The Merciless Travis Wilde

Chapter SEVEN



HE WASN’T GOING to make love to her.

What kind of man took advantage of a woman when she didn’t feel well?

He just—he just wanted to hold her.

Be with her.

Kiss her, just a little. Like this. God, yes, like this. Kisses that made her tremble in his arms.

And he wanted to touch her.

Not in a way that demanded anything of her. Asked anything of her.

He only wanted to feel the softness of her hair as it slid through his fingers, the warmth of her skin under the stroke of his hand.

But with her lips clinging to his, parting to his, with her body pressed to his, wanting was rapidly giving way to the heady rush of need.

For the first time in his life, Travis saw the difference between the two.

He was a man who prided himself on self-control, even in sex. Especially in sex. Only a fool let his emotions carry him away with a woman.

But it was different with her.

With Jennie.

He couldn’t get his thoughts together. Couldn’t focus on anything but her taste, her heat, her sweet moans.

He tried.

He clasped her shoulders. Drew back, just a little. Looked down into her lovely, innocent face.

“Honey.” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat but it didn’t help. “Jennie. We don’t have to do anything more than—”

She rose to him, put her hands into his hair, silenced him with a kiss.

“Are you telling me you don’t want me?” she whispered.

Travis took her hand, placed it over his racing heart, then brought it down, down, down to the fullness straining the fabric of his fly.

“What do you think?” he said thickly.

She gave a soft, incredibly sexy laugh.

“I think you need to take me into the bedroom. Behind you, through that door.”

He lifted her into his arms, carried her into a room that was hardly big enough to contain a chest of drawers. A nightstand.

And twin beds.

He almost laughed. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this.

“It could be worse,” Jennie said, as if she knew what he was thinking. He looked down at her, saw that her lips were curved. “The bedroom in my last place had bunk beds.”

He did laugh, then; she did, too. But when he felt the brush of her breasts and belly against him as he lowered her slowly to her feet, their laughter faded.

Her eyes were filled with need.

Filled with him.

Desire, sharp and hot, still burned within him.

But so was something else.

He wanted to—to take care of her. Protect her.

He wanted to be the lover he had not been that first time. The lover she deserved.

He kissed her. Gently. Framed her face with his big hands.

“I’m going to undress you,” he said softly. “And lie down with you in my arms. We don’t have to do anything more than that tonight.”

When she parted her lips to answer him, he silenced her with a kiss.

Then, slowly, his eyes fixed to hers, he began undoing the buttons of her blouse.

Normally, he was fine with buttons. Small, round bits of plastic; how difficult could opening them be, especially for a guy who’d been undressing women since the age of sixteen?

Very difficult.

His fingers seemed too big. Clumsy. He found himself concentrating, hard, on every miserable one of what seemed like an endless line of tiny plastic rounds that marched down her blouse.

She made a little sound.

He looked up.

“What?” he said, a little gruffly.

“Nothing. I mean—I mean—I can’t—” Her hands closed over his. “Tear the blouse, if you have to. Just—just touch me...”

On a deep, long groan, he did what she’d asked and tore the delicate fabric in two.

Then he drew back.

Not a lot. Just enough so that his eyes could take delight from the delicate beauty he’d uncovered.

Creamy shoulders. The rise of rounded breasts above a simple, white cotton bra. A tiny, heart-shaped birthmark just below the hollow of her throat.

How could he not have noticed that last time?

How could he not have noticed how sweet, how innocent she was?

He kissed the heart.

Kissed the delicate curve of flesh rising above the bra.

Kissed the center of each cup, where the faint pucker of fabric hinted at the nipples that awaited the touch of his tongue.

Jennie made a sound that tore straight through him.

“Travis,” she whispered, and he knew that no one had ever said his name with as much tenderness.

He reached for the clasp on her jeans.

Undid it.

Took hold of the zipper tab.

Drew it down.

Slowly he eased the jeans down her legs.

Such long, endless legs.

She was trembling.

Hell, so was he.

He slipped off her shoes, one at a time. Looked at her. Like this, barefoot, wearing the simplest bra and panties, she was a woman a man would ache to possess.

And, God, yes, he ached. For her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly.

Color swept into her face.

“I want to be,” she said. “For you.”

That was what he wanted, too. That her beauty, her unique self, be only for him.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you going to touch me?”

Her words were a magnificent torment. He wanted to do exactly that, wanted it more than anything...

He was drawn as tight as a bow.

