Authors: Brenda Novak
Allie was so cold she could scarcely feel her fingers or toes. But she knew it was important to do all she could for Clay's injuries. "Hang on. I'm already wet, so now's the best time."
"Just come here," he said stubbornly, but she got his truck keys out of the pocket of his jeans. She wanted to see if he had anything in his vehicle that might prove useful. Then she grabbed a pan and hurried out.
The wind and the rain lashed at Allie's clothes and hair. She hunched against it, grimacing when she saw Clay's truck sitting at an awkward angle because of the two flat tires. She'd get the son of a bitch who'd shot him, she promised herself. Another foot to the right and Clay might've been dead when she reached him.
Rage roiled inside her, tempting her to dash off to look for tracks--before they were completely obliterated by the storm. But she couldn't. Clay needed her.
Planning to comb every inch of the area come morning, she searched his truck. She could smell Clay's cologne, but he kept his truck as utilitarian and clean as his house. In the glove compartment, she found only a tire gauge, some napkins, his registration, proof of insurance, a seven-inch knife and a box of condoms.
Obviously, he was prepared. He just wasn't prepared for getting shot.
She considered trying to drive them out of there despite the ruined tires, but she couldn't risk getting stuck in the mud in the middle of nowhere. And she couldn't lose valuable time running around, looking for other cabins. She had no idea if she'd even find an occupied one. At least for the moment they had a warm place and a bed.
Worried that she was leaving Clay for too long, she ran down to the river and filled her pan.
When she returned, she found him curled up, shaking, struggling to get warm. The fact that he might be slipping into shock scared her so badly she abandoned the water, stripped off her clothes, and dried herself off as well as she could.
The mattress creaked slightly beneath her weight. Allie knew Clay had to be aware of her.
But he didn't seek her body, as she'd expected. And that scared her even more.
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"Clay?"
"Hmm?"
She wanted to pull him to her that very second, to reassure herself that he was as strong as ever. But until she got warmer, she'd only leech what little heat he'd managed to generate away from him. "Are you okay?" she asked, briskly rubbing her arms and legs to hurry the process.
"Umm."
His response sounded like an affirmative answer, but she wasn't about to take any chances.
As soon as she dared touch him, she fixed the dish towel as a field bandage. Then she slid over and wrapped her body around his. She no longer cared about nudity or propriety or anything else. She didn't even care if he figured out how deeply he affected her. She only wanted to make him better.
"Feels good," he mumbled a few minutes later.
"Can you sleep?" she asked.
He didn't answer. She worried that the pain might be too much for him. But after a few minutes, he seemed somewhat improved. She could feel a steady, strong heartbeat, and his chest began to rise and fall in a regular rhythm.
"Thank God," she whispered and prayed he'd remain safe through the night.
The pain in his arm dragged Clay out of a deep sleep while it was still dark. He couldn't immediately remember why he hurt, but he knew he wasn't alone. A woman was hugging him from behind. Her small firm breasts were pressed against his back, her legs were tucked under his buttocks and her warm breath moved his hair, tickling his neck. But it was her hand that distracted him the most. She'd looped her arm around his waist as if she'd been holding him tightly to her. But now that her body had relaxed in sleep, her hand dangled very close to--
He shifted, wondering what the hell was going on.
"You okay?" she muttered sleepily.
Allie McCormick. At the sound of her voice, it all came back to him. The broken window.
Tramping through the woods. Gnawing fear for her safety. The crack of gunfire. But, strangely enough, the fact that she was lying next to him seemed the most pertinent. They were in bed at her father's isolated cabin. Naked and alone. And he wanted to touch her....
"I'm fine." Easing out of her arms, he turned to face her. Embers still glowed in the fireplace, but he could make out only a few rough shapes. His other senses took in more. The warmth emanating from her body. The feel of her soft legs entwined with his. The scent of her on his pillow.
"Clay?" she whispered, reaching for him.
Her hand encountered his stomach. At that point, he thought she might recoil and find some excuse to get out of bed.
But she didn't. Her fingers moved toward his injured arm, but he deflected her questioning touch.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.
"Positive." He was sure about a few other things, as well--like the testosterone suddenly pounding through him.
"I'm glad." The hand that had touched him a moment earlier touched him again, moving slowly over his chest as if she was eager to explore every groove and contour.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he told himself not to react. She was just reassuring herself that he was okay. Or she was half-asleep and didn't know what she was doing. Otherwise, she wouldn't be touching him so...erotically. She had to realize that the closer she got to him, the more she 110
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alienated herself from her family and friends.
Her hand traveled up to his neck and eventually cupped his cheek in a movement so tender it made Clay's stomach twist with longing. But he couldn't respond. One eager kiss or receptive moan on her part, and he'd be on fire.
Drawing a deep breath, he fought to hang on to his self-control. But then her thumb brushed his bottom lip and he couldn't help tracing the edges with his tongue.
Her sigh made his muscles bunch with desire, and he took her thumb all the way into his mouth.
The bed moved as she inched closer.
"You really had me worried," she said.
He felt the tips of her breasts against him and nearly let his good arm encircle her, pull her to him.
No. Think of her father. Think what it would do to her.
But she didn't stop. She was threading her fingers through his hair, and he could feel her breath on his neck.
Clay lay suspended between what he knew he should do and what he
wanted
to do. He had to warn her at least. There was a condom in his wallet from the box he'd bought at the gas station.
But if they made love, he didn't want her to be sorry about it later, didn't want to feel responsible for her regret.
"Allie?"
"What?"
"I--" Her nipples grazed his chest again, causing a reaction powerful enough to silence him.
His determination to restrain himself kept him from reaching out, from taking what she offered.
