Never the Twain (11 page)

"My pleasure, darlin'," he said, lifting her slightly, so that he fit between her legs. A
momentary pressure, as she adjusted to the size of him, then he was filling her. "Oh, God," he
groaned, his hands pulling her firmly to him. "Don't move. Don't even breathe."

She wrapped her arms more tightly around his shoulders, her legs more securely around his
hips, waiting while he took four, then five, deep shuddering breaths. But the wave was threatening
to break within her, and finally she moved against him.

That was all it took. He pulled back, then drove into her. Again and again. And she gave as
good as she got, for Genny had never felt a tempest such as this. The waves of pleasure built, until
her whole body was one burning, tingling
thing
, out of control, bent only on achieving total
satiation.

Time ceased while they lost themselves in each other, while they found themselves in a
universe of their own creation. Minutes? Hours? Eons? Later Genny lifted her weary head from his
shoulder and kissed him at the corner of his eye. "I don't think I'll ever move again."

"Me neither." His arms tightened.

All passion spent, Genny clung to mind-boggling memories of how he'd thrust himself
into her, over and over. Of how her body had responded in a way she'd never imagined possible.
Good grief, much more of that and I'd become his sex slave for life.
That possibility was greatly
dangerous, but right now, she couldn't figure out why.

She felt him slip from her body, spent but not entirely flaccid. Her knees were none too
steady when her feet touched the ground. She clung to him for a few seconds before sinking onto
the bench. Its splintery surface prickled tender skin, a small pain that somehow reminded her of his
hard, callused hands on her thighs.

Looking up at him, she watched his expression change. It went from gentle satiation to
grim determination.

"Rock? What's wrong?"

"Nothin', little lady. Nothin' atall."

But she knew he was lying. There was something very wrong.

He held her, but without the relaxed, tender closeness that Genny needed. Although the
old wood bench was splintery, they were soft splinters, the kind that cushioned rather than pricked.
She almost wished for the prickly kind. They would hurt her less than his withdrawal did.

"Rock?" she finally said. "Rock, I wish you would tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing. I told you nothing's wrong." He dipped his head and kissed her, a rough kiss, as
lacking in tenderness as his embrace. "It was good, okay?" His fingers tightened at her shoulder,
until Genny knew she could add one more bruise to her growing total for the afternoon. "We'd
better get dressed."

Abruptly he stood, a magnificent male animal, arrogant and proud. He picked up both
pairs of jeans, tossed hers to her. Without the smallest trace of self-consciousness, he dressed,
unhurriedly, gracefully.

Genny felt all elbows and knees. Despite a short, tempestuous affair in college, she retained
her fair share of body modesty. Group nudity--even a group of two--made her uncomfortable. She
wasn't shy about being naked during love-making, but before and afterward were a different story.
Her only other lover had told her she was a prude, and she had a feeling he'd been right.

She turned her back on Rock while she slipped into her clothes.

"Better hurry. I hear somebody comin'." He sat on the bench to pull on socks and
boots.

Genny's fingers stumbled at buttons, fumbled with shirttails that refused to tuck. "Don't let
them come in, Rock. I'm not dressed."

He went to stand at the door of the gazebo. She wasn't sure how much screening the
lattice walls gave, but they were better than her dressing in front of half of Jordan Valley. Finally the
shirt felt as neat as she could get it without a mirror. Now the boots. She could hear footsteps and
voices from not too far away.

"Lookin' for us, folks?"

"Actually, we weren't. Pancho wanted to show me the gazebo." It was Sophie. Darn! Of all
the people to catch her in a situation like this.

"You missed a good dinner, Rock." Even Genny could hear the laughter in Pancho's voice.
How could she ever face him? He had to know exactly what she and Rock had been up to.

There. Her boots were on. Her shirt was tucked and her pants were zipped. Ducking under
Rock's upraised arm, she slipped in front of him. "Hi. Sorry I deserted you, Sophie. Rock wanted to
show me the gazebo. And the woodlot. Isn't it amazing that woods like these can grow here in the
desert? I've never seen the like. They're so green and..."

