Maggie's Man (23 page)

His nostrils flared. Some of the composure
seemed to leave him, and now she could see the sweat on his cheeks and the raw
need burning in his eyes.

"I've never forced a woman, Maggie. I
swear on my mother's grave I've never forced a woman. But it's been a long time
and I want you … God, I want you like I haven't wanted anything. Once we start,
I don't know if I can stop."

For the first time, she hesitated. She was
afraid. She was an inexperienced virgin and he was a man who'd been around the
block, a man convicted of murder.

Yet she trusted him. There was absolutely no
rational basis for it, and that should scare her because she knew she could be
overly sentimental. But Cain wasn't emotional or rash. He was the first man—the
first person—she'd met who was clear, concise and upfront. He didn't use guilt
or badger or yell or any of the other games her parents had so excelled at. He
accepted her as she was. He gave her options and respected her power of choice.
He treated her like an intelligent woman. He trusted her word.

She took a deep breath. She looked him in the
eye because he'd always granted her the same courtesy. And abruptly, her hands
reached up and gripped his face. "Will you answer one question for
me?" she whispered intensely, her eyes searching his gaze.

He hesitated only for a second. "Yes. For
you."

"Did you kill Katherine Epstein?"

His gaze was so steady, so true. "No,
Maggie, I didn't."

"I knew it," she
whispered triumphantly and kissed him hard.

Chapter 10

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H
er
mouth opened for his immediately. She'd tasted his tongue before and she wanted
to taste it again. She wanted him to consume her, wanted to feel the softness
of his lips, the warm, sure strokes of his tongue. He surprised her though. She
thought he would be rough and eager, tearing at the few remains of her clothes
and claiming her with a wild, reckless passion that would never give her time
to think.

Instead, his hands remained on her face, his
fingers tangled in her hair. He held her head steady, and instead of being frantic
and clumsy, he explored her thoroughly, as if he'd just been granted a special
gift and he wanted to know everything about it.

His lips were soft, soothing. He tasted her
lips gently as if they had all the time in the world and at this moment he wanted
to simply sip and savor her flavor. Next his mouth brushed her cool cheek, the
corner of her eye. He kissed her lashes, and the feel of his lips against her
eyelids made her smile. He touched her brow, her hairline, her chin.Then his
fingers moved slowly, splaying in her damp hair, rubbing her scalp luxuriously.
They found the hot, swelling lump from her unfortunate encounter with the
dashboard and lingered lightly.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," she whispered, her large blue
eyes still mesmerized on his face. "Kiss me again."

He smiled. "Greedy, definitely."

"Yes."

His mouth moved deeper this time, his hands
slanting her head so he could delve into her, explore the corner of her lips,
the fullness of her lower lip, the moist recesses of her mouth. His tongue grazed
over her teeth and she shivered at the new sensation. Then he stroked her,
sure, strong, and knowing, and her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him
close.

His mouth left her, but before she could
protest, he trailed warm kisses down her throat, tickling, quivering kisses
that spiked goose bumps along her flesh. His hands moved, his broad palms
curving around to support her lithe back. He bent her toward the steering wheel
and she surrendered willingly, offering him her pale throat, delicate collarbone
and gently rounded breasts.

The steering wheel was cold, her hair wet on
her shoulders, the air damp and frigid. But his mouth was hot, hot and soft,
and she felt it acutely, focusing on it as his lips moved across her chilly
flesh.

His tongue nuzzled her pulse, which beat blue
and rapid at the base of her neck. He nipped her throat and tasted the creamy
expanse of her shoulder. And then his mouth trailed down to the rising swell of
her petite breasts.

For a moment, she was self-conscious. She
opened her eyes, looking at his bent head, the tousled mass of his golden hair,
the look of rapt concentration on his face.

"It's not much," she whispered.

"What?" he murmured. His tongue
traced the edge of her bra. Her whole body shuddered with the impact.

"I used to…" It was very hard to
think. "I used to do that 'I must, I must, I must increase my bust.'"
She rowed her arms weakly. "You know, from Judy Blume." She looked
down at her ironing-board chest. "It didn't work."

For his response, he settled her back against
the steering wheel and brought his hands around to cup the high, delicate
crests. "Maggie," he said with complete, husky sincerity, "you
are perfect."

"Oh," she said dumbly and felt her
eyes suddenly fill with tears. "Don't stop," she whispered abruptly,
her voice frantic and desperate and raw in the rain-filled hush of the car.
"Please, just don't stop."

"I won't." And his hands moved
suddenly, one slight twist and the frivolous material fell away. Her breasts were
bare and beautiful, creamy white mounds topped with pale pink nipples. His
mouth closed around her, sucking as gentle as a babe and the sensation ripped
through her as fierce as a lion. She cried out his name shamelessly. She buried
her fingers into his hair and held him against her breast. If he left her now,
she knew she would just die.

Now she could feel the flame. It was inside
her, low and bright in her belly, and with every tug of his mouth it grew
bigger and fiercer, heating her veins, boiling her blood. She was a wanton, she
was shameless. She
would
dance the
lambada
in only a black lace
shawl to keep this man with her, to run her hands through his hair, to dig her
fingers into his shoulders, to listen to his low, steady baritone.

"Please," she whimpered. Her head
thrashed from side to side on the steering wheel and she no longer cared. His
mouth increased its pace, laving her left breast, suckling hard and the darts
of passion sparked hot and mad through her blood.

Her hips found the tempo on their own, her prim
plaid skirt tangled around her waist, her bare feet digging into the seat
beside his thighs as she arched herself against him. She heard his groan, she
heard his ragged breath and then his hand slid abruptly between her thighs,
cupping her mound.