He could see the pulse beating just beneath the tiny heart-shaped birthmark.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Take my hand,” he said in a gravel-rough voice. “Show me where you want me to touch you.”

He held his hand out to her. She stared at it. At him. He forced himself not to move.

It seemed an eternity but, at last, she took his hand. Brought it to her cheek. To her throat.

Her lips.

Parted them, and sucked one of his fingers into her mouth.

A low moan rose in his throat.

He was going to come. Sweet Lord, he was going to come...

He drew a harsh breath. Focused on her. Felt the pounding in his veins ease.

“Where else shall I touch you?” he said in a choked whisper.

Her eyes locked with his. She brought his hand down her throat.

To her breast.

Travis closed his eyes. Cupped his hand around the sweet weight, felt the push of the cotton-covered nipple into his palm.

“And—and here,” she whispered, as she drew his hand over her ribs, over her belly...

And stopped.

She couldn’t go any farther.

What she was doing was beyond anything she’d ever imagined doing with a man.

Letting him touch her so intimately.

Guiding his hand over her body.

Watching his face as she did it, seeing his tanned skin seem to tighten over the bones beneath it.

“Jennie.”

She blinked.

His eyes had narrowed and glittered like shards of obsidian in the night.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Show me what you want.”

She took a breath. Took another.

“I want your hand here,” she whispered, and she shifted her weight, brought his palm between her thighs, placed it against the part of her that throbbed with need for him.

He said something, low and fierce and shockingly primal.

She was hot and wet, and he couldn’t wait, couldn’t hold back, couldn’t...

“Travis,” she sobbed, “please, please...”

He reached for his jacket, prayed there were some forgotten condoms in the interior pocket. Yes. Thank God, there were two slim packets.

“Jennie,” he whispered, “beautiful Jennie.”

Somehow, he tore off his clothes. Fumbled with her bra, got the clasp undone, tried to deal with her panties, cursed and, instead, ripped them from her.

She was moving against him, her body hot against his, her mouth open and wet and seeking on his.

All his thoughts about doing this slowly, gently, never mind maybe not doing it at all, vanished like smoke on a windy morning.

The bed was a million miles away.

The wall was much closer.

“Hold on to me,” he said as he lifted her. “Your arms around my neck. Your legs around my waist...”

She screamed his name as he thrust into her.

He went still; was he hurting her?

“Don’t stop,” she said, “don’t-stop-don’t-stop-don’t-stop—”

He took her mouth with his. And moved inside her. Hard. Fast. She screamed as she came and still he went deeper, deeper, so deep that when the triumphal cry of his completion escaped his throat, the world spun away.

* * *

Somehow, they made it to the bed.

He put her down, kissed her, found his way to the bathroom and disposed of the condom.

The mattress was narrow; she made room for him but he gathered her to him, held her so she was draped over him, and the fact that there wasn’t really room for two people in her bed didn’t matter because he was never going to let go of her.

He was going to hold her like this until the end of time.

“Travis.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m too heavy...”

He laughed.

So did Jennie.

It was a lovely feeling, all that rock-hard male muscle vibrating with laughter beneath her.

The scientist in her had never thought that people would laugh when they made love.

The woman in her was thrilled by the realization.

“Seriously. You can’t be comforta—”

“You know,” he said, “when I was a kid, I had this old blanket that I absolutely adored.”

She folded her hands on his chest, propped her chin on them and gave him a wary look.

“And?”

“And,” he said, his expression dead-serious, “I couldn’t go to sleep unless I had it draped on top of me.”

It took all her effort to keep a straight face.

“Nice. Very nice. So, I remind you of an old blanket?”

He grinned.

“Does it help if I say it was a comforter, not a blanket?”

Jennie sank her teeth lightly into his shoulder. He gave a mock yelp.

“Hey. That was a compliment.”

“Telling a woman she reminds you of a blanket, even if you call it a comforter, is not a compliment, Mr. Wilde.”

“I didn’t tell it to a woman, I told it to you.” His grin faded. “Only to you, Jennie. Because you’re the only woman I want in my arms.”

“That’s lovely,” she said softly. “Because you’re the only man I want in mine.”

He kissed her. Kissed her again. She could feel him hardening against her and then he kissed her one last time and gently moved out from under her.

“Don’t go,” she said, before she could call back the plea, but it was okay, saying it, letting him know how much she wanted him, it was fine because he kissed her again and told her, against her lips, that he wasn’t going anywhere except to get another condom.

“Why would I ever leave you?” he said when he came back to her and rolled her beneath him.

“Travis.” His name trembled on her lips. “Oh, Travis...”

