Her Passionate Need Read online

  No! She wasn't going to think about after that! All this talk about people who barely came up for air during the first months of their marriage, well that's what it was, talk. What about jobs and other responsibilities—life? Who had time for…for being in rut or whatever they called it?

  Where was she? Oh yes, taking inventory.

  In the short period she'd been caught in the past, her breasts had been undergoing even more of a change…actually getting larger. She didn't see how that could be, but they now felt heavy and her nipples ached.

  Well, not really ached. Something much more pleasant and more than casually connected to the joining between her legs.

  Her breasts had felt like this when she and John had had sex, as if they were waking up and eager to take her on some fascinating journey. But John hadn't been much into foreplay—just saying the word made her feel as if her mother was looking over her shoulder and disapproving of the word—and she hadn't had the opportunity to explore that possible journey. She hadn't asked for more than her husband had been willing to give because, well, because she didn't know how.

  How did someone ask for something she wasn't sure existed and if it did, what it was all about?

  Without asking herself why or if she should, she pressed the palm of her hand against her right breast and flattened it slightly. That increased her cleavage, but that's not what held her attention. Fascinated by what was happening, she pressed some more and began a slow circular motion. She felt her breast grow increasingly sensitive. At the same time…

  Well, heck, at the same time she was definitely feeling something between her legs. That, too, was a sensation she'd experienced before, a kind of warm buzzing, a softening. She felt herself growing moist up inside her opening and risked a glance down at herself. Of course all she could see was a cloud of curly dark hair, but unless she was sadly mistaken, physical changes must be taking place.

  What was her sex organ called? Oh, her clitoris. Her gynecologist had said the word so matter-of-factly when she'd gone to him for a yeast infection that it had been several seconds before it dawned on her that she'd never heard her mother speak it. She'd heard other terms like cunt and pussy and even spoken them herself when she'd been with her high school girlfriends, but she'd never felt comfortable doing so and had simply parroted what she'd heard. And she'd never, never told her parents what went on during 'girl get-togethers' as they called them.

  She and John hadn't done much talking when they had sex, and she couldn't imagine being that…blunt.

  But John was dead, and she was alone with her thoughts and needs. Fighting back tears, she again looked at herself. This time she didn't feel quite so hesitant. Her dark green eyes stared back at her, neither approving nor disapproving. There was no need to glance over her shoulder or listen to see if anyone was coming. She'd have to turn up the heat pretty soon, either that or stop whatever this was that she was doing and get in the shower. But she sensed, somewhere deep down inside in a place she barely understood, that the time had come to take stock of herself.

  Not just stock. To learn things about her body she'd always hid from.

  You did the best you could, Mom, she thought. You raised me the way you were raised. But I'm an adult now. A widow asking what's going to happen with the rest of my life.

  Not questioning what she was doing, she took her nipple between thumb and forefinger and began gently rolling it back and forth. At the same time, she used her other fingers to massage the underside of her breast. Doing that increased the sensation of heat between her legs…her clitoris.

  She imagined a man doing that to her, not gentle, considerate John who'd always seemed slightly embarrassed about his physical needs, but a man who thought about her as much as he did about himself. He'd…what?

  What would a sexually assured, red-blooded man do to her? With her?

  Although she wracked her brain, she couldn't come up with anything other than what she was doing, and there was more to sex than playing with breasts.

  Still, this wasn't a bad start.

  She cupped her hands under her breasts and lifted them, felt their weight and warmth and texture, pictured work-roughened male fingers on her soft, pale flesh. The thought of the contrast of leather against velvet caused her breath to snag. She pulled into herself, became one with the fantasy.

  Her fantasy man would cover her breasts with strong, competent hands, bury the tender mounds under his own flesh, bone, and muscle. He'd knead them, flick his fingernails over her nipples until they felt like small, sensitive rocks. Then he'd flatten his palms over her breasts and press them toward her rib cage, force her back—back against the bathroom wall.

  She'd suck in her breath, pull her belly as far into her pelvis as possible and spread her legs, surrender, surrender…

  No. Not so fast. There had to be more to sex than that dark, nameless man whispering to her to open herself to him and then driving his thing deep inside her.

  She and John had always done it in bed with him on top, but there were other ways…ways that both captured her imagination and left her frustrated because her damned so-called imagination didn't go far enough.

  In the middle of trying to think where and in what position she'd most like to have sex, she realized that her hands were no longer supporting her breasts. Instead, they were now trailing down her rib cage, reaching her belly, feeling, testing, exploring everything from hips to belly button.

  Lower. Do it, Ana, lower. Don't be afraid.

  But I am. I am!

  Chapter 2

  In part because the bathroom felt cold and sterile and hard, in part because she wasn't sure how much longer she trusted her legs to hold her, Ana stumbled naked into the bedroom. At first she wasn't sure she could make herself get on the bed…her and John's bed with its inexpensive percale sheets…but then curiosity and need displaced memory.

