The Outcast (30 page)
He swallowed, then he said, hoarsely, “I’d better finish getting dressed.”
She angled to one side, dipping slightly, coming up with his clean shirt in her hand. Tossing it out into the night. “Talk, first.”
His eyes were hot and lit by mysterious lights of gold and green. But the innate gentleness in his touch, in his voice mesmerized her. “I don’t want to make any mistake.”
Is that how he saw himself, as Byron Glendower’s mistake?
The revelation shot through her mind, but the rest of his reply obliterated conscious thought.
“I never wanted anyone else … but you.”
While she stood, still and breathless with shock, he expanded his reasonings.
“Every time I saw you wet your lips at some prancing fool, I wanted you. Every time you walked by me and pretended not to notice, I wanted to take you right down to the ground and make it impossible for you to ignore me. Even when you stood there on my brother’s arm, tellin’ me you were marrying him, I wanted to make you mine. There wasn’t a night that went by for four whole years that I didn’t dream of you, of what it what it would be like to touch you.”
She trembled as his fingertips skimmed down her throat.
“Of what it would be like to hold you in my arms.”
He hooked the collar of her jacket peeling it back, letting it slide down her arms to lie forgotten on the floor.
“Of what it would be like to taste the mouth I’d watched smile and pout and scowl at me all these years.”
He fell silent for a moment, kissing her slowly, languishing over every soft and willing detail. When he straightened, she leaned toward him, breathing in quick, gulping breaths.
“I wanted to take you out of your fine, fancy clothes.” He started down the buttons of her white batiste blouse, baring skin as he bared emotions long covered by propriety. “To strip you down to the woman underneath.”
Her taffeta skirt pooled at her ankles followed by the practical muslin-and-lace petticoat, leaving her feeling naked and vulnerable in her corset cover and pantalettes. But never did she think to cover
herself or protest the way his hot stare assessed her with one fluidly molten glance. She trembled wildly in the thrall of unknown sensations.
“And?” she prompted.
A smile of raw sensuality shaped his mouth.
“And I wanted to hear you say my name, saying you wanted me just as much.”
Her resistance evaporated. She swayed against him, pressing her lips to the damp wall of his chest, tasting the salty warmth with greedy abandon.
“I want you, Reeve. I’ve always wanted you. That’s why I came here tonight … for you, for this.”
Her confession absolved him of doubt.
“Do you want to go upstairs with me?”
She damned them both with her husky reply.
“Yes.”
One powerful arm curved about her waist, lifting her out of the circle of discarded clothing, hugging her against him until her head was forced back and her mouth quickly taken beneath his own. In a moment of floating ecstasy, he carried her down the hall, up the curve of the stairs, into his room, straight to his unmade bed. He leveled her across the tangle of sheets, mattress giving under his weight atop her own, as he kissed her hard and openmouthed until nothing existed except those wet, intensely unique textures.
This was what she’d been holding herself for. Not as a proper gift for an unknown stranger her parents might have picked for her, not for a financial ally chosen for her brother’s benefit, but this man, for reasons of love, not propriety. As a gift to convey that love in a way no other could.
He broke away, reaching down to ruck off her drawers, big hands trembling clumsily over the
laces to her corset. And through it all, he kissed her, hurriedly, hungrily, along her torso, between the scented valley of her breasts, over the full swells and tender peaks, never lingering in one place even as she arched up in offering, crying out his name.
His legs thrashed, freeing themselves from the hug of denim. And then there was nothing between his hard, toned body and the sleek satin of her skin.
He moved against her, creating an agonizing friction.
“I’m gonna explode if I don’t take you now,” he mumbled frantically into her kisses.
“Then take me now,” she breathed back.
A unison gasp of shock and surprise marked their first joining. Quick, hard thrusts followed, rough with excitement, deep from urgency too long denied. Soon, too soon, he cried out, passions spilling upon that hoarse shout of wonder.
Crushed beneath him, Patrice lay tense, stunned by the invasive hurt, by the pressure of him within her. She shook all over, alarmed by the unexpected pain, intrigued by a brief streak of expanding pleasure that ended with his completion, uncertain of what to do now that all was
fait accompli.