“Jennie,” he whispered, and then he was inside her.

* * *

She awoke to middle-of-the-night darkness, and to confusion.

She was in her bed—there was no mistaking the lumpy mattress—but she wasn’t alone.

She was lying on her side, head pillowed on a hard shoulder. An equally hard arm and leg were flung possessively over her body.

For a split second, her brain froze.

And then it all came back.

Travis, taking her out of that bar. His anger and then his concern. His toughness and then his tenderness.

His lovemaking.

His amazing, incredible, glorious lovemaking.

I should get up, she thought. Do whatever it is a woman does when she awakens with a man beside her.

What did you do in those circumstances?

You left the bed. And, what? Did you do just the basics? A bathroom visit? Fix your hair? Put on some makeup? Get dressed. Oh, absolutely. Get dressed, for sure. Get out of the bedroom, give the man some space.

All of that made sense.

Except, she really didn’t want to move.

It was—well, it was lovely, just lying here, Travis’s shoulder serving as her pillow, his arm and leg over her.

He was so warm. So solid.

So wonderfully real.

Sex wasn’t what you read about in textbooks. It wasn’t what you saw in psych counseling videos. It was—it was—

It was Travis.

He stirred in his sleep; his arm tightened around her and he drew her closer.

And this. Waking in a man’s arms. The feeling of him caring about you, protecting you.

Who would have dreamed that, too, was part of sex?

Research. That was what she’d called her plan to learn what sex was like, because calling it anything else had seemed ugly—but there was no pretending this was research any longer.

This was about him. Travis Wilde. A man she’d picked up in a bar, who was now her lover.

For a heartbeat, surely no more than that, Jennie gave in to the luxury of letting herself think of him that way. As her lover...

Pain knifed behind her eye, a brutal reminder of the truth and of where that truth would inevitably take her.

She clamped her lips together, biting back the cry that rose in her throat, but there was no stopping the pain. It was red-hot; it was ice-cold. It was worse than it had ever been.

She knew what would happen next. The chills. The shaking. The bits of her vision going gray.

She couldn’t let that happen, not while Travis was here.

She bit her lips hard, anything to keep the agony at bay, to let her get away without waking him. She moved quickly, carefully, slipped out from under the shelter of his arm and leg.

He stirred again, mumbled something. She held her breath until he was quiet. Then she rose to her feet, stumbling a little, recovering fast, gritting her teeth against the agonizing throbbing inside her skull.

She wanted to find her robe but there was no time to look for it with the room buried in the blackness of night. The last month, she’d slept with a night-light, a foolish talisman against the dark that was coming for her, but it gave her comfort. She slept with the one-eared toy dog, too; for foolishly sentimental reasons, she’d kept it all through her teen years. It had ended up being the one remnant of a time she’d been whole and well.

Tonight, of course, there was no light. And no toy dog.

Travis had been her talisman. Her comfort.

Carefully, she made her way to the bathroom. She eased the door shut behind her, felt for the shelf over the sink, danced her fingers along it, searching for the little bottle of tablets.

She didn’t touch the light switch.

She knew, from experience, that it would hurt her eyes. Besides, it would seep under the door and wake—

Her hand swept over the collection of tiny vials and containers.

“No,” she whispered, but it was too late. All of them fell, tumbling into the sink, the sound as loud and clear as if she’d come in here to play the cymbals.

The door flew open. The switch on the wall beside her clicked on; bright light flooded the bathroom.

She flung her arm over her eyes.

“Jennie,” Travis said sharply, his voice rough with sleep. “Baby, are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

Travis stared at her.

Fine?

He’d been thrown from horses just learning the feel of a man’s weight; he’d been ejected from a plane about to go down under enemy fire. He’d been hauled through a public square by a squad of goons determined to make an example of the Yankee pilot who represented everything they despised.

He understood what “fine” meant when it was spoken through tight lips from a face white with pain.

“The hell you are,” he growled.

Gently, he clasped her shoulders, then sat her on the closed toilet seat. There was a mess of pill bottles in the sink, plastic, probably, but he checked her face, her hands, her body for blood.

Satisfied that she wasn’t hurt, he clasped her wrist to draw her arm from her eyes...

“Don’t!”

Her voice was high and sharp.

His heartbeat tripped into double-time. So much for her not being hurt.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I told you, I’m—”

Travis cursed, gently drew her arm down.

Her eyes were tightly closed.

Okay.

