Montana Wildfire (35 page)

Jake hesitated making that last advance toward her, knowing that to do so would be to lose himself in something wonderful, something deliciously tempting, something that, by all rights, he should never have tasted once, let alone again.

Amanda had no such qualms. She wanted to experience again the magic of his kisses, the warmth of his caresses. She
needed
both. Maybe proper ladies didn't have needs like these, maybe they didn't enjoy a man the way she enjoyed Jake. But that was beside the point. Because Amanda was acutely aware that whenever Jake Chandler touched her, she ceased to be a lady. With one glance, he stripped away pretense. With one kiss, he peeled away years of training and ignited a flame of passion inside her.

She wanted to feel that reckless surge of passion again. Now. She needed to feel it pumping through her blood. Only once the fire had been lit and tended did she want Jake to douse it in the way that only he could.

To that end, her hands snuck around his back, under his arms. Her fingers fisted his shirt, and her gaze sought out his as she lifted her head up and very slowly, very lightly, fused their mouths together.

"Again and again," she whispered huskily against his mouth. She dragged her tongue over his tightly set lips. He tasted of tobacco and coffee; a strong, delicious male flavor—one to be cherished and savored. "For as long as it lasts, Jake. That's all I want, all I'll ask from you."

"Good. Because that's all I have to give you," he said, and then his tongue darted out and swirled around the wet tip of hers, teasing them both to distraction. She tasted moist and sweet and so damn good. He groaned as, lowering more of his weight atop her, he sealed their lips in a hard, hungry kiss.

He'd dreamed of this, in the few minutes of sleep that thoughts of Amanda had allowed him to snatch. He'd dreamed of her taste, of how her soft white curves felt beneath him. The dreams—wisps of veiled fantasies and suppressed memories—had gotten him hard and hot. That was what had brought him out of the barn and into a house he'd sworn never to step foot in again. That was what had made him swallow his pride and seek her out tonight. He couldn't stay away from her, couldn't deny this unreasonably strong urge to see and touch and lay with her again. He wanted to know if it would be as good with her a second time, or if good had only been in his imagination.

It hadn't been. His imagination could never conjure up the way this woman felt moving hungrily beneath him, or the way her sweet, distracting tongue met his every thrust and parry. Their mouths clung, their tongues initiated a rhythmic dance that their bodies, straining against each other, begged to follow. Her hips rose, strained into his, retreated, then lifted again. The feminine heat of her meshed with his hard male strength, making the core of his need swell.

He'd had this woman once, barely six hours ago. He shouldn't want her again so soon, and he definitely shouldn't want her again so badly. But he did. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no obstacles or barriers. There was no logic in the way he wanted to plant himself inside of Amanda Lennox so badly it was an acute, physical pain inside of him, a deep, festering, intolerable need.

He eased the intimacy of their kiss, but not the intimacy of their embrace. His lips trailed hot, sipping kisses down her chin and the thin white taper of her neck. He shifted them so that he was now the one laying atop the table. Amanda lay sprawled atop him, her bent knees straddling his hips, her hands splayed on the chipped wood that lay to either side of his head. She arched her neck to give his mouth freedom to roam.

Jake's tongue caressed the pulse drumming wildly in the base of her throat. He reached down and tugged her skirt up and out of the way. And then he lifted his own bent knee as high as it would go. He ground his thigh against the warm, moist part of her that his body was urging him to reexplore. A part that—soon, Jake silently promised them both—
would
be reexplored. Thoroughly.

Amanda gasped and her hips arched forward. The feel of Jake's denim-encased thigh rubbing the most sensitive, most intimate part of her was electrifying. White heat flamed through her blood, leaving a tingling wake of fire.

Her body went weak. The energy drained out of her arms, and she lowered herself onto the hard cushion of his chest. Though her lips nuzzled his neck and ear, her hips remained cautiously still. She was afraid to move a muscle, afraid feelings that good could not be contained. And she wanted to contain them. Forever. She wanted the sensations this man was lighting in her to go on and on and on.

Jake had other ideas. He'd lit the fire in her, ignited her fiery passions, now he wanted to drive her wild with it.

