Maggy's Child, page 28
“I did it from memory, about six years ago,” he said softly, both hands linking around her waist. “That’s how I always think of you.”
Maggy stood stock-still for a moment longer, her hands moving of their own volition to rest over his, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare at the portrait.
Then she turned in Nick’s hold, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I love you,” she whispered fiercely and went up on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. He forestalled her, his hands flattening on either side of her face and holding it still for his inspection. For a long moment his eyes traveled over her, feature by feature, as if he would commit her face to memory for all time. Finally he met her gaze, and the expression in his eyes stopped her breath.
“You are so goddamn beautiful,” he said softly. Then his arms locked around her waist and back, holding her as if he never meant to let her go, and he kissed her, his lips and tongue alternately caressing and plundering her mouth. Maggy met his ravening hunger with her own desperate need, her arms wound about his neck, her head thrown back against his shoulder. Her knees were suddenly so weak that she was afraid they would no longer support her if he should let her go. Not that there was any danger of that. She could feel his passion building, could feel his hunger for her in the heat and hardness of his body against hers, in the greedy demands of his mouth. She answered that demand with abandon.
At last his mouth left hers to glide hotly across her cheek to her ear. Maggy gasped as he nipped the soft lobe.
“Witch,” he murmured huskily, his breath warm against the shell-like structure. “What kind of spell have you cast over me, to keep me wanting you like this over all these years?”
“The same spell you cast on me,” Maggy whispered, pressing her lips to the rough warmth of the underside of his jaw. “I think it’s called love.”
She leaned against him, letting him totally support her weight. One large hand cradled the back of her head as he tilted her so that his mouth could have easy access to the softness of her throat. Maggy closed her eyes as a stray sunbeam glinted in the silvery spiderwebs high overhead, barely conscious of anything but the feel of Nick’s hands and mouth and body on her flesh.
His mouth was tracing its way down her neck, nibbling and sucking and licking at the soft column. Finally he reached the warm hollow; his mouth rested there for a moment as if he would count her frenzied pulse. She could feel the hardness of his jaw, the rasp of his unshaven chin, the moist heat of his open mouth as he nuzzled at her throat. Then one hand cupped her breast.
The nipple hardened instantly, butting into his palm through the layers of her sweatshirt and bra. Maggy felt the hardening as an exquisite little pleasure-pain that made her catch her breath. Nick took that importunate bud between his thumb and forefinger, gently pinching it. To Maggy’s surprise, the pleasure was so intense that her knees buckled.
Nick went down with her, down onto the hard, hay-strewn floor, half beside her, half on top of her. He kissed her, his hand sliding over the front of her sweatshirt to the hem, then retracing its route against her soft skin. When he discovered her bra, his fingers lightly traced the delicate lace pattern across both breasts before sliding beneath her to fumble at her back. After a few minutes, he lifted his mouth from hers. Maggy’s eyes fluttered open to discover the reason for the interruption and found that he was looking down at her with a rueful half smile.
“How the devil does this thing come off?” he asked, giving the elasticized back of her bra a tug.
Maggy sat up, caught the bottom of her sweatshirt, and pulled it over her head. Then with fingers that were not quite steady she gripped the tiny plastic buckle between her breasts and pressed the release catch.
“Like this,” she whispered as the fastening separated. Lifting the cups away from her breasts, she shrugged out of the straps and dropped the bra to one side.
“You take my breath away,” he said. Maggy felt her insides twist as his gaze feasted on the creamy, strawberry-tipped bounty of her breasts. Nick’s eyes darkened, the lids drooping slumberously, as he stared. Dark color washed up to stain his cheekbones. His lips parted as his breath rasped between them. His body was motionless, his muscles taut as a bowstring.
Maggy, watching these signs of his arousal with a growing excitement of her own, felt violent tremors snake out over her skin.