No blood. No cuts. No bruises. But she was paper-white, and shaking, and when he asked her to open her eyes so he could check them, she hissed out a long, low “noooo.”

“Jen,” he said, squatting down before her, “you have to talk to me. What happened? I woke up, you were gone and then I heard a crash—”

“I—I had a headache.” Her voice seemed weak; it sent a chill down his spine. “So I came in here to get—to get something for it.”

“Why didn’t you put on the light? Why won’t you let me see your eyes?”

“I didn’t think I’d need the light. I mean, I know where everything is. And my eyes...”

A soft moan broke from her throat.

Travis cursed himself for being an ass.

She was hurting; she’d probably scared herself half to death and instead of helping her, he was asking her a bunch of dumb questions.

“Okay, baby. I get it. You have another headache, like the one you had earlier. And the light...”

The light.

Of course.

A former P.A. had suffered from migraines; she’d told him about the unbearable pain, the way exposure to light made the pain worse.

It was clear that Jennie had the same problem, and that she was having a bad attack.

He rose, switched off the light. He’d turned on the bedside lamp; its soft glow, coming through the open door, was enough for him to see by.

“Don’t move,” he said in a voice that commanded as much as it comforted.

Quickly, he scooped everything out of the sink—the vials and containers had all stayed closed—carried the stuff into the bedroom and dumped it on the dresser.

There were lots of labels; none of them bore names that were familiar.

“Which of these pills were you looking for?” he said.

Jennie told him.

He found the correct vial, shook a tablet into his hand and went back to her.

“One second, baby.”

There was a white plastic cup on the sink. He filled it with water and squatted before her again.

“Open,” he said as he brought the pill to her lips.

“I can—”

“Did I ever tell you I was a Boy Scout in my misguided youth?”

Her lips curved in a semblance of a smile.

“Come on. Take the pill. Good girl. Now a drink of water...”

He returned the cup to the sink. Took a neatly-folded face cloth from the towel bar and ran it under cold water from the tap, wrung it out and went back to her.

Her eyes were still closed, her face still pale. He took her hand, turned it up and placed the cool, damp cloth in her palm.

“Lay that over your eyes, honey.”

“Travis. You don’t have to—”

“‘On my honor,’” he said solemnly, “‘as a Scout...’ You want me to go back on those words?”

She gave a soft, tentative laugh. His heart leaped with joy.

“You? A Boy Scout?”

“Well, no. My brothers and I had our own thing going.” Talk, he told himself, as he saw color begin coming back into her face, talk and keep talking, let her hang on to the sound of your voice and maybe it’ll help drive away the pain. “Besides, Mr. Rottweiler, the troop leader, hated us.”

“His name was not Mr. Rottweiler!”

Good. Excellent. She was listening to him, concentrating on his stupid jokes. The pill, the compress, were working.

“How come you’re so smart, Blondie? His name was Botwilder. Close enough, we figured.”

“And he hated you?”

“Yeah, well, see, we’d tipped over his outhouse...”

The breath hissed between her teeth. Travis felt his gut knot; he reached for her, lifted her carefully into his arms. She wound her arms around his neck, buried her face against his throat.

“Nobody has outhouses anymore,” she said drowsily.

“Ah, but the Rottweiler did,” Travis said briskly as he carried her into the bedroom. “He made his wife and his nineteen kids use it.”

Another soft, sweet laugh. Another wish to pump his fist in the air.

“Not nineteen,” she said, and yawned.

“Okay. Not nineteen. Eighteen.”

He switched off the table lamp. Dawn was breaking—the light in the room was a pale gray.

Gently he lay her down on the narrow bed.

His heart turned over.

She was naked and beautiful, but what he saw, as he drew the duvet over her, was her amazing combination of strength and vulnerability.

“Travis,” she whispered.

“I’m here, Jen.”

“Thank...”

And then, she was asleep.

He watched her for a minute. Then he whispered, “Okay,” reached for his clothes...

Except, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He wasn’t leaving her.

She needed him.

An image shot into his head.

He, as a very little boy. Sick as hell with something kids get, a virus, a cold, whatever. Waking in the middle of the night, wanting the comfort of a pair of loving arms to hold him, then realizing there were no loving arms, not anymore.

His mom had died, and his father was away saving the world.

Travis dropped the clothes. Pulled back the duvet, climbed into the narrow bed.

Would taking Jennie in his embrace wake her?

He didn’t have to decide.

She sighed in her sleep, rolled toward him, burrowed into him as if they had always slept together like this.

He wrapped her in his arms.

Kissed her forehead.

And fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.