Mumbling something that sounded like, “Worth the wait,” Reeve stirred, easing up on his forearms so she could breathe. Too shy with him and with her own emotions, Patrice couldn’t meet his gaze.
“That was … nice.”
When he laughed at her inarticulate description, Patrice glared upward only to melt down to hot butter beneath the intensity of his gaze. His expression held awe and dazed delight and a tenderness that relieved her tremulous fears.
Then he shook the walls of heaven with his quiet claim.
“That was the lightning. Now I’ll bring on the storm.”
For the next few unhurried hours, they explored the luxury and limits of passion, satisfying curiosities, sating fantasies, tasting, touching, exploring until Patrice slept fiercely in the aftermath of her own discoveries.
“Patrice.”
She moaned, the sound soft and sensual, new. Her head turned to expose the curve of her throat for his nuzzling kisses. Her hand reached languidly to ruffle through his mussed hair, finger-combing it into some semblance of order. After a moment, he spoke again.
“Patrice, you have to go.”
She made a negating noise and rolled to fit against him, no longer bashful or innocent in her welcome of her body’s response to his emphatic differences.
“ ‘Trice, you can’t stay here.”
“Want to,” she murmured, nipping at his shoulder, tonguing the hollow of his collarbone until he groaned and clutched her closer. They nudged and rubbed up against one another, thighs shifting, hands gliding, pressing until, with a lengthy moan, Reeve admitted to himself that there was nothing more he could do about it, at least on this night. He gave her one bruising kiss and rolled away.
“C’mon, Patrice. Let’s find your clothes. I’ve gotta take you home.”
She burrowed into his covers, all soft, honey-sweet sensuality to purr, “I’m at home right here.”
Feeling the irresistible pull of her yearning gaze, Reeve threw himself away from it before he was lost once more. The shock of cold floorboards beneath bare feet cooled lusty passions to a calmer sensibility. He snatched up his denims and shimmied into them. When they were buttoned, he dared look back. A mistake. Patrice, now on her back with knees bent up at alluring angles, stretched creamy arms over her head for the expulsion of a leisurely, luscious yawn. Heat roared through his veins, thundering into his well-satisfied sex with a rejuvenating energy the rest of him couldn’t quite match. Having learned full well the extent of her power over him, Patrice smiled like a sultry temptress and reached out her hand.
“Come back to bed, Reeve,” she crooned in a smoky caress. Her gaze grew heavy lidded.
A feverish chill shook him as he looked upon the substance of his every wish fulfilled—Patrice Sinclair sprawled naked in his bed and still warm from his possession.
And as out of his reach as ever.
Intimacy changed nothing. It made everything
worse. Now he knew full well what he was missing. Because passion hadn’t been prefaced with words of love or commitment.
She hadn’t said it was more than that, and he hadn’t asked. She said she wanted him. Want implied a lot of things. A desire of his body, a need for his restorative wealth now that he was Byron Glendower’s heir. He wanted more than that.
He stuffed his fingers between hers, twisting, fisting them together to haul her out of his sheets. Patrice floundered in surprise and put her feet on the floor to anchor herself from being dragged over the edge.
“Reeve, what’s wrong?” There was no cocky self-satisfaction in her voice now. He heard an edge of panic, and it fueled his own.
“Get dressed.”
The brusque command brought a sparkling brightness to her eyes as she asked, “What did I do to make you so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” he lied through the clench of his teeth. He was angry, but at himself, not her. “I just have to get you home before your brother finds out where you’ve been.”
He’d dreamed of winning her love without complications, so he would know beyond a doubt that she wanted just him, Reeve Garrett, accepted at face value. He’d lost his chance at that coveted, precious gift, and he could never get it back. He would never know if she’d shown up at the front steps of the Glade because she loved him or because she wanted to make love with him. Very different, very important meanings to a man of his background.
But Patrice didn’t understand his reasonings. Wrapped up in his sheets and her own indignation,
she said, “Is this where you thank me for the good time and sneak me out the back door?”
“No,” he grumbled irritably. “This is where I take you home and sneak you in yours.”
Her pout settled into a more matured frown as consequence settled, scattering any lingering thoughts of intimacy. His curt statement was a correct summation of their situation. She’d come to him in the night, on the sly, they’d stolen a few hours of secret pleasure, but now it was time to get back to the reality of their lives. And she was as cross about that as he was.
