The Proposition (17 page)

Then "right" and "interesting" slowly insinuated themselves into "fascinating." She grew aware of how solid he was, aware of his weight and substance, of how deeply and languorously he kissed her, how he put his whole body into it. He leaned them both back into the wall again, pressing her there, as if he wanted to be closer, though heaven knew he was as close as another human being could be. Hips, chest, arms around her, moving, pressing, sliding. She found herself pushing back as he kissed her, though not with struggle. A resistance that added something. A cooperation on her own that made her bones quiver.

With her rumpled skirts still caught between them, she could feel the brush of his wool trousers against her bare shins. She felt his hands dig into her buttocks, push her. They encouraged her to meet the force of him. He wanted the kiss to have a slow, deliberate rhythm—and her shivers became a kind of vertigo that raced her heart and spun her head.

His hands pulled her buttocks into him, pressing the wad of dress between them as, bending his knees, he flexed his hips forward and pushed. He did it again. Then again. While he groaned inside their kiss, satisfaction, as his tongue did a slow, rhythmic penetration of her mouth.

The horrible part was, though she had a vague idea what he imitated, she couldn't stop wanting the next full press of his hips, the next plunge in her mouth. She wanted him to kiss her just as he did, to touch her, and she wanted it with a vehemence that made her ashamed while it stole the strength from her legs; they wanted to fold.

She heard him draw a ragged breath as he lifted his mouth away, turned his head the other direction, then kissed her again. The sound of his rattled breathing matched her own. Then, as if her spinning inability to get air weren't enough, she felt his hand play delicately at the edge of her raised skirts: looking for what he'd asked for, the feel of her leg.

Her leg? She thought the kiss was instead of her leg. No. No, no. Then another, distant voice in her head said with grave curiosity, Yes.

Her emotions pitched. Fear, pleasure, panic, anticipation. Yet this time she let him without a moment's reproof.

His hand went up under her dress. Through the fine-weave linen of her knickers, she felt his palm lay itself, spread-fingered, onto the back of her thigh. With the touch, an acute, stomach-knotting jolt of pleasure shot through her so strongly it made her shiver and jump in spasm. Then the smooth warmth of his palm tentatively stroked her thigh up under the curve of her buttocks.

Oh, dear. So wrong. A man she hadn't known two weeks was rubbing his sublime hand under her near-naked backside. So wrong it made her stomach flip. So right she couldn't swallow.

He slid his hand lower, rubbing down her thigh, the back, the side, the front, the inside
…
ooh, the inside of her thigh. Bliss. Oh, to be touched by Mick Tremore. Pure sensory rapture. It set every hair of her body on end. Ecstatic. Dreadful in its power, its climb, its pure, blinding brightness.

This strong pleasure spread, expanded, threatening to usurp every logical thought. It ruled from that low place in her abdomen, as if she were possessed there by a demon. Something was taking her over, turning her over into the hands of a commanding instinct she hadn't known she possessed. A vaguely terrifying "something," for it was a stranger. A fierce, frightening feeling that left the rest of her powerless. She shifted, made an instant of struggle.

"Sh-h-h," he said and stoked her where she liked, in the curve beneath her buttocks. The place that seemed safer. Only it wasn't that safe.

The strange new awareness in her tugged, pulling her toward what seemed a dark pit, a place where she dare not go further, dare not let herself fall. She feared her own unknown self. She was afraid of following him where he wanted, of not coming out again. Or not coming out the same: changed forever.

Her senses singing, full-voiced, Winnie stood shaking—seemingly complacently in Mick's arms—as she quietly grew frantic: poised on an overpowering brink of too much, too new, too strong, too different from any other experience she knew, her emotions carrying her to the edge of pure, guilty terror.

While Mick fought a singing urge of his own: He wanted to move his hand an inch toward the center of her body and touch what was so close and so on his mind. He
wanted
to lose control, take her with him. They were in a bedroom, ten feet from a bed.