But he couldn't push her away. Especially since she seemed a bit tentative, as if she imagined he might not be interested.
"Can you go back to sleep?" she asked.
Not a chance.
"No."
"Am I...disturbing you?"
"Hell, no."
She seemed relieved, but that didn't help
his
situation. He couldn't think of anything except the softness of her skin. He wanted to bend his head and take one nipple in his mouth while his hands wandered elsewhere, eliciting the responses he craved from her...
Don't think about it.
He didn't want her to be ostracized later just because she'd been with him.
But he couldn't
help
thinking about it.
Remove her hand
. The command came with authority, but the pleasure of her touch was too intense. And then her tongue slid invitingly over his bottom lip and every cell in his body rose up against him. He longed to move decisively, aggressively. To roll her onto her back and kiss her as he buried himself inside her--and to forget all the reasons he shouldn't. But he merely parted his lips and met the tip of her tongue with his.
She made a sound that told him she liked it and arched into him. What they were doing couldn't possibly be good for her, though. He wasn't husband or father material. And she had a child.
"Clay?" she said. The quaver in her voice meant that his earlier response hadn't completely squelched her insecurities.
He didn't answer. If he explained what he knew to be true, he'd have to act on it. But he wasn't sure how long he could hover between yes and no.
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Finally, he pulled away.
He could sense her embarrassment and confusion. He hated that, but what could he do?
Rejecting her advances was the lesser of two evils. Especially since it would encourage her to keep her distance from him in the future.
They lay in silence for minutes that felt like hours.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I know you're in a lot of pain."
He was too aroused to care about the wound in his arm. He'd have to be unconscious not to want her. "It's not the pain."
She didn't say anything.
"I don't want the people you know and love to look at you the way they look at me," he explained, because he couldn't take her thinking that she'd made a fool of herself by approaching him.
His heart beat several times before she responded. "You've slept with other women in Stillwater."
"No one like you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're different. You know that. You're a cop, one of
them
."
"I'm also a woman."
"Expectations are different for you."
"So you're doing me a favor?"
"I'm trying."
There was a slight pause. Then she said, "I'm not sure I'm able to appreciate that right now.
When you were shot, I--" She didn't finish, but he could hear the huskiness in her voice, the worry and concern. The shooting had really shaken her, made her want to reassure herself in the most primitive way possible.
He let go of a long breath. "It's not easy for me to say no," he admitted. "It's...harder than you know."
Her finger began tracing a line through his pectorals and down his stomach. "How hard?"
He guessed she wasn't talking about the difficulty of the situation. "Hard enough," he told her gruffly, but he didn't move. He held perfectly still.
"Maybe I should decide about that." Her finger had reached his navel. She was moving slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop her. But he didn't. He couldn't wait until she touched him.
His heartbeat radiated throughout his entire body as she drew closer and closer--and then her hand curled tightly around him, and he knew trying to resist would be hopeless.
With his good arm, he brought her into full contact with him. "You're making a mistake,"
he said, taking her mouth in a harsh, hungry kiss.
"Good thing you're worth it," she said and buried her face in his neck as he used his hand to make her tremble.
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13
I
t'd been more than a year since Allie had made love. She missed the physical intimacy of having a man in her life. But being with Clay was nothing like what she'd experienced in the past.
Clay's lovemaking was full of an urgency she'd never known, as if it wasn't enough for him to claim her body--he wanted her soul. The crazy thing was, she knew better than to give it to him, yet she did so eagerly. With every kiss, with every touch, with every thrust of his hips, she gave up a little more of herself. He was alive, and somehow that was all that mattered in this cloistered cabin.
The rest of the world could not intrude.
She
was
making a mistake, she dimly realized. She was letting him spoil her for anyone else. But she was too caught up to care. With one hand he angled her hips so she could take more of him.
Euphoria, combined with raw, desperate need, caused every muscle to quiver. Allie moaned as Clay's mouth closed over her breast, suckling her just hard enough. He knew how to amplify every sensation, how to take it to the extreme.
"What are you feeling?" he murmured, his voice ragged, breathless, as he kissed her mouth, her ear, her neck.
"You. I feel you. You're in me, around me, everywhere."
"Then let go. Give me what I want, okay? Trust me."
Worry lingered in some distant corner of her mind. "Be careful of your wound," she said.
But he didn't act as if he had an injury. Pinning her hands over her head, he nuzzled her neck. Then his mouth trailed back down to her breasts.
Allie had never felt so alive, so hyperaware of another human being. As the rhythm intensified, she was no longer sure where Clay's body stopped and hers started, and she didn't care.
The separate parts didn't matter, only the unified, glorious whole. They were nothing without each other.
Her muscles tensed, then several spasms rolled through her so hard her whole body shook.
Clay chuckled softly as she shuddered in his arms. "That's it. One more," he said, but she could sense him struggling to hold back and wanted to relish a little power of her own. Pressing him onto his back, she made sure he lost all control.
When Allie woke up, it was light. She blinked, feeling lazy, satiated, content--until she saw red on the pillow in front of her. Then she sat up so fast black spots danced before her eyes.
The dish towel she'd wrapped around Clay's wound had fallen off, and his blood had smeared the bedding. But, once the dizziness passed, she could see there wasn't as much as she'd feared.
"What's wrong?" he asked, lifting his head.
"You've been bleeding."
He groaned and fell back on his pillow. "Is that all?"
"Is that
all?
"
"The way you had my heart going, how can you be surprised?"
He'd turned his face into the pillow, which muffled his voice, but Allie knew he was teasing 113
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her. "We've got to get you cleaned up," she said, straining for a look at his wound.
"Not here. We don't have any dry firewood to purify the water."