Exposed Page 7

  Her smile faded, and maybe her throat was a little tight, too, because she swallowed hard.

  “I want us out of these clothes and up there,” he jerked his chin toward the bunk he’d used as a bed. “I want to feel your legs entwined with mine. I want to lie there and imagine how it would feel to sleep with you all wrapped up with me.” He stroked her cheek, ran his thumb along her lip, knowing this was probably way too intense, yet unable to stop. “I want to fall asleep with you in my arms. And I want to wake up next to you in the morning.” He brushed a kiss across her lips. “At least once.”

  She shifted enough to look into his eyes. Held his gaze for the longest time. Then moved out of his embrace . . . and slowly took the rest of her clothes off. He kicked free of his own clothes as she turned, placed her hands on the upper berth, intending to push herself up. He moved in behind her, tugged her hips back against his. Would he ever get enough of her?

  Leaning over her, he dropped kisses along the nape of her neck as he wrapped his arms fully around her waist, nestling himself between her legs. Her grip on the berth tightened as she pushed back into him, arched her neck to give him greater access.

  His pulse raced again, the blood pounding in his veins. It was almost like a sickness, the depth of need she stirred in him, so effortlessly. The clean line of her neck, the supple curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the soft roundness of her buttocks. He ached to capture them on film, so he could forever remember this moment, each perfect instant of her body meshing with his. And yet he already knew he wouldn’t need a tangible reminder. Not when so many images would be forever indelibly burned into his brain.

  She moaned softly as he slid one hand up to cup her breast, and slid the other down between her legs. He groaned as she moved against him, against his questing fingers. Her nipple grew hard and tight as he rolled it between his fingers. Her breathing grew ragged as he moved to the other breast, her moan deep and long as he slid first one finger inside her, then another.

  She pushed down, moaning, gasping . . . swearing.

  Smiling, he pushed himself between her thighs from behind, gently bit the ridge of her shoulder, then soothed it with his tongue. She started moving faster, clenching around his fingers. He shifted her so her back arched more fully, then slid his fingers forward, to play with her, so slippery and wet, then slid them back inside her. The moment he pushed them fully inside her, she came hard, spasming around him, crying out.

  He continued to stroke her, toy with her nipples. He bit her ear, licked her neck, and drove her up and over again. Dear God, he could lose himself completely in her. In her scent, her sound, her softness.

  Intoxication. Addiction. Obsession.

  She was trembling, her legs shaky, when he finally withdrew. Rather than turn her in his arms, he lifted her up onto the berth, and followed behind her. Saying nothing, he stretched out and pulled her to him. Legs and arms flowed together far too easily. But nothing about her, about them, surprised him any longer. He was deep in a sensual fog and he had no desire for the mists to clear, for reality to rear its often ugly head. She snuggled against him, her breathing slowing until she dozed on him. He stroked her hair, her back, the length of the arm she’d draped across his belly . . . and tried not to think about what would come next.

  Too many things were in turmoil in his life at the moment. Well, one thing, but it was a major one thing. This trip home. Had he so willingly leaped into this . . . whatever it was he was having with Del, as a way to avoid dealing with what lay ahead? Or, at least, forget about it for a while? Possibly. She’d certainly taken his mind off things. But he’d been under all kinds of stresses throughout his life, and he’d never once reacted by having spontaneous, mind-blowing sex with a woman he’d only just met.

  He shifted, looked down at the woman sleeping in his arms. She didn’t strike him as a woman who trusted easily, or probably often. Her background intrigued him. Hell, everything about her intrigued him. Would he have given her a second look had their paths crossed anywhere else? He had no way of knowing. He only knew that from the moment he’d stepped onto that tiny, snowy balcony, she’d had his complete attention.

  He brushed at the spiky ends of her hair. She wasn’t his type, if he had such a thing. She was a quixotic mix of hard and soft, both physically and emotionally. The women he spent his quiet time with were usually easier, less complicated. Less likely to snag at his heart? Probably. He moved around a lot. Women, clingy women, complicated that. He’d never consciously made the decision to stay unattached, but subconsciously? Yeah, he could see now where he might have kept things light, easy, simple, on purpose.

