Perfect Touch (14 page)

He grabbed his fork, shoveled in some chili, and muttered something that sounded like “Booyah!”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Best chili I ever had. Could have used more spice, though,” he said teasingly.

She waved at the salt, pepper, and cayenne waiting on the table. “Help yourself. I made it fairly mild because I didn't know what you liked.”

“I'm joking.”

“I'm not,” she said, adding more pepper—black and red—to her chili.

He slid his fork in for a taste of her chili and raised his eyebrows. “If we run out of wood, we can always use your chili to warm up the place.”

“That's assuming there's any left.”

For the next ten minutes there was no sound but the rain and the occasional clink of flatware against heavy pottery plates. The thick slices of bread disappeared as fast as the chili in the big frying pan.

Sara stopped at two good helpings. Jay didn't stop until he saw the bottom of the chili pan.

“Should I warm up some more?” she asked, looking at his empty plate.

“No thanks. I'm saving room for pie. Inge makes the best . . .” His voice faded.
Damn those jackals to everlasting hell.
“She was a great baker. Ivar swore she could fatten up a fence post.”

Sara put her hand over the fist that Jay had made and rubbed gently. Slowly his fingers uncurled and wrapped around hers.

“More coffee with your pie?” she asked quietly, but her eyes said she wished she could hug him and make it all go away.

He squeezed her hand. “That would be good, thanks.”

Reluctantly she let her fingers slide away and pushed back from the table. When she reached for the empty dinner dishes, he was already picking them up.

“I'll take care of the kitchen and stack the wood while you shower,” he said as he walked to the sink. “There are three bedrooms upstairs. Take your pick. The middle one is right over the kitchen stove. It's the warmest.”

Sara found a pie knife in the utensil drawer and eyed the golden brown peaks of meringue as if there was an award for most even slicing.

“Which bedroom is yours?” she asked.

“The first one on the left.”

She nodded and sliced the pie neatly. The meringue was fluffy, the lemon filling bright with promise, and the crust beautifully flaky beneath the knife.

“I don't know about a fence post,” she said, “but I sure would get fat if this kind of dessert was part of my life.”

“A few pounds wouldn't hurt you.”

“Says the man who doesn't have an ounce of fat on him.”

She hesitated, then gave in to temptation and ran her finger along the knife, picking up every sticky crumb. She licked her finger, closed her eyes, and made a sound of sensual appreciation.

“You make that sound again and I'm going to lick a lot more than your finger,” he said.

Her eyes flew open. Jay was watching her lips and her tongue as she sucked her finger clean. She was tempted to do it all over again and see what happened. Then she caught a whiff of herself—onion and trail dust and wood smoke with an astringent note of pine cleaner—and decided that she needed a shower.

A cold one.

He saw her temptation, then her decision not to tease and test him. He told himself that it was better this way.

He didn't believe it.

To keep from grabbing her, he took two small plates from the cupboard and set them near the pie.

Automatically she started to serve the dessert, then remembered how many return trips her licked finger had made to the pie knife. She headed for the sink.

“You don't have to wash it on my account,” he said.

She glanced sideways and saw the devilish light in his eyes. Pleased that she had done something to lift his mood, she ducked her head and smiled.

“My mother would faint,” Sara said.

“She's not here.”

“Behave.”

“I am behaving. Like a man.”

“One of us has to be sensible,” she said.

“Why?”

“I don't have any condoms.”

He smiled slowly. “I do.”

Heat twisted through her.
This man is pure trouble. And God knows I've come to enjoy his particular kind of trouble.

Barton has already trashed my professional reputation when it comes to having sex with a client. If I have to wear the name, why not enjoy the game? Life is short.

We just never know how short.

She served Jay a piece of pie with the freshly washed utensil.

“I'd rather have it tasting of you,” he said.

“If you don't eat it, I will.”

“Can I watch?”

Shaking her head, laughing softly, Sara served her own piece of pie while Jay topped off their coffee mugs. At the first bite of pie, she made a low sound of pleasure.

