A Brand of Christmas Page 12

  Chapter 11

  Something was on her mind. Garrett knew it as well as he knew his own name, but she wouldn't open up. Wouldn't tell him about it. Wouldn't let him in.

  And he wanted to get in more than a hairless pup in a blizzard. The more she withdrew, the more edgy he became. Until it seemed to Garrett that nothing in his life had ever been as important to him as his new mission. Getting to Chelsea Brennan. Making her let him help her, to let him see what she was thinking, what she was feeling. To let him?.

  Ah, hell, he didn't know what.

  The stable was nothing more than soaking wet ashes and a few chunks of charred beams here and there. The horses were stuck in the corral for the night. Elliot was still complaining about his lungs hurting. Wes, Garrett suspected, was hurting a lot more than Elliot, but typically, he hadn't said a damned word to indicate it. Jessi was still shaky, jumping at shadows. He'd heard from Elliot that she'd been target shooting while he and Chelsea had been at the hospital. Target shooting, when they all knew damned good and well that Jessi could outshoot any of them. She didn't need to practice. He hated to see his tomboy sister all nerved up.

  He'd been nerved up, too. So much so that he had a call in to the Texas Rangers asking for background information, an address and anything else they had on Vincent de Lorean. They hadn't got back to him yet, but Garrett thought it wouldn't be much longer. The second he knew where he could find the bastard, he planned to pay him a visit. And not a pleasant one.

  Only Ethan seemed unaffected by it all. He played with the new set of soft-sided, brightly colored building blocks Wes had brought home from one of his trips into town. The kid loved the things. He especially seemed to like bopping ol' Blue on the head with them, not that Blue minded any. In fact, the old mutt actually batted one across the floor a second ago the way a playful puppy might do. Little Bubba had a way of making everyone feel younger, Garrett supposed.

  He glanced into the kitchen at Chelsea and swallowed hard. Yep. He knew he, for one, felt like an awkward twelve-year-old eyeing potential dance partners at his first boy-girl party.

  He girded his loins and stomped into the kitchen. He'd taken a lot of pains today while Chelsea had been lying upstairs in bed recuperating. Now, dammit, he was going to give this thing one last, all-out shot.

  "Chelsea?"

  She turned toward him with a head of lettuce in her hand, auburn brows lifted. She'd trimmed off the edges of her hair where it had burned a bit, so now it framed her face in a way it hadn't before. He liked it. She seemed softer, and maybe a little more approachable. Her eyes were not hostile when they met his, and he thought they might've come to some kind of a truce back there at the hospital.

  God, when he'd realized she might be trapped in that fire?when he'd seen her lying so still on the ground while those men worked on her?.

  His world had tilted. Looking into those deep green eyes, he felt that way again right now. Like looking way down into a pine-bordered lake. He could see himself in their reflection. He could see?.

  Good grief. He guessed he'd better get her alone before he made a damn fool of himself in front of everyone. They'd never let him hear the end of that. He took the lettuce from Chelsea and set it aside. Then he reached for her good hand, closed his around it and gave a gentle tug as he turned toward the door. "Come on. You and I are going out for dinner."

  "We are?"

  "Yep." He pulled her a few steps closer to the door.

  "Don't you think you might have asked me first?"

  "Nope."

  "Shouldn't I at least change my clothes?"

  He glanced down at the snug jeans and T-shirt she wore, smiled, then checked it so she wouldn't see what was in his eyes. Truth to tell, she looked a little bit too damned good. The jeans hugged and the T-shirt revealed and he wanted to touch her all over. But not if she was going to be cringing and getting all skittish with him. He wanted her to want his touch. He wanted her to?.

  He closed his eyes, drew a breath. "You're perfect, Chelsea. We're not going anywhere fancy."

  She shrugged. "If I said no?"

  "I'd stand outside your window and do my lonesome coyote impression until dawn."

  Her lips curved into the delicate smile he'd been getting all too used to seeing. And even though he was getting used to it, that slow, slight curve of her lips made his stomach turn cartwheels and his heart break into a gallop.

  "Then I guess we're going out," she said softly. "Though I might want to hear that lonesome coyote impression some other time."

  He grinned at her and pulled her to the door. Duke and Paint stood saddled and waiting.

  Chelsea frowned. "Where's Sugar?"

  "Burned her rump a little bit. Nothing too serious. Jessi tended her and she'll be fine. But a saddle would chafe."