  So when, he wondered, had he stopped taking risks? His work challenged him. He was good at what he did, demanding of himself. He didn’t settle, but neither had he truly pushed himself lately. Professionally . . . or personally. Until today.

  His thoughts drifted to the call he’d gotten from Tag, telling him Taggart Sr. had succumbed to a heart attack. He hadn’t known what to feel about the news. He’d always thought he’d be indifferent to the bastard’s passing. Their lives hadn’t intertwined in over a decade, hadn’t impacted each other’s really in even longer than that. But the fact was, he was his father. The man who, for better and oftentimes worse, had raised him. Austin had always thought he’d become the man he was despite his father’s harsh hand and even harsher mouth. But perhaps he was who he was because of those things. It was an unsettling thought.

  He shoved it all aside. For now, he was tucked away on a snowbound train, with a naked woman sprawled across his chest. He had no idea how he was going to feel, walking into the house he’d been raised in, how it would be between him and his brothers, all together after so many years apart. So many memories. Most bad, but maybe some good. He stroked his hand down her spine and his lips curved a little as he smoothed his palm over the sweet fullness of her buttocks. Like Cindy Harper on that lake. That had been a good day.

  There would be other memories. When four boys grew up under one roof . . . there would be stories, plenty of them. He smiled, wishing he could be more cynical about the little spurt of hope that sprang to life inside him. The hope that he and his brothers could concentrate on those times. It wouldn’t be so simple. There was a will to be read. Ancestral property to be dealt with. Who would stay? Who would be responsible?

  No. He didn’t want to think about it. Much better to dwell on the more immediate concern. What to do about Del? Did he want this to be the perfect interlude? The one golden fantasy that he could resurrect at will, and likely would, repeatedly, in years to come? Or did he want to push it beyond this chance meeting? This chance blending of bodies . . . and souls. It was a little sappy, but that’s what he was feeling at the moment. Two souls, buffeted about by life, victorious either despite or because of their pasts . . . tossed into each other’s paths. Was it any surprise, then, the tempest their meeting had created?

  He shook his head, closed his eyes. Soul mates. He’d never believed in such a thing. But it was hard to deny the connection he felt to Del. A connection that had begun physically, but had already expanded beyond that. The . . . fear? Yes, fear, that he’d wake up and find it had all been a dream. Or worse, that she’d somehow slipped away from him before he could convince her to . . . what? E-mail him? Have intercontinental phone sex?

  He swore silently, not wanting to deal with things like logic and reason. Nothing about this was either of those things. And yet, the fact was she was rooted in New York. He wasn’t rooted anywhere. He thought about her revelation, that she wanted to travel. Be an artist. A writer. What if he offered to give her an opportunity to do those things, discover what might be? Both within herself... and between them? It might amount to nothing. They might be horrible together day-to-day. Or it might open a world for her in which he’d be no more than a steppingstone. It might lead to pain, heartache.

  Or, it could lead to something even more terrifying to contemplate. Something like happiness. Contentment. />
  Love. Commitment.

  He turned his face so that the tips of her hair tickled his cheek. Risk. It all came down to risk, to his willingness to chance it. “Well,” he murmured, “what the hell do I have to lose?” The idea of never seeing her again seemed a far worse, very immediate reality. He knew if he didn’t try, he would forever ask himself “what if?”

  He blew out a surprisingly shaky breath, shifted to his side and pulled her more fully into his arms. Her body was warm, pliant. And his, he couldn’t help but think. A man who had never had a possessive bone in his body. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need to wake her, demand to know if she felt that same sense of possession. Was she, even now, dreaming of what a life with him could be like?