He leaned closer. Maggy’s breath stopped as he placed his open mouth against her left breast. The heat and wetness of it was shocking, thrilling. It made her melt inside. She looked down at that wavy black head, at the short, thick fans of his lashes as they rested against the bronze of his cheeks, at the black stubble that was already starting to darken his jaw though it couldn’t be long past noon and he had shaved that morning, at the hard masculine mouth attached to the creamy whiteness of her breast. And she moaned aloud.
Without ever removing his mouth from her breast, he glanced up at her face, and his hands closed over her upper arms to slowly ease her down so that she was lying on her back in the prickly hay.
Maggy’s eyes closed helplessly; as she felt him sliding her pants and panties down her legs, she writhed in abject surrender. She wanted him with a fierceness that shocked her.
Once he had her naked, his mouth returned to torment her defenseless nipples; she gasped as his hand stroked down her flesh to delve into her trembling navel with one hard finger, then continued on across the silky flesh of her stomach to cover the triangle of curls between her thighs. Writhing as he touched her, she pushed upward against his warm palm, desperate to end his torture.
“Sweet God in heaven.” It was a ragged mutter, accompanied by the complete withdrawal of his hands and mouth. Maggy whimpered a protest, and her lids fluttered up. She discovered that he was standing now, towering above her, his eyes a glittering green as they roamed over her.
As if she were looking down at herself through his eyes, Maggy knew what he must see: a slim, pale-skinned girl, bruised but lovely, utterly naked, the soft white mounds of her breasts topped with rosy peaks already hardened to succulence by his mouth, the gentle curve of her abdomen punctuated by a triangle of auburn curls that wept for him, slim thighs parting in restless longing, pink-tipped nails digging into the bed of prickly hay on which she lay, waiting with shameless eagerness for him to return to her. Her long auburn hair formed a tangled fan around her head. The rich darkness of it contrasted starkly with the warm gold of the hay. Her eyes were a deep, smoldering brown, half closed and slanted like an odalisque’s as they watched him; a tawny-pink blush had crept high into her cheekbones, the only sign of modesty remaining to her; her mouth was soft and swollen from his kisses, as temptingly red as the lushest rose.
He started stripping, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that were less than steady. Maggy watched as he shrugged out of it, letting it fall uncaringly to the floor. Her eyes slid avidly along his broad, bronzed shoulders to where they joined his strong neck, then moved down over his muscled, hair-matted chest. His hands were at his belt, unfastening it, letting it dangle open while he first unbuttoned, then unzipped his jeans. Then he paused for a moment, hands resting negligently on his hips, a slow smile teasing his lips as he took in the fascinated expression on her face.
“Want me to stop?” he asked huskily. Maggy shook her head shamelessly, and something dark and dangerous flared to life in his eyes.
He had to sit down to pull off his boots; he slid out of his jeans and briefs with a single swift movement. Then he was naked, crawling toward her, straddling her waiting body while remaining on his hands and knees.
“Now you’re mine,” he told her, and the combination of the exultant look in his eyes and the hugeness of his erection made her throat go dry.
His hands gripped her thighs, parting them, and his knees slid between hers. She felt the rasp of his hard, hairy thighs against the softness of her own, felt his turgid flesh burning against the throbbing entrance to her body, and gasped. She reached for him, meaning to guide him into the place where she most needed him to be, but he was already upon her, his big body crushing her into the hard wood beneath the hay as his hands found her breasts and his mouth captured one quivering nipple.
“Now, Nick, please, now,” she moaned, her arms clutching his shoulders and her legs twining around his hips in a shameless effort to force the possession she craved.
As if her plea tore the lid off the iron control he’d been exercising over himself, he thrust into her urgently, his hardness impaling her soft flesh. She gasped and moaned, crying out his name. Her fingers burrowed desperately into the thick curls that clustered at his nape.
His arms clamped her to him with a fierce strength that would have frightened her if she had been able to focus on anything but her body’s desperate need. His groans mingled with her soft cries as he took her with him to the edge of ecstasy and beyond. Maggy’s nails dug into the hard flesh of his back; her body moved with his in a driving dance of passion.