His strong hands flanked her hips, his fingers curling inward, tunneling through the bunches of material, tunneling into the soft white flesh beneath. Slowly, slowly, he guided her hips forward, dragging her up his thigh. Her body quivered violently. He absorbed the vibrations with his palms and chest, even as he guided her in the opposite direction. Again. And again.

It was a gentle parody of lovemaking that was, he discovered belatedly, double edged. As much as the erotic sensations were a sensuous torture to her, they were more so to him. Every time she slid forward, the top of her thigh rubbed against the burning heat of him. The rhythmic friction filled him with new, blinding surges of desire.

"God, did I teach you this?" he murmured huskily.

"Oh yes," she answered, just as rawly. Her hips picked up the pace his hands had set. "Don't you remember? You taught me how to light a fire, showed me how to make it burn."

"Damn. I did, didn't I?" he grumbled, and thought that if this sweet, stimulating torture kept up, he wouldn't last. And he intended to last if it killed him.

He thought it might do just that.

Jake didn't know why the urge to roll her onto her back and take her right now, hard and fast, was so damn overpowering—it just was. God, had he ever been this weak with a woman in his life? No. But then, this wasn't just any woman, this was Amanda Lennox. He should have learned by now that he had no self-control when it came to her. He should have learned that, with her, the desire to give pleasure was as strong, if not stronger, than the desire to get it.

She was hot. He knew by the way she writhed against him, the way her heart pounded a wild, desperate beat against his. He wanted her hotter, burning up; he wanted her body humming with a desperation that surpassed his own.

His fingers tightened around her hips, halting her. Then they strayed up to cup her ribcage as he lowered his leg. His face was buried in her neck. He nuzzled the silky flesh there before carefully levering her up and away from him.

Her eyes had been closed. The thick, honey-tipped lashes flickered up, revealing glassy eyes that struggled to bring him into focus. "Why did you stop?" she asked, her tone raw and passion-slurred.

His grin was wicked and quick, his gaze darkly seductive. "We can't do much with our clothes on, princess."

One golden brow lifted, and the way her huge green eyes shimmered in the flickering firelight told Jake that she was thinking of at least a dozen mutually satisfying things that could be done completely clothed. The pink stain in her cheeks, and the way she rolled her lips inward, said her thoughts were decidedly unladylike.

That was fine by Jake; his own thoughts were dirty as hell.

"I want you naked," he rasped, and pushed her up until she knelt, straddling his hips. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, and his mind flashed an excruciatingly detailed picture of what she looked like without the barrier of clothes separating her creamy white flesh from his devouring gaze. It was a sight he'd give his life to see again. Now. His attention lifted, his gaze meshed with hers. "Undress for me, princess. Slowly. And do it in front of the fire so I can see all of you, inch by beautiful inch."

Her chin dipped, but not before he saw the way her cheeks flamed. "That wouldn't be..." she shrugged nervously, and wet her suddenly parched lips, "proper."

"Or ladylike," he agreed flatly.

"Jake, what if Gail or Little Bear comes downstairs?"

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"I know," He said it with such conviction that Amanda instinctively believed him.

Though she didn't lift her head, she did peek at him. His hair was wind-tangled, spread out on the table around him. The small brown feather rested against his chest, lifting and falling with his ragged breaths. His features were hard with leashed desire. His steely eyes seemed to burn out of the chiseled copper of his face. His expression said he wanted,
needed,
for her to strip for him, and—propriety be damned—
she
wanted to do it.

"If I... do," Amanda said as, pushing against his chest, she rose shakily to her feet and looked down at him uncertainly, "will you return the favor? Slowly. So that, piece by piece, I can see every beautiful inch of you?"

A spark of desire heated his eyes. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Then I will." He rose up on one elbow and, bending his knees so his feet were flat on the tabletop, nodded to the fire. "Do it. Take off your clothes for me. And only for me."

She nodded and slowly, hesitantly, walked over to the fire. A log split and fell. The hiss of crackling flames sounded loud in the ensuing silence; it masked the swish of her skirt as she turned to face him.

