Sea Witch (18 page)

left leg wasn’t working. He started to crawl to Danny, crumpled a few

yards away, his uniform torn and black with blood and grime. He had to

help him. He had to save him.
Crawl
.

He put one hand on the boy’s shoulder to roll him over and stared

into Maggie’s face.

Her head lolled. One side of her face was black with blood. It

streaked her hair and ran into the ground. Despair filled him. He was too

late, she was dead, he hadn’t saved her . . .

She opened her eyes—blue eyes,
Danny’s
eyes—and spoke.

“Wake up,” she said.

Caleb woke with a start. His heart pounded. His leg was on fire.

Maggie bent over him, her eyes concerned—brown eyes, so deep

and dark it was hard to tell pupil from iris.

She laid a hand along his cheek, cupping his jaw. “Wake up,” she

repeated. “You are dreaming.”

“Yeah, I . . .” He struggled to sit, fighting his way through the

remnants of his nightmare. “Sorry.”

“You are exhausted. You should come to bed.”

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“Yeah.” He got his feet under him and tried to stand. Fuck. “I, uh ..”

He rubbed his face with his hand as if he could scrub away the image

of Danny dying. Of Maggie, bleeding and naked at the base of the fire.

“How long was I out?”

“Not long enough, obviously.” She frowned. “You are in pain?”

“Kind of,” he admitted. His leg felt as though somebody had

whacked him with a baseball bat.

“Your sister gave me pills. You have pills?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Good.”

“No.” He was already reeling from the dream and stupid from lack

of sleep. He didn’t need drugs. “They make me loopy.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Loopy?”

“Tired. I can’t do my job if I can’t concentrate.”

“You are hardly alert now. You need pills. And rest. Come.” She

butted her shoulder against his chest, dragged his arm around her neck. “I

will help you.”

“I can walk.”

“Not well.”

He could have protested. But the truth was, she felt really good

under his arm, soft and warm and surprisingly strong. Her hair waved

against his cheek.

“Come on.” Her voice was breathless. He was too heavy for her. But

she didn’t sound annoyed.

He staggered with her to the bathroom and swallowed his pills.

Swaying on his feet, he did his business, washed his hands, and brushed

his teeth.

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When he opened the door again, Maggie was standing there, so

fucking beautiful his heart constricted in his chest.

“Come to bed,” she said.

The last of his nightmare vanished, banished by the prospect of

taking her to bed. His bed.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that.”

Her lips curved. “We met only three weeks ago.”

He leaned on her, nuzzling her, buzzed on Vicodin and the smell of

her hair. “All my life,” he repeated solemnly.

They shuffled the few steps to the bed, moving like kids at a high

school dance.

“I’m going to do you slow this time,” he promised. “I want to go

down on you.”

“Yes.”

He lowered himself to the mattress, aware of her busy fingers

tugging on the covers, on his shirt and belt. He lay back, watching her.

Her T-shirt gaped as she wrestled with his shoelaces. He could see her

breasts. So soft. So beautiful. So . . .

His head touched the pillow.

He slept.

Caleb drifted between wake and sleep, his mind floating and at ease,

and his body uncomfortable. He could dismiss the familiar pain of his leg.

The insistent pulse of his arousal was harder to ignore. Particularly with

Maggie lying soft and warm beside him.

God, had he really fallen asleep on her last night?

He turned his head. She slept facing him, curled in on herself, her

knees drawn up and one arm tucked under her pillow. Self-contained.

Secret.

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With one finger, he stroked a strand of hair back from her face,

careful not to touch her stitches or the purpling bruise on her forehead.

Despite her hurts, last night she had cared for him. Comforted him.

Undressed him.

The memory of her small warm hands tugging at him dried his

mouth. Anticipation buzzed in his blood, pooled heavy in his groin. He

rolled onto his side.

Her eyes opened, and her gaze fused with his.

He felt it again, that little shock of connection, that click inside, like

two pieces of a puzzle snapping together in his brain, like a key sliding

home in a lock.

“You’re awake,” he said softly. Foolishly.

“Mm.” Her hand glided down his belly, brushing his erection. “You

are, too.”

He half closed his eyes at the intense pleasure of her touch. “I

conked out on you last night.”

She stroked him up and down, slowly. “You can make it up to me

now.”

He caught her wrist and pulled her hand away from his body. “I plan

to.”

She tugged against his hold, a tiny pleat appearing between her

brows. “Then—”

“Ssh.” He stopped her protest with his mouth.

She responded easily, eagerly, parting her lips and kissing him back.

But when she would have taken the kiss deeper, when she sucked on his

tongue and slid her thigh along his, he trapped her hands again.

“Let me,” he whispered against her mouth.

“Let you what?”

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“Let me . . . kiss you. Here.” He pressed his lips to her warm,

flushed cheek. “Here.” He moved to the arch of her eyebrow. “Here.” He

nipped her chin.

She stopped struggling. Her mouth curved. “Anywhere else?”

“Everywhere,” he said, and followed through, touching and kissing

and licking his way down her lush, firm body, loving the way her breath

caught and her muscles tightened under his hands.

Her nipples stood at attention. He pushed her breasts together,

sucking and playing with them until she arched and offered more. He

wanted more. He wanted everything. To taste her, take her, keep her . . .

He clamped down on his greed, stroking his tongue over her again. He

wanted her to know who she was with. To need him. Remember him.

