Marry Me (26 page)

Just as Rhyne began to lower herself, Cole took his erection in hand and thrust forward. He knew the moment she felt the head of it between her thighs. Her hesitation cost him dearly. The pounding of the pulse in his neck was nothing compared to the beat of blood in his cock. He moved the hand on her hip to the small of her back and tilted her hips. She surprised him by reaching under her gown and finding him with her hand. He removed his own, took her by the hips again, and waited for her to seat herself.

It was not easy for her. He thought it might even have been painful. She’d been aroused, but not ready. Not wholly. Not for this. But after that first hesitation, she didn’t pause again until he was fully inside her. That was when she slid her arms around his shoulders and buried her face against his neck.

His hips twitched, but it was the only movement he made. He put his arms around her, held her close, and let her quiet. She took quick and shallow breaths at first. He felt the soft expulsion of every one of them.

“Stay there,” he said quietly. “Just like that. I’m going to touch you.”

His hands were at her back, sliding slowly up and down her spine. His lips were brushing her ear. She could feel the tension in his thighs alongside hers. And between them …
there
… it was impossible to imagine he could touch her more deeply.

Until he did. His fingertips made a pass between her thighs, separating the moist lips and rubbing the kernel of flesh that nestled there. Her entire body jerked from the current of pleasure that ran through it. When he did it again, her head came up. The next caress made her heart seize. The breath she craved lodged at the back of her throat.

Her hips shifted. She rubbed against his hand. She lifted, fell. The pressure inside her eased while another one built. She lifted again and this time when she fell it was into nature’s own rhythm.

Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to it.

Cole watched Rhyne’s pleasure build and felt his own rise with it. There was tension in her features but it wasn’t something to be afraid of, rather it was something to embrace. Her chin came up, exposing the line of her neck, the intriguing hollow of her throat. The movement of her small breasts captivated him. The aureoles puckered and the nipples scraped the fabric of her gown. He pushed aside her neckline and waited a heartbeat for her to rise. Pulling her closer, he flicked her nipple with the tip of his tongue. On her next pass, he captured her breast with his mouth.

Rhyne dug her fingers into Cole’s shoulders. She bit down on her own lip to keep from whimpering. The hot suck of his mouth tugged deeply, mysteriously on her womb. His lips circled her with heat; his mouth was a brand. Her hips jerked faster. She rode him harder. The spark between her thighs became a licking flame that teased her with its elusive, graceful dance.

When the fire turned liquid and chased blood through her veins, Rhyne finally cried out.

Cole threw his head back and grasped Rhyne by the waist as he pumped his hips. It was only moments before the shudder he felt under his fingertips became the shudder he felt under his skin. She didn’t so much collapse against him as melt. Cole understood. It was easier to imagine himself as a puddle at the foot of the chair instead of sitting in it.

He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly. She was still contracting around him. A second wave a pleasure went through him, merely an echo of the first, but still strong enough to make him close his eyes and set his hands firmly on her hips. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t move.”

She felt them then, contractions deep inside her, ones she wasn’t even sure she could control. When she tried, the effect was the opposite of what she’d hoped for. He grimaced and pressed his fingertips harder against her skin as another shiver came and went. The pleasure was so acute that it cut closer to pain.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him. The corners of his mouth lifted slowly, but the smile was a shade regretful. He cupped her chin. His thumb touched her lower lip. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I didn’t expect …”

“Neither did I.” “Did I hurt you?”

The question surprised a low chuckle from him. “No.” He kissed her. “No, not at all. Did it seem to you that you had?”

She touched his face. His features were relaxed now but she remembered how rigidly he’d held his jaw, how quickly the muscle had jumped in his cheek. Tension hadn’t been confined to his body. She had seen it in the set of his mouth and the tight lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “It did.”

“Then I’m sorry for it, but I swear you didn’t hurt me. The very opposite in fact.” “You told me not to move.”

“Ahh. That. Inklings of pleasure, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to stir them again.” “Inklings.”

