Dangerous Temptation (29 page)

Realising he had to say something, he opened his eyes and met her startled gaze. "What are you planning to do?" he inquired huskily. "I thought you had an aversion to my nudity."

"No—I…"

She moved her head in a nervous, awkward gesture. She was staring down at him now, as if she'd never seen him before. Even as he made his protest, the tips of her fingers drifted over his pectoral muscles, snagging the fine covering of dark hair that arrowed down to his navel and beyond.

"You're so brown," she said at last, as if that was any excuse for what she was doing to him. Already his flesh was responsive to every move she made. Only the fear of rekindling the pain in his head prevented him from doing some-thing about it. "I don't remember you being this brown before."

His stomach contracted. Now was not the time for her to start worrying about his identity. "Does it matter?" he asked, praying she wouldn't pull away.

"I don't suppose so," she answered, lifting her eyes to his almost defensively. "As a matter of fact, I like it. I just don't remember—noticing before."

God, did she know what she was doing to him? As he gazed into those shimmering depths, he hardly knew. But, as if realising she was being provocative, she did something about it. Pulling her hands away, she imprisoned them between her thighs.

His bruised senses stirred, and consigning his swimming brain to the hell it had put him through, he reached for her. And perhaps because he wasn't standing this time, his body didn't let him down. Even though he linked his hands behind her head before reversing their positions and imprisoning her beneath him, he only felt a trace of the imbalance that had troubled him before.

Desire, pure and simple, displaced all other emotions. And for all Caitlin had been startled by his sudden reaction, he saw a similar feeling mirrored in her eyes. Her arms, so doubtful in the beginning, now linked around his neck, and her fingers twined into the tumbled darkness of his hair.

And, oh, Lord! she felt so good beneath him. He could feel every sweet curve and angle against his skin. Her breasts, confined by the ivory silk of her bodice pushed against his chest, and he couldn't wait to feel her, flesh to flesh.

All the fantasies he'd had about her while he was lying in the hospital bed were no wilder than the reality. She was every bit as responsive as he'd dreamed she'd be. Her waist, her hips, her legs—every inch of her enchanted him. He wanted to tear the dress aside and see all of her for himself.

But he had to be gentle. Something told him that if he rushed this—rushed her—he was in danger of destroying everything he had. His body ached, it was true, and he was forced to suffer a painful anticipation. But it would all be worth it in the end.

So he kissed her and caressed her, allowing his tongue to ravish her mouth in a fair imitation of what he hoped to do to another part of her anatomy. But he had to steel himself not to grind his hips against her. Even if he knew it was the only way to ease his throbbing sex.

Taking his life into his own hands, he rolled onto his side, but once again, his balance didn't let him down. Then, with unsteady fingers, he eased her skirt up to her hips and explored the tempting flesh that he'd exposed.

Her response was unexpected. He'd been half-afraid she might object that he was moving too fast, but instead, she wriggled closer and attempted to release the zip that ran down the back of her dress. With exquisite pleasure, he did it for her and eased the dress down to her waist, discovering to his delight that she wasn't wearing a bra.

He already knew her breasts were round and slightly tilted, but the nipples had never looked so swollen before. The areolas were dark and throbbing against his palms, and he couldn't wait to taste the eager buds.

He managed to contain himself until he'd disposed of the dress, however, and then he bent his head and rolled one glorious nipple against his tongue. She caught her breath as he did so, emitting little sounds of pleasure, and he wondered how much more he could stand before seeking his own release.

He withdrew long enough to tear off his shirt and jacket, his eyes tortured by the sight of her long, sexy legs. The briefs she was wearing were made of lace, and they left little to the imagination, and unable to prevent himself, he hooked an unsteady finger under the hem.

Her legs clenched around him, and then steadied, and he wasn't surprised to find that she was wet. As her trembling knees parted, he tugged the briefs away and replaced his searching finger with his tongue.

She went wild then, arching up against him, clutching his shoulders and saying, "Yes, yes, yes," in a strangled voice. If he hadn't known better, he'd have said she'd never had an orgasm before, and her urgency was almost more than he could take.

He knew if he didn't get out of his trousers soon, he'd go mad, and he released the zip and pushed them down his legs. His boots proved a temporary barrier, but at last he managed to kick them off, and his trousers joined his jacket on the floor.

And it was so good to ease himself between her legs, to feel his arousal pulsating against her thigh. It took every ounce of will-power not to finish what he'd started, but he had no intention of hurrying something so unique.

He didn't attempt to remove her garterless stockings. He liked the way they drew attention to her legs. Besides, there was no doubt that as her only attire, they were infinitely sexy, even if he didn't need that kind of stimulation right now.

Her skin was so soft, so smooth; creamy white where his was brown; a perfect foil for the darkness of his flesh. He liked the fine distinction; he liked to see his hands on her. And he couldn't believe he'd given her up for someone else.

His own needs were becoming uncontrollable, and gliding over her body, he abandoned any thought of delaying any longer. He'd reached the limit of his endurance, and there was no doubt that she was ready for him, as she clutched his shoulders and brought his mouth to hers.

Nudging her legs wider, he rubbed his thumb against the swollen nub, and once again she arched against his hand. Dear God, she was so responsive, he thought as he eased himself inside her, and he groaned as he felt himself enfolded in her flesh.

Her intake of breath was barely audible. For one awful moment, he thought he'd hurt her, but although she sighed, it was not a sound of pain. But she was so tight around him, tight and slick and hot. It was as if some superior being had designed them to form two halves of a perfect whole.

She had been made for him; they had been made for each other, a concept, he realised, he'd never considered before. Well, not in living memory, he conceded, aware that this all felt new to him. She hadn't been a virgin, it was true, but he felt sure he must have neglected her in the past.

