Taboo (7 page)

If Cammie was thankful for one thing, it was for Grant remaining silent as the miles slipped by. The only sound was the slight stream of air whistling through the window she'd cracked open, mingling with the tape pulsing out a medley of sensual songs.

Why was it, she wondered, when they had listened to the same songs so often she'd lost count, the music had never had this effect on her before? Stirring her senses, making her acutely aware of the man who so artfully stroked her palm before bringing her hand to his lips without looking away from the road.

She didn't pull free. Lord help her for being weak in a way she'd never dreamed possible. Then again, she didn't return his caresses. She forced herself not to participate, only to allow, to take.

Didn't that make her less a conspirator? Not a victim, not by a long shot, but not a willing participant. At least that's what she told herself, trying to ease a small measure of the guilt for enjoying it so much. Enjoy? Now that was so huge an understatement, she couldn't even swallow it herself. She was greedy for it, soaking up the wonder, the sinful richness she could easily grow to crave.

All too soon the stolen moments of their uneasy peace purred to a halt as the tires contacted the worn bricks of her driveway. Grant cut the engine, and the motor's rumble ceased. So did the music, leaving only the sound of her own breathing, too loud and erratic.

She looked straight ahead, afraid to confront whatever she might see in his dark, somber, and newly compelling gaze. Then he placed her hand on his thigh and pressed.

Cammie swallowed hard. His jeans were smooth and faded and hugged his skin tight. She felt the heat of his body through the denim, and the well-honed muscle tauten in response to her touch.

"Why?"

His whisper filled up the small space while the simple question curled disconcertingly around and through her head.

"Why, what?" she asked.

"Why, after all this time? Why did it take you so long? And
why
now?"

"I don't know what you mean."

The futile lie sounded hollow, even to her. She was certain Grant heard it. Damn, why did they have to know each other so well? Their closeness was fast becoming more enemy than ally.

"You know exactly what I mean," he said. "Don't try playing games with me, Cammie. You know as well as I do what's going on. I want an answer. I want to know what happened to make the change."

What happened? Oh, nothing, brother dear. I just saw you naked, and like a peeping Tom I couldn't pry my eyes away, any more than I could stop an arousal I couldn't control, that left me so weak my legs were shaking.

She took one last forbidden taste of the feel of his thigh beneath her palm, then forced her hand away. She clasped her hands tight in her lap, not trusting her wayward need.

"I... Grant, I don't know. All I do know is we're playing with something dangerous, and we've got to quit before it goes any further."

He ignored her warning and clasped her shoulders, forcing her to face him. She made herself try to shrug him away. He merely increased the pressure of his grip.

"You're lying, Cammie. But whatever happened, you can keep it to yourself for now. I'll gladly take the results, whatever the cause."

"It's wrong, Grant. Try all you like to deny it, what we're doing is
wrong."

"Is it?" He lifted one hand to her neck, sliding it down the slender column with a feather-light touch, then stroking his thumb over the hollow where her pulse thrummed in a giveaway rush.

Cammie cursed herself for the immediacy of her response, for the wildness surging against her will.

"You shouldn't do that," she said.

"Yes, I should." He bent his head closer, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. He stopped scant inches away and whispered, "How can anything so good be wrong?"

She didn't have an answer. She couldn't even think. Her throat constricted and she tried to swallow past the thickness.

"Have I ever told you what it does to me whenever our eyes meet?" he murmured.

She managed a jerky shake of her head.

Grant moved his hand up her arm and into her hair, toying with the curls at her nape.

"No? Then did I ever tell you how I wish I could bury my face in your hair?"

"No," she whispered.

He slid his fingers back up her throat to trace her bottom lip with his thumb.

"I guess you have no idea then of how many times I've imagined tasting your mouth. Not only tasting. Kissing you like mad and driving you as crazy as I am for you. It's why I love to buy you ice cream, so I can watch you lick it down to the cone and pretend it's me on your tongue instead."

As he spoke in a low, soothing voice, she could feel her tongue moving against her teeth, as though it begged for the freedom to indulge in his fantasy. Her breasts felt fuller, heavy and straining. She tried to deny the moistness flowing in betrayal between her thighs, but the ache was too strong to ignore the throb, the pulse.

"Please..." she begged. Though for what she begged, she didn't know. Was it for his illicit touch? Or was it for him to stop the insanity of this sensual, silken web he spun before she lost her slender control? She was too close to weakening, that much she knew. Shouting down her instincts, she commanded her vocal chords to form the words, "Please, Grant. Stop now."

"If that's what you really want. I won't force you into anything you don't want, Cammie. But you are fighting yourself, not me. Like it or not, you
do
want me. And we both know it."

She didn't waste her breath trying to deny it, but looked away. Grant traced her lips once more, brushed a strand of hair away from her face, then moved back until he leaned against his door.

The absence of his touch told her even more than his skillful, persuasive strokes. It left her hungering and feeling strangely empty and alone.

"I'm sorry to upset you, Cammie. I hate to see you unhappy, and I hate even more being the cause. Talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling."

Her gaze darted to his and she saw a semblance of the old comfort he had always offered. But it wasn't the same. It was somehow more. And less.

"If I tell you what I'm feeling," she said, "doesn't that seem a bit like leaving the window open for the thief to sneak in?"

"You think I'm trying to take something away from what we've had in the past, don't you?"

"It's not the same with us Grant, and I—I hate that."