“Orgasmic,” she said without thinking.

He gave her a heavy-lidded look.

“Well, it is,” she said. She lifted her mug. “To Inge, who made the best pie I've ever tasted.”

He hesitated, then clicked his mug against hers. “To Inge. God keep her and Ivar.”

S
ARA LAY IN
the bedroom that was positioned over the kitchen. Despite the long, demanding day she was wide awake. It wasn't the coffee. She usually fell asleep with a half-f mug by her bed. In the morning, she would sip at cold coffee while she brewed fresh. Piper had scolded her endlessly until her partner finally gave up on converting Sara to the joys of green tea.

A branch knocked against the window.

Instantly she sat up, stifling a scream, her heart beating triple time.

Not the coffee.

Fear.

Every time she closed her eyes, mixed-up pieces of the day flashed behind her eyelids—Skunk alerting, the ragged blue tarp that couldn't hide the flow of blood, the stalking cougar falling limp, the smell of death so thick she could taste it, Jay's muscles flexing and sliding as he
took out his anger chopping wood, the seething rustle of grass stirred by a predator.

Blood and death.

Don't be such a baby,
she told herself. Again.
Go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a whole new experience in coping.

She forced herself to lie down. Relaxation was impossible. Within seconds she was turning one way and another, trying to get comfortable, to not think.

I'm fine when I have something to do. Maybe I should just give up on sleep and work on Custer's papers.

Rain from the wind-swept clouds rattled distractingly, with no rhythm to soothe. A gust of wind scraped a branch against glass. It sounded like a muffled groan. She shot upright before she could stop herself.

To hell with it.

Throwing aside the covers, Sara put her feet on the floor. The surprisingly warm floor.

Jay was right. Sleeping above the stove is sweet.

If you happen to feel like sleeping.

She didn't.

Trying to move quietly so as not to disturb him, she covered her T-shirt and panties with her flannel shirt, which smelled of sunshine and rain and the time before she knew, really
knew,
how brutally life could be snuffed out.

Her bedroom door opened without a creak. Barefoot, she tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs. She was halfway past Jay's door when it opened. Light poured into the hallway.

“Can't sleep?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Don't start on my coffee habit.”

He looked slowly from her flannel shirt to her bare thighs. “Coffee?” he asked absently. “Damn, woman, you make a flannel shirt look like Spanish lace.”

She glanced down at her shirt. It looked like flannel to her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to wake you up. I was just going to do . . . something. Lying awake is making me edgy.”

“Me, too.”

A branch slapped against the roof.

She flinched.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said, pulling her into a gentle hug. “It's been a hell of a day.”

With a deep, breaking breath, Sara gave in to the embrace, wrapping herself in Jay's warmth and at the same time returning it.

“You're hotter than the stove,” she said, brushing her cheek lightly against the neat mat of hair that covered the upper slopes of his bare chest. “Tickle more, too.”

His muscles moved beneath her cheek in silent laughter. “Rub harder,” he said. “Doesn't tickle that way.”

“I'm not complaining.” She breathed deeply and relaxed against him. “You smell of smoke.”

He eased his fingers into the silky dark mass of her hair. “I must not have showered well enough.”

Her soft laugh stirred the hair on his chest. “You showered just fine. You can't feed the stove without picking up the scent of fire and wood. I like it.”

“Beats gun oil.”

He felt her stiffen and silently cursed his unguarded tongue. With strong fingers he rubbed her scalp and the tension along her spine. Slowly her body loosened again.

“You must have washed your hair,” he murmured. “It smells of lavender.”

“And smoke from drying it near the stove.”

“You have a thing for smoke.”

“On you, yes. On me, not so much.”

They held each other as the silence settled around them like another kind of embrace. Finally she rubbed her cheek against him slowly, breathing deeply of him before she loosened her arms.

“You must be cold,” she said. She certainly was wherever she wasn't touching him.

His fingers—warm—tilted her chin up so that she met his eyes in the intimate twilight of the hallway. “You aren't used to the kind of day you had.”

