One Day, My Prince, page 12
He moved slowly, stretching her impossibly with his invasion, inching inside her until he met the barrier of her maidenhead. He hesitated, and then he plunged forward, bursting inside her, filling her at last.
There was pain, and a moment of panic. What had she done? Joe became very still, and then he kissed her, gently, as he had on the street. With sweetness and promise. With trepidation and affection. The sharpness of the pain faded, her body adjusted to him, and her panic fled.
He rocked within her, stroking her aching body, reviving the rhythm of her desire. Her own hips rocked with his, into and away from his thrust. A tension built within her, a pounding, pulsating pressure that drove away everything else.
“Relax,” Joe whispered.
Relax? Was he mad, too?
“Don’t fight it,” he whispered.
Don’t fight what?
He locked his lips to hers and slipped his tongue into her mouth, pushing, demanding. Her mouth answered, her hips twisted and reached. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his. She couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t ever, ever get close enough.
A shock wave burst through her body, ripping her apart, splintering her body into a million tiny pieces. She cried out against a pleasure so intense it blinded her. Stole her senses. Washed away the rest of the world.
As the pleasure faded, Joe plunged deep inside her once again. She felt his long, hard body shudder above and inside her, and she held on to him as if for dear life as the shaking lessened and died. He drifted down to cover her. Goodness, they were both sweating and shaking and weak.
She laid her hand against Joe’s head, flicked the ends of her fingers through his hair. They were still connected, still together, and she felt no rush to remedy that state. There was something very right about it, very comforting.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, rising slowly above her.
“A little,” she confessed.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” He lowered his head to kiss her, another sweet, gentle kiss.
She found herself believing, as surely as the Shorter sisters no doubt believed, that Joe would never leave. That he would stay here forever, and spend night after night just like this. Surely this was something special, something not to be tossed aside.
Those were irrational thoughts, and she was not a woman given to such foolishness. Still, she wondered if Joe would stay if she told him she loved him.
They bathed at the basin near the dresser, and Joe stared down at the spot of blood on the washcloth he held. In the moonlight it looked black, dark, ominous. Something in his gut tightened and twisted. He’d never slept with a virgin before. Never. And for good reason. It was a hell of a lot of responsibility, making love to a woman for the first time. One uneasy side effect he hadn’t expected; right now he was feeling much too proprietary about Sarah, much too protective.
There weren’t many virgin prostitutes, he thought wryly, and most of the women he found himself with were employed in that profession. After all, prostitutes weren’t looking for more than a way to make a living. They didn’t liken passionate sex with nonsense like love and marriage. They usually knew what they were doing in bed, and how to prevent unwanted babies.
Babies. Joe looked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Sarah reaching for her nightgown, her movements fluid and graceful. Those movements seemed almost lazy, and she appeared content as she tried to straighten the tangled garment. It hadn’t occurred to him, not once, that Sarah’s whispered request might result in a baby. She didn’t need another mouth to feed, and he didn’t need or want the obligation and worry a child entailed.
Of course, he’d be gone before she knew if there was a child or not. He could lie with her again and again and leave before they knew. Though, he felt like a selfish coward for even thinking that way.
He didn’t want to ruin this night thinking about leaving or responsibility or babies. Tossing the washcloth aside, he returned to the bed and grabbed the nightgown from Sarah before she could slip it over her head.
“Nope,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into the bed with him. “You don’t need that, honey.”
“Joe,” she said, indignation and laughter in her voice. “I can’t sleep without my nightgown.”
“Yes, you can,” he said, drawing the quilt over them both and lying down with Sarah in his arms, her back against his chest, her backside nestled against his lower belly. “I’m living proof of that fact.”
“But I feel … I feel…”
“Naked?” he finished for her.
“Naked,” she whispered.
He brushed her hair aside and kissed her on the back of the neck. “Go to sleep, Sarah,” he said softly.
“Oh, goodness,” she breathed, relaxing in his arms already. “I don’t think I can. My brain is spinning, my heart is pounding, and I can’t quite catch my breath.”
Joe didn’t say so, but his own heart was pounding pretty damned furiously, and he was having trouble catching his own breath.
He heard Sarah’s breathing slow and become more even, felt her body relax against his. “That was quite marvelous,” she whispered.
Quite marvelous, indeed.
“I’m glad I found the strength to ask, now that it’s said and done,” she said sleepily.
“Me, too,” he said reluctantly.
“But I think I know what you mean about having a wife suck the life out of you. I swear,”—she sighed—“I feel completely … drained.”
A minute later she was asleep.
The woman in his arms was the worst kind of trouble. Sweet. Loving. Giving. A good woman. Hell, a good woman was the last thing he wanted or needed. But right now … in his muddled state of mind … he could almost believe differently.
Joe whispered into her hair. “What have you done to me, Miss Priss?”
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Chapter Twelve
There were a hundred reasons why she should regret last night, but as Sarah wakened to the sight of Joe’s sleeping face she felt not an ounce of remorse.
