The Forever Man(46)

The tears ran in a steady stream, her choked sobs accompanied by the  sound of his name, spoken in breathless murmurs and yearning whispers.  "Tate! Tate!" She twisted against him, her whispers urging him with  frantic wooings. "Yes, please … there … there." Her hands left his and  pressed the back of his head, as if she were fearful that he would move  from her. She leaned over him, her mouth brushing countless kisses  across his hair, his temple, wherever she could find a place to press  her lips. As though she were cradling a child to her breasts, she  rocked, pleasuring him with mouth and hands, her fingers tangling in his  hair, her lips speaking garbled phrases.

And then he was gone. He'd eased his way from her grasp, stripping the  undershirt he wore from his body. His hands were swift, tossing it to  the floor, then returning to undo his drawers and push them down his  thighs. Quickly he stood, shedding the garment, and her breath caught in  her throat at the sight.

Limned in the moonlight, he was framed by the window behind him, like a  mythical giant of yore, bent on conquering the woman before him. His  broad shoulders and narrow waist were a symphony of power, his arms and  hands, reaching for her, an extension of that strength. And when he  lifted her to himself, she groaned her exultation.

The touch of his warm flesh against her own beguiled her, the crisp  curls on his chest brushing her breasts coaxed her to move against him.  His arms tightened, one hand spread over the curve of her bottom,  pressing the urgent need of his manhood against the soft flesh of her  belly. Rigid and pulsing, it wedged between them, searing and seducing  her with its promise.

The long nights in his arms had only served to ready her for this  moment. The memory of hours spent in the circle of his embrace  surrounded her, enticing her with a sensual promise she could not  resist. A willing captive, she surrendered, clinging, sobbing, her hands  frantic against him as she groaned her need.

He fell with her to the bed, catching his weight on his forearms, lest  he crush her against the mattress, and she was fluid beneath him,  forming her body to his. Tate bent to her, his mouth seeking, taking her  cries and multiplying them with his own.

And then he could wait no longer, the days and nights of abstinence  pushing him beyond his limits of control. His knees pressed between her  thighs, and she moved to his bidding. Surging against her softness, he  held her fast, imprisoning her by the force of his male strength. As if  he must lay claim to his woman with no preliminaries, no coaxing phrases  or pleas for her favors. Only the primitive urgency of a man left  bereft by the absence of his mate for too long a time.

And yet it was more than that, for he could exist without the relief her  body offered. Even as he took possession of her, he knew that the force  driving him required more than ease from the passion possessing him in  these moments-more than release from his physical urgency.

The impetus was that of a man's powerful sense of completion. Without  this woman, he was less than he could be. Without Johanna at his side,  he was fated to forever seek the elusive unity they had only begun to  forge between them over the past weeks.

Lifting to meet his powerful thrust, Johanna caught her breath, her body  stretching to conform to him, her heart pounding against her ribs. She  twisted beneath him, sobbing as she sought to accommodate his manhood  within herself, clutching at him, lest he withdraw from her and take  that nourishing presence from her grasp.                       
       
           



       

"Johanna!" His muted cry was that of a man too long denied, a man who  had sought and in the seeking had finally found the satisfaction he  yearned for. And with a shuddering spasm that rocked them both, he  surged against her.

She cried out, her face buried against his shoulder, her teeth against  his flesh, her being held in the clasp of a pleasure so pure, it seemed  she might die from the pain of possessing it. And for a moment, she  rested in it, closing her eyes and absorbing the waves of shivering  ecstasy it afforded her.

He was heavy against her, and she reveled in his weight. His lips were  soft against hers, and she suckled them, carefully, tenderly. His hands  were lax, fingers tangled in her hair. She rubbed her head against them,  seeking the possession of his touch.

Tate rolled onto his side, taking her with him, folding her in his  embrace and pulling the covers over them to keep out the chill of the  night air.

"Tate … " Her whisper was his name, but he hushed her with a single word.

"No."

He could not bear to speak. He could not bear to listen. He could only  hold her, seek the comfort of her flesh for the rest of the night,  storing up the ardor she had spent upon him as a buffer against the  silent woman she might be on the morrow.

For although they had met and shared the passion each had offered the  other tonight, the reason for their estrangement had only been put aside  for this short time. And he dreaded the dawn, when the woman in his  arms would take on the armor of mistrust and wear it as a shield against  him.

She must learn in her own time, and nothing he did would bring that to  pass any sooner. Almost, he rued the moments just past. He'd behaved  like the stallion he'd bred to his mares, taking and conquering without  the wooing and coaxing a woman deserved.

He hugged Johanna to himself, knowing that he would do the same again if  he could live over those minutes of possession. That small space of  time when they'd become one in the fullest sense of the biblical term.  When each small part of them had been in complete accord with the other,  when their bodies had found completion in the molding and meshing of  male and female. When, for that small instant of time, he had sought  for, and found, a taste of what heaven must be.





Chapter Seventeen


"Looks like spring out there." Pulling on his coat, Tate turned from the  window, his gaze seeking Johanna. "Won't be long before we hear robins  in the mornings."

"I saw a pair last week." Johanna answered from the pantry.

"They're probably already nesting back home. I'd have had my land about  plowed by now in Ohio. I used to like watching the robins follow me  along the rows, looking for worms." He crossed the room as he spoke and  peered into the pantry. "You suppose we could have pancakes this  morning?" Johanna glanced up from where she was filling a bowl from the  sack of flour on the shelf. "I suppose," she answered quietly.

He'd watched her all morning, from the time she left their bed to dress.  She'd been aware of him, there on the bed, his dark eyes on her, as she  stepped behind the screen to don the dress she'd worn the day before,  unwilling to wear her Sunday dress to cook in.

He'd risen then, following her example, pulling on his trousers and  heavy shirt, and he'd been right behind her as she came down the stairs.  Now, readying himself for the milking, he dallied, his attention still  focused in her direction.

She squeezed past him, carrying her heavy crockery bowl in front of her,  her eyes unwilling to meet his gaze. "Breakfast will be ready by the  time you finish milking."

It sure sounded like an invitation to leave, as far as Tate could tell,  and his mouth twisted into a grin as he followed her across the kitchen.

"Johanna?" His fingers working at the buttons and buttonholes of his  coat, he came toward her, and she looked up from the egg she was  cracking into the bowl.

It was hard to face him this morning. She'd known from the first that  the memory of last night would lie between them. And Tate was not  willing to leave it dormant. She bit at her lip, wiping her hands on the  front of her apron.

"I don't think I want to talk about this, Tate." Their conversation had  been of robins and pancakes, but her mind had been on another subject  entirely, and she was well aware that his own thoughts had shared the  same topic.                       
       
           



       

He bent to kiss her forehead, a brush of his lips that spoke of  understanding. "Just one thing, Jo, and then I'll not say any more about  it."

She drew in a deep breath. "All right. What is it?"

"I don't want you fretting about what happened last night."

She glanced up at him and then away, as if the warmth of his gaze could  not be tolerated. "I'm … I just … " She turned her head aside.

His hand touched her cheek, and he spread his fingers to cradle her jaw,  tilting her head back. "Don't ever be ashamed of what you feel, Jo.  What we have between us is private. What we share is sacred to our  marriage."