Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy. Lisa Jackson
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through hers. Still watching her, he tugged gently, silently insisting that she get closer to him. She knew she shouldn’t. That she should resist. He was too dangerous. Too sexy. And yet her legs moved willingly to the edge of the couch and she didn’t stop him from pulling her closer, so that she was sitting, half lying with him.
As she lowered herself, his hands moved, surrounding her waist, drawing her closer. He stared up at her with the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes and the throb of his pulse visible in his throat.
One hand held the back of her neck, dragging her head forward until his lips were only inches from hers, his breath mingling with her own. She felt poised on the brink of an emotional river that promised to change her life forever. Not really understanding what was expected of her, and yet wanting to find out, she felt herself let go and dive into the current as his lips brushed gently over hers.
Her heart stopped and the noises of the night—the steady patter of rain, the tick of the clock, the hiss of the fire—faded into some dreamy corner of her mind. The kiss was slow and sensual, and though only their lips touched, the feeling seemed to reach every point in her body.
She felt his breath mingle with hers as his hands twined in her hair. Low and husky, his voice whispered a soft groan and she responded in kind. He drew her closer still until her breasts were flat against his bare chest and his tongue insistently prodded her teeth apart.
Willingly she accepted him. Never had she wanted to be kissed so thoroughly, never had she felt such passion. Eager to learn, quivering as his fingers brushed the bare skin at her throat, she kissed him with the same hunger she felt shudder through him.
“This is dangerous,” he said, but didn’t release her.
“I know.” She licked her tingling lips nervously, and he groaned again.
“I think we should stop.”
“I do, too,” she replied, but didn’t mean the words. Thoughts of pregnancy skittered through her mind, but were quickly forgotten when his fingers lowered, through the long strands of her hair to her back and he gently eased her forward until he could bury his face between her breasts. Her ripped blouse gave him easy entrance, and his breath was warm and wet against her skin.
She felt on fire and instinctively she arched closer, quivering when his tongue touched her flesh, wanting more of this delicious torture. An ache, deep and hot, burned between her legs as his lips slid downward, opening the flaps that had been her blouse and touching the lace of her bra.
His tongue delved beneath the sculpted edge and her nipple puckered in expectation. “You’re beautiful, so, so beautiful,” he said, shoving her blouse open and lowering the one silky strap.
Rachelle kissed the top of his head, wanting so much more.
She trembled as the strap was pulled over her arm and her breast, unbound, spilled into his waiting mouth. A shiver ripped through her as he began to suck and she moved against him, ecstasy and desire running like lava through her veins.
He cupped her buttocks and she felt a short second of panic before desire, like a living, breathing animal, turned panic into need. While he suckled and nipped at her breast, his hands moved downward, beneath her skirt to inch upward again, his flesh against hers.
“Stop me,” he said, his eyes glazed as he stared up at her. “Stop me if this isn’t what you want.”
She was embarrassed, but couldn’t control her wayward tongue. “I—I—uh, don’t want to stop.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
She reached down and held his face between her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never. I don’t know if I can stop.”
He grabbed her hands, his fingers biting into her wrists. “For God’s sake, Rachelle, you were nearly raped tonight. I have no right to ask you to—”
“What happened with Roy has nothing to do with this,” she replied, surprised that he would compare the ugly scene with Roy to this tender, warm moment.
He stared up at her and clenched his teeth together as she shifted her weight. His eyes were tortured. “Too much has already happened tonight. I can’t do this to you.”
“Just kiss me,” she said, knowing she was inviting trouble, but unable to stop. A walk on the wild side? Wasn’t that what she wanted? But this—?
“Rachelle—no—”
She lowered her face to his and slowly drew his lower lip into her mouth. He clenched his jaw. She moved, and her bare breast rubbed against the hair of his chest.
With a groan, he buried his face in her abdomen and she bucked against him.
Jackson’s control burst and he was kissing her again. His lips, wet and anxious, covered her bare skin with eager kisses. His tongue, a wild thing, licked and played, and she was moaning in his arms, consumed with an ache so painful, she only wanted him to fill it.
Her thoughts were blurred, the flame within her so hot that she knew nothing aside from the feel of his skin against hers. He was hard where she was soft, he was hot and sweating as was she and her clothes seemed to fall away effortlessly as he kissed her and whispered words that hinted of love.
Rachelle closed her eyes and let her hands explore every inch of his maleness. From his rock-hard shoulders to the scale of his ribs, she felt him. He kissed her eyes and throat and sucked from her breasts as if she were offering sweet nectar and when he, suddenly oblivious to pain, rolled over her so that she lay beneath him, she felt no fear. He parted her legs and hovered above her.
Only when he looked down and saw her completely naked did he hesitate. “This is wrong,” he whispered.
“It feels right,” she said, swallowing against a sudden premonition that what was happening could never be undone. That he didn’t love her, nor she love him. That she was a stupid teenager experimenting with something that could burn her forever.
Swearing at himself, he thrust into her and she cried out from the pain that seared between her legs. She flexed but he didn’t stop. He moved within her, gently at first until once again the doubts were chased away and all that she felt was the swell of him in her, the calluses of his hands stroking her breasts, the fire that ravaged them both. His strokes deepened and came faster and Rachelle moved with him, wanting more of him, knowing in her heart that nothing that felt so beautiful could be wrong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips arching up to meet his until, like an earthquake, a tremor rocked through her and she cried out.
He stiffened and threw back his head in a primal cry. As he fell against her, he tangled his hands in her hair and whispered her name over and over. She seemed to glide, like a feather on the wind, sinking slowly back to earth. She was breathing hard, but the soothing waters of afterglow wrapped around her as tightly as the frayed quilt and Jackson nestled beside her, holding her close, resting her head in the crook of his neck, telling her that she was like no other woman on earth. To her horror, a sob thickened her throat and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.
She didn’t regret their lovemaking, oh, no, but she did cry—for something lost and something gained.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER HOURS OF MAKING LOVE in the candlelight, Rachelle fell asleep in Jackson’s arms, certain that their love—for that’s what she told herself the emotions she was feeling had to be—would last forever. Midway through the night, she felt Jackson slip away from her, but only for a while. Soon he was back beside her, his skin cool, his hair smelling of pine trees, his lips pressing softly against her nape. She wrapped her arms around him and they slept, legs and arms entwined, one of his hands cupping her breast.
She didn’t think of the morning or the problems they would face.
But those problems were worse than she imagined. She was still sleeping soundly when a loud banging against the door