“And you are?”

“Not really. It just doesn't surprise me anymore. Come on, let's go to bed. And that's all it will be. Just let me hold you until your adrenaline fades and you fall asleep. Do you trust me that much?”

“You, yes. Myself, no.”

He cocked his head slightly, looking at her.

“Oh, I won't jump you,” she said wryly, “but curling up with you sounds way too good. I've wanted to get close to you for months. That's why I came to Wyoming instead of going back to San Francisco. I wanted to see if the rest of you matched your voice.” Her sigh ruffled the springy male hair that tickled her lips so sweetly. “It did. Yowza, did it ever. And I'm babbling. Shut me up, Jay.”

Slowly he bent and fitted his mouth to hers, giving her every chance to change her mind. She opened for him without hesitation, sharing the sweet heat inside her lips, touching the tip of her tongue to his, tasting him as he tasted her. Parts of her she hadn't even known were tight
began to relax. Her body softened against his until they were so close that even breath couldn't get between them. They held each other, rocking slowly, letting the ugliness of murder slide away until there was only a man and a woman savoring the complex heat of life.

The kiss changed as gently as it had begun. Delicate tasting became a deeper seeking, a sensual duel with no losers. His arms hardened, pulling her closer and then closer still, until neither could breathe without the other. He ate at her mouth, wanting more. Her nails sank into his muscular shoulders as she tried to pull herself up his body, wanting to crawl under his skin. Needing to.

He lifted her until she was draped along his body, letting her know how much he shared her clawing need. When she felt the hard length of him, she made a sound of approval and . . . fleeting hesitation.

“Everything seems to come pretty big in Wyoming,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “Are you licensed for that firearm, soldier?”

His laugh was also a groan. “Oh yeah. Are you?”

“I'm having a few doubts,” she said half teasing, half not.

“We'll fit,” he said, biting at her lips. “It's killing me to think about how hot it will be.”

She let out a broken breath that was almost a laugh. “As long as you don't expect fireworks, we're good.”

Slowly he eased her down his body until her feet touched the floor again.

“Define fireworks,” he said against her lips.

“I'm, well, average. You aren't. I mean, I like sex as well as the next woman, but it's not a world shaker for—”

Her words were cut off by his tongue stroking deep and his hands rubbing down her back to her waist. His touch slipped under her panties until he could fill his hands with her sweet ass, fingertips sinking
deep, opening her until she made a startled sound and shuddered at the lightning stroke of pleasure. The hot rush of her response spread between them.

“Average, huh?” He laughed. “Sweetheart, I can't wait to have an average night with you.”

Without warning he shifted his grip, sliding one hand around to her front until he could sink a long finger into her.

“Wet,” he said roughly. “Soft. So . . . damned . . .
hot
.”

He twisted his finger, rubbing against her deep inside. She gasped again and tightened around the sweet intrusion. The silky pulses of her pleasure made both of them groan.

“I want you to milk my cock like that when you come,” he said hoarsely. “It won't happen the first time because you don't know how good it's going to be and I've been too long without anything except my hand for company. But it will happen, Sara. I promise you.”

His hand moved again and suddenly there were two fingers pressing into her. They felt shockingly good, twisting and probing, scissoring until she shuddered and the air between them filled with the heady musk of her passion. Her body bowed into an arc of need, driving him even deeper into her body.

A groan ripped between his clenched teeth. “I could take you right here, right now, and you'd scream with pleasure. God knows I'd want to. In fact, I'd do anything to give you the release you're shaking for. But I don't trust myself not to part those plump, silky lips and push home while you're coming.”

“Do it,” she gasped.

“No condom.”

She bit his shoulder in frustration.

“Christ, we're going to burn down the night,” he said roughly.

With swift movements he shifted her until he could carry her against his chest. She inhaled sharply, unused to being carted around like a child. Before she could adjust, she was lying on her back in his bed, staring up at him with astonished eyes.

“Too fast?” he asked.

“No one has lifted me since . . . forever.”

