Between Love and Duty (22 page)

A night-light for her. Huddled under the covers, she was grateful.

More light, from his bedroom, she supposed. The sound of a distant toilet flushing, and then his light went out. She thought it was that, rather than his door closing.

She’d rolled so that she faced her own open doorway. Through it she knew she was looking through his, at an angle. Maybe straight at his bed, where he might be stretched out staring her way thinking about her....

Jane muffled a moan.

What would he do if she crept in there on silent feet and stood like a child beside her parents’ bed and said, “Can I sleep with you tonight?” Except she didn’t feel childlike. She wanted to feel safe with him, but she also wanted…more.

Stupidly more. The kind of
more
that would return to haunt her. He threatened her determination to hold on to her independence as no man ever had. And all she had to do was think about the way he snapped out orders and took for granted that they’d be followed to know how wrong he was for her.

Maybe she was getting drowsy. She could
think
without hurting anything, couldn’t she? Or
picture?
How Duncan’s harsh face would look relaxed in sleep, for example. She lingered over that one. Or his body, sprawled across the bed. But he’d said he was a light sleeper, which didn’t suggest much relaxation....

Jane drifted.

She woke screaming, horrors flash frozen on her retinas, blood splattering her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“JANE! SWEETHEART, you’re all right. You’re only dreaming.” Hard arms closed around her; Duncan’s heart slammed beneath her cheek when he pulled her face against his chest. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay, honey. You’re at my house, remember? I’m here.”

He was. She latched onto him with a ferocity that might have shocked her any other time. Seen dimly in the fall of light from the hall, he was half sitting on the edge of the bed. She scrambled onto him and her arms wrapped him so tight it was a wonder if he could breathe.

Continuing to murmur comforting words to her, he turned them both so he could lie down on the bed beside her. She was still mostly on top of him, but he couldn’t mind much or he would have set her to the side. Instead, his hands were moving up and down her body now, crooning in a different way from his deep, velvety voice.

She was whimpering, Jane was dismayed to realize. She made herself stop, but the result was some hitching breaths that could have been mistaken for sobs. Maybe
were
sobs.

“Cry if you want,” he said against her ear. “It’s okay.”

“No.” She sounded funny; raspy. “I…I think I’m all right now. I…I don’t know…”

“Bad one, huh?”

“Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut trying to see it, and realized the nightmare had faded, the way they did. “All I can remember is blood.”

“I’m not surprised.”

After a minute she mumbled, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Um…”

“Offering myself up?” Was that a hint of amusement?

She bobbed her head. She was starting to be a little embarrassed, but not enough to make herself let go and roll away. Instead, under the pleasure of his hands kneading a tight muscle here, squeezing another there, her body began to loosen. She wasn’t grabbing on to him so tight anymore. She concentrated on the feel of his hands on her, strong and gentle at the same time. And his body beneath hers. What was he wearing…?

Nothing on top. All that separated her from the solid beat of his heart was skin, muscle and bone. If she moved her cheek, the least little bit, she felt the silkiness of chest hair. And she could see his small, flat nipple.

With alarm, Jane realized that she was suddenly, acutely aroused. No in-between state; one minute, sagging in relief, the next quivering with the need to touch and kiss and merge. What if he guessed…?

Her eyes widened at the feel of the hard ridge beneath her belly. Whether he knew what she was feeling or not,
he
was aroused, too.

Bad idea.

Don’t care.

He’d quit crooning at some point and been doing nothing but breathing. Now, though, he made a sound. It rumbled from deep within him. A groan.

And his hands. They hadn’t stopped. They still kneaded and caressed, but one of them wrapped her hip and one buttock. The other,
oh,
it was skating up her side to the plump swelling of her breast, what he could reach of it with her flattened atop him.

The need to touch in turn had become irresistible. Her hand slid over the powerful muscles in his chest so that her fingertips could lightly explore his nipple. And…she wriggled, trying to crawl higher on his body so she could put that ridge somewhere it could do more good.