Sophie was looking her over like she was a specimen under a microscope. Her aunt's smile
grew broader and more knowing as she took in Genny's appearance from head to toes.
Involuntarily, Genny patted her hair, the style Sophie had labored over just a few hours ago. Oh, no!
The braids were unpinned and hanging every which way. Some felt undone. She must look a
fright.

"I'm sure it was all very interesting, dear. You must have had an extensive tour, to have
taken so long."

Yes, that was definitely a smirk on Sophie's face. And she'd thought her aunt was a
lady!

"Well, I guess we'll go see if there's any dinner left. Come on, Rock." She knew her face
was the exact shade of ripe beets as she grabbed Rock's wrist and tried to pull him with her.

It was like trying to move Vale Butte. He didn't budge.

"Rock, please." She tugged again. "I'm really very hungry."

His grin was less than sympathetic, but he moved. "Gotta feed the little lady, folks. See you
later."

"Perhaps Miss Forsythe will give you a ride to the ranch, Rock," Pancho called. "I will
bring Miss Enderby in my pickup later."

Rock stopped, dragging Genny to a halt. "That's not a good idea," he said. "I think--"

"I think it's a delightful scheme," Sophie said. "Pancho has promised to show me the home
ranch on the way in." Genny saw her smile up at Pancho, a smile of amusement and something else,
something more fundamental. "Don't wait up for me, Genille. We may be very late."

Were those canary feathers all around her aunt's mouth? No, Genny decided. Not
Sophie.

Rock walked beside Genny, feeling lower than a snake's belly. He'd had her, just as he'd
planned. Just as he'd hoped to do since that day in the 'copter.

So why didn't he feel good about it?

It had been the best sex he'd ever experienced, and not because of technique. Genny
Forsythe didn't have
technique
as such. She was enthusiastic and passionate, instead. What
had made it special was the feeling of rightness when he was inside her, the conviction that this was
the first of many times when they would join bodies and more, finding pleasure and paradise
together. She wasn't a woman he could use and discard--not that he ever had, but he'd intended this
time to be a first.

Genny was all wrong for him. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. He knew
and he was still looking forward to next time. To many next times, if he had his druthers.

He looked at her, walking slim and graceful beside him. Her stride was free, with none of
the mincing or hesitation he had often seen in women unused to living outdoors. She swung her
arms loosely, took long strides, and held her chin high.

Her silvery hair, half-undone from the fancy style she'd started with, fluttered in the breeze
of her motion, glinting in the slanting afternoon sun. It must be natural, although he had never seen
hair that pale on anyone older than three before. He clenched his hands, resisting the urge to run
them through the silky strands, freeing the remaining braids, letting the long strands fall naturally
down her back.

"Did you know your hair's a mess?" He heard the harshness in his voice, the abruptness of
his question.

Her hand went to her head. "I suspected as much. There's not much I can do about it
without a mirror."

"You could let it down."
Oh, yes.

"But then everyone would think..."

"Darlin', the way you look now, everyone will think it anyhow." He didn't mention her
kiss-swollen mouth, the whisker-burned cheeks. As long as she kept the next-to-top button of her
shirt in its hole, the love bite on her throat wasn't too obvious.

She stopped, right in the middle of the path. "If I do, will you help me do something
respectable with it?"

"I surely will." She worked a couple of dozen braids free, dropping hairpins in the path and
ignoring them. Her hands flickered through the molten silver, bright red nails flashing. He watched,
fascinated.

Her pink tongue caught in one corner of her mouth as she finger-combed her loosened
hair, taming it into a fairly smooth mass of waves cascading over her shoulders. Rock took a deep
breath, one that somehow seemed to catch in his chest. "I've got a comb," he said, his voice
sounding strained, even in his own ears.

She smiled. "Thanks. I'll use it." She held out her hand.

Rock pulled it from his hip pocket. "Let me. I can get the back better." If she refused, he
would not let her use the comb. He wanted to touch, to stroke, to smooth.

