Chapter Twenty-nine

Phoebe put his cock to the hot suck of her mouth. Her tongue laved the tip, circled, and drew him in. Her damp hair fell forward over her shoulders, draped the sides of her face, and swept his skin as she moved. She felt his fingers sift through her hair, brush it away from her cheek. His hand drifted to her shoulder, and his touch was both firm and gentle. The cadence of his breathing changed. She altered the slant of her mouth, manipulated his sac with her fingers, and then made a fist around the length of his penis below her lips. Her palm was almost as warm as her mouth, and it was as if she had taken all of him. She knew that because he told her so, but not all at once. What he said came in fits and starts between harshly indrawn breaths and sips of air. His fingers found her hair again, wrapped a thick coil around his hand, and he held her like that until his body jerked and jerked away.

It was his turn, then, and in movements both fluid and fierce, Remington released the rope of her hair, caught her under her arms, and wrestled her onto her back. Phoebe’s knees came up, her neck arched, and the breath she had been inhaling lodged in her throat. It did not seem at all strange to her that her body welcomed him outside of her consciousness. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, and her arms and legs and mouth all acted in concert to make that happen as though directed by a force outside her.

She was unaware of losing her towel until he flung it over the side of the bed, and she did not have a sense of her own nakedness until his mouth closed over her nipple. She hugged him with her thighs; her fingers slipped into his damp hair. Her hips rose and fell, at first in response to the rhythm he set, and then to one that was hers. He followed her lead. Time seemed to slow. When he lifted his head, she searched his face, saw the evidence of self-denial in his taut features and in his clear, steady gaze. He did not hide his need from her but neither would he allow it to overcome him, and this was his gift to her, would always be his gift.

She was safe.

“Don’t wait,” she whispered. “Come. I want you to come.”

It was her words as much as the contractions of her body that forced his surrender. The slow, measured thrust of his hips became quick and shallow. He arched his back, pushed himself up and in, and gave up a guttural cry as he shuddered with violent pleasure. He collapsed and lay heavily against her for a time, unable to move. It felt like an act of will to breathe just then.

His face was buried in the curve of her neck, and when he spoke, his moist breath shifted a few strands of her cocoa-colored hair. “Sorry,” he said, and started to rise.

“No. Not yet,” she said. “Please, not yet.”

He stayed.

It struck Phoebe that she had never known her body until she had known his. Somehow, lying under him in just this way, Remington’s long, hard frame, his tight belly and broad shoulders, the slim hips, and firm thighs, all of it defined the shape of hers. She was aware of the hollow of her throat, the delicate underside of her wrists, the way her breasts flattened against his chest, and the contrast of her pale complexion against the sun-beaten color of his. He made her understand how her body was meant to accommodate the presence of a man—this man—and that there could be pleasure in the accommodation. What had been largely a mystery to her was now revealed, and that it had been revealed to her with real reverence for her woman’s body, with passion and compassion, made her want to weep.

“Phoebe?” When Remington lifted himself away this time, she did not stop him. He yanked on the covers tangled at their feet and then stretched beside her, levering himself on one elbow so he could see her face. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but in a way that he found unconvincing. “What is it?”

She shrugged, though not in a careless manner.

Remington used a forefinger to nudge her chin his way. Her eyes shifted from the ceiling to him. “Did I hurt you?”

Shocked that he even thought it might be a possibility, Phoebe found her voice. “No!”

Her vehemence was reassuring, but it did not help him understand the bent of her mind. “I’m not good at this,” he said. “You have to tell me.”

She shook her head but did not dislodge his finger. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t have the words, not the right ones, but what you make me feel about myself, what you make me know, all of that is so much more than fine. You are good, Remington. Very good.” A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “You’re blushing.”

He did not attempt to deny it. There was no point when he could feel the warmth rising under his skin. “Those words you said you didn’t have? They were nice.”

She took his hand and raised it to her mouth. She kissed the fingertip that had been holding her chin hostage. “I need to excuse myself.” Her eyes darted in the direction of the bathing room. “I won’t be long.”

Remington nodded. He lifted the covers so she could slide out. Somehow she managed to find the towel he had been wearing and wrapped herself in it before she rolled out of bed. Watching her walk away, he said, “You can’t imagine how much I regret not tossing that one aside when I had the chance.”

“You never had the chance,” she reminded him, but then, just as she reached the doorway, she turned, gave him her sauciest smile, and while his eyes were riveted on her mouth, she dropped the towel.