  Chelsea stroked Paint's neck and moved around to the left side. Garrett helped her into the saddle.

  "Isn't this Wes's horse?"

  "Yup."

  "Won't he mind?"

  "He insisted. Said Paint was the most well-trained, intelligent animal on the place, and if you were riding at all, you ought to be riding him."

  "He said that?"

  Garrett nodded. "My brother pretends to be made of stone, Chelsea, but he isn't really. It's just tough to crack through that granite shell sometimes."

  "Wasn't very tough for Ethan, though."

  "No, Ethan got to him right off. We could all see it." Garrett checked the bulging saddlebags and then swung into the saddle.

  "What makes him like that? So?hot tempered and hard?"

  Garrett glanced sideways at her as the horses turned side by side and started across the lawn, not toward what used to be the stable this time, but around the house, behind it and across the back lawn, as well, toward the sparse clusters of little trees scattered here and there.

  "My brother spent two years in prison, Chelsea. That's enough to harden a man."

  She opened her mouth, closed it again and stared at him. "Wes?"

  "Yep. Some guys he was hanging with robbed a bar. Beat the hell out of the owner. Wes had left them before it happened, but he got blamed all the same."

  "You mean he was innocent?''

  "I'd stake my life on it."

  "But-"

  "I wasn't a sheriff then. The circumstantial evidence was stacked against him so high, I'm not sure I could've done anything even if I had been. Bought him the best lawyer in the state, for what it was worth. But he ended up being sentenced to five years hard time. We got him paroled after two, though. I'm not sure that would have happened, either, except one of the men on the parole board was a friend of my daddy's a hundred years ago."

  "That's awful." She turned in the saddle, looking back toward the house and shaking her head. There was real regret in her eyes. "Two years for nothing."

  "After Wes went up, I ran for sheriff. Figured if I couldn't beat the damn system, I might as well join it and try to change things from the inside. My brother?well, it's taken him a while to understand that. He was none too happy to come home and see me wearing a badge."

  "I can imagine. He must have thought you'd joined the enemy."

  Garrett nodded, studying her face. "You have a way of nailing things right down, Chelsea. That's exactly how he felt."

  She stared into his eyes, and he could see her feeling for him, as well as for his brother. She had a heart as big as all outdoors. Though she didn't even realize that. Odd the way she could feel for the pain of others, but couldn't let anyone else-couldn't let him-feel for her. Share her hurts.

  She did once, though. She did when she told him about the night her mamma died.

  "What about now?" she asked. "Does he understand now?"

  Garrett had to blink and focus hard before he came back to the subject at hand. "I think so. There's something?something lacking in Wes's soul." Garrett walked Duke up to a little tree and drew him to a halt. "I've raised him just like the others, but it wasn't enough somehow."

  He slid
from the saddle, pulled off the bridle and didn't bother picketing Duke. He wouldn't wander far. He removed the saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder.

  "But, Garrett, Wes isn't just like the others."

  "No?"

  She shook her head. "Elliot told me he's half-Comanche."

  Garrett nodded, not minding at all that Elliot had told Chelsea about it. "My father left us for a time. It was before Elliot and Jessi were born, and I was just a kid. Never did know the whole story until a good while later."

  He slipped his free arm around Chelsea's shoulders, moving a little bit away from the horses and into a shady spot as he spoke. Compelled for some reason to tell her everything about himself, about his family.

  "What was the whole story?" she asked in that deep, soft voice that sent chills up his nape.

  Garrett cleared his throat. "Her name was Stands Alone," he said, "and I wish to God I'd known her. She was one hell of a woman, Wes's mother."

  She frowned at him. "I'm surprised you'd feel that way about the woman your father had an affair with."

  Garrett shrugged. "She was orphaned as a child, married young and widowed a short time later. Hence the name. But she never knew my father was married. They had a brief affair, and she fell deeply in love with him. But she was a wise woman and she knew, somehow, that his heart belonged to someone else. When she called him on it, he told her the truth. Then she sat that man down and gave him hell. Told him she wanted nothing to do with a man who would betray a good woman who bore him sons. Lectured him on the value of a good man. On how honor and trust and fidelity were more precious than riches, and how a man's children should mean more to him than his own life. She made him feel about two inches tall and sent him home to us, telling him not to ever try to see her again. What she didn't tell him was that she was pregnant with his son."

  He looked into Chelsea's eyes, saw them wide and interested.