“Go saddle your horse. I’ll be out in a minute.” She stood, dragging the sheet behind her like the train of a royal robe. Brought up short when he placed his foot upon it. He gave her a faint smile.
“That looks good on you.”
A return smile flirted across her lips. “Thank you. Save it for me.”
Because there was a hint of somberness to her teasing, he frowned. “I plan to.”
She searched his face, needing to find reassurance after taking such a huge step away from the strictures of her upbringing. She found it in the sudden mellowing of his gaze.
The ride back to the Manor was a time of reflection, but not regret. How could she regret something so spectacular? But memories alone couldn’t fend off the uncertainty she took home with her.
He wanted to court her. That meant marriage. The flutter of expectation within her breast was stilled by grim circumstance. Deacon would never allow it. The town would never condone it. It formed a delicate balance; what she owed them
weighed against what she owed herself and Reeve. She hugged to the broad security of his back, wanting to believe there was enough strength there to shore up her own wavering doubts. The fragile state of her emotions provided a weak defense against her insecurities.
Don’t break my heart.
How she wished she could close out her brother’s urgent plea. How she wished she could face him boldly with what resided within her own. She loved Reeve Garrett, and he wanted her.
Wanted wasn’t the same as loved. Was the other true as well?
She tried to think clearly over the anxious beat of confusion. If not for love, then why else would Reeve pursue her? All she had was the Sinclair name, no fortune to go with it. If he was intent on claiming her in marriage to win his inheritance, he wouldn’t be so concerned about Deacon catching them together. In fact, he’d relish the idea. If it was the result of unbridled passion, why would he show such concern for her now? Guilt? It had to be more. But what? What meant the most to Reeve?
The Glade. Jonah.
This was Reeve’s day of triumph. He’d taken the Glade from the father who’d denied him dignity. He’d taken the fiancée of the man who’d threatened to take his future.
Had their night together been a culmination of desire or an act of revenge and pride?
Reeve reined in the lathered stallion as they approached Sinclair Manor. Damp earth muffled the sound of loping hoofbeats. Her spirit writhed in turmoil by the time he brought her to the door of her darkened home.
“Do you want me to go inside with you?”
His question startled her. Was he thinking to protect her or make a claim upon her? One thought warmed, the other agitated. “No. That won’t be necessary. Everyone’s asleep.”
He twisted in the saddle, giving her a long, inscrutable look that dared her to act ashamed. Her chin tilted up of its own accord, winning his slight smile.
“Well, I’ve talked to you first and you seem to have no objections to my courtship.” Patrice blushed at his confidence then stiffened at his next words. “When do I talk to your brother?”
He saw the fear jump into her gaze, that flash of expression more honest than her hestitant reply.
“Please don’t rush things with Deacon. Let him have time—”
“To what?” His tone was soft yet steely. “Have a change of heart? Patrice, you’re dreaming if you think he’ll ever come around.”
She drew a panicked breath, knowing he was right. “Then give me time.”
“To do what, Patrice?” Seeing her distress, he eased back on his intensity. “Do you have second thoughts about me?”
“No.”
He considered her answer, his reaction to it hidden. “How much time?”
“I—I don’t know, Reeve.”
His guarded look grew, his voice thinned. “Have whatever time you need. But Patrice, I will not sneak around behind your family’s backs. To do so as children is one thing. It left a bad taste then. Until you give me leave to declare my intentions, it’s best we not see each other alone again.”
“I agree,” she said, not because it was what she wanted but because she could see it was the wisest course.
He reached around to assist her dismount, his arm brushing her breasts. Their startled looks collided with jolting awareness.
“Reeve—”
He palmed the back of her head, anchoring her for the hard ravishment of her lips by his. His kiss was different from the others they’d shared. This one hurt as much as it pleasured with its frustrated slanting pressure. Then abruptly it sweetened to a soft feathering of tenderness, telling of his reluctance to let her go with so much unresolved between them. She was gasping and disoriented by the time he let her breathe. Then he lowered her to the steps and, without a word, left her there on unsteady legs, with uncertain heart.
