A Taste of Heaven (33 page)

He grasped her buttocks and pulled her up
against his hips, murmuring unintelligibly. She felt the hard
length of him through her skirts. He made a noise in his throat and
kissed her again, hot and slow, his lips moving over hers with
sweet urgency.

When his hand slid up her back and around to
her breast, she pulled in a deep breath and leaned into his palm.
Her heart pounded in her chest. Surely he must feel it, she
thought.

With hands that trembled slightly, he reached
up and opened the buttons on her bodice, one by one, then he untied
the ribbons on her camisole. His warm hand on her bare breast was
electrifying. Her nipple hardened instantly under his touch.

Feeling that, Tyler's flimsy grasp on his
resolve to go slowly diminished considerably. He wanted to pull her
clothes away and lay her down, to look at the beauty of her
nakedness, and to feel her against his own bare skin. He wanted to
watch her pretty face when he joined his body to hers.

Impatiently, he unbuttoned his own shirt and
opened it wide. As if by instinct she pressed against his chest,
and the feeling that ripped through him was so consuming, he
wondered how he'd ever thought that even the most talented madam
could replace this.

She shrugged out of her dress, letting it lie
where it fell with a click of buttons on the hardwood floor. She
stood before him, small and shy in her drawers and open camisole,
her hair draped around her like a young girl's. Obviously bashful,
she couldn't lift her gaze from the rag rug under her feet.

Seeing her like that, he swallowed and
hurried to kick off his boots, and shed his pants and shirt Then he
stepped forward and swept her up into his arms.

“Angelheart, you're so beautiful.”

Angelheart
.
Libby remembered him calling her that the night he was drunk and
wanted to sleep with her. At the time, she'd written it off as the
rambling of a whiskey-soaked brain. But he'd really meant
it.

He laid her on the mattress. In the low
flicker of the candle, she saw the testimony of his arousal, and
quailed a bit. She'd never seen a man completely undressed before.
He was beautifully built, with long legs and a flat belly. The
red-gold hair on his chest picked up highlights from the candle,
and she stretched out a hesitant hand to touch it. But when Tyler
lay next to her and began a trail of kisses from her jaw down her
neck, she lost track of everything else. He rested his palm between
her breasts for a moment, then smiled.

“See what you've done to me,” she said. “My
heart is hammering away.”

“A healthy sign,” he said, grinning.
“See what you've done to
me
.”
His smile faded and he guided her hand to him, wrapping her fingers
around himself. Intuition rather than experience told her what to
do, and when he moaned into her neck she knew she'd discovered what
pleased him.

He gripped her wrist. “Whoa, stop, honey. I'm
not as strong a man as you think.”

She didn't know what he was talking about but
as he gazed at her lying before him, his expression grew serious
and he lowered his head to gently suckle at her breast.

Libby gasped and arched against him, and
passion exploded between them. The feeling of his hot, moist mouth
tugging at her nipple sent arrows of fire through her belly to her
womb. He reached for the tie on her drawers to loosen them, then
jerked them off her hips and down her legs. He ran his fevered palm
up the insides of her thighs, stopping to touch his fingertips to
the place between her legs that had grown liquid with readiness.
His strokes were like the beats of a hummingbird's wings against
her swollen, throbbing flesh.

“Tyler,” she whimpered, writhing under his
hand. Blindly, she groped for him.

“I know.” He dropped his head to suckle her
other nipple.

She wasn't sure if she wanted him to end his
ministrations or increase them, but this torment could not go on.
The heat, the need building in her was excruciating, and she didn't
know what to do about it. When he stopped, she was consumed with
frustration.

“Oh, no, please—”

“Hush, sweetheart, I won't leave you this
way,” he whispered hoarsely.

Tyler covered her with his body and nudged
her legs apart. Take it slow, he told himself, but it wasn't easy
when he wanted to bury himself in the hot center of her. His need
was as punishing as hers. He probed her flesh, and finding the
opening to her femininity, pushed against its portal. He felt the
resistance. Beneath him, Libby tensed.