  "How did your father ever find out about Wes?"

  "He didn't," Garrett told her. "My mother did. Stands Alone changed my father. When he came back to us, he was the most devoted husband and father anyone could ask for. He felt bad for hurting our mother and did his damnedest to make up for it. Some years later, my mother heard talk of a young Comanche woman who'd died and left her son, Raven Eyes, alone."

  "Raven Eyes?" Chelsea said it softly, then nodded. "That fits him."

  "Mamma claimed she had a feeling, and to her dying day she swore that feeling was the spirit of Stands Alone, whispering to her. Whatever it was, she went to the Comanche village and asked around. Before long, she learned the truth-that Raven Eyes was my father's illegitimate son. She brought him home and treated him like one of her own, right from day one."

  "How old was he then?" Chelsea asked.

  "Seven."

  She nodded.

  "He seemed happy enough. But there's always been that shadow in his eyes. I just wish I knew what it was." He looked down at her, saw her gnawing her lower lip. "What? You're thinking something. I can see it. Go ahead. Tell me."

  Chelsea nodded. "He spent the first seven years of his life in an entirely different culture. Then, just like that, he's removed from it. If it were me, I'd feel as if I were missing half my identity. He doesn't even seem to acknowledge the Native American blood running in his veins, but he must know it's there. He must remember his life before, but he acts as if it never happened."

  Garrett moved closer to her, taking her waist in his hands, so she faced him. "You think that's what it is?"

  "A tree can't grow without roots, Garrett. Your brother only has half of them and a whole pile of anger to boot. I'd say that's it. He probably doesn't even know that's what's bothering him, but I'll bet if he were to spend some time getting in touch with his heritage, he'd realize what he's been lacking in a heartbeat."

  Garrett nodded, studying her pretty face and wise eyes. Pained still, but wise. "How can anyone be so smart about other people's demons, Chelsea, and so blind to their own?"

  Her smile died slowly, and she averted her face. "I'm not blind to them. I just?." She shook her head.

  "Just don't like looking at them."

  She nodded.

  "I want to make this better for you, Chelsea. I want to make it all go away so you can heal."

  "Why?"

  He lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against hers. "A broken heart can't be filled. It just keeps leaking. I want those cracks all patched up, Chelsea:"

  She looked down. But he kissed her anyway. He nudged her lips into parting, he tasted her mouth, he slipped his arms around her and held her tight. The way he'd wanted to all day.

  "I think I might be-"

  "Don't." She pulled free of him and turned back to her patient mount, pulling the bridle off the way Garrett had done with Duke. "Not yet, Garrett. I'm not ready."

  "Okay."

  She faced him, bridle dangling from one hand. "Okay? That's it?"

  "Yep."

  Her eyes were wary, then relaxed and maybe even just a little bit grateful.

  He slung an arm around her shoulders and walked her along a trail, leaving the horses to graze. "Come here. I want to show you something.''

  Chelsea walked along beside him, and he thought she seemed a little better since coming out here. Maybe this would help. "What are you going to show me?"

  "This." He led her around the last tree and waved an arm toward the huge pond that filled what was once just a small valley before Garrett and his brothers had diverted a tiny stream to fill it. The shore was grassy and level, and she took a deep breath, eyes glittering, lips curving.

  "It's beautiful."

  "Yeah, I thought so, too. Until I saw you."

  She blushed a pretty shade of pink, and Garrett felt his chest swell a little. Maybe he didn't need Jessi and her silly cards after all.

  "You know the other night, all that candlelight and wine and crystal and china?"

  She lifted her brows, nodded.

  Garrett cleared his throat. "Well, uh, none of that was me. I mean, it wasn't?.genuine. You know?"

  "I think so."

  He nodded toward the pond again. "This is me."

  Her eyes narrowed a little, but she nodded.

  Garrett let the saddlebags slide from his shoulder to the ground. He hunkered down, unfastened the straps and opened them up. Then he pulled out a folded gray-and-white checkered tablecloth, took it by the edges and gave it a shake.

  Smiling, Chelsea grabbed the opposite edges and helped him settle the cloth smoothly over the grass. Then she sat on it, curling her legs underneath her.

  Garrett allowed himself the pleasure of watching her sit, then dived back into the bags for the paper plates and plastic utensils. Then a big Tupperware bowl full of cold fried chicken and another one with leftover chili, and one with fresh tossed salad. A canteen filled with iced tea, and two plastic tumblers. Some pita bread, some cheese, and a saltshaker.

