“Do you like that?” Wolf murmured.
She gasped, her slender body beginning to writhe slowly on the sheets in a rhythm as old as the ages. He opened her legs farther with his hand, then returned to his sensual exploration, and at the same time bent to hungrily cover her mouth with his own. Mary’s head spun, and her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him. She couldn’t believe how he was touching her, how it made her feel, but she never wanted it to stop. He was causing a fever inside her, one that spread and intensified until she was aware of nothing but her own body and his. His stroking fingers raised her to delirium while his mouth muffled the small moans she made.
She tore her mouth away from his. “Wolf, please,” she begged, frantic with need.
“Just a minute longer, sweetheart. Look at me. Let me see your face when I—ahh.”
She whimpered. He was touching her even more intimately, finding her damp and swollen. His black gaze was locked with hers as he slowly slid his finger inside her, and they both shuddered convulsively.
Wolf knew he couldn’t wait any longer. His entire body was throbbing. She was soft and wet and incredibly tight, and she was writhing on the verge of ecstasy. Her pale, translucent skin intoxicated him, enthralled him; just touching her made him wild. The textures of her body excited him more than anything he’d ever known before. Everything about her was soft and silky. Her hair was baby-fine, her skin delicate and satiny; even the curls between her legs were soft, rather than springy. He wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.
He moved between her legs, spreading them to make room for his hips to nestle against her. She inhaled sharply as she felt him, hard and burning. Their eyes met again as he reached down between their bodies and guided himself into position, then began entering her.
The storm was right over them now. The lightning cracked, and the almost simultaneous thunder boomed, rattling the old house. The sharply gusting wind blew the curtains straight out into the room, spattering rain on the floor in front of the open window and carrying a fine mist over their bodies. Mary cried, her tears mingling with the mist on her face, as she accepted his slow penetration.
He was braced over her on his forearms, his face just an inch from hers. He licked the tears away, then kissed her mouth, and she tasted salt. She could feel burning pain as her body stretched to admit him, and enormous pressure. More tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. He deepened the kiss as his buttocks flexed, exerting more pressure, and suddenly her body’s barrier gave way. He pushed deep into her, burying himself to the hilt with a deep, almost tortured groan of pleasure.
There was pain, but there was also a lot more. He’d told her that making love was hot and sweaty, and that she probably wouldn’t like it, and he was both right and wrong. It was hot and sweaty, and raw, and primitive. It was so powerful that it swept her along with its rhythms. Despite the pain, she felt exalted by his possession. She could feel the tension and savage excitement in his powerful body as she cradled him with her legs and arms, her soft depths filled with him. She loved him, and he needed her. She had never really lived before, until this moment when she gave herself to the man she loved.
She couldn’t keep it back, not that it mattered. He had to know already. Mary had never worn an emotional mask. Her hands moved over his sleek, wet shoulders and into his thick hair. “I love you,” she said, her soft voice barely audible over another booming roll of thunder.
If he replied, she didn’t hear him. He reached down between their bodies again, but this time his hand was on her, and he began moving. Heat shimmered through her again, making the discomfort fade; her body arched, hips lifting in an effort to take him even deeper, and she told him again that she loved him. Sweat beaded his taut face as he tried to control his thrusts, but the storm was in the room, in their bodies. Her hips undulated, rolling, driving him mad. They strained together, their movements punctuated by the thunder, by the thudding of the headboard against the wall, and by the creaking of the bedsprings beneath them. Low groans and soft cries; wet flesh and trembling muscles; hands clutching frantically; harsh, rapid breathing and urgent thrusts—she knew all of that, felt it, heard it, and felt herself being consumed by the fever.
“Wolf?” Her questioning cry was thin, frantic. Her nails dug into the flexing muscles of his back.
“Don’t fight it, baby. Let it go.” He was groaning, feeling his own completion approaching, and he had no more control left. He removed his hand from between them and gripped her hips, lifting them, fitting himself more solidly to her and rocking against her loins.
Mary felt the tension and fever increase to unbearable levels, and then her senses exploded. She cried out, her entire body shuddering and clenching. It was the sweetest madness imaginable, a pleasure beyond description, and it continued until she thought she might die of it. He held her until she quietened, then began thrusting hard and fast. His guttural cries blended with the thunder as he crushed her against the mattress, his body convulsing as the powerful jetting of completion emptied him.
They were silent afterward, as if words would be an intrusion between them. Their mating had been so compelling and urgent that nothing else had existed. Even the storm, as violent as it was, had been only an accompaniment. Slowly, reluctantly, Mary felt reality return, but she was content to lie beneath him and do nothing more than stroke his hair.
Their breathing had long since steadied and the storm moved away when he disengaged their bodies and shifted onto his side. He cradled her for a time, but now that their skin had cooled, the mist-dampened bed was distinctly uncomfortable. When she began to shiver, he got out of bed and crossed to the window to close it. She watched as his muscles alternately bunched and relaxed with each movement of his nude body. Then he turned, and she was instantly, helplessly, fascinated. She wished for the nerve to run her hands all over him, especially his loins. She wanted to inspect him, like an exploration, going over uncharted territory.
