Promise Me Forever (16 page)

He kissed her chin, her jaw, and trailed his mouth along the column of her throat, so silky smooth, so soft. A sloping pathway to more softness.

He raised himself on an elbow and, with his forefinger and thumb, he grabbed the end of the bow that kept her chemise closed. Such a flimsy piece of satin for such an important job.

He slid his gaze up to hers, taking in the creamy texture of her skin, the slight blush that marred it where his roughened jaw had journeyed, and he cursed himself for not shaving after he got home, but he’d had no way of knowing she’d come to him. Or maybe it was his mustache that had caused the damage. For her, if she asked, he’d shave it off as well.

He kept his eyes on hers, his breathing ragged, waiting for her to react to his veiled request, and
her answer came as he’d hoped, with nothing more than a lowering of her lashes that struck him deep in the gut.

When she’d been unbuttoning her bodice, he’d never wanted anything in his life more than he’d wanted to cross over to her and finish the task, brush his knuckles against the inside swells that she was so slowly revealing. He’d always known he was a man of determination, but until that moment he’d never known how much control he had over himself. Only a man encased in steel could have looked at her and not taken.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his breaths coming in harsh gasps. He tugged on the ribbon, watched as the bow ceased to exist. Fighting to hold his fingers steady, he pulled the ribbon loose of its moorings, watching as the material parted to reveal her flesh.

With the side of his hand and the gentlest touch, he moved the material farther aside to reveal her breasts, in full, the pale pink nipples, the light blue veins. His gut and groin tightened so much that it was almost painful. “You are so beautiful.”

“I’m not really very fully growed,” she whispered.

With effort, he shifted his gaze up to hers. Her cheeks were a bright reddish hue. “Not like Lady Blythe or Lady—”

He touched his finger to her lips. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m small.” Her breath wafted over his hand.

“You’re perfect.” He lowered his mouth and kissed her while he moved his hand down, his fingers curling over her perfection.

Lauren was beginning to wonder if the fire had jumped out of the hearth and was blazing around them. She’d never felt so hot and flushed in her entire life. Tom’s kiss was as feral, possessive as his hand laying claim to that which he wanted. She couldn’t envision any of the gentlemen of London behaving as Tom did, ravishing her to within an inch of her life. For surely she would die from the sensations that he was creating with each sweep of his tongue, each stroke of his fingers.

This time when he trailed his mouth along her throat, he didn’t stop at its base, other than briefly to dip the tip of his tongue into its hollow, then he continued on, kissing the inside swell of her breasts, before journeying on to kiss and plunder that which he’d brazenly paid to see. She combed her fingers up into his hair, still too long, still so thick, still dark and beautiful, with the firelight glistening over it.

And then it was as though what ever he’d held leashed, he released. With a deep groan, he returned for another kiss, this one more intense, more possessive than any that had come before it. It was a prelude to a promise she wasn’t certain she could keep.

They were suddenly hands, mouths, tongues,
touching, kissing, stroking, pressing. His body was weighing down on hers. A pleasant weight. She would have thought that his height, the breadth of his shoulders would have made her feel as though she were suffocating, but instead she only felt the increase of passion, the desire to have him closer, as close as possible.

She was barely cognizant of a subtle shifting of his weight and then his hand was beneath her skirt, gliding up her thigh…rough skin against smooth flesh, hands that had tamed horses, trailed cattle, branded, roped, fought stampedes were working to tame her, and in the taming, he was unleashing the wildness in her.

She pushed her hands against his shoulders. Breathing heavily, he stilled, holding her gaze. The intensity with which he looked at her sent desire, hot and burning swirling through her.

“I unbuttoned my buttons for you,” she rasped, surprised by the harsh sound of her own voice. “The least you can do is unbutton yours for me.”

“If I do that, Lauren, your clothes are coming all the way off.”

She nodded.

He pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down on her, his hands working the buttons free with such haste that she almost laughed. Instead, she sat up, too, reached out, and took hold of his cuff, slipping the button through its loop. She did the same with the other.
Then she sat back and watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, to reveal his magnificent chest.

Reaching out, she touched an old scar that ran across his ribs. “How did you get this?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him, into his eyes, saw the haunting look of memories best left behind. “Was it when the old man who took you off the orphan train beat you?”

Slowly he shook his head and rasped, “No.”

“How did you get it?”

“My father,” he said through clenched teeth.

His father? The horror of that statement must have shown on her face, because he continued. “I’m remembering things, Lauren, and I’m wishing to God that I didn’t. I wish I hadn’t hit Whithaven—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I know. But we can fix that. We can, Tom.” She lowered her head and pressed her lips to the puckered flesh.

His breath caught and she felt him go absolutely still. “Lauren?”

She looked at him, watched as his throat worked while he swallowed.

“I don’t want to remember the past to night,” he finally managed to say, as though dredging the words up out of a bottomless well. Then he hitched up the corner of his mouth in the all-too-familiar grin, the smile that she’d loved from the moment he first bestowed it on her. “Are you going to unbutton my trousers?”