  By the time he finished, Chelsea was laughing very softly, and he slanted her a sideways glance. "What?"

  She shook her head. "Just wondering if you left anything at all in the fridge for the others."

  He grinned at her. "I only took as much as I could carry." He continued arranging the food on the blanket. Then sat back, surveyed it and nodded once. "See this spread?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "This is me. I'd a hundred times rather have a picnic under the sky than a fancy-schmancy candlelight dinner indoors."

  "Oh."

  Holding his plastic cup in one hand, he poured it full of iced tea with the other. Then he held the cup up. "See this?"

  She nodded. "Is that you, too?"

  "Uh-huh. Nothing comes close when the sun's been beating down for days on end. I don't even like wine. I wouldn't know a blush from a ros?, nor would I care to. Don't know which kind you'd have with chicken. Don't rightly give a damn, either. Give me a tall glass of good, sweet water, or some iced tea, or an ice-cold beer on occasion, and I'm a happy man."


  "I see."

  Garrett handed her the glass of tea and filled another for himself. He swallowed it in one gulp. Then he reached into one of the bags and pulled out a little portable radio. He flicked it on. Mellow country music came from the tiny speaker. Whining steel guitar, then some fiddle, and a plaintive voice that could break a heart.

  "Hear that?"

  She smiled. "Not really a Bryan Adams fan, are you?"

  Shaking his head, he frowned and said, "Well, actually, that song we were dancing to the other night began to grow on me. But this is what I'd have picked." He reached down and snapped the radio off. "Or maybe not. Cause this is the real music." She frowned. He held up a hand. "Shhh. Just listen."

  He knew she was doing what he told her. And he was glad. He watched her pick out the sounds one by one. The gentle grinding sound the horses made as they chewed grass. The lapping of the pond when the breeze pushed at it. The occasional banjo strum of a bullfrog. The birds. The rustling leaves. The horses, moving their hoofs against the grass. The whirring wings of a dragonfly. All of it.

  "You're right," she whispered. "This is the real music."

  He sat there, stared at her and was plunged into a depth of longing he'd never experienced in his life. Her eyes closed. Her head tilted as she listened, and the slight breeze wafted through her hair, like invisible fingers threading through it to feel its silkiness.

  It occurred to Garrett that she belonged here. Right here, right in this very spot. It was as if it had been created just for her. And she belonged in this family. She was good for them. She saw things he couldn't see, hadn't seen. And something else occurred to him, too. Something that made him feel like he was coming down with a bad stomach virus.

  Chelsea opened her eyes only to see Garrett looking a bit sickly. His face had gone unusually pale, and his eyes looked unfocused and distant, maybe a little shell-shocked.

  "Anything wrong?"

  "What? Uh, no, nothing's?I'm fine. Here, have some chicken before it gets cold." He pushed the bowl toward her.

  Chelsea grinned. "Garrett, it already is cold."

  "Oh. Yeah, right." He yanked out a drumstick, looked at it and grimaced.

  "Are you sick or something?" She felt a new worry creeping up on her. He really didn't look well, and she thought of all the smoke he'd inhaled and wondered if he might be having some delayed reaction to it.

  "Probably just a stomach bug," he said, and set the chicken down on his plate. He refilled his glass and took another swig of iced tea. "You go ahead. Don't want all this food to go to waste."

  Chelsea frowned at him, but helped herself to a bit of everything and ate. Garrett mostly shoved food around on his paper plate and watched her. He took a bite or two, but looked as if he were eating cardboard sandwiches filled with sand. Chelsea had witnessed this man's appetite firsthand. He did not pick at food. He inhaled it.

  She finished eating and started cleaning up. Garrett's hand covered hers, stopping her. "Let me get that."

  "No, it's okay. I don't mind." She went on with what she'd been doing. Garrett finally shrugged and joined in. When everything was packed away, she stood and stretched, gazing out at the pond again. She'd like to take a closer look, but if Garrett didn't feel well?.

  "Pull off your shoes, Chelsea. Put your feet in."

  "But you're sick."

  He waved a dismissive hand. "Go on. Coming out here and being with you is the best medicine for what ails me."

  She met his eyes, but he blinked and looked away. Chelsea shrugged and sat down, pulled off her shoes and socks and rolled up the legs of her jeans. Then she walked slowly toward the water's edge.