“Like what you see?” His voice was low and filled with amusement.
Things had gone too far between them for her to be embarrassed now. She looked up at him and smiled. “Very much. I imagined you once in a loincloth, but this is much better.”
He reached down and plucked her from the bed as easily as if she were a feather. “We’d better get dressed before you get cold, and before I forget my good intentions.”
“What good intentions?”
“Not to keep at you until you’re so sore you can’t walk.”
She looked gravely at him. “You made it wonderful for me. Thank you.”
“It was pretty damn wonderful for me, too.” One side of his mouth quirked upward, and he slid his hands into her silvery brown hair. “No bad moments?”
She understood what he meant and leaned her head against his chest. “No. That was an entirely different thing.”
But she hadn’t forgotten, either, and he knew it. She was still shaky and vulnerable inside, though she kept her chin proudly lifted. He intended for someone to pay for the damage done to her indomitable spirit.
He’d spent years living quietly on the fringes, maintaining the sort of armed truce that had existed between him and the citizens of Ruth, but no more. For Mary, he would find the creep who had attacked her, and if the townspeople didn’t like it, that was just too bad.
Chapter Eight
She threw Wolf’s wet clothes into the dryer, then prepared a late breakfast. Neither of them talked much. Despite her determination to overcome her shock, she couldn’t quite forget those horrifying moments when she had been helpless at the hands of a madman, for he certainly was mad. No matter what she was doing or thinking, a lightning flash of memory would catapult her back to the attack, just for a minute, until she could regain control and put it from her again.
Wolf watched her, knowing what she was experiencing by the way her slight body would tense, then slowly relax. He’d lived through flashbacks, of Vietnam, of prison, and he knew how they worked, as wel
l as the toll they took. He wanted to take her to bed again, to keep the shadows at bay for her, but knew from the occasional gingerness of her movements that she was too new to lovemaking for another bout right now to be anything other than abusive. When she was used to him…A very slight smile curved his lips as he thought of the hours of pleasure and all the different ways he would take her.
But first he had to find the man who had attacked her.
When his clothes were dry, he dressed and pulled Mary out to the back porch with him. The rain had diminished to a drizzle, so he figured they wouldn’t get too wet. “Come out to the barn with me,” he said, taking her hand.
“Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
“I’ve been in the barn. There’s nothing interesting in there.”
“There is today. You’ll like it.”
“All right.” They hurried through the drizzle to the old barn, which was dark and musty, without the warmth and rich, animal smells of his barn. Dust tickled her nose. “It’s too dark to see anything.”
“There’s enough light. Come on.” Still holding her hand, he led her into a stall where a couple of boards were missing from the wall, letting in the dreary light. After the darkness of the inner barn, she could see fairly well.
“What is it?”
“Look under the feed trough.”
She bent down and looked. Curled up, in a nest of dusty straw and an old towel she recognized, was Woodrow. Curled against Woodrow’s belly were four little rat-looking things.
She straightened abruptly. “Woodrow’s a father!”
“Nope. Woodrow’s a mother.”
“A mother!” She stared at the cat, who stared back at her enigmatically before beginning to lick the kittens. “I was specifically told that Woodrow is male.”
“Well, Woodrow is female. Didn’t you look?”
Mary gave him a severe look. “I don’t make a habit of looking at an animal’s private parts.”
“Just mine, right?”
She blushed, but couldn’t deny the charge. “Right.”
He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close for a slow, warm kiss. She sighed and softened against him, reaching up to clasp the back of his neck as his mouth moved over hers. The strength of his big body reassured her, made her feel safe. When his hard arms were around her, nothing could harm her.
“I have to go home,” he murmured when he lifted his mouth from hers. “Joe will do as much as he can, but it takes both of us to get everything done.”
She had thought she could handle it, but panic seized her at the thought of being alone. Quickly she controlled herself and let her arms drop from around his neck. “Okay.” She started to ask if she’d see him later, but kept the words unsaid. Oddly, now that their relationship was so intimate, she felt far less sure of herself than she had before. Letting him get that close, letting him enter her body, had exposed a vulnerability she hadn’t known was there. That kind of intimacy was a little scary.
“Get a jacket,” he said as they left the barn.
“I already have a jacket.”
“I meant, get one now. You’re going with me.”
She gave him a quick look, then dropped her gaze away from the awareness in his. “I have to be alone sometime,” she said quietly.
“But not today. Go on, get that jacket.”
She got the jacket and climbed up into his truck, feeling as if she had been reprieved from execution. Maybe by the time night came she would have her fears under control.
Joe came out of the barn as they drove up and walked to the passenger side of the truck. When Mary opened the door, he reached in and lifted her from the truck, then hugged her tightly. “Are you all right?” His young voice was gruff.
She hugged him in return. “He didn’t hurt me. I was just scared.”