She felt the heat cascade through her with a scalding intensity. She wanted to be bold, brave, wanton…a Texas girl not an English miss…but in the end she disappointed herself and probably him by shaking her head.

If he was disappointed he showed no signs of it as he placed his hands on the button at his waist. Watching it pop free, parting the material, she began easing her dress and chemise off her shoulders. She’d wiggled out of her clothing, by the time he finished with his buttons and was shoving his trousers down to reveal the full measure of his manhood.

She swallowed hard, smiled, met his gaze. “My goodness, Tom, you’re fully growed.”

Laughing, he dove onto the bed, onto her, kissing her madly, touching her passionately. Hungrily, greedily, tasting, stroking, exploring…all aspects of her body. He removed the pins from her hair, fanning it out over the pillow only to fist his hand in the strands and bury his face in the abundance of it, inhaling deeply as he did so, as though to take her very essence deep within him.

She skimmed her hands over his back, his shoulders, along his sides, her fingers now and then noting a trail of puckered flesh and she cursed the life that had delivered the hurt even as she recognized that the journey he’d taken had brought him to her. Had his mother never taken him away, never left him to be raised by others, she doubted that he
would have become the kind of man she could have loved this deeply, this intensely. And she did love him, had always loved him.

She could give herself all the reasons in the world for why she’d turned down Kimburton’s offer, but the truth of the matter was, when it came right down to it, he simply wasn’t Tom. Wasn’t her cowboy. Wasn’t the boy who had stolen her heart beneath a vast star-filled Texas night sky.

Her mama had always called Tom a thief, but how could a person truly steal what he already owned?

Tom nestled himself between her thighs, and she felt the first urgent pressing of his body against hers, hard to soft. She was ready for him, she knew she was, but there was discomfort and she stiffened.

“Damn, but you’re tight.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely breathing.

He chuckled low. “Don’t apologize, darlin’. That’s a good thing. At least for me.”

“Should we be talking right now?”

He raised up on his elbows, cradled her face between his work-worn hands. “When it comes to this, Lauren, there aren’t any rules, or any dos or don’ts, except to make sure that it doesn’t hurt and that it feels good. I don’t know how to stop it from hurting you, darlin’. The first time, anyway. After that, it’s supposed to be better. Or so I hear.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise of making it not hurt the second time.”

“I’ll keep that promise.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, his tongue sweeping through, teasing, cajoling, almost distracting her…

He swallowed her cry as he joined his body to hers. She held him tightly, to hold him still, could feel the quivering of his muscles as he fought for control. He kissed away a tear that rolled from the corner of her eye.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“It wasn’t that bad, Tom. It’s just…”

He lifted his head, held her gaze, a question in his eyes…doubt, worry, concern. Emotions he seldom showed the world, that he only revealed with her. Her rough cowboy, who could melt her with a kiss, who wore a gun strapped to his thigh, her tough cowboy had a soft heart.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, imagined you this…close,” she whispered.

He blanketed her mouth with his as he began to rock his hips against hers, shallow and deep, long and short, slow and quick, until they found their rhythm. She felt the plea sure begin to build, intensify, until she was digging her fingers into his backside, urging him on. He carried her higher, farther…

Until the plea sure streaked through her, and she cried out for him, for her, for them. His gut
tural groan mingled with her cries as he arched his back, delivering a final thrust, and she felt the heat of his seed pouring into her.

Breathing heavily, he collapsed on top of her, both their bodies covered in a fine sheen of moisture.

“That was like a falling star,” she murmured.

He chuckled low. “So quick, you almost missed it?”

She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tightly. “No, Tom. So beautiful, it was worth searching for.”

T
om awoke to find her sitting on the floor in front of the fire, a blanket draped around her, her clothes still strewn on the floor beside his. He thought about telling her that he loved her, that he’d always loved her, but it seemed a cruel thing to do, as cruel as taking her to his bed when he had no plans to hold on to her.

He got out of bed, picked up his trousers, drew them on, and buttoned them up. If she heard him, she gave no indication, just sat there staring into the fire that was close to going out completely. He wondered if she had regrets.

He wouldn’t trade these moments with her for anything, but he wasn’t sure she could say the
same. She wanted Texas, and he could offer her only a little bit of it. Probably not enough for a woman who had taken to working in a shop so she could get herself back to the place that she loved.

He sat beside her, one leg raised, resting his wrist on his knee, gazing at her because he didn’t know how much longer he’d have before she wasn’t there anymore.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“How funny life is. You think you have it all planned out, that you know what you want, then just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“you don’t know anymore.”

He took strands of her loose hair, rubbing them between his roughened fingers, memorizing the texture for when the day would come that he couldn’t touch it.

“What don’t you know, darlin’?”

She looked at him then, such sadness in her eyes, that he thought he’d do anything in the world to take the sadness away. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Tom. If I go back to Texas, you won’t be there.”

“I will be sometimes. I’ve got my businesses. I can’t just let them go.”

She scooted up against him, laid her head against his shoulder, her arm around his stomach. He held her.

