Mystic Cowboy(56)

As one, then two fingers rubbed in and his thumb rubbed out, the spasms shook her again and again. But this time, they didn’t hurt. This time, the spasms were nothing but warm waves of satisfaction, each leaving her limper than the last.

She felt so good, so much better than she’d ever felt. He hadn’t left her—no, instead, he’d come back with reinforcements and a promise of more, better, best. Neither of her previous lovers had ever come back for her. No one had ever given her what she wanted. No one had ever even tried to guess what she really needed.

Rebel did. And he was going to do it again.

The minute must have been up because he sat back on his heels and rolled on the second condom. Then he grabbed her legs and tucked her knees up under his arms.

“What—” What, what? Just admit that she had no idea what he was doing? That she’d never done anything more adventurous than the standard missionary?

He froze. She could feel him, just inches from being back inside her. “You trust me?”

Well, hell. She was in no position to argue otherwise. And she wanted him. She could only hope it wouldn’t be too weird. “Yes.”

“Then trust me.” With her legs still captive to his arms, he leaned forward, plunged in, and—and—

Light whiteness flooded her system, again and again, until she thought she would burn up from the heat. She wasn’t doing anything—anything but holding onto those biceps for dear life. He was doing it all, and, oh, God, he was doing it all so much better than she’d even allowed herself to think. Each stroke in was much tighter around him than even that first thrust. Each pull back hit something new inside her, something she was certain she’d never known was there before. And through it all, Rebel’s hips kept pace with the low moaning of her name, the sound of pure sex on the wind.

“Mad-e-line,” he repeated, over and over, leaning down harder and harder and thrusting harder and harder until he couldn’t say anything.

Until she couldn’t keep the scream inside. As it flowed out of her, everything—her mind, her hands, her legs, her everything—clamped down with enough force that even Rebel couldn’t stroke his way through it. But maybe he didn’t need to, because his head shook down, surrounding her in black silk, and he shuddered as she held him still.

And then they collapsed into each other, panting.

He didn’t say anything, She felt like she should be saying—doing—something, but what? Thank him for the amazing orgasm? Thank you—please. It would sound like he’d washed her car or something. Tell him he was the best she’d ever had? Shit. Could that get any more trite?

Tell him she loved him?

Did she love him?

Rebel rolled off her, which was a condom-driven necessity, she knew. But she wanted to hold on to him in an irrational sort of way that had nothing to do with proper usage of prophylactics. Even as he sat on the edge of the bed, she kept her hand on the small of his back until he stood and headed for the bathroom.

Yes. Right. She needed to get cleaned up too. Using the bathroom after intercourse helped flush the system, reducing urinary tract infections. She knew that, had told countless teenaged girls that.

But she didn’t want to get out of the bed, most especially if he got back in it.

She didn’t have a choice. “Your turn, beautiful,” he said as he walked around her cabin, art in motion.

And still, she couldn’t say anything for fear the wrong thing would come out, starting with, “Will you still be here when I get out?” and ending with, “I love you.” She couldn’t tell which one would be worse. She only knew they’d both come out wrong.

She hurried, thinking, please be there, please don’t leave, even as she was fully aware she was being ridiculous. He’d already sent that horse home. He wouldn’t get far, right?

She came flying out of the bathroom faster than she knew was prudent, but she couldn’t help herself. When it came to Rebel, she was increasingly unable to help herself, she realized.

He was on his side in bed, thank God, the sheet draped just so around his waist and nothing else. “I haven’t slept in a bed in a long time.” He was half asleep, she realized, his accent a whole lot thicker than normal. “If it’s okay with you...”

“Stay, stay.” Finally—she’d not only said something, but given the smile that managed to tug his lips up, it had been the right something.

She slid in next to him, and his hand draped over her waist until it was nestled between her breast and the bed. His skin, pressed along her entire back, felt cool against hers. “Madeline,” he murmured in her ear. “My love.” And then his body relaxed and his breath evened out.