Page 101 of Whispers

With a groan, he discovered she wore no bra, and his hands moved forward to caress both her breasts as his legs wound through hers and they were lying together on the bedroll. She felt the hardness straining against his fly, the pressure of his erection against the V of her legs through denim and cotton.

Lifting the sweatshirt over her head, he stared at her breasts and then moved his gaze upward, his eyes dark with desire, a muscle jumping near his temple.

“You’re more beautiful than . . . than . . .” He pulled her breasts together and rubbed her nipples with his thumbs. Passion glided through her blood. Hot. Wild. Uncaring. She moaned as he kissed her on the lips, then moved downward, his tongue circling the hollow of her throat and the tight skin over her sternum before finding one of her breasts and nipping gently.

“Kane,” she cried, bucking upward, and his hands cupped her buttocks, fingers hard and eager. “Kane . . .”

The trees overhead began to spin and damp heat swirled in counterpoint deep in her most feminine of places. His beard was rough, his tongue wet, his hands firm. Fingers dug into the muscles of her rear as he straddled her, his erection solid beneath his jeans, the ache between her legs pulsing with want.

This is wrong! You don’t love him. You don’t even know him. Think, Claire, he’s using you! a voice deep in the back of her mind screamed, but she didn’t care. Wouldn’t listen. Swept on a current of passion, she reached up and skimmed his jacket from his shoulders, then worked at his T-shirt.

He yanked the worn cotton over his head, and, as the sunlight blazed over the eastern ridge of mountains, she watched the sinewy muscles of his chest flex as she touched him. “You’re playin’ with fire, darlin’,” he warned, but she didn’t stop and watched in fascination as he trembled when the tip of her fingertip caressed his flat nipple. “Claire . . . don’t stop . . . I can’t—” His voice was rough. “Do you know what you do to me?”

“What?”

“Everything,” he admitted, and found the waistband of her jeans. With one quick jerk the waistband and buttons of her fly opened in a series of sharp pops. Practiced hands skimmed the denim over her hips.

“Claire,” he said, kissing her abdomen, his warm moist breath circling her navel. “Claire . . . tell me . . . if this isn’t what you want.”

“I want you.”

“You’ll regret it later.”

“No—” Was he going to reject her? “I need you.”

His groan was as primal as the forest. “Are you sure?”

“Yes . . . oh, God, yes.”

Urgent fingers delved inside her panties, pushing aside the soft cotton to touch her intimately, to probe that dark, feminine region now dewy with need.

She whispered his name over and over again as he lowered himself, sliding the underpants down her legs, kissing her thighs, licking her knees, opening her legs so slowly that she thought she would die with the want of him.

His breath fanned her curls and desire like a wisp of smoke curled deep inside her. Raw female need, a fire out of control, burned through her blood, and sweat drenched her body.

“Please,” she cried, as he touched her gently at first, then opening her like a special gift and kissing

her so intimately tears burned behind her eyes.

“I’ve wanted you forever,” he vowed, the words muffled by the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks below and her own thudding heart.

He kicked off his jeans as he caressed her and she writhed, wanting more, needing all of him. Eagerly she lifted her hips from the ground. “Kane . . . I . . . oh . . . Oooooh . . .” He placed her knees on his shoulders and delved more deeply. The earth cracked—the trees overhead careened—her soul was flung to the heavens, and she shuddered against him as she convulsed.

“That’s a girl,” he whispered, his face taunt with slipping self-control. “Lose yourself.” And she did. As if she were riding a spirited rodeo bronco, she gasped and twisted while he pleasured her with his hands and tongue. When at last she was panting, her naked body soaked in sweat, he slid upward and spread her legs with his knees.

“Wh-what do you want?” she asked, gasping.

“Just you, Claire. That’s all I’ve always wanted.” And he took her. With a strong thrust and a primal cry, he drove deep between her legs, and though she was certain she was spent, her heart quickened, her breasts filled, and she moved with him easily, catching his rhythm, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his hips.

“Claire, Claire, Claire—” he cried, as he stared down at her and stiffened.

Her body clenched around him, and she was certain heaven and earth collided as their bodies joined, and he spilled himself into her. “Love me,” he whispered, collapsing against her and crushing her breasts with his weight. “Just love me today.”

“Because you’ll be gone by tonight.”

He didn’t answer, just rolled onto his back, so that she was above him as he buried his face between her breasts.

She stayed with him until nearly noon, making love beneath the sun, whispering together in the sacred forest, forgetting the pain of Harley’s death and knowing with an aching certainty that as the sun set this evening, they would never see each other again.