I still couldn’t believe that had happened. No wonder I’d been hiding the past two weeks. I was around a lot more—Bruce was already off at college for pre-season football so I was officially single—but mostly I stayed in the house. I was hiding and I knew it was ridiculous on my own family’s ranch, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what Declan had seen. And what I’d done on his bed.
I’d been restless that night, as I had been so often with Declan on the ranch. I couldn’t sleep. In the heat, the sticky sheets, the air that wouldn’t move, I’d lain on my bed throbbing and aching. Then, in the middle of the night, I’d been drawn down to Declan’s cabin like a sleepwalker, in a trance, pulled irresistibly down to where he lived.
I had a key to his cabin. We had keys to every building on the ranch. I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t be going in. But he was out of town, or supposed to be. I told myself he’d never know.
I’d never felt more mortified, never been more panicked then when I’d heard Declan’s voice in the doorway. After I’d come on my own fingers in his bed while calling out his name. He’d caught me. There was no going back. Now, without any shadow of a doubt, he knew exactly how I felt about him, how much I longed for him. And he knew what a nasty girl I really was.
Since then, I’d literally hid in the house. I’d managed to avoid him almost completely. Except one time for about the longest 30 seconds on record in human history. I’d made the mistake of heading down to the barn and then he’d walked in, no shirt, sweaty with his jeans low on his hips. He’d stood there like a caveman, a big piece of lumber tossed over his broad shoulder. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. All of the air left the barn. I stood, trembling, unable to look away from his heated gaze, scared and nervous and desperate to touch him. Then Bill had come in, thank God. I’d fled as fast as I could.
Now, again at the door of Declan’s cabin, I paused a moment so I could catch my breath. It wouldn’t do to show up panting and sweaty, especially if he were feeling just fine. But Daddy said he had a nasty flu. What if he wasn’t OK?
I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, then tried the doorknob. It was open, so I let myself in.
The room was dark and dank, shades drawn and no lights on. It felt like no one had let air into it in a couple of days. “Declan?” I called out. No answer.
Movement on the bed about made my heart stop. Declan lay there, eyes closed.
“Declan? Are you OK?” I rushed to his side. He didn’t open his eyes. Even in the dark room, I could see he looked sweaty and flushed. I brought my hand to his forehead. He was burning up.
Swearing under my breath, I headed to his bathroom. Did a pig-headed man like Declan have any medicine or did he just plan on walking it off all the time? Opening his medicine cabinet, I found a First Aid kit and then, on the bottom shelf, an old bottle of Aspirin. That would have to do. Shaking, I shook a few pills into my palm. In his kitchenette, I found a glass in a pile of dirty dishes in his sink. That would have to do as well.
Back at his side, I tried to coax him awake. “Declan?” I brought a hand to his hot forehead. His black hair lay plastered to him. I smoothed it back. “Declan, you need to sit up. You have a fever. You need to take some medicine.”
Suddenly, his hand grabbed my wrist and pinned it down to the pillow. He looked at me, wild-eyed and crazed with fever. “Don’t you dare!” he spat out.
“Declan, it’s Kara.” Frightened, I brought a hand to his unshaven cheek. “You’re sick.”
Panting, he sank back down, exhausted, eyes on me still. I grabbed the Aspirin and water from his bedside table and brought it to his mouth, half-expecting him to bash it away against the wall. Instead, watching me, wary and guarded like a wounded animal, he parted his lips. I placed the Aspirin in his mouth and brought the glass to his lips. He drank a sip and swallowed, then drank more, finishing the whole glass. Then his eyes shut again and his hand fell off of my wrist. His body slumped, passed out.
“Declan?” I tried, knowing it was probably useless. His lips looked so cracked and dry. “You should drink some more. You look dehydrated.” My hand still shaking, I brought my palm to his burning forehead. He didn’t move.
I hadn’t seen a thermometer in his bathroom. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d have anyway. Thermometers were for worried moms taking their kids’ temperatures. I was surprised Declan even had Aspirin.
Nothing to do now but wait and see if his fever would come down from the medicine. I busied myself cleaning up, opening the windows to let in some fresh air, washing the dishes in the sink. I found a large water bottle and filled it with cold water. I filled his empty ice cube tray and set it in the freezer.
