The MacKades Collection: The Return of Rafe MacKade / The Pride of Jared MacKade / The Heart of Devin MacKade / The Fall of Shane MacKade. Nora Roberts
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name. And, shuddering, shuddering, hungered for more.
He gave her more. And took more. Each time she thought he would end it, must end it, he found some new way to batter her senses. There was only him, the taste, the feel, the smell of him. They rolled over the floor in a wild, glorious combat, her nails digging ruthlessly into his back, his mouth searing hers.
Nearly blinded by need, he gripped her hands, fingers vised. He thought his own breathing must tear his lungs apart. Her face was all he could see as he drove himself into her. Twin groans mixed. A log shattered thunderously in the grate.
They trembled, watching each other as they savored that timeless instant of mating.
Muscles straining, he lowered his head, covered her mouth. When the kiss was at its deepest, when her flavor filled him as intimately as he was filling her, they began to move together.
It was the cold that finally roused Regan. Though it seemed impossible, she thought she must have fallen asleep. As she struggled to orient herself, she discovered her back was against the cold, hard wood of the floor, pressed firmly against it by the weight of Rafe’s body.
She looked around dazedly. Somehow or other, they’d gotten themselves several feet from the fire.
“You awake now?” Rafe’s voice was thick, a little sleepy.
“I guess.” She tried a deep breath, was relieved to find she could accomplish it. “I can’t really tell.”
He shifted his head, skimmed his lips over the curve of her breast. Her exhausted body quivered in response.
“I guess I can tell after all,” she said.
“You’re cold.” He shifted, hauled her up and put her back on the sleeping bag. Wished, for her, that it was a feather bed. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Not quite sure of her moves, she tugged a corner of the bag up to her chin. She’d never been so exposed, so completely naked, body and soul, before anyone. “I must have dozed off.”
“Just a couple minutes.” He grinned at her. He felt as though he’d climbed a mountain. And could climb ten more. “I’ll put another log on.”
Naked and easy, he rose to go to the woodbox. The scratches scoring his shoulders had Regan’s mouth falling open. She’d done that. She’d actually… Good God. “I, ah, should go. Cassie’ll be worried.”
Rafe set the screen back in place. Without a word, he reached into the duffel bag beside the woodbox and took out a cell phone. “Call her.”
“I…didn’t realize you had a phone.”
“It’s a tool on a job like this.” He handed it to her, then sat down beside her. “Call her,” he repeated. “And stay.”
She was sure there were reasons why she should go. But she dialed her own number, watching Rafe as the phone rang.
“Cassie, it’s Regan. Yes, everything’s fine. Snow?” Baffled for a moment, she pushed her hair away from her face. “Oh, yes, it’s really coming down. That’s why I’m calling. I got, um, involved, and I think…”
She trailed off as Rafe tugged the corner of the bag out of her hand, as his fingers trailed down the curve of her breast.
“What?” She swallowed, then bit back a moan. His mouth had replaced his fingers. She slid bonelessly to her back. “Pennsylvania?” she murmured. “No, I’m not in Pennsylvania.”
Rafe took the phone from her limp fingers. “She’s with me. She’s staying with me. No kidding? She’ll call you tomorrow. Right.”
He clicked the phone off, set it aside. “Cassie says we’ve got over a foot out there, the streets are a mess, and you should stay put.”
“Oh.” She closed her eyes, lifted her arms. “That’s very sensible.”
The candles had guttered out and the fire had burned to embers when she awoke. The house was so still, so quiet, she could hear her own heartbeat. The room was filled with shadows and darkness, but it was oddly peaceful. Perhaps the ghosts slept, she mused. Or perhaps she felt at ease with them because Rafe slept beside her.
She turned her head and studied his face in the dying firelight. Asleep or not, she mused, there was no innocent-little-boy look about him. All that power, and the potential for violence, were still there, carved into his face.
She knew he could be gentle, caring. She’d seen that in the way he was with Cassie. But as a lover, he was demanding, relentless and rough.
And, for the first time in her life, she’d been the same.
Now, with the quiet like a blanket over her, she found it hard to believe she had done what she’d done, had allowed him—wanted him—to do what he had done.
Her body ached from bruises, and she wondered if in the full light of day she would wince at the memory of how she’d come by them. Of how she’d ached and trembled and hungered under those big, hard hands.
Even more, of how she’d used her own.
Of how, she realized with a jolt, she wanted to use them now.
Taking a shallow breath, she eased out from under Rafe’s possessive arm. She moved as quietly as she could, settled on slipping on his flannel shirt for covering. Buttoning it as she went, she padded toward the kitchen.
A cold drink of water, she told herself. A few moments to evaluate the situation.
At the sink, she filled a glass. As her eyes adjusted, she watched the drift of snow falling outside the window.
She didn’t regret. That, she mused, would be foolish. Fate had placed an extraordinary lover in her path. The kind of man few women ever knew. She could, and would, be content with the physical thrill of it. She could, and would, prevent it, and him, from complicating her life.
They were both adults, as he had said. They both knew what they wanted. When the house was finished, he would probably grow restless and move on. Meanwhile they would enjoy each other. And when it was over, it would end with mutual understanding, and, she hoped, affection.
It would probably be wise to discuss those expectations, or the lack of them, before things went any further. But she found herself torn at the very idea of voicing them.
From the doorway, Rafe studied her, the way she stood, leaning a little on the counter, her eyes on the window. Her face reflected in it. His shirt skimmed her thighs, worn flannel against creamy skin.
It struck him, hard, that he’d never in his life seen anything more beautiful. He had the words to tell her; he was good with them. But he found there were none this time, none good enough to show how much she mattered.
So he chose easy ones, casual ones, and ignored the ache just looking at her had spreading around his heart.
“I like your dress, darling.”
She jolted, nearly bobbled the glass before she turned. He’d tugged on jeans, but hadn’t bothered to fasten them. Grinning, he leaned against the unframed doorway.
“It was handy,” she said, matching his tone.
“That old shirt’s never had it so good. Restless?”
“I was thirsty.” But she set the glass down without taking so much as a sip. “I guess the quiet woke me. It’s odd, don’t you think, how quiet it is?”
“The snow always makes it quiet.”
“No, I mean the house. It seems different. Settled.”
“Even dead soldiers and unhappy women have to sleep sometime.” He crossed the room to pick up the glass and drink himself. “It’s almost dawn,” he murmured. “My brothers and I spent the night here once when we were kids. I guess I told you that already.”
“Jared rattling chains. And all of