  She was alive!

  And tonight was about starting to comprehend the true meaning of the word.

  Buoyed by that, she climbed onto the bed and settled herself on her knees. The long, nearly black hair she usually kept in a single braid slid over her shoulders to tickle the top of her breasts. She spread her legs slightly, then, slowly, as far apart as she could comfortably make them go so she could look at herself. She thought about getting a mirror to help her get a handle on what was in there, but she wasn't ready for that. By pushing her pubic hair aside and looking down, she managed to catch a glimpse of her sex organs. Her labial lips hung down more than she thought they would and, to her thinking, were hardly things of beauty.

  As an adolescent, she'd touched herself there and enjoyed the experience, but she'd always been so afraid her mother would somehow find out that she'd never been able to let go…to really explore the way other girls said they did. The way they talked about getting wet and hot—someone always said hot—had both embarrassed and intrigued her.

  The sensations brought on by her tentative adolescent probing had been pleasant; no doubt of that. Was that still true?

  You don't need to know, not tonight. Tomorrow you'll be meeting your new employer and off to do what he's paying you for.

  Don't, damn it! Don't back down!

  Are you calling me a coward?

  If the shoe fits. . .

  All right, already! It's not like anyone's going to tell.

  Is that what you're afraid of, that someone's going to disapprove? It's your body, for crying out loud!

  True.

  Sex had always been a little uncomfortable because she'd been pretty dry up inside so she put her fingers in her mouth to moisten them, then worked her fore and middle fingers past her dangling lips. To her surprise, despite the rather clinical approach, she felt her inner recesses press down as if in invitation. Encouraged by what she figured was her body's instinctive response to what she was doing, she reached up and in as far as possible. It was an easy fit and more than a little pleasant despite the lingering sense that she shouldn't be doing this. Intrigue
d, she wiggled her fingers. As the same time, she pressed her palm firmly against her pussy.

  Pussy! Holy cow! She'd actually thought the word!

  Something that started out as a chuckle but turned into a gasp escaped into the otherwise empty bedroom. With daylight gone and only a small lamp on, she felt her world closing in around her. There was just her and her need to be touched.

  Again and again she extended her fingers as far inside her pussy as they'd go. Each time she did, her inner recesses—was that what women really called them?—got wetter and hotter. Just as she felt her self control slipping away, she drew back but not all the way. In truth, she couldn't imagine stopping now. Pressing her palm against her outer lips made her feel trapped, almost speared, exactly the way she wanted to feel. Her fingers served the same purpose as a man's penis, taking and giving. Despite the cool air, she no longer felt chilled. There wasn't enough oxygen in the room.

  So far she'd been intent on how deeply she could penetrate herself, but although she was intrigued by what was happening to herself—what she was doing to herself—she couldn't completely ignore the strain on her legs and back. Despite her good physical condition, she wasn't a contortionist.

  With her fingers barely inside her wet pussy, she half rocked, half flopped onto her back and lifted her legs up and out so that anyone coming through the door would plainly see everything she had to offer.

  Offer?

  Eyes shut so she wouldn't have to look at the uninspiring ceiling, she held her pussy lips apart with her left hand while continuing her finger exploration. Her cheeks felt flushed, but embarrassment was the last thing on what little remained of her mind. Whenever her fingertips touched the front of her opening, what she could only describe as a hot tingling feeling intensified. She wasn't so naive that she didn't know there was more to her sex organ than lips and the opening where John put his penis but hadn't expected her clit—that's what it was, wasn't it—to be that sensitive. It didn't exactly hurt, but neither could she bring herself to press the slippery, hungry organ as firmly and freely as she did the rest of her clitoris. If she did, the top of her head might blow off.

  Blow off? Maybe that wasn't so bad.

  So why did playing with herself feel so darn good this evening? Because you've finally grown up, she told herself. You're no longer a shy little girl. . .a wife.

  No, that wasn't it, not all of it anyway. The conversation she'd had with that man, Devin, factored in.

  Thank you, mister. You'll never know what you've done, but thank you.

  Although in the real world she couldn't ever imagine wanting this, she mentally pictured the stranger she was going to meet tomorrow standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, his mouth lifted in amusement and interest at what she was doing to herself.

  Like watching do you? she asked him. Pull up a chair and sit down then. I have the feeling I'm going to be at this for awhile.

  On the tail of that thought, she felt her mind and body narrow down, eliminating everything except the area between her legs. Here, centered inside herself in a room that no longer felt cool, she didn't have to worry about bills and other responsibilities or how she was going to live the rest of her life. Nothing mattered except connecting with the fantasy of having a man watch her play with herself, her own fingers inside her own hole and knowing, absolutely knowing for the first time in her life, that she had every right to satisfy herself, to climb on a roller coaster and ride it to the top.