He skimmed his lips over her smooth, curved belly, pressed warm,

wet kisses to the insides of her thighs. Her hips lifted, inviting him,

urging him on. He parted her with his fingers, devoured her with his eyes.

She was slick and hot. Wet. Squirming. He lowered his head, inhaling her

excitement, teasing her with his breath.

She raised her head from the pillow, her eyes dark with arousal.

Watching him. “Please.”

He thrust two fingers inside her, feeling her clench around him.

“Please what?”

“Caleb!”

His name on her lips broke his control. He lowered his head, loving

the way she moved and shuddered, gasped and moaned under him.

Because of him.

He wanted to make this last forever.

Maggie had other ideas.

She grabbed his short hair and pulled hard enough to get his

attention. Her face was flushed, her eyes fierce. “Inside me,” she said.

“Now.”

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He was flattered, moved . . . and incredibly turned on. “Let me get a

condom.”

“Now.”

But he was determined to protect her. They’d already had sex once

without a condom. Maybe she’d been on the pill then. But she wasn’t

now. He needed to prove to her he could be trusted to take care of her.

So he made her wait while he opened the box and covered himself

and lay down again. His leg wouldn’t support him on top.

Maggie pushed him flat on his back and swarmed over him, her

naked breasts brushing his chest, her knees straddling his thighs.

He grunted in pleasure and pain.

She levered herself up, pushing against his shoulders. “Are you

hurt?”

No.

Yes.

Who cared? Her new position pressed their lower bodies together.

She was hot and wet and right where he wanted her.

He gritted his teeth. “No,” he said, and grabbed her hips, thrusting up

into her.

Magic
.

He wanted—he’d intended—to take it slow this time. But she was on

top, rocking him, riding him, taking him in a galloping rush of pleasure.

Her breasts were in his face, her lips swollen and parted, her eyes dark

and blind.

“Maggie.”

She looked at him, really looked, so he could see the heat and the

tenderness in her eyes. That was all it took. He came in a blinding rush

that emptied his balls and his heart. And thought he heard, as she

collapsed against his chest, her whisper his name.

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* * * *

Margred had missed the sunrise over the ocean. She’d missed

Caleb’s rising, too. At some point—after they had made love the second

or third time—he had left their bed. She heard him moving about in the

other room.

But he was right. You really could lie in this bed and watch the sea.

The dance of the sunlight on the waves gladdened her heart.

She stretched between the sheets, enjoying the feel of the fine fabric

against her bare skin. She had never slept with a lover before. It was

strangely . . . satisfying. The possessive weight of Caleb’s arm, the steady

cadence of his breathing, his naked body beside hers all night long . . .

His body temperature was several degrees cooler than hers. That, too, was

surprisingly comfortable.

The mingled scents of sex and man clung to her skin and hung in the

air of the room. She breathed them in, her body loose and relaxed.

And smelled something else. Something—cooking?— teasing her

nostrils and her appetite.

Caleb was cooking her breakfast.

How . . . sweet.

She pulled his T-shirt over her head, being careful not to catch her

stitches, and padded to find him.

He was in the kitchen, standing half-naked with his back to the

doorway, attending to something on the stove. Her gaze skimmed over

his smooth, powerful shoulders, down the strong, long line of his back to

the waistband of his jeans. And below.

Another hunger stirred. Maybe breakfast should wait.

She came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Good

morning.”

He jerked, tensed, and then relaxed. “Good morning,” he said, his

voice rough with sleep.

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She pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, ruffling her fingers

through the line of hair that bisected his muscled belly. He sucked in his

breath. His muscles jumped under her hand before he turned in her arms.

She could feel his arousal through his jeans, against her stomach.

She licked her lips. “What are you making?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Eggs. Toast. I’m not much of a

cook.”

She had never cooked in her life. She rocked against him, loving the

heaviness in his gaze, the hardness of his body. “It smells wonderful.”

His smile broke, more dazzling than the sun on the sea. “Witch.

That’s the coffee.”

She rubbed her nose against his bare chest. “Is that what it is?”

“Probably.” He cleared his throat and reached beside the stove for a

glass pot full of some clear brown liquid. “Want some?”

“Coffee?”

“It’s fresh.”

Margred had never begged for a lover. (And dismissed the memory

of her own voice, saying “Please.”) Perhaps he needed time to

recuperate?

Anyway, she was hungry.

With a shrug, she released him. “All right. Thank you.”

He poured her coffee while she sat at the table. She sipped from the

cup and grimaced. It didn’t taste nearly as good as it smelled.

“Do you take sugar?” he asked.

Did she? Why not?

“Yes.”

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He passed her a blue bowl full of fine white sand and a spoon.

Tentatively, she added a heaping spoonful to her cup.

Ah
. Better.

She added more.
Better still
.

She added a third spoonful, and closed her eyes in appreciation.

Heaven
.

Sighing with satisfaction, she set down her cup. “Thank you.”

Caleb regarded her, a quizzical expression on his face. “Don’t

mention it.”

He slid a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. Margred picked up

her fork.

He poured himself coffee and sat down facing her. “We have to

talk,” he said.

She paused with her fork halfway to her lips. “You don’t make that

sound like a good thing.”

A laugh escaped him. “Yeah. Well. If it helps you, it’s a good thing.”

A pause, while her breakfast cooled.

“You can trust me,” he said.

He looked so dear. So earnest. So . . . safe, with his jutting jaw and