Remington groaned and flopped onto his back when she disappeared from view. “You have no concept of fair play,” he called out. He heard her offer some kind of reply but could not make it out through the closed door. He stretched toward the bedside table and turned back the lamp, then rolled back to the middle of the bed and folded a pillow under his head. He had managed to erase the odor of whiskey from this breath but not its effect on his brain. He was tired. It was not a decision to close his eyes; it was more that he had no choice.

When Phoebe returned to bed, she found Remington deeply asleep. She crawled naked into bed beside him and used his body like a bolster at her back. She arranged one of his arms so that it hugged her waist and pushed her bottom snug against his groin. She smiled to herself when his penis stirred and he did not. He would probably add it to his regrets when she told him about it later. It was her last thought before she fell asleep.

And it was gone from her mind when she woke. Remington was deep under the covers, his face buried between her parted thighs, his tongue darting in a way that brought a sharp rise of pleasure each time it flicked over her skin. She had a drowsy memory of desire unfulfilled when she had left his side earlier, and he was laying that to rest now. Her fingers curled in the covers; her heels dug into the mattress. She inhaled in jagged little gasps that marked the steep climb of pleasure.

Phoebe closed her eyes, finding that even the deep shadows of the room were distracting to what she was feeling. He was tugging on a single thread of pleasure and she was unraveling. It did not frighten her, this feeling of abandon; she welcomed it, welcomed the anticipation, and embraced every nuance of the sensations that followed.

When his head appeared from under the covers, he regarded her with what she deemed was indecent satisfaction. She forgave him because she, too, was indecently satisfied, and reproaching him required infinitely more energy than she had now or in the immediate future.

Her perfect exhaustion was the same reason she did not try to stop Remington when he rolled out of bed. She did not even turn her head to follow his shadowed movements as he padded to the bathing room, and she was barely recovered enough to hold up the covers for him when he returned to the bedside.

He got in, and with no word passing between them, they inched together until they found the sweet spot where two bodies could lie as easily as one.

“When are you going to marry me?” he asked, nudging the crown of her head with his chin.

“Soon, I think.”

“There’s a judge here right now who would do it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked him. He was one of the men playing cards with Mrs. Tyler this afternoon. I saw him again at another table when I was talking to Junior and his wife.”

“Oh, of course, you would know him.”

“He wasn’t particularly pleased to see me outside of his courtroom,” said Remington. “Mostly because he was losing badly.” He waited for Phoebe to respond to his overture. When she didn’t, he prompted her. “So?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. If we did, would you want to tell everyone when we get back?”

Treacherous waters, Remington thought, and stepped in them anyway. “Yes, wouldn’t you?” She didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “I see.”

Phoebe closed her eyes. His throat sounded tight.

“I think I need to ask you again, Phoebe. Are you going to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“But not tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” she repeated.

“And not the day after that,” he said.

“Probably not.”

“But soon, you said. You think.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Remington said nothing for a time. The silence was not a particularly comfortable one, but neither of them sought physical distance. “I think there is something more to this than holding these moments close to your heart or Fiona’s objections or even the fact that I’ve barely started my goddamn list of things we need to discuss. What is it, Phoebe? What is it that you’re not telling me?”

She shook her head. “It’s not for me to say. It’s never been my secret to tell.”

“All right,” he said flatly. “You want to know what I did that put me in Fiona’s bad graces?”

“I never accused you of—”

Remington interrupted her without apology. “I turned her away, Phoebe. She tried to get me into her bed—my father’s bed—and when I would not oblige her, she came to my room, to my bed, and I came as close as I ever hope to striking a woman.”

Phoebe pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from howling. She felt as if her heart were being squeezed. Tears sprang to her eyes; she blinked them back.

He went on relentlessly. “I don’t pretend to understand her motives. I don’t believe for a moment that she wanted me in any real way except as she could use me. Her overtures were so bold, so likely to be discovered, that I thought she wanted to make Thaddeus jealous, or make him send her away, or make him send me away. Maybe she was driven to do it by something in her that I can never comprehend. Maybe she was simply bored. I pity her, and I told her so, and she will not forget nor forgive that as long as she’s drawing breath.”

Now Remington drew a breath and waited for his heart to settle into its natural rhythm. “That’s all of it,” he said. Urgency was absent from his voice. “What I did. What she did. It’s done.”

Phoebe lifted her hand from her mouth but only a fraction. “I think I am going to—” She did not finish the sentence, couldn’t finish it. She kicked at the blankets, found a way out, and leapt out of bed before there was any chance that he might stop her. Her hands trembled, the one that covered her mouth, and the one that fumbled with the door to the bathing room. She barely reached the sink before she began to retch.

