Honor Bound(53)

She saw his jaw bunch with tension. For a brief second, he looked directly into her eyes before he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to her neck. Moaning low, he inched closer, until her breasts were touching his chest.

His lips sipped at her skin, nipping at it lightly with his teeth. She felt the brush of his tongue, soft and wet and warm. It took every ounce of willpower at her disposal not to dig her hands into his hair and hold his head against her. He was exercising such self-restraint that she dared not move. It would be cruel to instigate something that couldn't be satisfactorily finished.

His mouth moved lower, touching her damply, taking exquisitely gentle love-bites. He raised his head slightly and looked down at her laden breasts. "If I…? Would your milk come?" He looked at her. She nodded.

A spasm of regret flickered across his mouth. He leaned away from her and paused for a moment before easing the gown down farther. He looked at her. At everything.

His eyes fastened on her womanhood. He touched the golden cloud of hair. He started breathing heavily, rapidly. Indeed, since the covers had been thrown back, the strength of his desire was no secret.

Suddenly his hand clamped her wrist. Alarmed by the abrupt movement, she raised questioning eyes to his. "You're my wife," he grated. "I won't be denied."

Before she realized his intent, he dragged her hand down, below his waist, and opened it over himself. Pressing. Her lips parted in an effort to protest, but his were there to seal hers closed and the words were left unspoken. His tongue plunged deep, filling her mouth.

He rolled her to her back and straddled her thighs. Their hands were trapped between their bodies, locked in the cove of her femininity and grinding against his manhood. He used his hand to maneuver hers, keeping her fingers tightly closed around him. Her palm provided the friction.

What happened then was so personal, so heart- and soul- and gut-wrenching that they both quaked under the tumult of it.

It lasted forever.

Finally, he rested his head on her breasts. His breathing was labored. She could feel his fingers moving mindlessly through her hair, as though reaching for something greatly desired, but elusive and just beyond his grasp.

Then abruptly, he rolled off the bed and came to his feet. He picked up the articles of his clothing with jerky movements and pulled them on haphazardly and angrily. He shoved his feet into his boots and, without so much as a backward glance, flung open the door and walked out.

Aislinn was dismayed and heartsick. She lay there staring at the door through which he had passed' grieved that he couldn't even look at her after what had happened. To her it had been beautiful. When his mouth had softened, when his tongue had ceased to be aggressive, he needn't have forced her to caress him. Though she doubted he realized that.

The immensity of the act had left her weak and trembling. It had left him angry. Had he been ashamed? Embarrassed? Disgusted? With himself or with her?

Or had he been as shattered by the impact of it as she? And, like her, was he bewildered as to how to deal with his feelings about it?

Both of them had survived childhood by keeping their emotions hidden. She had been taught by her parents to do so. Because of the scorn he had suffered as a child, Lucas kept his emotions carefully guarded to protect himself from hurt. He didn't know how to demonstrate affection and tenderness. He was even less adept at accepting them.

Aislinn knew then. She loved Lucas Greywolf.

And if it took her from now until her dying day, she would make him accept her love.

* * *

It wasn't going to be easy. She realized that the moment she entered the kitchen a half-hour later. Lucas was sitting at the table talking with Alice, sipping coffee and eating a stack of pancakes. He ignored Aislinn completely.

It was ironic that her penchant to stare at him coincided with his avoidance of her at all costs. While Aislinn's heart was stormy with awakened love, his eyes were as turbulent as a thundercloud. Through breakfast, their departure from Alice, and their drive to Lucas's ranch, he remained practically mute.

He provided monosyllabic answers to the questions she posed. Each inroad she made toward conversation met with a dead end. While her eyes wanted to gobble up the sight of him, he wouldn't make direct eye contact with her. She was amiable; he was querulous.

Once, after they had driven miles with Tony sleeping in his carrier between them, Lucas whipped his head around and demanded, "What the hell are you staring at?"

"You."

"Well, don't."

"Because it makes you nervous?"

"Because I don't like it."

"There's nothing else to look at."

"Give the scenery a try."

"When did you get your ear pierced?"

"Years ago."

"Why?"

"I wanted to."

"On you I like it."

His eyes left the road for another brief moment. "On me?" he sneered. "Meaning that it's okay for a man to have a pierced ear if he happens to be an Indian."

Aislinn bit back a retort. Instead she responded with a softly spoken, "No, meaning that on you I find it very attractive." His stern expression faltered for a split second before he returned his concentration to the two-lane highway that was taking them into the higher elevations of the White Mountains. "I have pierced ears, too. Maybe we can swap earrings."