He gazed down at her. Passion had made her
eyes heavy-lidded and even in candlelight, he could see the rosy
flush that colored her cheeks. He took her hands and laid them on
either side of the pillow, then interlaced her fingers with his
own. “Just this once, Libby, I promise—” He clamped her earlobe
between his teeth and claimed her virginity in one smooth stroke,
then lay still, waiting for her body to accommodate his.

A cry escaped her and she gripped his
hands.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, putting swift, soft
kisses on her forehead and cheeks and eyelids. He wasn't happy
about hurting her, but it felt so good to be surrounded by her.

For her part, Libby was surprised and
disappointed by the sharp twinge of pain. But then he began moving
inside her with a flow and rhythm that transcended the moment, and
harkened back to the most primal drive of life. Though she had no
experience to draw upon, she found herself lifting her hips to
complement his movement. Inevitably, the throbbing heat she'd felt
moments earlier returned to burn higher and hotter than before.

“Tyler,” she moaned, her breath whooshing out
of her with each pounding stroke. She felt like crying, like dying.
Every muscle was rigid with the wanting of something that eluded
her. Hearing her, Tyler whispered reassurance and endearments, and
increased this sweet agony, moving faster, harder.

At last, when she was sure that her death
must be imminent she teetered on the knife-edge of a breathless
suspended moment. And he pushed her over with a thrust that
triggered spasm upon spasm of intense, overwhelming pleasure. He
smothered her wail with a searing kiss.

Tyler quickened the fast, hard thrusts. His
breathing was heavy and labored, and sweat poured off him. “Sweet
angel," he mumbled like a man in delirium. "My sweet angel—” The
last word dissolved into a groaning sob that sounded as though it
were being ripped from his soul. He pushed into her while his
straining body convulsed, and white hot jets poured into Libby.

He let his forehead rest on the pillow next
to her, waiting to get his breath back. Finally rolling to his
side, he tucked her against his chest and wrapped his arms around
her. It felt so natural, so right having her here in his bed. It
was as though she'd always belonged here.

With a deep sigh, he kissed her forehead, and
hugged her to him. “Are you all right? I hope I didn't hurt you too
much.”

“No, you didn't.”

He uttered a satisfied noise. “That's
good.”

Libby lay in his embrace, sated and awed and
desperately in love. Her heart was so full, she could barely speak
without telling him.

It had not come easily to her; the Tyler
Hollins she'd first met was a difficult man to love. Stubborn,
cold, and self-sufficient. That had been only a shell. The real man
who hid beneath that was uncertain and vulnerable. She wished she
could tell him how she felt. But this wasn't the time. She had no
way of knowing whether he'd come to her merely out of loneliness,
or genuine affection. She wanted to think it was the latter. But
she'd revealed her heart once before and had lived to regret it.
Though Tyler wasn't Wesley Brandauer, she wasn't ready to take that
chance again.

For now, though, she nestled against him. The
morning might bring with it aching regret for this night, or for
things left unsaid. Tonight, though, she was content to lie with
him in his bed, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Watching the rise and fall of his chest, she
heard his breathing slow and deepen. She turned to look at him.
Sleep smoothed out the tired lines that years of worry and guilt
had etched into his handsome face.

She put a protective arm over his waist. “I
love you, Tyler,” she whispered.

In his sleep, he pulled her closer.

*~*~*

Libby poked her head out of the covers the
next morning with the feeling that something was different. She
opened her eyes and realized that she was not in her own room. She
was in Tyler's bed, naked. She liked it in here, she thought,
stretching dreamily. The room was warm with sun, and a clean, fresh
breeze from the open window fluttered the curtains. Then the memory
of the night before came rushing back to her, and she pulled the
sheet up to her chin.

She rolled over and looked at his side of the
bed, disappointed that he was already up and gone for the morning.
The things that they had done last night! The passion and fire that
had coursed between them—had it really happened? Yes,
undeniably.

She had sensed that impatient urgency in
Tyler all along, simmering behind a facade of rigid self-control.
She'd had no idea how it would reveal itself. Closing her eyes
against the glaring sun, she pulled his pillow over her head and
smiled sleepily as she inhaled the familiar scent of him. It hadn't
been a dream this time. It was real.

