Shotgun Honeymoon. Terese Ramin
his breathing went harsh and ragged, his arms contracted around her. “Definitely less. Has to be less. We could go, find a chapel, not an Elvis one, though, and—”
“Yes,” Janina interrupted, wild and giddy from the magic, the enchantment of the moment, the pure unadulterated impossibility that made her sure she should pinch herself to see if she was awake. She had to be dreaming because this was what she’d wanted since the moment she’d picked up her mother’s shotgun and skulked after him without him knowing it to make sure he’d be safe until help arrived the night Maddie Thorn had shot her father and killed her brother in self-defense and Russ had gone to rescue Maddie, the always-victim, again.
But Maddie wasn’t here and Russ was thinking of her, Janina, and only of her. Of her, Janie. And that was what made Janina look deep into his midnight eyes, touch her nose to his and know she wasn’t dreaming. That’s what made her repeat, “Yes,” breathlessly, with her heart in her throat, and then again, shouting, joyous, loud, clear and strong, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Then, laughing and oblivious to her bruises, to the consequences of dreaming without a thought to what came after you woke up—without a nod to anything but the unbelievable reality of having achieved your heart’s desire—she wriggled out of his arms, grabbed his hand and made a beeline across the Bloated Boar’s parking lot to her car.
And no, she didn’t listen to that far-off whisper, that superstitious mother-warning fading in the desert dawn: Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it if you don’t watch out.
By 6:30 a.m., they’d stopped for gas on the other side of Seligman, and Janina was feeling more than wild, beyond anxious, outside of nervous. Russ was no longer quite drunk, but he showed no sign of swaying from the path they’d set out on.
His hand resting on her thigh while she drove had played havoc with her concentration, her pulse and her blood pressure. The hand, the fingertips on her thigh had roamed up and down the inside of her leg, just high enough under her short dress to sketch ticklish, teasing circles that claimed her attention and made her catch her breath before stroking back down to the inside of her knee and letting her almost—almost!—relax.
Then he’d settled his arm around her shoulder, slipped his hand along her collarbone, over her throat, caressed the delicate skin there and slipped his fingers inside the deep neckline of her scooped-neck sundress to draw patterns along the top of her breasts, never quite touching where it ached.
And all the while he leaned close to her ear and told her to mind her driving, to watch the road, to concentrate on the horizon and not on what he was doing to her….
Thank God there’d been little traffic to speak of.
Even though she’d done as he’d instructed and kept as much of her mind as possible on the road, if he touched her again, she’d explode, she was sure. Because by telling her to concentrate on something else, he’d heightened the suspense, sensitized her awareness of him at the same time that he kept her focus elsewhere, sharpened the surprise behind what he did to her, and intensified the sheer eroticism and anticipation of what he didn’t do to her.
She was beyond needy, beyond ready, beyond…fevered. Her body wept to hold him, cried for his touch, begged—no, pleaded—to take him in. Literally ached to do so.
She had to do something about that. Had to. For her sake, his sake and the safety of any other driver on the road, she had to find some quiet little private nook and do something to relieve that ache.
Soon.
Russ glanced up at her from under the hood of her car and his hot gaze lingered on her mouth, her breasts, her legs, her thighs—the places he’d touched and the places he hadn’t quite—and Janina’s breath tripped, heart hammered. She felt the heat everywhere his gaze touched, as though he made physical contact.
She had to have more than his teasing.
Quickly.
The corner of his mouth tipped up. He knew, damn him. And then she didn’t care what he knew. Because he gently closed the hood, leaned on it to make sure it snapped tight and moved toward her. And backed her into the side of the car, between the open driver’s door and the back door he also opened to keep them out of the way of prying eyes.
Belly to belly, loin to loin, they rocked together lightly. Frustrated, tormented, tempted; his breath on her neck was ragged, and then his mouth closed on her pulse, his hands molded her rump, hoisted her against his erection and he ground himself against her. She whimpered softly and her body quickened instantly. She arched her throat then hooked an ankle around his calf both to balance herself and to give him better access to the center of her need.
His need.
Her entire body sang, from her belly outward, inward, hot and hotter, seeking flame to flame…when Russ abruptly gasped and raised his head. Untangled himself and thrust her away.
Separated himself from her, breathing hard.
“No,” he said emphatically—and more to himself than her, “Not yet. I promised. Not yet.”
Dazed, needy, frustrated and more than a little bewildered, Janina could only blink at him, reaching to draw him back. It didn’t matter where they were, he couldn’t leave her—them—now. He couldn’t.
“What? Russ, please. I need to finish this. We need to—”
He looked at her, stunned, and ran a hand over the side of his face, trying to collect himself. “I can’t, Janie, we can’t. Not yet. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that to you. Not yet. Not here.”
“Why, Russ, why? Please. You don’t know where you’re leavin’ me hangin’. I need you.”
His snort of laughter was short and harsh. “Trust me, you don’t know what need is till you’re standin’ in my skin. If I can’t have you soon…” He shut his eyes and swallowed.
She’d dated, been married, and there’d been other guys. A few at least. It didn’t matter. When he’d met Janina she’d been too young and too innocent, and he’d never quite been able to get over thinking of her that way.
He’d known that no one else would satisfy, no other woman would do since very shortly after he’d first seen her. Known it so hard that he’d been Celibacy R Russ because he didn’t want anyone but her.
But he also understood that most people wouldn’t understand things the way he did. They wouldn’t believe that he, a man—and not a particularly tame one at that—could live his life in so-called innocence—or at least without the trappings of sex—while the woman he craved seemed to live hers on the other side of it, because marrying Buddy certainly hadn’t kept Janina innocent. But he didn’t see it that way.
Because the one thing he knew after a lifetime of living, of friendship with Maddie, of growing up Indian on the reservation in Supai long before he’d become a Winslow cop, of watching people and being a cop was, that innocence was not a by-product of virginity the way the romance novels Mabel was always reading suggested. Janina had been married to a bully and dated and probably had sex, but compared to him…innocent of the world’s evils didn’t begin to cover it.
He knew in his heart which of them was innocent and which of them had never been. And sex and virginity had nothin’ to do with it.
Wherever she’d been, whatever she’d done, Janina had managed to come through it with hope, faith and self-possession intact. For whatever reason, he’d been born wearing the raw material of an adult: uncertainty, cynicism, irony, a sense of desperation and fear. And he knew gut deep to the soles of his feet that she would be better for him than he could ever possibly be for her, and that if she ever figured that out…
She couldn’t be allowed to ever figure that out.
He shut his eyes, rested his forehead on hers, put an infinitesimal distance between the length of their bodies with great care and cupped her face between his palms. “Just leave it at I promised myself I wouldn’t do that to