  She stuck one foot-the one that was no longer bandaged and sore-in the cool water, down onto the smooth pebbles at the bottom. Something slippery brushed her ankle and she jumped backward with a gasp.

  Garrett's booming laugh reached her just before he did. "Just a little fish, Chelsea. Don't tell me you're scared of a little fish. Didn't you ever swim in a pond before?"

  She slanted him a narrow-eyed glare. "No. Only pools where you can see all the way to the bottom." She glanced warily at the water again. "What else is in here?"

  He shrugged. "A few frogs. Maybe a mud turtle or two."

  "Turtles?" She took another step backward.

  "Nothing that will hurt you, Chelsea."

  She turned slowly, tilting her head. "You sure?"

  "Nothing's ever gonna hurt you. Not when you're with me."

  Only, she wasn't going to be with him much longer, was she? She bit her lower lip, let her chin drop down. He came closer, caught it and lifted it again. His brown eyes scanned her face. Chelsea stared up into them. Then at his lips. She wanted to kiss him more than she'd ever wanted anything. The knowledge surprised her. He'd kissed her, yes. He'd even asked permission to kiss her, and she'd given it. But for her to want to touch his mouth with hers badly enough to take the initiative was something entirely foreign to her. Hadn't she decided the touch of a man was something she could live without? Something she didn't need? She needed it now.

  And he knew. She could tell he knew. Because his eyes darkened as they plumbed the depths of hers. But he didn't move. Just stood there, waiting, the picture of patience and kindness and understanding. But with his eyes, he spoke to her, encouraged, invited, even dared. And without a word, he drew her closer. A force beyond understanding pulled at her, until she stood on tiptoe and lifted her face to his, then fitted her mouth to his and tasted his lips.

  They trembled so slightly she barely felt it. A faint ripple seemed to emanate from somewhere deep inside his big body and from his lips to hers, and then it echoed right to her soul. Her hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, and Garrett bowed over her, gathered her close and moaned deeply and softly as he kissed her. She parted her lips to him, and he touched her with his tongue, tentatively at first, then boldly, probing her mouth in tender strokes that sent fire searing down into her spine and weakened her knees.

  His lips slid over her mouth, skimming her cheek and jawline, then the hollows underneath. She shivered, letting her head fall backward to ease the way for his explorations. He kissed a path down the column of her throat, nuzzled the collar of her blouse out of the way, then tasted the skin over her collarbone and along the top of her shoulder. His hands pressed flat to her back, and he kissed the uppermost curve of her breasts and the spot in between them. Then he trailed hot, wet kisses up the front of her, not missing an inch of skin on the trip to her mouth. His hands slid upward, tangling in her hair. Chelsea ached with a burning need she'd never felt for any man. A need she'd vowed she never would feel.

  She kissed him back, not wanting this forbidden feeling to end. Not ever. When his mouth left hers again, she moved over his throat the way he had moved over hers. She felt every corded muscle under her lips. She tasted the salt of his skin. His pulse thudded wildly against her mouth, filling her and melding with her own rapid heartbeat until she couldn't distinguish one from the other. And she wasn't sure she wanted to.

  His hands rose to cup her head, and gently he pulled her away. He was breathing rapidly now, and all of his color had come back and then some.

  "Chelsea, if we don't stop-"

  "I don't want to stop," she blurted, surprised she'd said it so fast. But it was like that with Garrett. She could say anything to him and know he wouldn't laugh at her or use the knowledge against her. He wasn't that kind of man.

  "What do you want?"

  Her answer was to crush herself against his chest and lift her head in search of his lips once more. He didn't hesitate to answer her quest. As he kissed her, he slipped his arms underneath her and lifted her up. Still kissing her, holding her, cradling her in his strength, he took long strides, bending once to snatch up the checkered tablecloth, then continuing along the shore. When she felt the sun's absence from her heated flesh, she opened her eyes to see a small cluster of scraggly trees surrounding a blanket of grass. He let the tablecloth fall
and lowered her on top of it. He knelt beside her, bent over her and kissed her mouth some more. As if feeding on it, he drew on her tongue and lips as if they tasted sweeter than honey. A sweetness he craved. Hurriedly, he smoothed out the cloth before he lay down beside her, wrapped her in his arms and gently eased her off the hard ground until she lay only on his body.