  He tucked her head on his chest, amplifying the beat of his heart as it thumped against the pressure of her cheek. Would he wake up tomorrow and ask himself what in the hell he’d been thinking? Would she?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter Nine

  She woke to the sound of the train rumbling along the tracks. Judging by the dim gray light seeping through the windows, it was early morning. She’d slept all night. In Austin Morgan’s arms.

  She’d recognized the name. He wasn’t famous on the level of Bruce Webber or Helmut Newton, his name wouldn’t be recognized outside the industry. But inside it was a different story. He had quite a reputation as a photographer. As an eligible shark swimming in a pool of the world’s most beautiful fishes . . . well, surprisingly there was really no buzz about him in that regard. Which meant, of course, that most industry people probably had him pegged as being gay and still in the closet.

  She grinned against his chest. This man was definitely all hetero.

  “What’s funny?” he murmured, his voice drowsy and deep.

  She began to shift away and his arm immediately came up, his fingertips stroked the length of her spine, encouraging her to stay where she was.

  It was the proverbial morning after. Their glorious one-night stand over. The train was moving and in a few short hours, they’d go their separate ways. It would be awkward, possibly even painful. There was no reason to linger or draw things out. It would just make the inevitable more difficult.

  And yet it took no more than the gentle urging of his fingertips on her back to keep her staying right where she was. “I was just thinking that you’ve spoiled me for travel by train.”

  He chuckled, the sound rough and gravelly, then rolled to his side, pushing her to her back. Without so much as opening his eyes, he found her nipple, gently brushed his lips across first one, then the other, making her gasp and arch.

  How did he do that? The merest touch and her body came alive. She’d gone from drowsily sated to needy and achy in an instant. She nudged him away, not wanting to lose control again. It was time for good-byes, and her head was already cluttered enough with odd feelings and emotions. She needed to clear it out. Say the right things. Find some way to leave this. Leave him.

  Then his hand was sliding down her belly, and she was wet and writhing before his fingers found her, stroked her. So sure, so confident that she was ready for him, that she’d open for him. And damn if that didn’t turn her on, too.

  “Austin—”

  “Shh,” he whispered against her neck. “Let me. Please.”

  His quiet entreaty tugged at her. She closed her eyes, pushed her fingers through his hair, held him as he stroked her, built her up slowly, then took her effortlessly over the edge. She was still shuddering from the climax when he shifted his weight over hers, pushed the rigid length of himself, warm and velvety smooth, deep inside her with one slow thrust. They’d never done it like this. Traditional, man on top. After all they’d done to each other, with each other, this should have seemed generic, standard.

  Instead, the feel of him, on her, covering her while he took her, was somehow more primal, visceral. He pushed his fingers through her hair as he stroked her. Slowly, thoroughly. He nuzzled his face into her neck. Nothing frantic about this, or hurried. Just slow, deep thrusts, as he dropped soft kisses down the side of her neck.

  “Ah, Delilah,” he murmured.

  Instead of jerking her from the moment, it pulled her more deeply into it. It sounded right for the moment, right coming from him. Her nails dug into his back as she slid her legs up, circled his waist. They both gasped, then groaned together as he slid deeper. “The way you fit me,” he whispered, sounding awed. “So perfect.”

  She realized there were tears building behind her eyes, and it stymied her. The sound of her name, the way he’d said it, the way he filled her. This was no longer hot sex with a stranger.

  This was lovemaking . . . with Austin.

  Before she could decide how to feel about that, he began to thrust more deeply, more intently, as his body tensed and tightened. She realized, dimly, that he’d never come inside her. And she wanted that. Almost desperately. Why, she couldn’t say. It was like some elemental necessity. The thought of possessing him, some small part of him, had her tightening around him, lifting her hips, raking her nails down his back. He groaned and began to push harder, faster.

  Their breaths changed to hoarse, rapid pants as their gentle give and take took a turn for the primal. He held her tightly, his lips pressed against her temple as his body gathered up, tensed, rushed ahead. Then, even as he was growling at the beginning of his release, he turned her head, took her mouth in a fierce, almost branding kiss. And when he came inside her, the combination of his claiming every part of her body, so fully, so completely, drove her over the edge as well.