Genny flashed him a trusting smile and turned her back. Gently he drew the comb through
the heavy mass, finding snarls and carefully working them free. With each descent of the comb,
from her scalp to below her slim waist, he stroked his other hand behind. The feel of her hair sent
shivers of delight along his nerves, all the way to his gut, where they turned into waves of heat,
surges of desire.

"Rock, why did you look so...so angry, back there? Was something wrong?"

Tarnation! Did every woman have to talk about sex afterward? "I told you, nothing was
wrong. It was great. You were great." He found yet another tangle and stopped talking to
concentrate on it. Finally, "I was just worried that someone was gonna come along and surprise us.
That wouldn't have been funny." He forced mildness into his tone, not wanting to tell her how
extraordinary he felt, how fresh and new the world seemed. If he let her know how profoundly their
lovemaking had affected him, it would be like putting on a halter and handing her the lead.

"No," she said, slowly. "No it wouldn't." He could hear the doubt in her voice.

God!
Seeing the hurt in her doe-brown eyes, he was reminded of a puppy he'd
once had. All it took was a harsh word and the poor little mutt was in abject despair.

"You seemed so far away," she said in a near-whisper. "As if you wanted to have nothing
more to do with me."

I shouldn't have anything more to do with you, darlin'....
The words echoed in his mind,
but he couldn't say them. He knew that now, his hunger for her satisfied, he should walk away from
Genny Forsythe, before he found himself caught in the same cleft stick his Pa had. The same one
Pancho seemed threatened by.

He couldn't. Not if his life depended on it.

He slipped an arm around her waist, again resisting the sense of rightness. "Your hair looks
fine. Shall we see if there's any dinner left for us?" He couldn't help grinning. She surely had made
him a satisfied man.

"Sounds good to me." She matched him, step for step, all the way back to the old
barn.

No one said a suggestive word to her. Genny couldn't believe it. Oh, some of the women,
particularly the younger ones, gave her curious looks when she and Rock walked into the old barn.
But she heard not a single comment on the state of her hair or clothing.

Of course, Rock fared not so well. The other cowboys were merciless.

"Don't you know you're s'posed to eat yore supper before you get dessert,
McConnell?"

"Trust Rock to hog the gazebo, so's none of the rest of us can have our turns."

"Slowin' down in your old age, huh, Rock? It used to take you about half as long, back
when you was a youngster."

"Which one of the posts was it you was carvin' on, McConnell? I fergit, and I wouldn't
want to mix up your notches with mine."

At that remark, Genny deserted her half-eaten food and ran for the restroom.

"Oh, no!" she wailed, seeing herself in the mirror. Even if Rock hadn't entered the barn
with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, their amorous activities were written clearly across her
face.

Application of cold compresses for about five minutes lessened the pinkness of her cheeks
and reduced the swelling in her lower lip. Nothing would disguise the mark on her neck, where
Rock's questing mouth had pulled blood to the surface of her fragile skin. She'd be willing to bet
that there were half a dozen more love-bites across her chest and midriff. Her face heated at the
memory of their placement.

Several deep breaths helped her gather her courage. She walked across the empty dance
floor to the table where Rock sat, sure she was the center of attention, at least among the gossips.
He was waiting for her, his mouth in a grim line, his eyes flashing fire. Several of the young cowboys
who'd been ribbing him were sitting self-consciously silent in their places.

She hoped he hadn't created a scene.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, before she was seated.

"I haven't had any dessert," she said, pushing her half-full plate aside. She wasn't really
hungry anyway, but she'd be darned if she'd run away in shame.

"Get it."

Genny didn't take well to being snapped at--she'd been pushed around far too often as a
youngster. As an adult, she was choosy about who ordered her around, and she didn't choose an
arrogant cowboy who had no business doing so in the first place.

She strolled to the buffet table and took her time choosing dessert. Small portions of each
of the three delicious-looking chocolate cakes, a sliver of some kind of fruit-topped cheesecake, and
a spoonful of peach cobbler. She looked longingly at the bread pudding and the raspberry trifle, but
resisted. Not so the homemade ice cream. Mrs. Daniels served her from the can, congratulating her
that she managed to get some before it disappeared.