Over her head Joe looked at his father and saw the cold, controlled rage in those black eyes as they lingered on the slight woman in his son’s arms. Someone had dared to hurt her, and whoever it was would pay. Joe felt a deep primitive anger, and knew it was only a fraction of what Wolf felt. Their eyes met, and Wolf gave a slight shake of his head, indicating that he didn’t want Joe to pursue the subject. Mary was here to relax, not relive the attack.
Wolf approached and looped his arm over her shoulder, using the pressure to turn her toward the stable. “Feel up to helping with the chores?”
Her eyes lit. “Of course. I’ve always wanted to see how a ranch works.”
He automatically shortened his long stride to match hers as the three of them walked toward the stable. “This isn’t a ranch, exactly. I run a small herd, but more for training and our personal beef than any other reason.”
“What sort of training?”
“Training the horses to work a herd. That’s what I do. I break and train horses. Quarter horses mostly, for ranchers, but sometimes I handle the odd show horse or Thoroughbred, or a fractious pleasure mount.”
“Don’t Thoroughbred owners have their own trainers?”
He shrugged. “Some horses are harder to train than others. An expensive horse isn’t worth a damn if no one can get near him.” He didn’t elaborate, but Mary knew that he got the horses no one else was able to handle.
The long stable jutted out to the right of the barn. When they entered, Mary inhaled the rich earth scents of horses, leather, manure, grain and hay. Long satiny necks poked over the stall doors, and inquisitive whickers filled the air. She had never been around horses much, but she wasn’t afraid of them. She moved down the line, patting and stroking, murmuring to the animals. “Are these all quarter horses?”
“No. That one in the next stall is a Canadian cutting horse—that’s a type, not a breed. He belongs to a rancher in the next county north. Down in the last stall is a saddle-bred, for some big rancher’s wife in Montana. He’s going to give her the horse for her birthday in July. The rest of them are quarter horses.”
They were all young horses, and as playful as children. Wolf treated them as such, talking to them in a low, crooning tone, gentling them like overgrown babies. Mary spent the entire afternoon in the stables with Wolf and Joe, watching them attend to the endless chores of cleaning and feeding, checking shoes, grooming. The drizzle finally stopped in the late afternoon, and Wolf worked with a couple of the young quarter horses in the pen behind the stable, slowly and gently getting them accustomed to bits and saddles. He didn’t rush them, or lose his patience when a fractious young horse shied away from him whenever Wolf tried to lift a saddle onto his back. He just soothed the colt and reassured him before trying again. Before the afternoon was over, the colt was ambling around the pen as if he’d been wearing a saddle for years.
Mary was enthralled, partly by his low, velvety voice, and partly by the way his strong hands moved over the young animals, teaching and soothing all at once. He had done that with her, but his hands had also excited her. She shivered as memories washed over her, and her breasts tightened.
“I’ve never seen anyone like him,” Joe said beside her, keeping his tone low. “I’m good, but not near as good as he is. I’ve never seen a horse he couldn’t settle down. We had a stallion brought to us a couple of years ago. He’d been put out to stud, but he was so damn vicious the handlers couldn’t control him. Dad just put him in a stall and left him alone, but every so often he’d leave sugar cubes, apples or carrots on the top of the stall door and stand there until the stallion got a good look at him. Then he’d walk off, and the stallion would get whatever he’d left on the door.
“The stallion started watching for him and snorting at him if Dad was taking his time about getting the food over there. Then Dad stopped moving away, and the stallion, Ringer, had to come up to the door while Dad was there if he wanted the food. The first few times, he tried to tear the stall apart, but finally he gave in and got the food. Next he had to eat out of Dad’s hand if he wanted his treat. Dad switched completely to carrots then, to make sure he d
idn’t lose any fingers. Finally Ringer was hanging his head over the stall, and he’d nuzzle Dad’s shirt like a kid hunting candy. Dad petted him and groomed him—Ringer loved being brushed—and gradually broke him to the saddle and started riding him. I worked with him, too, after Dad had him settled down, and I guess he finally decided he didn’t have to fight all the time.
“We had a mare come in heat, and Dad called Ringer’s owner to ask if he wanted us to try Ringer on our mare. The guy gave his okay, Ringer performed like a real gentleman, and everybody was happy. The owner got his expensive stud civilized, and we got a hefty fee, as well as a hell of a colt out of the mare Ringer covered.”
Mary blinked at all this talk of being “in heat” and “covered,” and cleared her throat. “He’s wonderful,” she agreed, and cleared her throat again. Her skin felt hot and sensitive. She couldn’t take her eyes off Wolf, tall and lean and broad-shouldered, the weak sunlight glinting off his black hair.
“When we get through here, maybe we could do a few lessons tonight, since I missed Friday night,” Joe said, interrupting her thoughts.
She didn’t like thinking about why he had missed Friday night, about the long hours spent waiting to hear if Wolf had been jailed. This afternoon had been a small oasis of calm, with the semblance of normality, but it would be a long time before things were back to normal in the county. A young girl had been raped, and Mary had been attacked the very next day. People would be enraged and wary, looking at their neighbors and wondering. God help any stranger who happened to wander through, at least until the man was caught.