He fought the urge valiantly. It was leagues beyond their agreement. He liked kissing her. He kissed her and kissed her there against the wall, pressing her and tonguing her first one way, then, turning his head, another, like he could put all his male self into the single act of penetrating her female mouth. He rubbed his body as close as he could to hers. He smoothed his hand along the contours of long, comely thigh. Soft along the inside, female. While the singing thought kept whispering, What you want is right there. An inch away. Have it. Touch her.

In the end, he wanted to so badly he simply couldn't
not
do it. He ran his hand all the way up to where her thigh gave into the delicate indentation, where her leg joined her torso. He drew his fingers along the bend to the ridge of tendon, then simply shifted his hand. He took firm, cupping possession of her between her legs, holding of her, feeling her. It was worth it: She was wet. Her knickers were soaked. Her body was ready, no denying how ready, his—

Winnie's head jerked. She let out a sharp yelp. It took him aback a little when, from here, she became a sudden tangle of arms and flailing legs and fists coming at him. With all her considerable strength, she was suddenly a whirling, thrashing animal, drawing its last ounce of spit to save itself.

Mick got a good, strong barefoot kick to his shin and a fist to the side of his face that about took off his jaw before he could catch her arms, draw them down, and step back. He half-expected her to come at him again. She was that crazy. He guarded himself, hands and forearms up, breathing like a freight train.

But instead of more fight, Winnie turned to the wall, putting both her hands on herself where he'd touched her. Her head bent. Her shoulders hunched. And she burst out in sobs.

Mick couldn't've been more surprised if she'd pulled out a gun and shot him.

But, well, of course, he thought. He should've known. Winnie was the guiltiest, scaredest woman. He reached, touched her shoulder. "Sh-h-h," he said. "It's all right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't've done that."

So, so sorry. She cried like a child. A child who knew for sure she was getting no supper, getting a beating, sent to the orphanage, put up for adoption. He felt awful.

He put both his hands on her shoulders, rubbed up and down her arms. "It's all right. It's right normal, Win. It's what men and women do. But I shouldn't've. I—" He tried to turn her around and just hold her. She wouldn't let him though, so he only hugged her from the back, wrapping himself around her as he stroked his hand down one arm.

As he petted her, his own hand ended up near his face. He caught the smell of her there. He closed his eyes and resisted one second. But it was irresistible. He put his nose into his palm and breathed in the smell of Winnie's female sex, then discovered a place where his two fingers met at the palm that was still wet from touching her. God bless, he held her there, soothing her, while behind her he opened his mouth on his own hand and touched his tongue between his fingers, tasting her. He shuddered.

How buggered-up was this? he asked himself. He wanted to bend his mouth into the curve of her neck. He wanted to rub her buttocks with an erection so hard and taut there was a delicate possibility for disaster. He had no business with Winnie in his arms here, no business consoling her, telling her that everything was going to be all right and that he was sorry—while he stood behind her, wanting to run his hand under her beautiful round bum, between her legs, get rid of the knickers, rip them if he had to, so he could put his hand directly onto her flesh, put his fingers into her, slide—

Mick, my boy, you ain't buggered-up. You are out of your bloody lunatic mind. Winnie would come at you like the Furies if she even knew what you were thinking. If she didn't kill herself first.

So, standing there with every one of his senses full of Winnie Bollash, Mick determined that all he wanted of her was bad for her. And, one of the hardest steps he ever took, he let go of her, stepped back, getting himself clear of her long, sweet body. Backing one footstep then two away, he left her alone at the wall.

Watching her there made him feel so small. If only it made his cock small, too, but it didn't. That part of him nosed rod-straight against his trousers, still trying to do his thinking for him—Winnie had forgot to let go of her skirts. Her bare legs were bent together, one pressed against the wall, as she clutched her dress to her hips and cried and cried and cried. She was inconsolable.

