It was a miracle that he could even form the words in his mind, much less speak them aloud. His body was pulsing with a need so great it surpassed mere desire. God, he needed to be sheathed inside her body, giving her the passion that threatened to kill him if it wasn’t shared. He was filled to bursting with his need for her.
And suddenly this revenge seemed a thankless, empty victory. He didn’t want to triumph over her. He didn’t want to see her cowed in defeat, but glowing with a desire to match his own. He wanted to see joy in her face, not subjugation.
But habits formed in childhood were hard to break. Nobody got the best of Lincoln O’Neal without knowing his vengeance. He’d had to scrap for every ounce of affection and respect he had ever received. He knew no other way to ask than to make it a demand.
“Tell me you want me,” he ground out again, clenching his teeth in an effort to keep his body from doing what it was primed to do without playing out this senseless game. He slipped the tip of his organ between the moist petals of her sex.
“I want you,” Kerry gasped.
“Inside you,” he panted.
“Inside me.”
Those two words snapped his control. He slipped into her body and gave a mighty push that sent him straight to her womb. He gave a cry of such anguish and regret that it seemed to echo off the endless sky. He wanted to withdraw, but his control was gone.
Knowing that he would be damned a sinner anyway, and powerless over the demands of his body, he made but three shallow thrusts before his climax claimed him. In sublime surrender, he buried his face in her neck and let the exquisite seizures wash over him. He abdicated control to the natural forces of his own body and filled the woman he had wanted for what seemed like a lifetime with the hot, potent issue of his loins.
For long moments afterward, he lay atop her, exhausted, spent, in blissful devastation. When he finally found the strength to pull himself away, he avoided looking at her. With endearing awkwardness, he draped a corner of the blanket over the lower part of her body. Lying there beside her on his back, he gazed up through the sparse branches of the mesquite tree and tried to think of a name despicable enough to call himself.
Because up until a few seconds ago, Kerry Bishop had been as chaste as the nun she had pretended to be. She had been a virgin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“No,” he sighed, knowing that that was true. He wouldn’t have believed anything she had said.
He rolled to a sitting position and hung his head between his widespread knees. For several minutes, he mumbled curses and epithets aimed at himself. Then he lapsed into silence. Finally he risked looking down at Kerry. Tears had left salty tracks on her cheeks, but her eyes were clear and staring straight at him.
“Do you, uh, hurt?” She shook her head. He didn’t believe her. “Do you have any water?”
“The canteen on the saddle.”
He stood and hiked his jeans up his hips until he could rebutton them. He went to the saddled horse, which had been docilely grazing through it all. The canteen was hanging from the pommel by a leather strap. He uncapped it, wet the handkerchief he’d put in his pocket that morning, and carried both the canteen and the soaked handkerchief back to Kerry. He extended it down to her and tactfully turned his back while she used it.
“Thank you.”
He turned back around to find her dressed and standing quietly, as though awaiting instructions. He’d not only crushed her physically...God, when he remembered how hard he’d been when he sank into her...but he had wounded her spirit as well. Her eyes were no longer sparkling with lights as pure and fine as costly sapphires. They stared at him dully.
“You’ll ride back with me,” he said. “I’ll tie the horse to the back of the truck.”
When that was done, he came to her, took her elbow, and led her over the rough ground with a solicitousness that would have been comical under different circumstances. It was he who winced when she stepped up into the truck.
It took considerably longer to cover the distance back to the house than it had taken Linc to get to the tank. He drove much slower, in deference to the horse that trotted along behind them and out of regard for the discomfort Kerry must be suffering. He knew the rough ride couldn’t be comfortable for her and cursed himself as a brute with each bumpy, bone-jarring, teeth-rattling turn of the wheels.
When they reached the house, he pulled the pickup into the garage and cut the engine. They sat in the deep shadows for a moment of ponderous silence, then he turned his head and asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Kerry glanced down at her hands, which were knotted together in her lap. You could say that you love me. “No,” she said, choking back tears.
Linc got out. Before he could come around and assist her, she climbed out of the cab and untied the horse. Wordlessly they led him into the stable and turned him over to one of the hands. Still maintaining that strained silence, they headed toward the house.
Everyone was congregated on the terrace. Jenny was bouncing a truculent Trent on her thighs. Cage was sitting in a lawn chair, staring broodily over the waters of the swimming pool, where all the children were splashing in the shallows. Roxie and Gary Fleming were sitting at one of the patio tables moodily sipping cold drinks. Sarah Hendren was clipping roses from an overloaded bush and laying them in the basket that her husband held for her.
The mood, except for that of the gleeful children, was glum.