The heat emanating from the hearth was intense. It seeped through Amanda's clothes, warming her back, her bottom, the back of her thighs. The warmth was nothing compared to the heat in Jake's eyes. The way his gaze fired over her front was indecent, naughty, and exciting beyond reason.

Her trembling fingers paused on the top button of her collar. Amanda felt awkward, uncomfortable. She'd never taken off her clothes for another human being in her life. She was doing so now though, willingly, and she had a desperate need to do it right. She prayed her movements would look seductive and enticing, not trembling and schoolgirl clumsy.

With that in mind, she forced herself to stop shaking. She slipped the first button free. Then the second, the third, the fourth. She sent a quick look at the shadowy stairway, but the memory of Jake's words oddly reassured her that they wouldn't be interrupted. She didn't know why she believed him about that, she just did. By concentrating on what she was doing, not why, Amanda managed to work the buttons free down to her waist.

She parted the material wide, then pushed the sleeves down her arms. The bodice bunched around her waist in soft calico folds which she then pushed lower. With an unconsciously provocative swivel of her hips, the dress went shimmying over her thighs and puddled in a heap around her feet.

It was as she stepped out of the circle of material and was in the act of bending to retrieve it, that she heard Jake's throaty moan. A secretive grin turned her lips as she tossed her clothing aside, then let her fingers stray to the laces of her chemise—the ones Jake had severed hours ago.

Jake wasn't looking at the neckline. He was only indirectly looking at the chemise.
Through
it would have been a better description. His gaze was fixed on the long, shapely legs that the rear-light of the fire outlined beneath the thin white linen. This morning he'd wanted this woman so badly he hadn't taken the time to visually appreciate her. He took the time now.

Tossing and turning on the barn's cold, hard ground, he'd thought time and again of what Amanda looked like naked. He hadn't remembered this much perfection; hadn't remembered how full her breasts were until he saw them straining against the confining linen; hadn't remembered how narrow her waist, how long and tempting her legs, until he saw them silhouetted beneath her chemise. He
had
remembered how much he'd wanted her, but his memory paled in comparison to how much he wanted her now.

"Come here," he growled, his voice ragged and sharp. He extended his free hand to her, and his eyes narrowed when Amanda shook her head.

"It's your turn, Jake," she whispered softly. As she spoke, Amanda slid the sleeves of her chemise leisurely down her arms. Clutching the bodice to her breasts, she rolled her shoulders back and forth, one by one working her arms out. Holding Jake's gaze, she let the swathing of linen drop away. The chemise didn't have to be coaxed over her hips. Unlike the dress, the undergarment was fully cut; it slipped down the length of her body with a gentle nudge and an enticingly whispery rustle of cloth.

"Come here, Amanda," Jake ordered again, his tone harsher, more ragged. When he extended his hand to her this time, she saw that his fingers were shaking. "Please."

She stepped out of the circle of wrinkled linen and, her shoulders square, her chin tipped proudly, walked over to him. "It's your turn," she repeated breathlessly. "Undress for me, Jake. And only for me."

He did. Like a sleek cat, he uncoiled himself and climbed off the table. He didn't move to the fire, and Amanda thought better of complaining about that. He removed the knives he kept tucked in the cuff of each moccasin, the long, fat blade and sheath attached to his belt. Each in turn were carefully, almost lovingly set aside.

Slowly, he freed the buttons on his shirt, then slipped the flannel sleeves down his arms. When he was free of it, he tossed it impatiently aside. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, then worked the coarse denim down his hips, over his heavily muscled thighs. Lower. Removing the moccasins took a more conscious effort.

Amanda's gaze devoured him greedily. She'd glimpsed the perfection of his body before, but it still amazed her. He was all copper skin and muscle. His chest was wide and firm and smooth, tapering down into a tight stomach and lean hips. Jet-black curls arrowed beneath his navel, drawing her gaze downward.

She started to look away, then decided that if she could strip for this man, and he could strip for her, then it stood to reason that looking at him shouldn't bother her. Her gaze strayed to the part of him that she'd been too fearful to look at this morning. Of its own accord, her hand moved. "Jake?" she asked, poised in the act of touching the part of a man's body a lady was taught at an early age she must never think about, let alone touch.