Glaring sun? she thought with a start, and
threw the pillow off her face. Oh, God, why had he let her sleep so
late? The men would have been waiting for breakfast for hours. She
scrambled to the side of the bed, the sudden movement bringing a
sharp ache to muscles she'd not used until last night.

Quickly plucking her discarded clothes from
the floor, she opened the door a crack to make certain no one was
in the hall, or the parlor below, then dashed for her own room.

After dressing hastily, she sped lightly down
the stairs, braiding her hair as she went. When she walked into the
kitchen, she found Rory drying dishes. The faint odor of burned
bread hung in the air.

“Rory, heavens, I must have overslept. Did
everyone eat?”

“Yes, Miss Libby. Tyler had me and Kansas Bob
cook this mornin'. I still ain't figured out how to make toast
without burnin' it.” He wore an old flour sack for an apron, an
accessory that she felt certain clashed with his aspiration to be a
top hand. “I was hopin' to air the place out.” He nodded at the
open door.

“Oh, no, I'm sorry. Here, give me that.” She
took the dish towel from him and applied it to a wet tin plate on
the counter. “Why didn't Tyler wake me?”

“He said you were up late last night and he
was lettin' you sleep in. Were you sick?”

Libby could only hope that her face wasn't as
red as it felt. But at the same time, she was extraordinarily
pleased that Tyler had thought of her. “Uh, no, I just couldn't
sleep. You can take off that flour sack and go be a cowhand again.
I certainly appreciate your help, though. You did a wonderful job
cleaning up. Someday, your wife will be glad you know your way
around a kitchen."

He discarded the apron with a horrified
expression. “Wife! Thanks, Miss Libby, but if it's all the same to
you, I'd rather stick to horses and cattle." He smoothed back his
hair and put on his, hat.

She laughed. “You might change your mind
later on. For now, I'm sure that Joe can find something more
interesting for you to do out on the range.”

Rory walked out the open door and trotted
toward the corral, presumably in search of the rest of the crew and
a manly occupation.

Libby looked at the clear blue sky as she
dried the last of the dishes. Had it always been that blue, she
wondered, or was it different today? She inhaled a deep breath
through her nose. Despite the lingering trace of burned toast, the
breeze blowing in from outside smelled fresher and more
invigorating than it had just yesterday.

In fact, Libby couldn't recall the last time
she'd known such a sense of happy well-being. But the man
responsible for it came into her view then, leading the pinto
toward the road and talking to Joe. A flush of love and excitement
filled her just to look at him, and she had to stop herself from
running out to meet him.

He was so handsome, and this morning he
looked downright beautiful to her. His hat rested on his back,
hanging by its bonnet strings, letting his chestnut hair glimmer
with brown and copper fire under the morning sun. She couldn't see
his eyes but she knew that they matched the endless sky above him.
His long legs were wrapped in buckskin chaps, and his shirtsleeves
were rolled up nearly to his elbows, showing off lean, muscled
forearms. Now and then, he reached up and absently stroked the
pinto's neck, and she remembered how gentle and comforting his
hands could be.

He and Joe were walking slowly, apparently
deep in some conversation. When they came abreast of the kitchen
door, their words floated to her. Tyler's dog, Sam, bounded around
his feet, his pink tongue lolling.

“Not this time, Sam. You stay here.”

“How long you figurin' on bein' gone?” Libby
heard Joe ask.

“Well, you know how far it is to Billings.
Three or four days at the most. I shouldn't have any weather to
contend with.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Joe asked.
“Things are goin' just fine.”

“I can't very well have her cooking for us
anymore, Joe. Not now.”

“I s'pose you're right. Bring back someone
decent, then. We've gotten kind of spoiled with Miss Libby's
cookin'.”

Tyler said good-bye, then Libby heard the
jingle of bridle and the pounding of hooves as he set off across
the turf.

Adrenaline flooded her, making her hands
shake and her heart thunder like a herd of runaway horses. Pulling
out the chair at the worktable, she sat down, fearing she would
either faint or vomit. Her breath came in jerky gasps, and she
pressed her trembling fist to her mouth. It was happening again,
she thought wildly. Scalding tears welled in her eyes and spilled
down her cheeks. Stupid, stupid woman, she cursed herself. Why
hadn't she learned her lesson with Wesley?