Remington left the bed more slowly than she did, but he also had the presence of mind to take a quilt with him. He stood beside her at the sink, held back her hair, and laid the quilt across her shoulders and kept it there. When she stopped shuddering and heaving and could hold the blanket closed herself, he poured her a glass of water and tilted it against her mouth. She gulped, rinsed, and spit, and did it two more times before she was ready to swallow. Afterward, he made to lead her back to the bedroom, but she stopped at an overstuffed chair in the sitting area and curled there instead. Remington left her long enough to put on his trousers, and when he returned, she hadn’t moved.

He found her shift in the wardrobe and gave it to her. “You can keep the quilt, “he said, “but you’ll be warmer with this.” She did not object, but neither did she do anything with it once she had it in her hands. It was left to Remington to help her into it. When he was done, he laid the quilt over her and tucked on all sides. The sitting room had a rocker, an upright chair at the writing desk, and an ottoman large enough to seat two. He pushed it toward Phoebe and sat facing her.

“Give me your feet,” he said. “Like on the porch swing.” When she didn’t, he reached over, slid them out from under her, and placed them on his lap. He warmed his hands by rubbing his palms together before he laid them over her toes and the balls of her feet. He was satisfied when she closed her eyes and sighed.

“I don’t think you were surprised,” he said. The shake of her head was almost infinitesimal, but because he was looking for some reaction, he saw it. “But I don’t know if you allowed yourself to suspect.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered. She stole a glance at him. “Ben?”

He knew what she was asking. “I don’t know if she approached him. He’s never said, but he took to sleeping in the bunkhouse a lot. Then again, he’s willing to escort her into town.”

“You never said anything to Thaddeus.”

“No.”

“He would have believed you. Even now, after all this time, he would believe you.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never hear it from me.” He pressed his thumbs along the arch of her feet. “Too much?” he asked when she squirmed just a bit.

“Almost.”

Remington resisted applying more pressure. He worked his thumbs up and down her soles and watched her sink more heavily into the chair as she relaxed.

Phoebe watched him from under the sweep of dark lashes. “Why do you want to be with me, Remington? Knowing her the way you do, why in the world would you ever want to be with me?”

“You are not her.”

“But she’s . . .” Phoebe stopped, shook her head, helpless to continue in that vein. “You said I was like her.”

“I know what I said, and I know what I meant. I don’t think you ever did. You are nothing like her and exactly like her, but you are not her. There’s never been once that I thought so.”

“Marriage to me will tie you to her. Forever.”

“So? It will be a long leash. Your list, remember? I have an idea about building our home in the valley beyond the first pasture. That’s Frost land but well away from the ranch house. It’s green and lush in the spring and summer and has a fast running spring that even a harsh winter has not been able to freeze. I would have taken you there, made sure you agreed about the location, but I didn’t think you were ready to ride out with me when there was no good excuse for going.”

“Beyond the first pasture?” she asked. “How far is that?”

“About five miles.”

“So a very long leash.”

“Yes. Fiona and Thaddeus can tug on it, but we will be able to see them coming.”

“It would be our home?”

“Mm-hmm. I drew plans. I’m better at that than lists. Right now we can easily accommodate four young ruffians and add on if we have to.”

“Four?”

He nodded. “It seemed right, give or take a ruffian.”

“All boys?”

He chuckled. “You surprise me, Phoebe Apple. Little girls can be ruffians, too. I had it in my mind that ours would be.”

She dug one of her heels into his thigh because she couldn’t quite kick him. “Stop it.” She swiped impatiently at her eyes. “You are going to make me cry. I swear I am not a weeper. At least I never used to be.”

He lifted her foot so it was no longer pressing into him and continued massaging. “We’ll find someone to help you once we’ve moved in. Someone who can live there and keep you company when I have to travel.”

“Then we will have to find someone to keep her company because I will be with you.”

“Oh.”

“See? This is why we should have discussions.”

“What about the young ruffians?”

“Thaddeus will just have to find someone else to send on trips. You will want to stay close. I will want you to stay close.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve given this some thought.”

“I have names picked out.”

“And still haven’t thought about your wedding dress. You continue to put the cart before the horse.”

She nodded. Her smile was vaguely sly. “Don’t you see? If we go on as we have been . . .” Here she glanced toward the bedroom. “There is every chance a child will present itself sooner rather than later. I was thinking we might continue a Frost tradition.”

A crease appeared between Remington’s eyebrows. “And what tradition is that?”

“Why, naming our child after the shotgun at our wedding, of course. Colt. Winchester. Henry. Sharp. Spencer. Springfield.”

Remington let her rattle on as he pulled her out of the chair and carried her back to bed. Really, she was very good with lists.