Chapter 28

Trapper didn’t know what Kerra saw in his “look.”

Whatever it was, it aroused her. The second time was as intense as the first, the only difference being that he pulled out just before he came. Now they lay belly to belly, idly stroking, nibbling kisses.

“Your skin tastes salty,” she said.

“Price you pay for keeping this room like a sauna. My sweat’s drying.” He rolled off her. “Let’s shower.”

She complained as he took her hand and pulled her off the bed and into the bathroom. “That shower stall isn’t big enough for both of us, and, besides, I like salty.”

“I’m not showering to get clean.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “I do some of my dirtiest play with soapy hands.”

She laughed, and, although he enjoyed that husky sound, he loved the sighs and moans and whimpers she made when he proved it wasn’t an empty boast. He examined her with the precision of a diamond cutter.

Her body still bore bruises and scratches from her fall. Those he could reach within the confines of the minuscule shower stall, he kissed. Those he couldn’t touch with his mouth, he gently caressed with fingertips and palms, being especially careful with the two stitches on her thigh. Facing each other, as warm water sluiced over them, they kissed endlessly, the notch between her thighs nestling him, her nipples small and hard against his chest.

He washed her hair and turned her away from him as he rinsed it just so he could watch the shampoo suds slide down her back and funnel into the cleft of her amazing ass. She didn’t quite believe him when he told her it was necessary for his hands to be there to ensure that all the soap had been rinsed away.

Nuzzling her ear through her wet hair, he whispered. “However, the only truly reliable way to know for sure is by tasting.” Reaching around her, he turned off the taps, one with each hand, then stayed that way, holding the levers. Drops of water plunked from the showerhead. The drain gurgled its last swallow.

Kerra turned within the circle of his arms and looked into his eyes in that slumberous way that made his cock rigid and his knees weak.

He pushed open the shower door and assisted her out. Maintaining eye contact, he dragged the two towels from the bar. With them in one hand and taking Kerra’s with the other, he pulled her back to the bed.

Trapper guided her down onto the two towels, which he’d spread end to end on the bed before going to his knees. She lay with her hands palms up at shoulder level, thighs together. With his index finger, he again traced the V, ending at the point. Just that was enough to spread a fever upward from beneath his fingertip. She became full and achy, yearning.

He curved a hand around each of her thighs and, as he drew them apart, bent down and kissed her between them. His lips were closed and soft and, after that first contact, unmoving. They remained like that until she thought she would die from wanting to squirm, move, indicate in some subtle way that she craved more.

When she didn’t think she could stand the anticipation for one more heartbeat, his lips parted and she felt the first touch of his tongue. It was a swirl of caresses, a thrusting invasion as though staking her as his, followed by a succession of French kisses, the last one deep and searching and ending with a slow withdrawal that left her melting.

She bowed up, seeking—

But he knew. He slid one hand under her and tilted her up, his strong fingers kneading her bottom. The other hand he splayed wide between her hipbones, his thumb perfectly placed to gently pull back the softest of skin. Then his mouth was on her again, hotter, wetter. His tongue was in turns fervid and barely there, still and firm, then fanning and feather-light.

She sank her fingers into his hair, a silent plea.

He increased the pressure and the tempo. He laved her, loved her, until she was shattered by her orgasm. He held her, drew on her with tenderness but also unquestioned mastery, and didn’t stop until her body went limp.

When she opened her eyes, he was standing at the side of the bed, one knee planted on the edge of it between her open thighs. He was looking down at her with a slight frown, and suddenly she realized why. There were tears on her cheeks.

When she’d climaxed, not only had her senses become untethered, her emotions had as well. She had expected Trapper to be skilled. She hadn’t expected him to be so unselfish, so sweet.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She sniffed and wiped away the tears as she came up on her elbows. “Yes.”

“Tears of joy?”

“Something like that.”

His features relaxed. “It was good for me, too.”

“So I see.” His erection couldn’t possibly have escaped her notice. A bead of semen was clinging to the tip.

“Could I impose on you to do that thing with your thumb again?”

“Absolutely not.” She came up the rest of the way, and reached around him to place her hands on his butt. Leaning into him, instead of her thumb, she applied her tongue.

“I fantasized about that,” Trapper said in a drowsy voice.

He had already told her that her hair felt as silky against his belly as he’d imagined it would. Now he was sifting his fingers through it although it wasn’t completely dry. They had pulled back the covers and had gotten into bed. They were half lying, half propped against the headboard, legs braided together under the sheet, her head on his chest.

Idly she explored its contours. “You seem to have an extraordinary number of fantasies.”

“Guilty.”

“All of them erotic.”

“Got me again. But my fantasy women never had a face before.”

She stopped her play and tilted her head back to look at him.

“Recently,” he said, sweeping his thumb over her cheek, “the rock star of my fantasies has this bewitching beauty mark.”

She swallowed. “Does she?”

“Hmm. Eyes the color of a Hershey bar. And lips …” He rubbed the lower one. His voice dropped in pitch. “Two minutes after you knocked on the door of my office, I was fantasizing your mouth taking me.” He pressed her lower lip with his thumb. “I thought it was sexy then. Now … Damn.” He continued staring at her lips, gliding his thumb back and forth across the lower one.

Eventually, though, he withdrew his hand. His forehead furrowed. He cleared his throat. “Kerra—”

“You won’t respect me in the morning.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained serious. Realizing that he was done teasing, she moved off his chest and onto her own pillow.

“It’s about Marianne.”

“That’s none of my business, Trapper. I should have kept my observations to myself. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“But I want to explain, without losing my temper the way I did before.”

“Bad timing on my part. You were already mad at me.”

He acknowledged that with a nod, but she could tell that he wished to stay on track. He’d given thought to what he wanted to say, and he wanted, perhaps needed, to say it.

“Usually I don’t give a shit what anybody thinks about me, or what I do, or how I conduct myself. But since you’ve met Marianne, seen the kind of person she is, I want you to know how much I hate that she got hurt. No,” he said sternly. “That’s too lenient. I hate that I hurt her.”

He paused as though waiting for her to comment, but, when she didn’t, he continued. “But the way it turned out really was for the best. If she hadn’t miscarried, and we’d gotten married, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome, except that there would be another kid in the world growing up without a live-in daddy. Because eventually Marianne would have gotten sick of me and run me off, or I’d have left.

“Hank accused me of not caring about anything except myself and what’s eating me. I know that’s how it looks. To him. To everybody. But he’s wrong. I cared enough about Marianne to leave her. I knew if I didn’t, I’d make her miserable, and she deserved better.”

He inhaled deeply. “Sometimes I think about the baby we lost. Wonder if it was a boy or girl, if it would’ve looked like me. It haunts me some. But I believe it worked out the way it was supposed to. I’m not glad it happened. God, no, nothing like that. And I’m not rationalizing, I swear. I’m—”