swirled in his head. All the usual things a footloose and fancy-free man said after great sex. Things that acknowledged the pleasure given while making clear it in no way impinged on his freedom. Things that made it clear that no matter how great the sex had been, he would still head down the road when the time came.

  He couldn’t say any of them.

  There were no easy words for what had just happened between them. It had been beyond anything he’d ever known, beyond anything he’d expected, even when he’d awakened in the night haunted by a pair of turquoise eyes and erotic dreams such as he hadn’t experienced since he’d been a teenager in heat at the mere sight of a pretty girl.

  But he couldn’t say so. He was afraid if he tried to put what he was feeling into words, he’d end up saying something he didn’t mean to. Or, he’d say something that would lead her on, something that would make her think this meant more than it had, that it had been more than just the hottest, wildest sex he’d ever had in his life.

  But he was even more afraid that it had meant more.

  God, he was losing it. He wasn’t even thinking straight anymore. He took in a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

  She moved just slightly against him, and he felt a sudden leap of the pulse that had been beginning to slow. And an echoing shudder of sensation rippling through flesh he would have sworn too sated to feel anything, even the most intimate of caresses. And all she’d done was move. Barely.

  He really was losing it, he thought. He tried to distract himself, tried thinking of the ludicrous picture they must make. He’d managed to keep them from crashing painfully to the floor when his knees had given out, but he wasn’t sure how. And now here they were, sprawled in an awkward tangle of bodies and clothing, her dress twisted down around her waist, his shirt beneath them on the floor, his jeans halfway to his knees, boots still on, and her bare legs entangled with his.

  And he could feel with searing clarity every place where naked skin touched naked skin. Her hand against his belly, the soft curve of her breasts against his chest, her hips against his, pressing intimately close. Only now was his flesh ebbing, slipping from her, reluctantly leaving the sweet, warm haven of her body.

  Again he tried to speak, to say something, anything that would reduce this to something he could deal with. Anything that would convince her that this had been what he’d told her it would be, and no more. The problem was, he had the grim
mest feeling it wasn’t her he had to convince, it was himself.

  “Thank you.”

  The words were low and husky, and he just managed not to shiver anew at the feathery brush of her breath across his chest. But the words themselves, so unexpected, and the sound of amazed joy in her voice were another matter. They sent a shock wave down his spine that he was helpless to resist, and his arms tightened around her.

  “No regrets?” he asked, not knowing what he’d do if she said yes.

  She made a little sound that was half sigh, half something he couldn’t put a name to. “No. I asked you to teach me. You certainly did.”

  “Tory, I—” He cut himself off.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He left it there, knowing the words he would have said would have complicated things immeasurably. He wasn’t at all sure who had done the teaching here. He’d mocked her, thrown what she could expect from him up in her face like a challenge. He’d told her how it would be, and then dared her to come after it. He’d told himself she’d never do it, but now, sitting with her clutched to him, he wondered if, deep down, he’d known all the time she would. He suspected so. Tory Flynn was a strong woman. Maybe even strong enough to keep him from hurting her.

  And in the end, it had been he who’d been out of control, he who’d been wild and raw and hot. He’d taken her on the desk, for God’s sake, like a kid so eager he couldn’t wait.

  And she’d loved it. He had enough experience to know when a woman was just going through the motions. And he knew Tory well enough to know that that kind of pretense was beyond her. He knew the fierceness of what had just passed between them had shaken all his perceptions. What he didn’t know was what the hell he was going to do now.

  In a moment he was saved from that decision. A piercing yowl, a loud crash and a trumpeting neigh sounded from the direction of the barn. Tory went rigid in his arms.

  “Mac!” she cried.

  Before Cole could move, she was on her feet, tugging her dress around her and racing barefoot for the door.

  Chapter 13

  “Tory!”

  She never stopped. He cursed, tangled in his twisted clothes on the floor.

  “Damn it, don’t go charging out there alone!” he yelled after her as he managed to get to his feet and yank his jeans up and zip them on the run.

  By the time he got to the office door he heard the slam of the door in the kitchen, and knew she either hadn’t heard, or hadn’t listened. He heard Hobie’s voice calling out to Tory, saying he was on his way, then the clatter of booted feet, moving fast.

  Hobie.

  God, it was happening all over again. Nausea roiled his stomach as he ran. Images, temporarily seared away by the savage heat of their lovemaking, rose to batter at him. Three times. Three god-awful times. People he’d tried to help. Women who had trusted him to help, and had wound up burying the ones they loved. Why hadn’t he learned? Why had he come here, to set the twisted, evil dynamics in motion again—the deadly combination that had already buried two men and a child? A sudden vision of Tory weeping over Hobie’s grave nearly stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He stumbled, recovered, fought down the nausea and made himself go on. His faltering had given Hobie a lead, and Cole swore at himself as he heard the outer door slam closed again just as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.

  He raced outside. Tory was nowhere in sight. He saw Hobie’s wiry shape step from the shadow of the house out into the moonlight. He pushed himself and caught up with Hobie halfway to the barn. He grabbed the older man’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  “But Tory’s in—”

  “I know.” Cole clenched his jaw, trying to rein in the fear that threatened to swamp him. Still, his voice shook slightly when he went on. “Please, Hobie. Stay here. I’ll go in and get her.”