  The sensation was intense. The rugged length of him beneath her. Her breasts crushed to his chest. His hands slipped up underneath her shirt, roughened palms sliding over the skin of her back, up to her shoulders to pull her closer. Hold her tighter. Lick more deeply into her mouth. Let her more deeply into his. Still, it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel his flesh. She wanted to be naked with him. She wanted him inside her.

  She braced herself up with one hand, tugged at the buttons of his shirt with the other. Her hurried movements made her clumsy. His big hand covered hers.

  "Easy. It's all right, beautiful Chelsea. We have all night."

  She met his blazing hot gaze, nodded once and tried again to free a button. His hand remained on top of hers, eyes locked with hers, as she released it and moved lower to the next and then the next. When the last button was freed, she pushed his shirt open, ran her hand over his muscled chest and felt the fine hairs there tickling her palm. She ran her fingertips over his nipple, and he clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth. A rush of desire surged through her at the way his face changed just by her touch. She wanted more of that, so she scratched gently at his nipple with her nails, and he closed his eyes, drew three quick, openmouthed breaths.

  It was good to do this to him. To make him gasp with pleasure. It was something she'd never dreamed of doing to a man. The thrill of it coursed through her like a drug, adding to her own arousal until she felt herself quivering like the reed of an instrument when its player's lips are over it. She moved her hand aside, lowered her head and kissed his chest. She flicked her tongue over his hard little nipple and scraped her teeth over it, too, while she used her hand to torture its mate.

  His chin pointed skyward, and he panted, his chest rising and falling under her. His arms stretched out to either side, and she knew he was letting her lead the way in this. Letting her do what she wanted. Letting her call the shots. Because he didn't want to push her or scare her or?.

  "Chelsea?dammit, Chelsea, you're killing me"

  But his words were only hoarse whispers.

  She sat up, staring down at him, feeling a power filling her. Feeling more alive, more utterly female than she ever had.

  He lifted his hands to her blouse, took hold of the top button, searched her eyes. "Can I?"

  Nodding, she sat still as he released every button. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed the blouse open then down her arms. Lowering his eyes to look at her, he stared at her unbound breasts with something like reverence in his eyes. His hands slid very slowly down the front of her. She didn't tell him to stop. The heels of his hands and then his palms slipped downward over her breasts, and her nipples stiffened and pressed against his hands. She understood then the cause of his rapid breathing because she could barely control her own. Closing her eyes, she fought to regain it. Warmth and a tingling sensation rose up from the core of her and seemed to pool where he touched her. He drew his fingers downward, closed them on her nipples, the slight pressure and movement causing her to gasp.

  He slid his hands around to her back and pulled her gently lower, and lower still, so that she was over him where he lay on the ground. She didn't resist. She could do this. She could let him guide her, let him have some of her, because she trusted him as she'd never trusted another man.

  When she'd bent so low his warm breath caressed her breasts, he lifted his head to kiss the very tips. One and then the other. The contact too brief and too light. But his head remained there, close to her, and he parted his lips and ran his tongue over one yearning nipple, pushing it this way and that for a moment, only to leave it wet and aching for more as he moved to the other. Only when she felt ready to cry in sweet anguish, did he finally capture one of those throbbing nubs in his mouth. He suckled her, very gently at first. Then with more pressure and still more. It felt good. It felt so, so good. Her hands caught his head to hold him there, and she fed him her breasts for a long time. When he lay back, they were wet from his mouth, and the soft breeze wafted over their sensitized peaks and he watched them lengthen as if reaching for him.

  Her mind began spinning because the longing wasn't just where he'd fed on her. It was everywhere. It was all through her body. And the epicenter was between her legs, where she felt hot and wet and empty. Straddling his body, she rubbed herself against him and felt his answering hardness bulging and pushing at her there.

  She slid down a little to look at him, swelling behind the jeans he wore. With hands that trembled and a heart that did likewise, she touched the shape of him. As he'd done before, he lay still, arms returning to that nonthreatening position, stretched out at his sides. He let her touch him. Let her run her fingers along the swollen length of him and finally stop at the button of his jeans. Chelsea freed it. And carefully she lowered the zipper. Parted the fly. Saw his shape and size and hardness even more clearly, outlined in white briefs.