“Will you come see me when you come to Texas?”

His chest tightened with her words, because Texas meant more to her than he did. “Yeah, I will.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“Oh, Tom, you can’t promise me forever; that’s not a promise you can keep. You’ll get married—”

“Then I’ll promise you now. And I’ll make good on another promise I made: to make it better the second time. You had to wait a lot of years for my first promise to you to be kept, and I didn’t keep it the way I planned. I think I’m going to deliver this second one a bit sooner. If you have no objections.”

She angled her face up, parted her lips, and it was all he needed. He removed the trousers he’d only just put on and settled his mouth over hers. Plowing one hand into her richly abundant hair, holding her steady while with the other hand, he eased the blanket off her shoulders until it pooled around her. He laid her back, deepening the kiss as he followed. Part of him wanted to woo her with words designed to make her stay. Honest words. That he loved her. That he always had.

The young girl who had sharply criticized his bad behavior.

The elegant lady who tartly reprimanded his wicked habits.

The girl who cared about manners; the woman who cared about etiquette.

The girl who met him in the shadows of the night; the woman who did the same.

The girl whose smile had stolen his heart; the woman whose laughter kept his heart tethered to her.

The daring girl who offered him her unbuttoned bodice.

The enticing woman who carried through on the promise.

The girl who had left him behind. The woman who welcomed him back into her arms.

He skimmed his hand along the glorious length of her, over her hip, down her thigh. Silky smooth. Satin. If his mother had never taken him from England, his hands wouldn’t be so rough against her skin, but neither would they be so strong. In Texas they could have protected her, worked hard for her, given her a good life. In England, they felt almost damned useless.

Groaning low, he deepened the kiss, determined to become lost in it, to have her lost in the sensations that they could stir to life together. They worked well together. Always had. He dared her to be wicked. She dared him to be good.

They complemented each other. Not opposites so much as different pieces to the same puzzle. He could only hope that they’d always come together with the ease that they did now.

Her hands stroked and teased, squeezed and pinched as she trailed her mouth down his throat
along his chest, her tongue, heated velvet, leaving moisture in its wake.

With his knee, he nudged her thighs apart. A blanket against the floor wasn’t nearly soft enough, but he was too lost in the increasing frenzy of desire to carry her to the bed.

He slid his arms beneath her, held her close, rolled them both over, until he was on his back with the hardness of the floor beneath him, and she was straddling him. She released the tiniest squeak of surprise, then she was looking down on him, her skin flushed, her breathing harsh and rapid, her eyes glazed with glorious heated passion.

Sweet Lord, it was all he could do not to find immediate release right then and there. Had she ever been more disheveled…more beautiful? Had he ever wanted her more than he did at that moment?

She didn’t question him when he dug his fingers into her hips, lifted her up, guided her down until he was sheathed in her hot, velvety tightness. With a sigh, she dropped her head back. A woman on the cusp of rapture.

“You do the moving, darlin’,” he rasped, as he relished the weight of her breasts in his hands. Not fully growed? The woman had no appreciation for what she was offering him.

She slowly, tentatively began to rock her hips, circling, rising, dropping…

He clenched his jaw, felt the sweat gathering
over his forehead. She dipped her head, planted a kiss in the center of his chest, moved up slightly, and settled her mouth over his, her tongue boldly exploring the confines. He ran his hands over her, every inch of skin that he could reach, holding her close, following her movements with his own…the pressure building in him, in her. He could feel her tensing, tightening around him…

She tore her mouth from his. “Oh, God, Tom!”

Then she was crying out, shuddering, arching back, and his body released a deeper shudder, following where she was leading…

She sank down on top of him, loose, limpid, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her while their hearts and breathing returned to normal.

How in God’s name would he ever find the strength to give this up, give
her
up?

Lauren awoke languidly, nestled against Tom’s side. He was lazily stroking her arm. She tilted her head slightly and saw that he was watching her.

“I’m going to have to leave soon,” she said.

“I know.”

Reaching out, she traced the scar that she’d kissed earlier. There were several others that she could see. “When did you start remembering?” she asked quietly.

Shaking his head, he shifted his gaze to the canopy. “Things come in flashes.”

“But you were his heir—”

“But not perfect.” He looked at her, held her gaze. “I want to leave London. Come with me.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“To my ancestral estate.”

Holding the sheet close, she sat up. “My family is having a ball next week, and I’ll want to be here for that. Believe it or not, hosting a ball always makes my mother nervous.”

“Think she’ll invite me?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll make things right with Whithaven then. Meanwhile, let’s go away.”

“I’ll have to get a chaperone.”

“All right.”

“I’ll need a day to make arrangements,” she told him.

“Day after tomorrow then.”

Leaning over, she kissed him. “Now I need to get dressed so I can leave.”

“I’ll escort you home.” He snaked an arm around her, laid her down, and climbed on top of her. “In a bit.”

Reaching up, she placed her hand behind his head and led him back down to her. In a bit it would be. And then she’d have a week with Tom.

Would it lead her to heaven or straight into hell?