  Hobie’s brow furrowed, and he stared intently at Cole. Something he saw in Cole’s face seemed to decide for him, and he nodded shortly.

  “You got three minutes, boy.”

  “Just stay here,” Cole begged, not even caring now how he sounded. Then he headed for the barn at a run.

  He skidded to a halt at the big sliding barn door, still open from Tory’s entrance. He spent a precious five seconds listening, and heard nothing but the natural movements of the horses, still restless after the disturbance. He stepped inside, hugging the wall to remain in shadow, using every bit of concentration he could muster to stay quiet.

  Tory laughed.

  It hit Cole like a blow to the gut. She was all right. It hadn’t happened. Despite his panic, his hesitation, she was all right.

  “You’ve really done it now, Rocky,” she said, still laughing.

  Rocky. That damned cat. Was he behind this chaos? Cole straightened up, only now realizing he had sagged against the barn wall in relief. He started toward her voice, which was coming, inevitably he supposed, from the direction of Mac’s stall.

  At last he saw her, inside Mac’s stall, grinning widely at Rocky as she leaned against the bottom half of the stall door where the cat was precariously balanced. The cat’s fur seemed to be standing on end, and his tail was twice its normal size.

  The minute Cole got close enough Rocky let out a yowl and leapt to his shoulder.

  “Damn, cat!” Cole yelped as claws dug into his bare skin. He grabbed the cat in the middle with one big hand and started to lift him away, wincing as the animal tried to dig in and stay put. The damn cat had drawn blood this time, he could feel it. Rocky yowled again, and Mac snorted.

  “He just tried that with Mac,” Tory explained, laughing. “That’s what all the ruckus was. It’s a good thing he thought better of using his claws that time.”

  Cole pried the cat’s feet loose, then lifted him up and away. Rocky hissed, batting with his front paws like his namesake in the ring.

  “Knock it off, cat,” he said warningly as he bent to set the cat down, “or you’ll be spending eternity on some violin somewhere.”

  “Trouble just seems to follow you, doesn’t it?”

  Cole went very still. He felt an echo of that earlier nausea churning low in his belly. Did she know? Had she somehow guessed about the trail of disaster he’d laid down over the last thirteen years?

  Very slowly he straightened up.

  “Yes,” he said stiffly. “It does. I warned you about that.”

  She was very quiet for a moment before she said, “I meant the cat.”

  There was a tenderness, a soft note of compassionate gentleness in her voice that made him uneasy and angry at himself. All he could think was that had she really been in danger, that staggering moment of fear could have got her killed.

  “I’d better go tell Hobie you’re all right.” He sounded even stiffer than before. He didn’t care. He turned around and started to walk away, every second expecting her to say something, to call him back, to use what they’d just shared as a bond to hold him.

  “You’d better take care of your shoulder. You’re bleeding” was all she said.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, and kept going.

  He had no right to feel stung, he told himself. He should be grateful she’d let him go so easily. He should be glad she hadn’t insisted on indulging in a heavily emotional dissection of the sensual fever that had gripped them. So why did he feel like his shoulder wasn’t the only place he was bleeding?

  He ran into Hobie just outside the barn door. The wiry older man had a small rifle in his hands. A semiautomatic .22, Cole noted mechanically.

  “You had about another ten seconds, boy,” he said, “and I was comin’ in.”

  And if there really had been a threat, you, too, could have joined the list of bodies I’ve left behind.

  “You hang on to that,” he said flatly, gesturing at the rifle. “She’s all yours.”

  “I’ve been keeping it in the tack room since all this started— What do you mean, she’s all mine?”

/>   “Just look out for her. Until I...figure out what to do.”

  “I always look out for her.” Hobie’s bushy gray brows lowered. “You’re not makin’ much sense, boy.”

  “That,” Cole said grimly, “is the truest thing you’ve ever said.”

  Hobie stared at Cole. “You’re acting like a lizard strung up over a fire.”

  Yeah, Cole thought sourly. And the fact that he’d lit that fire himself made it even worse. “Well I’m going to go put it out,” he muttered. “If there’s enough booze in this town.”

  He strode back toward the house, never looking back. The chill he felt had little to do with the cool air on the bare skin of his chest and arms, and everything to do with the memory of that moment when he’d faltered, helpless against the fear that swamped him. Yes, he’d got moving again, but that moment could have made the difference between life and death for Tory. He’d seen it too many times to deny the possibility. That nothing had happened was merely luck. Hers, no doubt, not his.

  He walked into the house, his jaw grimly set. If he’d ever had any doubts about his decision five years ago to pull himself out of the field, they were now erased. He’d lost it, that indefinable something that made a man quick enough, that honed his reflexes to that fine point where there wasn’t even a split second of hesitation. It wasn’t much, just the slightest blunting of a once razor-sharp edge. Just a few precious seconds of hesitation while he fought down the memories. But it was enough. Enough to get somebody killed.

  And tonight that somebody could have been Tory. Or Hobie. He lived with the other ghosts of people he’d failed, only rarely resorting to alcohol to blur the memories. He knew he would never be able to live with the images that would haunt him if something happened to either of the Flynns. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to blur that kind of haunting.