After the Frost (44 page)

Too much joy.

Belle closed her eyes. The emotion shuddered through her, and suddenly she realized that she didn't have the power to destroy what was between them. Nothing did. She could walk away, she could pretend to hate him, but the truth was that she never would. The truth was that Rand was part of her soul, part of her heart, and she could not turn away from him without losing a piece of herself.

And she had already spent too much time incomplete.

She looked up into his face, laid her hand against his jaw. "There's nothin' to be sorry for," she whispered. "I've never stopped loving you."

He closed his eyes. She felt the relief coursing through him, and it matched hers, a relief so profound, it made her smile, made her laugh—nervously, breathlessly. She dropped her hand, tried to pull away, but he held her tight, and then he opened his eyes and looked down at her, and the desire in his gaze slammed through her, made her weak and shaky.

"Show me," he demanded in a whisper. "Kiss me, Belle, and make it last forever. Because I will never, ever let you go again."

His words sent shivers through her, sent the blood pounding in her veins. Belle felt his hands on hers, the gentle strength of him, and she stood on her toes and lifted her face, brushing his lips with hers slowly, gently, the way he'd taught her last night, hungrily pressing against him, wanting the sweet solace of loving him.

He gave it to her. Released her hands and brought her to him so that she was hard against his body, so that she felt his heated arousal. Undid her hair and spread it over her shoulders, twined it in his fingers. He pulled her head back and she let him, parting her lips willingly beneath his onslaught, surrendering to him the way she had always surrendered to him, body and soul, heart and mind. He tasted of doughnuts and apple cider, and though she knew he had tasted of this once before, the memory was gone, that cold autumn night chased from her mind by this kiss and the ones before, by the deep, intimate strokes of his tongue. She was drowning in him, splintering inside, and when he pulled away and took her hand, taking her with him up the stairs, down the hall to his room, she didn't protest. Not when he closed the door behind them and led her to the bed, not when he pressed her into the mattress.

"I love you," he whispered against her mouth, and then again at her throat, at every place his kiss touched as he unbuttoned her dress and slid it away, as he peeled her chemise from her shoulders to reveal her breasts. "I love you," at the valley between her breasts; "I love you," at her nipples, her navel. A soft row of kisses and sweet words, lulling her, caressing her, making her forget there had ever been anything but this between them, this sweet, forgiving fire, this fierce yearning.

She felt him ease her dress, her pantalettes over her hips, heard his quiet laugh as he undid her boots and pulled them off, and she couldn't move, couldn't speak, was helpless as the cold air swept over her skin. And then she felt his kiss again, on her stomach, and instinctively she reached down to cover herself, to hide the marks that made her feel ugly.

But he grabbed her hands, moved them away, and she felt him trace the faint scars with his mouth, his tongue, heard his words against her skin. "You are so beautiful, little girl. You are so beautiful." Over and over again, until she began to believe them, until she did believe them. She believed him when he dipped lower still, parted her legs to nuzzle the curls between her thighs; she believed him when his hands tightened on hers, squeezing her fingers reassuringly just before she felt his deep, intimate kiss at the very heart of her.

And then, oh God, she had no choice but to believe him as he dipped his tongue inside her. She jerked, made a silent sound of protest, but his hands only tightened on hers, and he didn't stop, just kept stroking and circling, caressing her with his tongue until her breathing came fast and uneven, until she trembled against his mouth, and the sensations raced through her, along with that pressure again, the relentless press she remembered from last night, the helpless, feverish spiral of feeling, and she pressed against his mouth, wanting him deeper still, needing him at the very center of her. She gripped his hands, digging her nails into his fingers, losing control of her body and her mind as he pleasured her.

And then, when release finally came, when it broke over her in panting, relentless waves, she pulled him to her, gasping as he entered her in one deep thrust, raising her hips to meet his and twining her fingers in his hair. She felt the rock of his body against hers, the fullness of him inside her, and she thought,
This is how it feels to love him. This is how it feels . . .
just before all thoughts left her mind, leaving her with nothing but the touch and the heat and the taste of him, nothing but the mindless, ceaseless ache of pleasure as he sank into her over and over again, taking them both to an almost painful crest of need and surcease, to a climax where the words
"I love you, I love you,"
swirled about them in the air, and she was never sure afterward who said them as she clutched him, feeling the hot, wet throbbing of him inside her even as she twisted beneath him in her own shattering, blinding surrender.

For a moment they didn't move. The heaviness of his body on hers filled her with contentment, with a repleteness that made her sigh when she felt his mouth move against her throat, his gentle kiss. She wanted this to go on forever, this dim, quiet world where there was nothing but the two of them, nothing but the shivering air around them and the musky-soft scent of their bodies. She wanted to touch him, and smile at him, and let his caresses make her feel warm and cherished. She wanted this forever. It was amazing to her that she had it, that he'd promised it to her.

He moved against her, eased off her in spite of her wordless protest. He took her hand and laid it gently on her stomach, raising to one elbow beside her so that he was looking down into her face, cradling her body against his.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked slowly, quietly.

"No." She shook her head. "No."