"Maggie, you are so wet," he
muttered, and his fingers slipped inside her plain white panties and plunged
into her without further preamble.

She cried out. She arched her entire body,
lifting off the steering wheel, her fingers digging into his scalp, her neck
cording with unbelievable tension. The flame was so big now. So big it was
consuming her and she'd never felt such heat, such fire. It was bigger than
even she was, and when she lost her last grip on reason the conflagration would
combust within her, annihilating her, reducing her to ash. And she was
terrified and yet already inflamed and wanting the holocaust more than she'd
ever wanted anything.

"Take it, Maggie," Cain whispered
thickly. "It's all right. I've got you."

She fell apart. The desire burst within her and
she fell into a million dazzling pieces, weeping, moaning and clinging to his
sweat-streaked torso as if he was her last hope on earth.

Immediately his hands moved, curving around her
shoulders and scooping her against his chest. He rocked her small shuddering
form against his large, solid body, stroking her cheek and murmuring sweet
words of nonsense as her senses blew away like confetti and her body
disintegrated to ash.

I love you
, she wanted to whisper, she wanted to weep
. I love you with my whole
big, generous heart. Just hold me like this. Just hold me close to your
heartbeat and never let me go.

And then she began to cry in earnest, big,
silent tears she couldn't explain. She'd just never realized how empty she'd
been, how cold, how barren, how lonely until he'd wrapped his arms around her
and told her she was perfect. It meant so much to her, this man, this moment,
this feel of her cheek against his chest.

She wanted him as she'd never wanted anything. She
wanted to sleep curled in his arms, she wanted to wake up with his body already
hard and earnest inside her. She wanted to scrub his back in the shower and she
wanted to watch him eat breakfast. She wanted to know everything he feared and
everything he hoped. She wanted to sit with him in front of winter fires and
listen to his low, steady voice tell her about his dreams. She wanted to bear
his children and suckle his son at her breast.

"Maggie, are you all right?"

No. How can I be all right when I want
something I can't have?
She'd been so
careful not to want too much in her life. So careful not to dream too grand
because she'd lived through her parents' marriage, and she knew what could
happen to dreams.

And now she no longer cared. She was a Hathaway
Red. She wanted it all.

She pushed herself up on his lap, wiping at her
cheeks with her shaking hand. She couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm … I'm
sorry. I … I bet, I—"

"Maggie." His fingers curled around
her chin and raised it slowly. "Don't apologize."

"Okay," she said and felt her eyes
well up again. His green gaze was so steady, so true, and his callused thumb
brushed her cheek, as soothing as a kitten's lick.

He was shifting restlessly in the seat. She
glanced at his lap, and realized belatedly that he was still hard, still
hungry. She didn't ask and she didn't hesitate. She reached down her hand and
found him through the wet, clinging fabric of his jeans.

His head fell back against the top of the seat.
His green eyes narrowed to feral green slits and his breath grew ragged.

"I want you," she whispered fiercely,
her hair wild and fiery around her pale face. "I want to feel you with my
fingers, to hold you, to cup you. I want you inside me. I want … I want
everything
." Her hands were already working the stubborn buttons.

"I want that, too," he murmured
thickly. "Definitely."

Abruptly his hands gripped her face and he
brought her lips to him fiercely. This was hard, this was earnest and primal.
She wasn't glass anymore and he seemed to know it.

He split her lip. She liked the taste of blood.
He bruised her shoulders with his grip. She wished he would hold her even
tighter.

Her hands were fast and furious on his lap,
tugging and pulling at the wet, unyielding denim. She could feel the straining
desire of him, huge and hot. She should be afraid, because she was small and
petite and he clearly wasn't, but she didn't care anymore.

He consumed her mouth, a huge biting kiss that
she returned just as voraciously. The rain thundered around them. The tiny car
rocked with the fury of their movements. The denim, however, continued to
thwart her fingers and Cain struggled just as badly with her skirt and panties.

He drew back long enough for a gulping gasp of
air. "The back seat," he suggested harshly. "More room."

"Okay." She tumbled between the front
seats instantly, falling into the back seat and reaching for his hand.

He'd just risen, when he suddenly stiffened. He
was no longer staring at her, but out the windshield.

"Cain!" she demanded without a single
shred of pride.

"Headlights," he said.
"Headlights."

Her mouth opened, her blue eyes widened and the
slow sinking feeling in her stomach took her from high to low in one sickening
lurch. "No," she whispered bleakly.

For one moment, he turned back. His jaw worked,
his eyes softened. The headlights drew nearer. Big, high headlights, the kind
that might belong to a semi.

Cain's shoulders squared. His face settled into
the smooth, composed lines of resolve. And without his ever saying, Maggie knew
the moment had come and gone.

He reached beside her and picked up the
baseball cap and his discarded T-shirt, which was still wrapped around the gun.

At the last minute, she grabbed his arm.
"Don't you hurt anyone," she said harshly. "Don't do that."

He pulled his arm away without any effort.
"You trust so little," he said quietly and popped open the door.
"Get dressed."

He stood up in the rain, pulling the T-shirt
over his bare chest and the gun tucked in the small of his back. He settled the
cap over his forehead and began waving his arms.

She watched him for a moment and saw the
headlights slow.

He looked strong in the night, relentless and
ready to do what he had to do. He turned his emotions on and off so well. She just
ached. Her body ached, her heart ached, her hands ached to reach for him. She
didn't know how he pulled himself together so fast. Maybe women with foolish,
generous hearts weren't meant to be able to do the same.