Cole slipped his hand under her breast and rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Rhyne gasped. He barely touched her, yet pleasure snapped every one of her nerves. Her body went rigid and then her hips jerked involuntarily.

“Inklings,” Cole said, letting his hand drop away. He rested it on her naked thigh.

She required a moment to come back into her skin. “Damn.” It was an expression of wonderment, not a curse.

Cole’s lips twitched. Of course she would say damn. “Let me help you up.”

“I can move now?”

“I hope so. I can’t say the same for myself.”

Heat caressed her cheeks, and her eyes darted away. Using the wide arms of the chair to brace herself, she let Cole lift her. She scrambled backward off his lap and spun around while he made himself decent. She fiddled with the ribbon in her neckline to close the gap in her gown. The discarded shawl was under her feet. She picked it up and swung it around her shoulders.

“Are your parts covered?” she asked.

“I thought you were learning their proper names.”

She sighed. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Rhyne pivoted to face him again. She hadn’t expected to find him standing. It wasn’t in her nature to back away so she angled her head. “I’m feeling like I do when there’re too many forks at my plate.”

Cole nodded. Overwhelmed. Uncertain. Awkward. “It’s no different for me.”

“You’re kind to say so.”

Cole caught her arm when she started to go. “Rhyne. Wait. I mean it. This …” He searched for a word to describe what had happened between them and failed to find one.
“This
is outside my experience, too. Did you imagine it wasn’t?”

“I tried not to think about it.”

“Would you rather it were different?”

“Yes. No.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It seems as though one of us should be able to make an exit.”

“I think you’re confusing exit with escape.” He drew her closer and slipped his arms under hers and around her back. He pressed his lips to the crown of her tousled hair. “We’re going to exit together, Rhyne. We’re going to my bedroom, and I’m going to take care of you.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Cole suddenly remembered a conversation between Rachel and Wyatt Cooper from months earlier. They had been sitting around the table in Rhyne’s cabin, and Rachel had extracted a promise from her husband to forget he was the sheriff for a while. Cole recalled with clarity his own reaction to that promise. He hadn’t been able to imagine the circumstances that would make him act in a similar way. He’d thought then that it would be like shedding his skin. He felt exactly the same way about it now, but the prospect didn’t cause him to hesitate.

“I’ll leave him at the door,” he said. “I promise.”

And like that, it was done.

Rhyne sat on the edge of Cole’s bed. After months as his housekeeper, she had more than a passing familiarity with his room. She changed the sheets weekly, dusted the chest of drawers, arranged his shaving kit and hairbrush beside the washstand. She knew that he liked things ordered, so she was careful to fold his clothes neatly and place his footstool twenty-six inches from the chair by the stove. She filled the porcelain pitcher with fresh water daily and made certain his razor was as sharp as his scalpels. She could have recited the exact contents of his armoire.

It was no more or less than she’d done for her father.

He had a fancy silk dressing screen that he’d brought from New York. Whitley had one, too. It made her suspect that the Monroe family employed more than a housekeeper and a cook. There probably had been maids and a valet, someone whose job it was to turn out the doctor and his sister so they were fit for their high society, someone who handed clothes around the screen and assisted with buttons and laces when they were asked.

Cole was behind that screen now. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see him properly. The occasional splash of water in the basin let her know he was attending to himself. She heard him open the window at his back, toss the water, then pour more into the basin. The screen fluttered as a wintry blast swirled into the room. The painted dragons on the panels filled their bellies with air, but Cole slammed the window closed before they could breathe fire.

Rhyne stole the blanket from the trunk at the foot of his bed and wrapped it around her. When Cole stepped out from behind the screen and gestured for her to come forward, she dragged the blanket with her.

“Don’t you have a robe?” he asked.

“I’d be wearing it, wouldn’t I?” She was sorry for the words as much as the way she said them. “I’m all prickly,” she said.

“I noticed.” He stepped aside so she could get behind the screen. “Everything you need is there.”

“I have soap and water in my own room. I could do this there.”

“But you don’t have a screen, and therefore no privacy.” She waved him off. “I’d have plenty of privacy because I’d be alone.”

