Though she didn't lift her head, she did peek at him. His hair was wind-tangled, spread out on the table around him. The small brown feather rested against his chest, lifting and falling with his ragged breaths. His features were hard with leashed desire. His steely eyes seemed to burn out of the chiseled copper of his face. His expression said he wanted, needed, for her to strip for him, and—propriety be damned—she wanted to do it.
"If I... do," Amanda said as, pushing against his chest, she rose shakily to her feet and looked down at him uncertainly, "will you return the favor? Slowly. So that, piece by piece, I can see every beautiful inch of you?"
A spark of desire heated his eyes. "Do you want me to?"
"Yes."
"Then I will." He rose up on one elbow and, bending his knees so his feet were flat on the tabletop, nodded to the fire. "Do it. Take off your clothes for me. And only for me."
She nodded and slowly, hesitantly, walked over to the fire. A log split and fell. The hiss of crackling flames sounded loud in the ensuing silence; it masked the swish of her skirt as she turned to face him.
The heat emanating from the hearth was intense. It seeped through Amanda's clothes, warming her back, her bottom, the back of her thighs. The warmth was nothing compared to the heat in Jake's eyes. The way his gaze fired over her front was indecent, naughty, and exciting beyond reason.
Her trembling fingers paused on the top button of her collar. Amanda felt awkward, uncomfortable. She'd never taken off her clothes for another human being in her life. She was doing so now though, willingly, and she had a desperate need to do it right. She prayed her movements would look seductive and enticing, not trembling and schoolgirl clumsy.
With that in mind, she forced herself to stop shaking. She slipped the first button free. Then the second, the third, the fourth. She sent a quick look at the shadowy stairway, but the memory of Jake's words oddly reassured her that they wouldn't be interrupted. She didn't know why she believed him about that, she just did. By concentrating on what she was doing, not why, Amanda managed to work the buttons free down to her waist.
She parted the material wide, then pushed the sleeves down her arms. The bodice bunched around her waist in soft calico folds which she then pushed lower. With an unconsciously provocative swivel of her hips, the dress went shimmying o
ver her thighs and puddled in a heap around her feet.
It was as she stepped out of the circle of material and was in the act of bending to retrieve it, that she heard Jake's throaty moan. A secretive grin turned her lips as she tossed her clothing aside, then let her fingers stray to the laces of her chemise—the ones Jake had severed hours ago.
Jake wasn't looking at the neckline. He was only indirectly looking at the chemise. Through it would have been a better description. His gaze was fixed on the long, shapely legs that the rear-light of the fire outlined beneath the thin white linen. This morning he'd wanted this woman so badly he hadn't taken the time to visually appreciate her. He took the time now.
Tossing and turning on the barn's cold, hard ground, he'd thought time and again of what Amanda looked like naked. He hadn't remembered this much perfection; hadn't remembered how full her breasts were until he saw them straining against the confining linen; hadn't remembered how narrow her waist, how long and tempting her legs, until he saw them silhouetted beneath her chemise. He had remembered how much he'd wanted her, but his memory paled in comparison to how much he wanted her now.
"Come here," he growled, his voice ragged and sharp. He extended his free hand to her, and his eyes narrowed when Amanda shook her head.
"It's your turn, Jake," she whispered softly. As she spoke, Amanda slid the sleeves of her chemise leisurely down her arms. Clutching the bodice to her breasts, she rolled her shoulders back and forth, one by one working her arms out. Holding Jake's gaze, she let the swathing of linen drop away. The chemise didn't have to be coaxed over her hips. Unlike the dress, the undergarment was fully cut; it slipped down the length of her body with a gentle nudge and an enticingly whispery rustle of cloth.
"Come here, Amanda," Jake ordered again, his tone harsher, more ragged. When he extended his hand to her this time, she saw that his fingers were shaking. "Please."
She stepped out of the circle of wrinkled linen and, her shoulders square, her chin tipped proudly, walked over to him. "It's your turn," she repeated breathlessly. "Undress for me, Jake. And only for me."
He did. Like a sleek cat, he uncoiled himself and climbed off the table. He didn't move to the fire, and Amanda thought better of complaining about that. He removed the knives he kept tucked in the cuff of each moccasin, the long, fat blade and sheath attached to his belt. Each in turn were carefully, almost lovingly set aside.
Slowly, he freed the buttons on his shirt, then slipped the flannel sleeves down his arms. When he was free of it, he tossed it impatiently aside. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, then worked the coarse denim down his hips, over his heavily muscled thighs. Lower. Removing the moccasins took a more conscious effort.
Amanda's gaze devoured him greedily. She'd glimpsed the perfection of his body before, but it still amazed her. He was all copper skin and muscle. His chest was wide and firm and smooth, tapering down into a tight stomach and lean hips. Jet-black curls arrowed beneath his navel, drawing her gaze downward.
She started to look away, then decided that if she could strip for this man, and he could strip for her, then it stood to reason that looking at him shouldn't bother her. Her gaze strayed to the part of him that she'd been too fearful to look at this morning. Of its own accord, her hand moved. "Jake?" she asked, poised in the act of touching the part of a man's body a lady was taught at an early age she must never think about, let alone touch.
He reached out and coiled his fingers around her wrist, urging her closer, even as his hips thrust out to meet her. "I want you to touch me. I need for you to touch me."
"But—"
"Jesus, princess, don't start acting like a lady on me now! Touch me, dammit!"
She touched him. Softly. A hesitant stroke with the back of her knuckles. She marveled at his length and firmness, then touched him more boldly. Her fingers opened, wrapping around him, fisting him tightly, but not too tightly.
If he didn't know for a fact this woman had been a virgin when she woke up this morning, he would have sworn she was more experienced than she let on. She knew just how to move, just when to tighten, when to relax. She knew how to stroke and caress him until he burned. She knew when to hesitate until his body convulsed and demanded she continue or he would go insane.
His hands were on her shoulders, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. His control was shot, plain and simple. It was no longer a question of whether or not he would have her—they both knew he would—it was a question of how long he could hold out before he lost all control. It wouldn't be long. The pulse pounding in his ears, throbbing through the rest of him, told Jake he couldn't hold back long.
With more gentleness than he thought himself capable of, he laid her back on the table. Her hand fell away and she gripped the side of the table when his knee nudged her legs apart. She opened to him willingly, and he found the hot, moist place—his place—between her thighs. With one insistent thrust, he buried himself inside of her, as deeply as he could go.
The sensation he'd forgotten, that of coming home, hummed through his body, consumed his thoughts, and honed his awareness to an acute pitch. He rocked against her, rocked into her. Her legs lifted, wrapping around his hips as she moved with him.