Angel in My Arms (16 page)

Celeste sighed. All this attention from Fox. His touch. This wasn't
how she wanted it to happen. She didn't want to seek a man's arms out
of desperation.

Still, she couldn't help but turn her face up to his.

He lowered his lips to hers. His first kiss was gentle. Almost
brotherly. But Celeste wanted more. She wanted to replace the sickness
in her heart with another emotion. She wanted passion.

"Fox," she whispered. "Please take me away from this." She pressed
her mouth to his in a kiss that was not sweet and soft, but hard and
searing. Her tears fell on their lips. "Just for a few minutes. Make me
forget," she moaned desperately. "Love me?"

"Ah, Celeste." He sounded as if he was in as much agony as she was.
His mouth descended hard against hers, forced her lips to part, and Fox
filled her mouth with his tongue. She clung to him and dragged her
fingernails down his broad back. Thoughts of Pearl, of John, even of
Denver, slipped from her grasp. All at once nothing mattered but this
man and the physical urgency she felt in her loins.

He tugged the ribbon from her hair and let it fall in a bright red curtain over them. "Celeste… Celeste…"

She buried her face in his chest. "Fox…"

He swept her into his arms, moving so quickly that Silver yelped and
sidestepped them. Fox turned on his heel, strode through the kitchen
and up the long staircase. Celeste held tightly to his neck and rested
her cheek on his chest to hear his heart pound as rapidly as her own.

This didn't make sense. She'd regret it later. She'd been his
father's whore. But at that moment Celeste didn't care. She wanted Fox,
needed him, and consequences be damned.

Fox halted at her bedroom door. "Did you ever… with my father here."

Her gaze met his. "No," she whispered. "Not here. Never in this house. He was too sick by then."

"Good." He kicked open the door and carried her to the bed. He set her down gently and kissed her mouth. "Out," he commanded.

The dog, who had followed them up the steps, hightailed it into the
hallway. Fox slammed the door shut, and unbuttoned his shirt as he
approached the bed.

Celeste lay on the edge of the bed, her head on the pillow, her
skirts around her knees. She watched him, the desire for her burning in
his dark eyes. She held out her arms to him. He kicked off his boots
and leaned over her.

She caught his shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. His
tongue was like velvet in her mouth. His weight felt good against her
breasts and the ache between her legs.

Fox rolled onto his side and cupped one breast through the cotton of
her gown and undergarments. She groaned with pleasure. This was the
first time in her life that a man had touched her breasts and it
actually felt good. It was an epiphany. So this was what sex was
supposed to be…

He fumbled with the tiny buttons at the bodice of her gown. She
nipped at his earlobe. He kissed the pulse of her throat. She stroked
his bare chest through the folds of his open denim shirt.

She breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating, musky scent of his
skin and his desire for her. It smelled so good. Another first.

He whispered her name in her ear as he found his way through the
obstacles of her dress, petticoat, and corset. She arched her back with
another moan of pleasure as flesh met flesh, and he brushed her
puckered nipple with the rough pad of his thumb.

Fox's businessman's hands had roughened in the last month. But
instead of being too harsh, they only added to the sensation of his
stroke. She gasped in wonder as his lips brushed her nipple.

"Fox," she groaned in disbelief. How many times had she committed this act and felt nothing? Nothing.

He nuzzled his face between the valley of her breasts, and then
opened his hot mouth over her nipple that swelled in anticipation.
Celeste threaded her fingers through his thick hair, in awe of the
sensations that rippled, no,
coursed
through her body. She
felt as if she was on a runaway train. It didn't matter that the train
would end in the bottom of a chasm. All that mattered was this moment
of sheer, unadulterated pleasure. For this moment, she was willing to
risk everything, even her soul. Instinctively, she parted her thighs as
Fox ran his hand up her stockinged leg, his fingers burning a trail of
molten pleasure as they drew closer to the source of her heat. He
tugged at the drawstring of her pantaloons, all the while showering her
face with sweet, tantalizing kisses.

His warm hand grazed her bare belly beneath the layers of clothing,
and she wished that she had undressed. She wanted to feel with every
inch of her flesh. Just once, she wanted to feel.

He lowered his hand to the apex of her thighs and she arched her
back and moaned. Even through the cotton of her pantaloons, she could
feel the heat of his hand.

She throbbed for him and instinctively lifted her hips to meet his rhythmic stroke. "Now," she told him. "Do it now."

He kissed her tenderly on the mouth, but did not cease the heavenly
stroking. "Not now," he whispered. "Just relax. Let me touch you. Let
yourself enjoy it."

"But—"

He silenced her with a kiss that left her breathless.

Celeste didn't understand. What was this touching for if not to lead up to the act? The thought was absurd. Intriguing…

Then, all thought slipped out of her head and Fox's insistent
stroking carried her higher and higher up the weaving path of some
remote mountain she had never climbed. She felt as if she was floating,
and yet there was still that burning desire, that ache that yearned to
be quenched.

Celeste rode the waves of pleasure, losing herself to Fox's touch,
his scent, the press of his body. Higher and higher until suddenly,
shockingly, she felt a surge of pleasure so intense she cried out. Fox
stilled his hand, but left it there, warm and wet between her legs.