“Yes, oh, yes!” she sobbed when at last he was coming into her with the force and speed of a jackhammer. He groaned an answer, his hands closing over her hipbones as he gave one last, mighty thrust. He buried his face in the sweet-smelling softness of her hair, his body shuddering and throbbing as it spewed its seed deep inside her. Maggy surged against him, holding him tightly, moaning.
Then, with a wonderful melting sensation more pleasurable than anything she had ever known, she found her own release.
Later, a long time later, her equanimity for the most part restored, Maggy tugged the black sweatshirt over her head and, fully dressed again, turned severe eyes on Nick. He was stretched out on his back, naked as the day he was born, on a pile of hay that he described as soft and she insisted was prickly. They had each had a chance to experience what it felt like against their naked backsides, though as Maggy pointed out, he had not had a two-hundred-pound man atop him when he did so.
“We still didn’t use birth control,” she wailed.
Nick chewed reflectively on the straw that protruded from his mouth. “I bought some rubbers this morning, but they’re in the house. How was I supposed to guess you’d attack me in the barn?”
His eyes slid to her face to see how she would take that, and as she scowled at him he grinned devilishly at her. Recognizing when she was being teased, Maggy refused to give him the satisfaction of snapping at his bait.
“Get dressed,” she said. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m too tired to move,” he answered placidly. “You plumb tuckered me out.”
Maggy made a face at him and snatched the straw from his mouth.
“Get dressed,” she said again, poking him in the ribs with the pointy-ended straw. When he grabbed at her hand she jumped up, laughing, and retreated toward the ladder.
“Hang on, I’m coming.” He got to his feet with a groan and reached for his clothes.
Obediently halting, Maggy watched with unabashed appreciation as he pulled them on piece by piece. He was even sexier naked than he was dressed, she thought, observing the flexing of those broad shoulders and the rippling of the muscles in his sculptured chest and corded arms as he stepped into his briefs. The classic vee of his torso was pure pinup boy. So was the thick, wedge-shaped mat of black hair that covered his chest. Buffy had described him as looking like a divinely sexy thug, Maggy remembered with an inward grin. Eyeing the tough pugilist’s face atop the gorgeous linebacker’s body, Maggy decided that the description was nothing if not apt.
She watched with appreciation as he zipped up his jeans. His narrow-hipped, long-legged frame was made for jeans. And his flannel shirt didn’t look half bad on him, either, Maggy decided with a curling grin as he shrugged into it, buttoned it up, and stuffed the tail into his waistband.
In a word, naked or dressed, he was a hunk.
She told him so with a provocative grin just as he was stomping into his boots. Clearly not appreciating the compliment, he grimaced, snatched up a handful of hay, and started purposefully toward her. Maggy shrieked, whirled, and darted for the ladder.
Only to stop short at what awaited them below.
The cows were massed in the barn, milling about with much swishing of tails and stomping of feet. A particularly large one was right at the base of the ladder. As Maggy looked down at the animal, it raised its massive head, met her eyes, and mooed. A clump of hay, dislodged by Maggy’s foot, plummeted downward. The cow opened her enormous mouth at the strategic last second and scooped the hay out of the air in mid-fall. Golden strands thrust out from both sides of the velvety black snout as the beast began, very loudly, to munch.
Maggy recoiled.
“What the devil …?” Seeing her reaction, Nick stepped past her, glanced down, and stepped back. From his expression, it was clear that her action needed no further explanation.
“Now what?” Maggy asked.
“Got me.” Nick shrugged. He caught her hand, gave a tug, and pulled her into his arms. “I guess we spend the rest of the day up here making whoopee.”
The look Maggy shot him would have put a less self-satisfied individual firmly in his place. Nick merely grinned at her, and when she shoved at his shoulders, let her go.