Duncan muttered some kind of blasphemy, his voice deeper and darker, and then he was forcibly lifting her so that she straddled him the way she longed to, and so that their mouths could meet.

The kiss, only their second, wasn’t tentative. It seemed to take up where the other had left off. Or as if it never
had
left off. Hungry and practiced and insatiable. His tongue explored her mouth and then gave her a chance to do the same, though it never ceased its stroking. His hands had slid now beneath her borrowed T-shirt and stroked her bare, exquisitely sensitized skin. Then one delved beneath the waistband of the pajama pants and gripped her butt, moving her against him. No, helping her own movements find a rhythm, one that had already flooded her with heat and raw need.

Duncan yanked the T-shirt over her head, lifted her and reared up enough to close his mouth over her breast. No preliminaries here, either; he suckled hard, and a thin, high cry escaped her.

They rolled so he could wrestle her pajama bottoms off and take her other breast in his mouth. The deep, rhythmic pull matched the coordinated way their hips pushed at each other.

Almost sobbing in her desperation, Jane struggled with his pajama bottoms. He kicked them off in the end and was between her legs in the blink of an eye. She had to be sopping wet. The blunt tip of his penis felt so good, so… Jane strained upward, trying to draw him in.

He pushed, then swore. “I have to go find a condom.” There was nothing velvety about his voice now. It could have stripped varnish.

“No!” She grabbed frantically at him when he would have withdrawn and tried to pull him deeper.

“Jane!” Duncan sounded desperate.

It was an effort to shape words, but necessary. “I’m on the pill.”

He said something, she didn’t know what, but it didn’t matter because instead of pulling back he was thrusting hard.

This was nothing like her few and unsatisfactory attempts to explore her sexuality. It was all sensation, so powerful she didn’t seem to exist as a conscious entity. There was no perfect rise and fall, taunt and satisfy; it was more like a struggle, something so primitive there were no words for it. The hunger, the frustration and satisfaction, and drive toward a cataclysm she wanted, oh, she wanted…

When it came, she was shocked. Her mouth opened on a silent cry. This was no enjoyable little
pop!
like champagne bubbles when the cork came out. Her body arched and spasmed as a flash flood of white-hot pleasure tore through her, from her core outward. He made a guttural sound, thrust even harder a few times and then went rigid.

She’d somehow lost all strength. Her arms fell from him to flop onto the bed. His full weight sprawled atop her. Neither moved, but to gasp for breath.

Brain function was slow returning. Tiny niggles first—the sandpaper texture of his jaw against her throat and chin. The tickle and heat of air his lungs pumped out. Twinges in muscles she hadn’t known she had. Then awareness of her full body, starting with a delicious lassitude. And something that was almost joy, but was physical, tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers and to the hair on her scalp.

No wonder people would do
anything
for this.

He stirred, as if his brain was coming online at the same time, and then with a groan levered himself off her. Jane was startled by the sense of loss, cured when he scooped her up tight to his side, her head planted on his shoulder. Cuddling her.

Had this been out of the ordinary for
him?
She couldn’t ask without sounding pathetic.

She felt the moment Duncan began to actually think. Without moving, he tensed. Panic jumped in her chest. Would he want to get up and return to his own bed, leaving her alone?

“Are you…” she stuttered, and couldn’t finish.

His head tilted. “Am I what?”

“Leaving?”

“No.” His arm tightened and his other hand came up to stroke her hair from her face. “I won’t leave you.”

She almost shuddered in relief. The plunge from the heights and climb up again had left her dizzy.

“Then…what were you thinking?” She had to ask.

His head cocked a little more, as if he was trying to see her face. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I was thinking.” Pause. “Feeling instead.”

She nodded, wanting to say,
Feeling what?
but knowing better.