"You're right. It's not the same. But that doesn't mean we have to lose what we have. Just because we add to it, doesn't mean we have to take anything away."

Why did he always have to make such sense? she wondered. She'd never liked fighting with Grant because he had a way of making his point of view sound perfectly reasonable, no matter how off-base he was.

"I don't think it's that simple," she countered. "There's a price tag attached to everything in life. You never get something for free."

"True, but whatever the price might be, I'd pay it ten times over to have a life with you."

Frantically, she tried to deflect his quiet but firm, heartfelt words. They were words that could weaken her, their simplicity striking hard at her resolve.

"There's a problem, Grant, a very big problem that you're overlooking. It wouldn't just be your price or my price to pay. Innocent people who deserve better from us could end up hurt—badly hurt."

"That's possible. Then again, you could be underestimating Mom and Dad. There's only one way to find out, and even if the worst happened and they were hurt, what's the worse crime—them having to get over a blind spot in their principles and learning to live with a situation they can't condone, or us having a whole lifetime of regret and emptiness for turning our backs on the best thing either of us could ever have?"

"Don't you think you're taking a lot for granted? Just yesterday morning you were what you've always been, and tonight you're talking changes that can affect a lot of people for their whole lives. You're going too fast, Grant."

"Maybe. But then again, I've never been what you thought I was, and the changes I'm talking about have been on my mind a long time. I've thought these same questions through till I've turned them inside out."

"Well, I haven't."

"Then I think it's time that you did."

What comfort she'd sensed earlier was gone. Grant's eyes met hers in challenge, in demand. She shifted uneasily and glanced away. He always made sense, and maybe that was why she'd always sought his counsel. Only this was different and far riskier, the stakes so high it made her queasy.

She needed time. Even more, she needed distance. She couldn't trust her judgment with her senses and emotions in such turmoil. The smartest thing she could do would be to end this conversation before it went any further.

"I think I'd better go in. It's late."

"If you say so. But we're not through talking, Cammie. Sleep on it. Think about it. And while you're at it, think about
this."

Her breath caught sharply when in one smooth, lightning motion, he shifted her across the car and onto his lap. Her bottom was pressed against the strain of his groin, and she thought she might die of the urgency of her answering want. Before she could try to stanch her instincts, he wrapped strong arms around her, pulling her close, tucking her head into the crook of his neck while pressing her right breast against his chest.

It was the scent she had longed to inhale just this close, and she fought not to press her lips against his throat, not to thread her fingers through his hair and bring his mouth to hers. The best she could seem to do was nuzzle into his neck, keeping herself from giving in to an action she couldn't take back.

"Oh, Lord," he groaned. "It's killing me, Cammie. I've been dying by inches wanting you so much for so long; I can't ever remember not wanting you. Say you want me too."

"No," she whispered, trying desperately, futilely, to run from the truth.

He pushed his hips upward, against her. A sob of frustration caught in the back of her throat. She clutched at his shoulders as her body betrayed her and moved in counterpoint, seeking to soothe the unbearable ache.

She heard the vibration, felt it against her lips, as he moaned in response. His breath rushed hot against her hair as he worked his mouth into the thickness and brought a hand up to stroke the mass of curls.

Her scalp tingled while her heart hammered against his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart answering hers, and she pressed closer until they meshed, until she didn't know which was his and which was hers because they seemed to beat as one.

At first, the caress was so light, she didn't realize it was he causing the rise of her nipple, not until he increased the pressure to a rhythmic, insistent thrum.

Then he was freely stroking her breast until she thought she might go mad with the delicious pleasure. She didn't cry out from the near hurt of her straining nipples, but he was only making the throb between her thighs worse by moving against her, retreating, and arching up again. And she was grinding herself against him, because she couldn't help herself if her life depended upon it.

His hand stroked slow and deliberate over her knee, then up, up, between her thighs. Silently she cursed the jeans she wore for muting his already scalding touch. When she should have been closing tight her knees, she allowed her senses to revel in the spiraling sensation of his palm pressing over her mound, fingers curling into a possessive grip.

"Grant," she sobbed. "Grant."

"It's not enough. Sweet heaven, I've waited so long, it's just not enough."

Suddenly she felt him leave her and she wanted to weep for the loss, but then there was the press of his fingers releasing the button, and the hiss of her zipper as he rapidly slid it down.

What was she doing? she wondered frantically. What was she letting him do? Oh, Lord, Lord, she couldn't be letting this happen. But she was, she was someone else, someone she'd never been before, pleading for the crime, for the release, and not caring about tomorrow or who might be hurt in the process.

"No," she whimpered suddenly. "No, don't..."

"Yes. Oh, God,
yes
..."

And he did. He pushed past the lace of her panties, groaning as he touched the forbidden texture of her hidden curls. Then he slid his fingers between the folds of her flesh and the cloth of her pants.

Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth, and she cried out at the overwhelming sensation. If she died now, she knew it would be worth it just to embrace this taste of ecstasy at long last.

His fingers slid back and forth against her wetness, and she knew in that instant that if he breached the barrier, she would beg him to make love to her. She was mad with wanting him. Just as she had to be mad to allow what was happening, because she was so far gone, if they didn't stop now there would be no stopping.

"Cammie...
Cammie
... touch
me
..."

Outwardly, she was shivering. Internally, she was contracting and grasping only emptiness, and the one man who could fill her was a man she had no right to have. But how would he feel in her hand, inside her body? She ached for the knowledge.