The idea was inconceivable; he couldn't understand it. Unless he had been impotent with her. Was that why he'd sought a mistress, if indeed that accusation was true? Was that the secret Caitlin had been trying to hide?

But if that had been true, it was true no longer. Indeed, it was an effort to control his raging needs. It was only his determination to make this the most memorable night of her life that was forcing him to steel his hormones now.

Her trembling sob was his undoing. "Oh, Nathan," she breathed, winding her arms about his neck. "Love me— please."

He needed no second bidding. The blood was already pounding through his veins, pooling in that throbbing place between his legs. It was magic, he thought dizzily, his senses reeling pleasurably this time. In shedding all her inhibitions, she'd truly become his wife.

He began to move, slowly at first, not trusting his own intoxicated senses, but even that small withdrawal brought a remonstrance from her. "Don't go," she begged urgently, and he cupped her small buttocks and brought her fully to him. "I won't, I promise," he answered thickly, before burying himself deeper than before.

His passion flared ever stronger, and with it came an awareness of how much he loved this woman he was holding in his arms. What might have begun as a reaction to the limits she'd put upon him, as a need to exert his rights as her husband, had blossomed into a complete submersion of his soul.

He must have loved her before. Dear God, he'd married her, hadn't he? He refused to consider any other reason why he might have done such a thing. Even if it was implicit in Matthew Webster's attitude that there'd been more to it than a love match, he was convinced that the attraction between them must have been there from the beginning. Yet, this feeling felt new—this sense of falling
in love
completely. She was his wife, his
woman;
and he was determined that this time he'd make her happy, no matter what.

Her slim hands were clutching him now, digging into his shoulders, her nails raking his flesh, as she sought her own release. He loved the feel of her hands on him, he loved the feel of her all around him, and he loved being so deep inside her, he felt as if he were touching her soul.

He was certain no other woman had ever made him feel like this. For all he had no reason for trusting his instincts, he was convinced that the pleasure he was experiencing was a first. But how could that be, when their marriage wasn't new? Oh, God, he didn't want to think of that now.

He wanted to tell her how he felt. He wanted to share his charged emotions with her, and lifting his head, he looked into drowned indigo eyes. "I love you," he said simply.

"Whatever I've done in the past, you have to believe me. I may have hurt you before, but I'll never hurt you again."

Caitlin gazed at him tremulously. "Do—do you mean that?" she ventured, and he drew her hand down to where their bodies joined.

"Believe it," he said hoarsely. "This is our new beginning. And I'll never let you go again."

She cupped his face with her hands, and the touch of those soft fingers stroking the roughened skin of his jaw-line, brushing across his mouth, was more than he could stand.

"Oh, God," he groaned, feeling his body convulsing, and her choking cry sent him hurtling over the brink.

He was half-afraid he had climaxed too soon, but her shuddering body reassured him on that score. He could feel her own convulsions rippling through her muscles as his body spilled its bounty into her womb…

The awareness that she was crying came to him from a great distance.

He hadn't had a female cry over him in years—not since he was fourteen and he'd made out with Marcie Kenyon behind the courthouse. Of course, he'd known it hadn't been Marcie's first time, however much she'd tried to tell him it was. She'd been putting out for years, but he let her think that he believed her because it had suited him to do so. It had saved him having to admit it was his first time, as well.

But this was different. This wasn't Marcie's ugly sobbing. He wouldn't have known she was crying at all, if it wasn't for the dampness against his neck. Of course, he thought uneasily. He should have worn a rubber. Were those tremulous sighs an indication that she wasn't on the pill?

"Hey," he said, lifting his head, wondering if it was something more fundamental, and she gave a half-apologetic sniff.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's the matter with me. Except—except I never knew it could be so—so good." She offered him a half-tearful smile, and then hid behind the heel of the hand she scrubbed across her swollen eyelids. "Thank you," she said unsteadily. "Thank you, Nathan."

Nathan?

He blinked. Why the hell was she calling him Nathan? That wasn't his name. It was his brother's name, for God's sake! But how did she know that? Did she know Nathan, as well? He scowled. His name was Jake. Yes, that was it: Jake Connor. He was nothing like his brother—well, he hoped not anyway.

And yet…

His head was throbbing abominably, and through the haze of pain that was dulling his senses, he stared at the woman beside him with tormented eyes. He felt a surge of apprehension. She was familiar—yet not familiar. Goddammit, where was he? And more to the point, what had he done?

Forcing himself not to panic, he quickly glanced around him. He was on a bed, of course, but he had known that. But whose bed was it? He didn't recognise it. Nor the room around him—though he felt he should.

"Are you all right, Nathan?"

There she went again, calling him by his brother's name, her soft hands like silk against his jaw. Her body was still moulded to his; God, he was
still joined
to her. And if the way he was feeling was anything to go by, the sex had been good.

Oh, yes. He closed his eyes for a moment, as the images his thoughts evoked caused him to harden inside her. It had been good; better than good, it had been bloody fantastic. Hot and strong and exciting, and achingly sweet.

He opened his eyes and looked at her again. His lips parted to tell her she'd made a mistake, that whatever she'd thought, he wasn't Nathan, but that he'd be more than happy to continue to take his place. Despite the fact that her nose was red and those drop-dead blue eyes were still rimmed with tears, she was so beautiful. He thought so anyway. He'd always thought so. Ever since his brother had shown him her picture, right after the wedding.

Their wedding…

He swallowed.

He knew who she was.

She was Caitlin.

Caitlin
Wolfe
.

His brother's wife.