Back at his bedside, Declan lay looking more peaceful in a deep sleep. Tentatively, I brought my hand to his forehead. It felt cooler. My entire body sighed in relief. If the fever could be controlled with medicine, he’d be all right. Probably. He just needed someone to make sure he took it.
I wondered how long he’d been down there sick by himself. Had he spent all day yesterday passed out, no water, alone in his suffering? I’d been around yesterday, I could have cared for him. I felt sick I hadn’t known that he needed me.
I grabbed a towel and filled a bowl with cold water. At his bedside again, I brought the cool, wet cloth to his forehead. He stirred slightly under the sensation, but didn’t wake. I had to guess it felt good, he must have been so uncomfortable, sweaty and dehydrated and alone. I wet the towel again, then brought it to his face. His cheekbones stood out more prominently, his stubble longer than I’d ever seen it. Even gaunt and sick, this man looked like the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
The sheet lay bunched down by his stomach. He didn’t wear a shirt. It was a testament to how sick he was that I hadn’t fully noticed that fact until now. Unsure yet driven on, I dipped the cloth back into the cool water, then brought it to his chest. He lay there, unmoving. Slowly, I drew the cloth along his pecs, so defined, bare for me to study. I’d watched him so many times, seen him from a distance without his shirt, but now here he was, at my touch.
Tattoos played across his muscles, tribal swirls along one shoulder, a band around his bicep. I traced them with the damp cloth, using that as my excuse to touch where I’d wanted to for so long. I might have been cooling him down, but I was heating up.
The cut of his pecs, the ridges of his abdomen, I drew the cloth slowly along every inch. This man was pure, packed muscle. Down at his side, I noticed the white, tough skin of a scar. Tracing my fingers along it lightly, I wondered what had happened. It had faded so much I hadn’t noticed it before. It had to be old, something he’d gotten years ago, but it had to have been painful, several inches along his stomach. There was so much I didn’t know about him, but I wanted to know it all, every untold story, every secret.
I didn’t know who he had close to him, but something told me he didn’t have many. Maybe no one. I wanted to kiss that scar, take the pain of it away, care for him better than anyone ever had. Softly, slowly, I drew the cloth along his skin, caressing every inch.
My hand rested on his sheet. A glimpse of his hip lay exposed. Bare. I realized that he probably had nothing on at all underneath that sheet. My breath caught in my throat.
I remembered the last time I’d been in his cabin, that night he’d caught me. So naughty, I’d turned the key in the lock, opened up his door and walked right in. I hadn’t made a conscious decision to get into his bed, it just happened. I’d lain on his bed, between his sheets still rumpled from where he’d last slept. Enveloped in the darkness surrounded by his scent, I couldn’t help it. So desperate for his touch, my carnal craving dominated all of my senses. I’d driven my fingers down into my soaking wet sex, working myself and coming so hard against my own hand.
I remembered the sound of his voice from the doorway when he’d said my name. The feel of his hands, rough down on my wrists after he’d come to me on the bed, pinning my hands above my head. He’d shocked me, touching my fin
gers and asking me if he’d smell my sweet pussy on them. I’d never heard anyone talk like that, never thought of anyone doing such a thing. But instantly I could see it, him sucking on my fingers, licking my own juices off of him. I nearly came again right there pressed underneath the hot, solid length of his body.
And now he lay before me, stripped naked. No washcloth now, I trailed my hand along his chest, up along his tattoos and hard, honed muscles. Down I swept my fingers along the ridges of his abdomen.
“Kara,” he whispered, hoarse, filled with longing.
I pulled away, sitting up straight, guilty as charged. His eyes remained closed. He didn’t move a muscle. Had he said my name, or had I made that up?
Tentative, I couldn’t help but bring my hand to him again. My full palm to his hot skin, I ran my fingers along his perfect chest.
“Kara,” he groaned again, yearning for me. No, I hadn’t made it up. He was calling my name, eyes still closed. Maybe he was half-awake, maybe still asleep and dreaming. He wanted me.
My eyes traveled down again to the sheet and then widened, because now I could see a huge bulge, outlined, thick and long against his thigh. I’d touched him and he’d gotten hard. He looked enormous.