“I'll have to make you part of my regular workout.” He smiled rather fiercely. “It sure would be more fun than the usual routine.”

She watched him as he opened the drawer in the bedside table, removed some condoms, and threw them on top of the wooden surface. She reached for one of them, only to have him take her hand and kiss it hard enough that she felt teeth.

“Not yet,” he said, looking into her beautiful dark eyes. “There's this little thing known as foreplay. I want to undress you, stroke you, feel your nipples rise against my tongue.”

She felt her nipples draw up in an aching hunger that startled her.

“And I'd like to explore every inch of your body with my hands and teeth and tongue,” she whispered, surprised at her hunger to taste him. “That's new for me.”

A shudder ripped through him, hardening him even more. When he reached out to unbutton her flannel shirt, his fingers had a fine tremor. The fact that she was openly admiring his body—including the hard flesh that had shoved eagerly through the slit in his briefs—didn't help. And then her finger was touching his tip, lingering over the warm drops that had seeped out of his control. Curious, she licked her fingertip.

“You're not the only one this is new for,” he said through his teeth. “I'm about to go off like a teenager.”

Her smile was as old as Eve. “Then I won't tell you how much I like your taste.”

“And you called yourself average. Sweet Jesus.” He locked his teeth and fought for the control he had always taken for granted. “I've been waiting all my life for an
average
woman like you.” He took a deep breath and counted to ten. Slowly. “Do you like sewing on buttons?”

She blinked. “Not particularly.”

“Then you better finish opening your shirt. I'm about a breath away from tearing off everything you're wearing. With my teeth.”

She looked at the burn of need riding his cheekbones and the stark lines of hard-won control on his face. Reluctantly she slid her hands away from his body and unfastened her shirt.

“All the way off,” he said. “T-shirt, too.”

Not giving herself time to feel shy, she reached back behind her neck, grabbed a handful of flannel and T-shirt, and pulled them off over her head in a single motion.

“Bossy, aren't—” Her voice broke off at the naked appreciation in his eyes.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice husky.

“Hardly,” she said.

“For me, you're perfect.”

He lowered himself to the bed and took one dusky nipple into his mouth. After a few seconds, she forgot all about her imperfect body and began twisting slowly against the mouth that was turning her inside out. Other men had dutifully massaged her on the way to sex, their speed making clear that what they really wanted was between her legs. And theirs.

Jay wasn't dutiful. He quickly found what made her moan and writhe in wordless pleas for more. Then he settled in and drove her so wild she didn't even feel her panties being pulled down her restless legs. His hungry fingers parted her, twisting as she did, driving her higher
and higher, and he savored her unknowing whimpers of pleasure. His thumb probed her slick folds, seeking the proud bud he had called up from her softness. First gentle, then demanding, he circled her flesh, pleasing, teasing, and above all avoiding the pressure that she demanded with each broken breath.

“Tease,” she panted.

“Yes,” he hissed between gritted teeth. “Something about you brings out the devil in me.”

“Is that what you call it?” Her hand curled around his erection and squeezed.

“Ah, God,” he said. Sweat broke out on him from forehead to heels. “Mercy, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“Condom,” he said on a broken breath. He hugged her close with his free arm and rolled her across his body, massaging her butt cheek as he did. “On the table. My hands are busy.”

Then so was his mouth.

She barely registered the words. The combined onslaught of his mouth and hands and the twisting flex of his body overwhelmed her. Between one second and the next, a savage ecstasy shook her. Despite her continued tremors of pleasure, she managed to snag a foil packet and blindly press it into one of Jay's hands.

In record time, he put on the condom. He rolled her over onto her back, lifted her knees over his arms, and sank into her pulsing core. He clenched his body and fought against his own release, wanting more, much more, than a few strokes on his way to orgasm.

But that was what he got before his body put paid to any idea of waiting. He had already waited a lifetime for a partner like Sara. He measured himself within her once, twice, three times and then ecstasy
drew his body so tight he trembled. With a shout that was her name, he spent himself deep inside her.