His hand fell to her hair, his fingers stroked through it, a lulling, mesmerizing touch, a soothing rhythm. In the dim light of evening his eyes were strangely hesitant, his expression uncertain.

He sighed. It was loud in the quiet, a sound full of relief and longing, and Belle smiled and touched his face, ran her hand over his jaw, hard and rough with stubble. He cupped her hand in his, held it to his lips, kissed her palm—a wet, open-mouthed kiss that sent shivers through her.

"After you left," he said slowly, whispering against her hand, "when I found out you were pregnant, I searched all over for you. I told myself it was because you'd lied to me. Because you ran off without telling me about the baby. I told myself that once I found you, I would take the child and let you walk out of my life, forget you." He paused, curling her fingers into his palm, kissing her knuckles with a gentle, spidery touch. "But I couldn't forget. You were in . . . everything. Everything I looked at reminded me of you."

His words pounded against her heart. "I know just what you mean."

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "And the other day I was ... looking at you. With Sarah. And I wondered—I wondered"—he took a deep breath, as if the words were hard to say—"how it felt to have my baby inside you. If you thought about me at all."

His admission curled inside her, a heavy, warm weight, a contentment that spilled through her heart, into her soul.

"I was . . . scared," she said honestly. "There were times I couldn't sleep because I was so afraid. I would lie there in the dark and wish for things to be different. I wished I wasn't pregnant, I wished I was home. I wished nothin' had changed."

He closed his eyes, and she felt his pain hovering between them in the early-evening light.

"But then," she went on slowly, "then one night I felt her movin' inside me, this—this flutterin' feelin', and I got out of bed and went runnin' to find you, to tell you. But then—then I remembered you weren't there." She uncurled her fingers, laid her hand against his face until his eyes opened, until his gaze was locked with hers. "And after that I only wished you were with me," she whispered. "I never stopped wantin' you there."

"I love you, little girl," he said, and his voice was hoarse and raw. "Christ, I love you."

She smiled up at him. "Then stop callin' me little girl," she said, curling her arms around his neck. "And kiss me."

T
he morning sun shone brightly through the curtains when Rand opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily, groggily, and it took him just a moment to remember last night, to remember that she was here beside him, that he would wake up to her face every day for the rest of his life, make love to her every night. He rolled over, thinking to kiss her awake, to make love to her once more before he went out to the fields.

She was gone.

He laid there in shocked disbelief, wondering where she was, when she'd left, trying to remember if she'd said something last night, if maybe he'd misunderstood her, if perhaps she hadn't said she loved him after all. Maybe it was all a dream—the thought brought the dark desperation rolling over him again, filling him.

And then he heard the noise on the stairs.

It stunned him into stillness. He heard the hasty rush of footsteps, a loud "shhh!" the clack of something against the walls. She was leaving. Oh, Christ, she was leaving. He grabbed at the blankets, started to push out of bed—

The bedroom door opened.

"He's awake already!" Sarah's voice was high, squeaky with disappointment. "Oh, Papa, we was goin' to surprise you."

He twisted to look at the door. It was cracked open, and Sarah was peering in, a frown on her round face. "You was s'posed to be sleepin!"

"I was sleeping, Little Bit," he said. The door opened all the way, and Sarah came bouncing in. He saw Belle behind her. She leaned against the doorjamb, a smile on her face and in her eyes, and as Sarah jumped on his bed and threw her arms around his neck, he felt such profound relief, it nearly made him weak. Belle hadn't gone. She hadn't gone. He wondered when he would start to believe she was going to stay.

" 'Mornin'," she said. She reached around the door and came inside, three fishing poles clasped in her hand. Her smile widened. "I thought maybe we'd go fishin' today."

"Fishing?" He looked at her over Sarah's head. "But the corn—"

She raised her eyebrows, and her grin was wide and infectious; it lit her entire face. "Thing's are goin' to have to change if I'm goin' to marry you, Rand Sault," she said. She walked to the edge of the bed and leaned over it, teasing him. "I expect to go fishin' at least once a week. I won't have Sarah growin' up without knowin' the finer points of catchin' a fat old bass."

"Oh, really?" He grinned back at her. "And just how do you expect to live if I can't do some farming once in a while?"

"Well, I don't know," she said. She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. "I guess we'll just have to live on love."

"She kissed you!" Sarah squealed in surprise. "Does that mean Belle's goin' to be my mama?"

Rand laughed. He pulled Sarah to him with one arm and grabbed Belle's wrist with the other, sending the fishing poles clattering to the floor, suddenly realizing that he would never completely be sure of Belle, and that he wanted it that way. He wanted her vibrance, her impulsiveness. Wanted the unexpected twists she put into his life, the way nothing was ever dull around her. With Belle he never knew what to expect—except that things would never be the same. Thank God, they would never be the same.

"I guess that's what it means," He said, grinning. He gave Sarah a quick squeeze before he let her go. "Now, come on, Little Bit, and let's go fishin'—with your mama." He looked up into Belle’s eyes.

 
His whole life brightened in the light of her smile.

Megan Chance is the critically acclaimed author of several novels. She lives with her husband and two daughters in the Pacific Northwest.
After the Frost
was originally published in 1994..