The sun barely peeked above the horizon, and softly filtered light filled the large bedroom and fell across the bed. She’d fallen asleep with her back against Joe’s chest, but in the night she’d squirmed and twisted so that they’d slept face-to-face.
A prudent woman would slip quietly from the bed, dress quickly, and leave the sleeping man to his dreams. She would berate herself for being so bold as to actually ask a man to lie with her. She would blush at the remembrance of what she’d done under the cover of darkness.
Sarah had been raised to be a prudent woman. It no longer appealed to her.
Burrowing into the soft mattress, she hugged the quilt to her chest. Yes, she was tired of being prudent. She wasn’t going anywhere, not right this minute. Why run, when she could lie here and study the man she loved?
Joe’s mouth looked soft in sleep. It was full, wide, and tempting. Last night he’d kissed her with that mouth; he kissed her over and over again. He’d tasted her lips and her freckles and her breasts.
He’d been inside her, a part of her. The memory made her tingle, deep and certain.
There had been a time when she’d been tempted to kiss those sleeping lips of his, when just the sight of them had tantalized her. She’d chickened out, then, afraid to be caught, afraid to take even the smallest chance. She didn’t feel at all like a coward, now.
Scooting slightly forward, she brought her face close to Joe’s. His dark, stubbly beard looked strangely adorable by morning’s light, the way his hair lay slightly mussed was endearing. And his mouth … relaxed and soft, it waited. She lifted her chin and placed her lips softly over Joe’s.
He responded almost immediately, coming awake slowly, gradually, with a sigh and a leisurely dance of his mouth over hers. Her heart pounded, her blood rushed, and something that could only be called love settled firmly in her heart.
As he came more awake, his body against hers, his kiss becoming more demanding, Joe snaked his arm around Sarah and pulled her close. There was no longer anything sleepy about this embrace, no longer anything innocent. He devoured her with those soft lips, forced her lips apart and tasted deeply with his tongue.
And when the kiss finally ended, slowly, reluctantly, Joe drew back slightly to settle his most unsettling eyes on her face.
In the morning light, she could see him much more clearly than she had in the shadows of the night. His eyes were blue and clear, the stubble on his face rough and dark, the lines and ridges of his neck and shoulders rugged and masculinely beautiful.
She laid her fingertips tentatively on the ridge of his collarbone, needing to touch, hungry to feel. All along he’d said his stay here was temporary. The marriage was a sham, a hoax. He had important business to tend to. But right now she felt so much more between them than a ruse to help seven little girls. She sensed love on her part. Need on his. They shared a bond she didn’t understand and refused to deny.
She’d come West to make every moment count, to open her heart and experience everything life had to offer. This time with Joe was a gift she would not deny herself.
With a finger crooked over the edge of the quilt, Joe slowly slipped the covering down so that the globes of her breasts were exposed. She didn’t try to stop him, even when the sunlight fell on her exposed nipples. She did, however, hold her breath, a little shy, a little afraid. She was well aware of all her faults, imperfections that could be hidden under the cover of darkness but were more than clear by the light of day.
But the way Joe looked at her, she didn’t feel plain at all. He looked at her as if he liked what he saw. As if she were truly beautiful. He touched her as if she were the most fragile, delicate creature on earth, as if he cherished her.
“You still have a few freckles left,” he said sleepily, rocking his thumb softly over one nipple and then the other.
“I see that,” she whispered.
He scooted the quilt down a few inches more, as if he were intent on studying her entire body. Something in her wanted to yank the quilt from his hands and pull it over her head, but another instinct, a stronger force, compelled her to study him as he did her.
Wide and strong in the chest, he could easily overpower her. But he didn’t. His touch remained gentle, his hands offering the most tender touch she’d ever known. Dark hair was sprinkled across that wide chest, and as he raked his hands down to her hips to caress her there, she reached out and touched his own tiny, flat nipples.
He continued to wear a small bandage over the wound in his side, and her searching eyes found other evidence of his dangerous profession; a long, thin scar high on his chest, another on his upper arm. She ran her fingers over both scars, wondering how he’d gotten them, trying to offer silent comfort for every pain he’d ever suffered.
She still ached from last night, and yet she wanted him again. She felt her body responding to his touch, felt a deep quiver and a strange, hot tingle that warmed her from head to toe. The throb between her legs became more insistent as he caressed her backside and thighs, a heavy heat settling there.
With a quick move, Joe tossed the quilt to the end of the bed, revealing their bodies so close, her pale legs entwined with his longer, darker ones. His manhood, hard and long, nudged against her insistently, pressing into her belly.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
It was a lie born of passion, so she didn’t argue with him. Perhaps, behind a cloud of desire, he did see beauty in her at this moment.
He was the beautiful one, so powerful and handsome, with a body marred only by his healing wound and those other, much smaller scars. She reached down to touch his bandage with fingers as tender as Joe’s own.
“Does it still hurt?”
“A little.”
She moved her hand from his wound to rake over his lean hip, savoring the warmth beneath her hand. The softness of his skin, the passion in his eyes.
He kissed her deeply again, demanding and hungry. She opened herself to him, completely and without reserve. For the moment, she was his in every way. His wife. His lover. And he was everything to her. Most of all, he was her heart.