He tried anyway though. He said, "Winnie, it's no secret now I want you. Let me be the one. Come lie down with me on the bed over there." He shook his head. He wanted to say all manner of things he was fairly certain a gentleman didn't say. How he wanted to put himself inside her. How he wanted to eat the freckles off her long legs. How he wanted to kiss her mouth till their tongues were sore and their lips were raw and make love to her till neither one of them could stand up straight. And then, after that, exhausted, he'd crawl down her body and kiss her between her legs like he'd done her mouth, long and deep, then fall asleep with his face there.

Wisely, he didn't mention these things. To him, they were beautiful. Poetry. To Winnie, he was right sure, they were crude. He wouldn't've been surprised if, on telling her all he might want from her, she bent right over and got sick.

Especially given that her next sobbing words were, "Y-you said you wouldn't t-touch me anywhere else."

There wasn't really any defense for what he'd done. Well, hardly any. He told her, "You liked it, Winnie."

"I did not."

More meekly, he chided, "All right, but you almost did. You would've, if you'd've let yourself. And God bless, Win
…"
He shook his head, a man who had bewildered himself, then spoke softly. "I bloody loved it. I bloody effing loved it." He looked at her with utter seriousness, trying to say what he felt. "I want to do it again. I can't tell you how much. I won't. I won't come near you again, if that's what you want. But Lord, Win." He shook his head. "You're amazing. You are the best handful of woman I've ever held in my arms, and I've held a few, loovey. But nothing like you. Nothing."

It didn't cheer her up. She cried like she was dying. Mick put his hand to his lip, finding only damned, half-numb, smooth-shaven skin. Buggeration. He held his hand there, his thumb at his jaw, his fingers over his lips and mouth like he could cover it up, like he could hide what he'd done.

"What am I supposed to do, Win?" he asked.

She said nothing, but just sobbed there, her shoulders shaking.

He pushed his hand back through his hair, feeling it between his fingers, wanting to pull it out. "Should I leave?"

She didn't answer him.

"I mean, really leave. Take Magic and Freddie and go. I can forget about the hundred pounds. I'll earn it another way." He couldn't, of course, but that was a different matter.

She said nothing, though she took a long, sloppy sniff of air.

He tried to tease her out of all her tears. "You want that I marry you?" He laughed at how stupid that was. Like she'd marry a ratcatcher.

She stopped her crying for a minute, long enough for another big, wet hiccup of misery. Then she looked at him, sort of out from under her pretty red hair what was coming down, and whispered, strong, mean, angry, "Don't laugh at me anymore. Stop it. Stop all your teasing! I'm not a joke!"

Right. If she'd've had the strength, she'd've slapped him. Right.

Married. Winnie should've been married. She was a fine woman. Nurturing, kind. She surely as hell shouldn't have been clinging to a wall because some Cornish miner's son had stuck his hand where it didn't belong.

Right, he thought again. A marrying joke. Pretty insulting to offer to make her miserable like she was for the rest of her life. But, see, he hadn't meant the insult toward her. He was making fun of
himself.

Oh, he was good enough for her. It wasn't that. He just wasn't good enough in her mind, and not in the minds of the rest of the world either. He knew it, accepted it, and wasn't even bitter about it. It was just the way things were. But Winnie thought the joke was on
her.
She always thought it was her, no matter what happened. She carried the world on her shoulders, responsible for every little thing that happened in it. Or even for what didn't happen sometimes like it should.

In her mind, Winnie ruled the world. And a fine old burden it was, considering she ruled a fickle place that ran on havoc.

And sweet Win here wanted a man,
needed
a man, but she didn't know how to get one. Or how to get one she wanted, since she wouldn't let herself have the one she accidentally got.

Mick forced a long, breathy sigh down his nose. The whole business made him just plain tired. His solution was easy. His solutions were always easy. As far as he was concerned, it was one of those situations where to shag her silly, he was fairly sure, would be a big favor to her. He half-wished he had the nerve to do it: just lay her down and get her past it. It'd be good for her. At least in one way. Of course, it might kill her in another.