“You wouldn’t be, though.” He picked up a towel that had been warming beside the stove and laid it over the screen. “And I think that would have made you uncomfortable.”

The water in the basin was very cold. She soaked her cloth quickly and rung it out, then she raised her nightgown to complete her ablutions. The blanket fell off her shoulders, but she stood on it to keep her feet warm while she finished.

“Is there blood?” Cole asked from the bed.

Rhyne poked her head around the screen. “I thought you left the doctor outside.”

“It’s not a doctor’s question. It’s a …” He hardly had to think–the word came easily to his lips. “It’s a lover’s question.”

Rhyne ducked back, dropped the washcloth, and bent over the basin to splash her face. Suddenly the water did not seem cold enough.

“Rhyne?”

She straightened, bracing herself on the edge of the washstand. She glanced at the cloth hanging over the lip of the basin. “There’s no blood.” Unlike before. Before there had been blood.

“Are you finished?”

She nodded, realized he couldn’t hear that, and answered him. “I’m done.”

From his angle at the bed, Cole could see that she’d lost the blanket. “Then come here. And bring the blanket with you.”

Rhyne stepped over it and stooped to pick it up. Her head swam. She put her hands down to steady herself.

“Are you all right?”

She heard the concern in his voice. “Fine. I’m fine.” Straightening slowly, she pulled the blanket with her. She was holding it in her arms when she stepped around the screen.

“You’re pale. Come here.”

Although she wasn’t afraid, she was glad when he didn’t advance on her. “I’m fine. Really.” She approached the bed and let him take the blanket from her arms. He put it around her shoulders and used it to inch her closer until she was standing between his splayed legs. “If you try to take my temperature, I swear I’ll take a poke at you.”

He believed her and told her so. That seemed to satisfy her. “Would you like to sit down?”

She looked at the space on the bed beside him, then over at the chair by the stove. “Homer wrote about choosing between Scylla and Charybdis. I reckon this is one of those times.”

Cole chuckled as she tugged the blanket out of his hands and sat beside him. “So which one am I?”

She merely cast him a sideways glance and allowed him to choose for himself. “Why am I still here?” she asked. “Aren’t you done caring for me?”

“I think you know we have to talk.”

“We could have done that downstairs.” “No, we couldn’t. Not with you trying so hard to escape.” “I still am.”

“Whitley’s down the hall. Sleeping, I hope. If not, there’s a creaking floorboard outside my room that alerts me when she’s up. I need to know that we can talk privately, Rhyne. You want that, too, don’t you?”

Cornered, she nodded.

“Good.” He hooked his heels on the bed frame and made a steeple with his hands. “I want you to marry me.”

She frowned deeply. Her head still felt a little thick. She rubbed her temples and tried to clear it.

“I want you to marry me,” he repeated. “I should have said it earlier. I should have told you it would be the cost of being together. You could have decided then if you were willing to accept the terms.” He bowed his head and stared at his steepled fingers. “I should have made sure you understood. I’m sorry that I didn’t, Rhyne. I’m sorry that you didn’t know.”

Rhyne let his words wash over and wondered what he expected her to say. He hadn’t asked her a proper question. He only put the thing before her and told her he was sorry. She couldn’t think of a single reason that he’d want to tie himself to Runt Abbot. If she were as mean-spirited as she wanted to be, she’d drag him in front of the parson in the morning. He’d know sorry then. He’d know sorry to the soles of his shoes, and it would serve him right.

“Do you suppose it’s the fornicatin’ that’s made you squirrelly?”

Chapter 9

“Why do you do that?” asked Cole.

“Do what?” But Rhyne knew what he was asking, and she felt small for pretending otherwise. Cole knew, too, because he didn’t say anything, and the pressure of his silence built until it was a weight on her chest. “Runt Abbot is who I am,” she said quietly. “I thought you needed to be reminded. And your brain
is
addled if you think I’m going to marry you. I just didn’t know any other way to say it. I was going to tell you to go to hell.”