He rolled her onto her back, and she went willingly, languidly, her thighs spreading instinctively. He didn’t immediately place himself above her, but remained on his side beside her, slipping his hand between her legs to caress her inner thigh.
She looked down the length of their bodies, her eyes falling on the fascinating sight of his dark hand on her pale thigh and then on the shaft of his manhood, so long and hard it was amazing to her that she’d taken it inside her; and would again.
“Well,” she muttered softly, her eyes on the evidence of his desire. “I don’t think I will ever be able to call you Stumpy again, not with a straight face.”
She raised her gaze to watch him grin; he had such a lovely, enticing smile. His fingers slipped higher to touch her intimately, to caress and stroke her. Her body responded immediately, with tremors and a rush of moisture.
“That’s all right,” he whispered. “I feel sure I won’t be able to call you Miss Priss again.”
She laughed lightly as he rolled atop her, but her laughter died as he forced her legs further apart, pushing himself against her, into her, stretching and stroking her until there was nothing in the world but the joining of their bodies and the love in her heart. And the world was complete.
Sarah went back to sleep within minutes, but Joe couldn’t. What had he been thinking to take her again? Ah, he hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d come awake with her mouth on his, and her body so close he could feel it with every fiber of his being.
He’d never lost control before, never ceased to think rationally because a woman kissed him, because she looked at him with impossibly hungry eyes. Damnation.
When he heard small feet and voices above stairs, he left the warm bed and dressed silently. This would not be a good morning for the girls to decide to deliver breakfast in bed. Sarah, beneath the quilt once again, looked too well loved; her hair was loose and tangled, her face flushed and smiling, her nightgown on the floor.
He met Clara, the first to rise, in the kitchen. She looked surprised to find him up, and then smiled widely. “Are you going to church with us today?” she asked.
Joe shook his head. “No. You girls go ahead. Sarah needs her sleep, and I have things to do.”
“What kind of things?”
What did he have to do?
He had to tell Sarah that there wasn’t anything lasting between them. He hadn’t been blind to the look in her eyes this morning, as he’d pushed inside her. He’d seen tenderness as well as passion. Hope. A need that went far beyond anything the joining of their bodies could satisfy. He had to tell her that last night … and this morning … had been mistakes, that it couldn’t happen again, that no matter how real it had felt last night, they were not married. He was going to leave as soon as the judge came through town and settled the matter of custody of the Shorter sisters.
But damn, he wanted her again. Tonight and tomorrow night and every night until he pulled up stakes and left town. He wanted to spend all night and every day learning every sensitive inch of her skin, tasting her, touching her, stroking her until she cried out the way she’d done last night. He wanted to feel her crumble in his arms again and again. Last night he’d taken her virginity, and that somehow made her his. The possessiveness that rushed through him at the thought scared the hell out of him.
“What kind of things around the house, Poppy?” Clara asked again.
“I’m going to put a lock on my bedroom door,” he answered.
“Why?” she asked.
Because I’m a weak, cowardly bastard, that’s why. “For privacy, why else?” he said gruffly.
“Oh.” Clara set about preparing breakfast without another word.
Alice actually groaned aloud when she saw Mayor Drake coming her way. She’d shortened her step to match Faith’s, and they hadn’t even reached the wagon yet. Becky probably had the wagon ready to go, but Dory and Glory were behind her, so there was no hope of a quick escape. She wondered if lagging behind to speak to Quincy for a few moments had been wise, after all.
“Alice Shorter,” the mayor called, huffing as he hurried to catch up with her. “Once again I was surprised to see that your father and stepmother decided not to grace us with their presence in church today.”
“Sarah overslept,” she said. “Surely you understand. It was quite late before she got to bed, after getting all the little ones settled down and to bed last night. The town social kept them up far past their usual bedtime.”
As always, Mayor Drake looked red and angry, like he was about to burst. “There is no acceptable excuse for missing services. I thought better of Miss Prince … Mrs. Shorter,” he snorted, “but obviously I was mistaken about her character. I will pray for her soul,” he added darkly.
“You don’t need to pray for Sarah,” little Faith piped up, her voice bright and innocent. “She prays all the time, even when she’s not in church.”
The mayor looked pleased to hear this, and nodded approvingly as some of the unnatural redness left his face. “I’m glad to hear it. Still—”
“I got up last night to get a drink of water,” Faith continued. “I think I swallowed some dust on the ride home last night, ‘cause I woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible dry throat. When I came downstairs, I heard Sarah in her room praying.”
“You did?” A strange look of puzzlement settled over the mayor’s florid face.
“Yes,” Faith said. “I heard her, clear as a bell. Oh my God! She sounded like she was praying real hard.”
Mayor Drake’s lips tightened and his eyes bulged. “I see. What else did you hear?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing,” Faith said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Just that one Oh, my God!” She gave the second rendition even more exuberance than she had the first.
Alice bit her lip, a little shocked but also a little pleased. Faith had no idea what she’d heard, but Mayor Drake obviously did. And Alice suspected she did, too.