  She took hold of the jeans at the waist and pushed downward. Garrett obligingly lifted his hips, but when he arched up that way she almost forgot what she'd been doing. She pushed the jeans down to his knees, then pulled away the white fabric and pushed that down, as well. She sat there, astride his magnificent thighs and looked at him. Smooth and dark and so aroused. She moved her fingers closer, touched, traced his length right to the tip, then over it and down the other side. He groaned, and she looked up at his face to see undisguised agony twisting his features. She used her nails, very lightly, on the tip of him, and he lifted his hips off the ground in supplication. She bent her head and kissed him there. That skin tasted different somehow. Musky and male. Erotic. She followed the path her fingers had taken, with her tongue this time, and he moved and twisted and clenched his hands into trembling fists at his sides. If it killed him, she knew he'd let her explore him and learn him until she was ready to take the next step. Whatever she asked of him, he'd do. Whatever she needed, he'd give to her. It was just the way he was.

  She cupped him underneath, massaging gently as she closed her lips around him in the most intimate kiss imaginable. And only then did he pull away from her lips, shaking his head when she looked up in question.

  "Give?me?a minute," he gasped. She nodded, amazed she could reduce this giant of a man to this. She sat still, waiting for him to compose himself. He opened his eyes, met hers, smiled at her. "Okay. All right. Is it my turn now?"

  A tiny ripple of nerves danced along her spine, but she nodded. She could give as well as take.

  He caught her waist in his hands and lifted her up onto her knees. Then he undid her jeans and pushed them down. Chelsea twisted her body to the side and took the jeans off for him. He kicked his off, too, his eyes never leaving hers. When she began to move toward him once more, he whispered, "Wait. The panties, too. I want to see you, Chelsea."

  Her throat had gone as dry as sandpaper. Not from fear-from sheer, gut-wrenching desire. She stood while he lay there watching, and she pushed her panties down and stepped out of them. Garrett blinked as if a sudden bright light had flashed in his eyes as he took in all of her from head to toe, utterly naked.

  "You're?you're?you're perfect, Chelsea."

  "I'm not-"

  "Shh. Don't argue, baby. I know perfect when I see it and you're it."

  She sat down, feeling too exposed standing while he burned her with his gaze.

  "Lie down on your back for me, Chelsea. Will you do that for me? The way I did for you?"

  She faced him, eyes widening.

  "Do you trust me, Chelsea?"

  She nodded. Slowly, she lay back on the ground with her thighs pressed tightly together.

  Garrett rose up on his knees, near her feet. "Let me look at you. Let
me kiss you, Chelsea. I want you to feel the way I was feeling a second ago. Let me give you that." His hands touched her inner thighs. "Open for me, sweet Chelsea."

  Shivering with passion and nerves and who knew what else, she spread her legs for him. Garrett's eyes focused on the center of her. Then he lowered his head and kissed her there. His hands moved to open her wide, making her feel utterly vulnerable. Part of her wanted to push him away and cover herself as he looked at her. But he'd remained still for her and she would do the same for him. She kept her hands to the ground on either side of her. And he kissed her again, this time touching places that made her shake and burn and cry. Again and again he pressed his mouth to her. Then his tongue stroked over her in a hot path of fire. He drank from the very depths of her like a man possessed. Craving more. Until she cried out for him to stop because she felt herself losing all control.

  So he stopped and he lifted his head. Her body ached for something she couldn't understand. It yearned and pleaded for fulfillment.

  He met her eyes. "I want to be inside you, Chelsea. I want it now. But only if you-"

  "Yes!"

  She reached for him, and he lowered himself onto her, nudging the tip of his arousal into her wet opening. She planted her feet and arched to receive him further. Garrett slid his hands under her buttocks, held her tight and tipped her up. Smoothly, gently, he sheathed himself completely inside her.

  She felt a momentary flare of pain. But Garrett moved slowly, pulling back until she quivered with need, only to plunge himself to the very hilt again. And then again. She found herself moving with him, arching to meet his every thrust, her hands clawing at his backside, clenching and kneading. He claimed her mouth. Took it, this time. She knew now he was beyond thinking about asking permission. His tongue filled her mouth as he drove her to some point beyond rational thought, her insides twisting tightly as he moved with her. And then she exploded around him, crying his name aloud without a thought to whoever might hear. He drove into her again and again until he went stiff all over, shuddering violently.

  Then his muscles uncoiled, and he lowered himself down, not on top of her, but beside her. He pulled her head down to his chest, and whispered something she didn't want to hear. So she pretended she'd imagined it, then climbed on top of him and started kissing him again.