  Shuddering, he collapsed on top of her, his weight both unbearably heavy, and perfectly excessive. He shifted almost immediately, but drew her with him, wrapping himself around her, keeping her wrapped around him. His fingers were tangled in her hair, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. Neither said anything as seconds became minutes.

  She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to say anything that might ruin what had turned out to be a more powerful union than those they’d shared before. It had been more personal this time. More intimate. He’d made love to her. And it was going to make walking away from him that much more difficult.

  Her body vibrated with the feel of the train racing over the tracks. Her head was tucked beneath the crook of his chin. He stroked her hair, her back. She knew she had to get up, start putting distance, both physical and emotional, between them. Her emotions were all over the place and she needed to get out of here, get her head clear and back on straight. They led very different lives. Did she want to tangle herself up further with him? Was she up to seeing him whenever he happened to be in town? Could she be so casual about this, about him, for the long term?

  The way her heart leaped at the very idea of seeing him again was exactly why she knew she’d be fool to sign on for that kind of see-you-whenever relationship. She didn’t need to ride that emotional roller coaster. And neither did her heart.

  And yet . . . she couldn’t seem to find the strength to pull away from him quite yet. This felt too . . . right.

  She swore silently. At best they had a couple of hours more together. Time to let go of him and embrace reality, Delilah. But it was damn hard when the fantasy was so much more tangible and real to her at the moment.

  “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

  Her heart bumped up, and squeezed painfully. She’d forgotten. Completely. But he hadn’t. And somehow, that made it all the more sweet. Poignant.

  If only she could look at this—at him—as a really great Christmas present. A present that she’d unwrapped and enjoyed thoroughly. Sure beat the hell out of anything she’d ever received before. And yet, even as the intent formed, to say that very thing, with a droll tone, a little laugh, she stumbled. It would have been the perfect way to put this . . . whatever it was . . . back on track, situated where it belonged, squarely in the it’s-been-fun, consenting-adults category.

  Would have been.

  Instead
, she couldn’t help but think of every Christmas morning looming in the future. She’d long since relegated that day to something more in the way people thought of Memorial Day, or the Fourth of July. A vacation day. Now? That had all changed. Although, when she thought about it, there had been plenty of fireworks.

  He slid his fingers beneath her chin, tipped her head up so he could see her face. “I can feel you smiling.”

  She looked into his eyes, warm, drowsy, sated . . . and knew she was doomed. All those carefully honed defense mechanisms she’d ruthlessly developed were useless. She opened her mouth . . . and the truth came tumbling out. “I’ve never been a Christmas person.”

  His embrace tightened for a moment. “Actually, neither have I.”

  She thought about that, about what little he’d revealed about his background, then took a breath, and finished what she’d started to say, “Well, you changed all that.”

  His smile was immediate, dazzling. “Funny, I was thinking the exact same thing.” When she would have ducked her head, taken a moment to absorb the impact of his easy acceptance of what was happening between them, he nudged her chin so she kept looking at him. “I don’t want this to end when the train stops, Del.”

  “I don’t, either.” There. She’d said it. God help her.

  “But?” he asked. “It’s in your eyes,” he explained.

  “This . . . this is fantasy. Illusion. Two people, stranded on a train.”

  “It started that way.”

  “Maybe it’s fantastic because this is all it needs to be. We start trying to make it something else—”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Tarnish all my Christmas mornings to come on the chance that maybe there’ll be more Christmas mornings like this one.”

  She sighed, even as her pulse spiked. And her heart leaped. “I’m heading to New York, and you’re heading off around the world. So . . . what, we see each other when you’re in town? I don’t know that I’m capable of that.” With you, she added silently. Any other time, this might have been the perfect solution for her. A man who embraced his independence as tightly as she did hers, willing to hook up when it was convenient, but not intrude on the rest of her life.