Hot tears trickled down her face. She panted, her eyes squeezed
shut. Oddly, she was embarrassed, though it had been the most wonderful
thing she had ever experienced. Then she came to the disturbing
realization that Fox had not had his own pleasure, and that he had to
be lying here beside her still hard and swollen.

"It's all right," she said, trying to draw her skirt up and her pantaloons down. "I'm ready for you."

He laughed—but it was a teasing laugh—and pushed down her skirt. "There'll be plenty of time for that later."

She opened her eyes. "You mean you don't want to—" She made a
gesture with her hand, completely confused. What man climbed into bed
with a woman and didn't want to satisfy his own need to rut?

"I'd love to," he whispered, gently kissing her cheek. "But not now. Not like this."

She closed her eyes again. "You don't want to because of John. Because I…" Tears burned behind her eyelids.

"I don't want to right now because you're overwrought. I want you to
want me, Celeste, but not like this. Not when you're overcome with
grief."

She opened her eyes. "I'm really confused."

He smiled and brushed a luck of tumbling hair away from her face.
The shadows were long and dark in the room. Outside, rain fell
rhythmically on the windowpane. For the moment it seemed as if they
were alone together in the world.

"It's simple." His voice was warm and still husky with desire for
her, but comforting. "I want to make love with you, but I shouldn't
right now because it would be taking advantage of you."

She smiled. His words almost moved her to tears, not because he said
them, she'd learned long ago that a man would say anything, but because
she felt that he meant it. No man had ever treated her like anything
but a whore for many years. No man had ever cared how she felt, what
she felt. John had come close, but it wasn't the same. "I swear," she
choked, her voice thick with emotion, "I think that's the sweetest
thing that I've ever heard come out of a man's mouth. You even sound
sincere."

He gave her that boyish grin of his, sounding sleepy. "I am sincere."

Suddenly she felt tired, too tired to sort out the confusion of what
Fox had done, what he'd said. She had lain awake half the night
thinking about things, about Denver, about Fox. She closed her eyes,
content to feel his warm body next to hers. Before she knew what was
happening, she drifted off to sleep.

Fox woke sometime in the afternoon to find the bed beside him empty.
He touched the hollow in the down mattress where Celeste had been. She
was gone. The dark room was empty. Rain still pitter-pattered on the
window. He breathed deeply. He could smell Celeste in the room. Her
desire. It had taken all his will not to make love to her this morning.
If he got a second chance, he doubted he could resist her charms.

In a way he was relieved that she was gone. He didn't know what he
could say to her. He needed time to think. He stared at the ceiling and
wondered what the hell he thought he was doing. He'd almost blown it.
He had sworn not to become involved with another whore, another woman
like Amber, like—

He pushed that thought from his mind. No sense dragging up the past.
The present was what mattered, and he was backing himself into a hell
of a corner.

Celeste was a whore. Knowing that, he didn't understand how he could
feel tenderness for her. He didn't understand what it meant. Women like
that had no loyalties. They couldn't love, not really. And they
couldn't be trusted. It wasn't their fault. It was just the way they
were. He didn't know if being a whore made them that way, or if women
like that became whores. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he
needed to insulate himself.

The smartest thing he could do right now was to pack his meager bag
and go as far as the last five dollars he owned would take him. He
should leave that worthless land to Celeste. Hell, she deserved it more
than he did. Maybe she could sell it to some other gold-digging fool
and make a small profit.

But where would he go? And what if there really
was
gold
out there, as John had believed? The smartest thing Fox knew he could
do was bide his time. If he could just keep his emotions in check… his
father's gold claim was his best chance to get enough money to start
his vineyard. If he could just keep his distance from Celeste, at least
emotionally, he'd be all right. He threw back the coverlet and climbed
out of bed. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

Barefoot, Fox padded down the steps. The house felt empty.
"Celeste?" He was hoping to smell coffee brewing and maybe some soup
bubbling on that magical stove of hers. Now that he'd had a moment
alone he wanted to see her; he needed to see her. "Celeste?"

Silver met him at the kitchen door, whined, and thrust his head beneath Fox's hand. "Where is she, old boy?"

Silver whined again and looked up as if he could apologize for his mistress's actions.

"Celeste!" Fox's voice echoed hollowly off the ceiling and walls. He
checked the parlor and the bathroom, even the front and back porches.
She was nowhere to be seen. He went upstairs and checked the three
bedrooms, the dog following him from room to room.

"That's strange," he said as much to the dog as to himself. He stood in the doorway of her bedroom.

Something caught his eye. The door on her armoire was ajar. He lit a
gas wall light and opened the closet door. Something was obviously
missing. Clothing. He pulled open several drawers. She must have been
rifling through them fast. Lacy undergarments had been unfolded,
stockings tossed here and there. He sensed things were missing and felt
queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Didn't she understand that he
needed her?

He slammed the drawer shut. He couldn't deal with pity for himself,
but anger, now there was an emotion he knew well. "Son of a bitch," he
whispered, feeling his ire color his ears. "Guess she's run off to that
man in Denver again."