“I’m hungry,” she complained. “Go shoo them away or something.”
“They’re bigger than me. And I think one of them is a bull.”
“Nick …” Maggy eyed him warningly. She knew when she was being teased.
“I’ll get you out of here on one condition: first you have to promise to marry me.”
Maggy’s breathing stopped. Nick stood not two feet away, one shoulder propped against a roughhewn beam, his arms folded over his chest, his booted feet crossed at the ankle. A slight smile curled around his mouth, and his eyes gleamed at her as he awaited her answer.
“Are you proposing?” she asked, striving for composure though she suddenly felt shattered.
“Sounds like it.”
“Do you know, in all the years we’ve been together, this is the first time you’ve ever actually asked me to marry you?”
“Before, I thought it was understood between us. Apparently I was wrong. I’m not taking any chances this time. So what do you say?” A faint tension overlay the studied calm of his posture. Maggy sensed it, because she knew him so well and because she was feeling a great deal of tension of her own. She wrapped her arms around herself, and gave an unhappy little laugh.
“Nick. Oh, Nick, my heart says yes.”
“Your heart says yes?” he repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow at her. “Where does that leave the rest of you?”
“The rest of me says whether I like it or not I’m already married.”
“I’m not asking you to become a bigamist, Magdalena. I’m asking you to divorce Lyle Forrest and marry me.”
There they were, back to the central question she had evaded, both in her own mind and with him, since he had carried her out of Windermere. She was so happy with Nick. They were right for each other. And she loved him, more than anything or anyone else on earth—except David.
At the thought of her son, her heart gave her an especially bitter pang.
She was going to have to tell Nick about David. The prospect was starting to terrify her. Not physically, as Lyle terrified her, but in the deepest reaches of her heart. The question that plagued her was, would Nick still love her when he knew the whole, awful truth about what she had done? She didn’t think she could bear it if she lost Nick’s love.
Any more than she could bear it if she lost David.
But she didn’t have to tell Nick the truth yet. Not yet. This brief time away from harsh reality had been granted her, perhaps even by a penitent Saint Jude, who must be aware, by now, of how he had screwed up all those years ago. It was hers to use as she would. She still had two weeks, maybe even a little longer, of blissful happiness left. She would be a fool to spoil it sooner than was absolutely necessary.
She would face the music when she had to, and not one second before. After twelve years of misery, was such a brief respite too much to ask of life?
So Maggy smiled at Nick, rather tremulously but still a smile, and answered, “The question’s about twelve years late, but the answer’s yes.”
His eyes narrowed. He straightened away from the beam and was in front of her in two lithe strides. His hand came up to cup her chin, tilting her face up to his. He studied her face with sober attention, as if he could see through her flesh and blood and bone to the thoughts inside. The notion scared her. But she did not shrink away, did not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash reveal her inner turmoil. Instead, hoping to distract him, she caught both sides of his flannel collar to pull his face down to hers.
“I’ll marry you as soon as I’m free,” she promised, going up on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to his hard mouth. It was not a lie, she consoled herself. She meant every word. She would marry him—with great joy—when she was free, and if he still wanted her.
She would not allow herself to consider that both the when and the if were very big qualifying words.
He kissed her thoroughly, then let her go.
“I suppose you realize this means you’ll have to get rid of the rock,” he said.
For a moment Maggy was bewildered. Then she followed his gaze, which was fastened on her hand. The huge diamond that was Lyle’s mark of possession glittered even in the muted daylight of the loft. She was so accustomed to its presence that she had forgotten it was there.
“We could always pawn it,” she offered with a mischievous glimmer. In the old days pawning things had been a way of life. Usually, but not always, they’d managed to retrieve the hostaged item before it was irretrievably lost.
Nick grinned but shook his head. “Not permanent enough. You might change your mind.”
“Oh, you want something permanent?” An idea began to take shape in Maggy’s mind. “I’ll show you something permanent.”
