She came in soft shudders. Then, to his surprise, as he prepared to ease his rhythm, to bring her down, to soothe her, she came again, her hips lurching upward, reaching a higher level, and he felt the deep flexing of her legs, the tightening of her muscles, the rippling of her flesh. Her hands fisted his hair and he breathed his hot breath against her and she came again. Arching and jerking, she was caught, by him, within herself, and when she quieted this time, he slid into her again, riding her deeply and silently, and spilling himself with gentle shudders deep inside her.
He had no more thoughts. She was against him, part of him, her warm breath against his throat, and when he had climaxed, when his own breathing finally slowed, he smiled down at her, for she was asleep. He joined her and they slept deeply.
Taylor awoke with a start, jerking upright, immediately alert. He whipped about, but he knew he was too late. Eden—No, not Eden and not Lynn. She was Lindsay and she wasn’t there. He felt her pillow. It was still warm, the indentation of her head still clear. God, he prayed she hadn’t run out on him. He cursed himself for not waking when she’d left the bed, for not feeling the emptiness when she’d left him. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
He threw back the covers and ran stark naked out of the bedroom. He ran down the long corridor toward the front door, and right into her, nearly knocking her down. She was ready to walk out the door, dressed, in her winter coat and boots and gloves, her huge bag over her shoulder.
He grabbed her arm, twisting her around.
Her face was white. Fear filled her eyes, fear and something else—something wrenching and frightening was there in her eyes. He ignored it.
He grabbed her other arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
She tried to pull away but he didn’t ease his grip. “Don’t you know about lovers’ etiquette? Rule one is you don’t run out. You don’t pull a disappearing act because you can’t face things, can’t face what you—yeah you, Lindsay—wanted to do and did with great enthusiasm and energy and passion. No, dammit, hold still. I’m not letting you go anywhere, so don’t try. Come with me. I’m naked and it’s cold and you belong with me, back in bed. Don’t fight me, damn you.”
He dragged her back to the bedroom. She dug in her boot heels, but it didn’t help. He was strong and mad and determined. She hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a single sound. There was just her harsh deep breathing. Once he got her in the bedroom, he slammed the door and locked it. He threw the key under the bed. He pulled her bag off her shoulder, then unleashed the strength he’d always controlled around her. He got her out of her coat and gloves and scarf. She was wearing a bulky wool sweater beneath, and tight blue jeans and boots.
He shoved her down onto the bed. She leapt up, only to have him shove her down again. She kicked out and got his thigh. He winced and cursed, realizing in that moment she knew karate, yet she wasn’t out to shred him. No, she battered him with her fists, but even then she was careful. A good sign, he supposed as he grabbed her right leg, held it up by shoving her flat on her back, knocking the breath out of her, and pulling off the boot. He got the other one off the same way. “Now,” he said, and grabbed her sweater. “Progress, at last.”
She began to fight him in earnest now. Still, she said nothing, struggling and twisting and striking out in an eerie silence that he refused to acknowledge. Her blue jeans were tough because they were so bloody tight, but he got them off her despite her fighting him, peeling them down inside out. He’d carry bruises from this, but what the hell. He saw the bruises he’d made on her hips from the previous night. He wondered if she’d noticed, and remembered her frantic movements, riding him, letting him work her up and down on him, his fingers digging into her flesh, all while she’d shouted and moaned and arched wildly.
He left her knee socks and her panties on. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, just a light wool teddy. He was in no mood for niceties now. He ripped it off.
“Now,” he said again, and brought her under the covers with him, holding her, stiff and hard and withdrawn, against him. It made him furious and he bellowed, “Feel me, damn you, Lindsay!” He pressed his hand against her hips, pressing her into his belly, against his hard penis. “I’m yours, dammit, and this body of mine is also yours and I’m not about to let you use me to cure whatever devils were chasing you last night. I’m not about to let you enjoy four damned orgasms that I give to you and then run out on me as if nothing happened. Do you hear me, you damned twit?”
“You’re yelling, of course I hear you. You needn’t use profanity.”
“Good, at least now you’re talking. Dammit. No, that isn’t profanity, that’s just appropriate exclamations. No, dammit, don’t struggle because you won’t get away from me. I like your belly against me; just get used to it. You’ve already bruised the hell out of me. You’re a dirty fighter, Lindsay, and those long legs of yours reached every part of me. But I’ve got meaner, nastier experience, so forget trying to get away from me again. Put your head on my shoulder and relax. Do it, damn you! There, that’s better.”
He could feel her hitching breath, nearly taste the uncertainty, the fear in her. Fear of him? No, more probably it was fear of herself, fear of a past that had colored her every action for years now. Finally her breathing slowed. He kept quiet, content to stroke her until she had eased against him, her muscles loose again.
“Now that you’re back where you belong, I’ve got something to tell you.”
He didn’t say a word. Finally she said, “What?”
He still held silent.
“What do you have to tell me?”
He kissed the top of her head and squeezed his arms around her back. “You’re the best lay I’ve ever had in my life.”
She froze on him, going stiff, and he simply held her. Hell, it was the truth, and some unvarnished truth was good for her. “In addition,” he continued after several moments of her rigid silence, “it’s a relief that you and I are magic in bed, since we’re going to be spending the next fifty years together. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. You enjoyed yourself last night. Good God, woman, you had four orgasms!”
“No, no, please don’t say that, Taylor. I don’t understand any of it, not me, not why or how. Last night—all during the night, I just don’t know. It was five.”
Good start, he thought, grinning as he kissed her ear and said, “Okay, five orgasms. I would have preferred an even half-dozen. Oh, yeah, I like your real name. When I thought it was Lynn, I was willing to accept it because it was who you were. But I must say that Lindsay suits you much better. Yes, I like you as a Lindsay.” When she remained quiet, he continued easily, in a chatty voice, “When you feel like telling me the rest of it, I’m here with ears on alert. I suppose that’s why you’ve kept your mail from coming here. I suppose that’s why you signed the apartment lease with one eye on me and your hand curved over your signature. No matter, tell me when you want to. I swear I won’t go find out on my own, and you know I could, being an ex-cop and a P.I. and a computer whiz on top of all that. I could find out who you are in about three minutes, probably less. I could have found out two months ago. But I didn’t. It’s been a real test of my beliefs in the right to privacy not to find out before.”
She stirred against him, not trying to pull away, just her body showing her restless thought, her uncertainty, but she said finally, “I meant to tell you my name. It’s just that it was never the right time and I was afraid that you’d know the moment you heard it, or you’d find out and hate me and—”