They cuddled, and breathed, seemingly locked in silence. Only then, out of nowhere, he said, “Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

Jane’s throat seemed to close. Did he sound as unnerved as she was?

Maybe, but…he’d been honest. It would be cowardly to be any less.

“Me, too,” she whispered.

His lips brushed her hair. “I’m glad,” he murmured. Then, “Shall I get up and turn off the light?”

“Not unless it bothers you.”

He shook his head. She lay there listening to his heartbeat, reveling in the startling heat of his strong, solid body and the security of his embrace, and sleep crept up so stealthily, she hardly knew when it pulled her under.

“YOU’RE DRESSED.” DUNCAN heard the flatness of his own tone and hid his wince. Way to go.

He’d heard the shower earlier, but hadn’t expected her to be in her own clothes, makeup applied, even a pair of dainty gold hoops in her ears.

Having barely walked into the kitchen, Jane stared at him with astonishment. “Um…yes.”

“You’re not thinking of going to work.”

She stiffened. “It’s Sunday, so no. If this was Monday, my answer would be yes.”

“Do you think that’s smart?” It had to be said, even if he got her back up. The only common sense she’d displayed so far was in calling him when she got in trouble.

“I own a business, Duncan. Do you want me to hang a ‘Sorry—open again whenever’ sign on the door?”

“Until this is settled…”

“Dance Dreams is my livelihood.”
And more.
She didn’t have to say that.

Save the argument,
he told himself. “If not work today, why get dressed up?”

“These are the only clothes I have, remember?” she said, expression even more brittle. She quit hovering and circled the breakfast bar. “Do you mind if I get myself a cup of coffee?”

He spread his hands.
“Mi casa su casa.”

The flash of her eyes might have been sardonic, but she said politely enough, “Thank you.”

As Jane poured herself a cup of coffee, Duncan popped a raisin cinnamon bagel into the toaster when she said that’s all she wanted.

“Actually,” Jane said, “I was hoping you’d give me a lift to my house. I thought I’d take my car and go shopping. I need to start replacing the basics.”

“You might find a fair amount of your clothes can be salvaged.”

“Do you really think so?”

He couldn’t look right into her eyes, deep blue and clear, and lie. “I…didn’t look into every drawer or lift the piles.”

She made a sick sound and closed her eyes as if gathering strength.“What about my shoes? Did you notice them?”

“They were soaked with blood,” he replied, hurting for her.

Her whole body jerked, as if he’d hit her. Duncan made a helpless sound and pulled her into his arms. She clung, but only briefly. When she stepped away, her face was pale but set.

“Will you give me a lift?”

His jaws ached. He gave a short nod.

“Okay.” The bagel popped up, and she turned away to butter it as if nothing out-of-the-way for a typical Sunday morning had happened.

Was making love Saturday night typical for her? She was on the pill. He didn’t know why the idea bothered him; he really didn’t think he held a double standard concerning sexual mores. It was only that he—
oh, hell, face it
—didn’t like to think of her in another man’s arms.

“I hope you don’t regret last night,” he heard himself say stiffly.

“I suspect you’re more likely to regret it than I am,” said Jane, giving away absolutely nothing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wouldn’t have been in bed with me at all if I hadn’t woken up screaming bloody murder.”

Maybe he was mistaking wariness, or even shyness, for a rebuff. He wasn’t the only one feeling uncertain this morning, Duncan belatedly realized. Instead of greeting her with a smile and a kiss, he’d gone on the attack.

“I wanted to get in that bed with you when I tucked you in.”

She went very still. Then her eyes, wide and dilated, searched his. “Tucked me in?”

“Well, not quite.” His mouth was lifting into some kind of smile. “I didn’t dare. If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. I had myself convinced you didn’t need that.”

With a soft explosion of air, Jane flung herself at him. They hugged, hard. Tipping her head, she smiled at him, though it wobbled on her lips. “Turns out,” she whispered, “that it was exactly what I needed.”