  No, not a roller coaster, the wilderness—an old-growth area deep in the Siskiyou Mountains. She'd be there alone with a fine mist falling over the dense trees and breathtakingly large ferns, the smell and taste of pine and earth. It didn't matter how she'd gotten there or whether she was lost. She'd come on foot, unencumbered with pack animals and camping equipment; in a fantasy, those things weren't necessary.

  She was simply there. Naked. Naked and gloriously alive. She stood on a rise looking out at a vast expanse of land seldom seen by human beings. Two hawks flew high overhead, silent as she was. A slight rustling off to the right alerted her to the presence of wildlife, and she stared until she spotted the newborn fawn and its rain-wet mother. She'd study the deer and they'd look back at her, all three of them understanding that they belonged in this place.

  Now there was another presence, male, primitive but not animal. Not afraid, not caring that she didn't dare run barefoot, she wrapped her arms around her naked waist and waited.

  He came. Silent as the hawks and deer. A mountain man in furs and rugged boots. He carried a rifle, and there was a knife at his waist, but like her, he hadn't burdened himself with belongings. His hair was long and dark and unkempt, and he was at least a week overdue for a shave. The brush and ferns seemed to part for him as he made his slow, confident, proud way toward her.

  In her mind and eyes, he was all grizzly-strength while she, a slender doe, waited for him. Closer and closer he stalked until she could smell him, feel his heat, return his bold gaze.

  I've been looking for you, he'd say.

  I've been waiting for you, she'd tell him.

  Her finger-fucks became harsher, quicker, jerking her hips and butt and causing her pussy to flood with its own juices. Wondrously caught in her fantasy, she barely noticed.

  She'd reach for her wilderness man's rifle, take it and lower the weapon to the ground, understanding its power. He'd hand her his knife, but instead of placing it beside the rifle, she'd glide the flat of the blade between her breasts, over her belly, between her legs.

  This is what I need, she'd tell him. Something hard and sharp and dangerous leaving its mark on me.

  Not a knife, he'd say and close his hand over the blade. She'd release her grip on it, entrust it to him again, widen her stance so he could see her sex. He'd bring the knife close, so close to her nether lips that the slightest movement would wound her. They'd both watch as her juices dribbled out and dropped onto the blade, proof that she trusted him.

  Then, as her fingers tap-tap-tapped against her throbbing clit, the wild man lifted the knife to his mouth and licked. He speared her with his eyes, raked over her body, silk and sandpaper in his gaze.

  Celebrate yourself, he'd say. Celebrate sex.

  She came, hard and screaming.

  Chapter 3

  Devin had told Ana that he'd be there in mid-morning, but that had been a lie. In truth, he'd wanted to get there earlier so hopefully he could observe her before she became aware of his presence.

  Now, after leaving his pickup at the side of the road leading to the isolated ranch with its corrals, pastures, and barn surrounded by forest, he made his way to the rise overlooking the operation. He carried a pair of binoculars. His cell phone was hooked to his waist.

  Finding a vantage point and focusing the binoculars didn't take long, but although he told himself to be patient, within a few minutes he was chafing at the lack of activity below. If she knew he was coming, she'd be out by the corral, wouldn't she? Doing whatever it was needed doing.

  He surmised that the horses and mules in the small, slightly rundown wooden corral were what he and Ana would be using. The mules were unimpressive looking beasts, not that he was a mule expert, but even the untrained eye could see that the horses were built for stamina, not speed. Like him, they were heavily muscled with broad chests.

  Chuckling…something that was rare for him…he hoped that was the end of his similarity to beasts of burden. Probably because, unlike the animals, he didn't simply stand around waiting to be told what to do next. In sharp contrast, he knew all too well not just what he'd vowed to accomplish, but how dangerous it could be.

  You'd hate me if you ever find out you're being used, Mrs. Briggs. But, fortunately for you, it's my job to make sure you don't.

  As if responding to his unspoken message, the front door of the small, sturdy- looking ranch house opened, and a woman stepped onto the front porch. Because she was staring over her shoulder at something, he couldn't tell anything about her features, b
ut damn it, no one had told him she had the healthy body of a lean filly.

  Shaking his head at the unexpected comparison between Ana Briggs and horseflesh, he ordered himself not to be distracted by first impressions. Still, as she descended the stairs and walked over to the corral, he didn't try to take his mind off her physical appearance. Her faded jeans looked as if they'd been put on wet and had dried to the shape of her long legs and small ass. He should have known she'd be wearing boots. She had on a long-sleeved, button shirt that tucked into her jeans, the soft blue fabric loose enough that he couldn't come to a definitive conclusion about her breasts. However, there was something to be said for leaving certain things to future exploration.

  Knock it off, damn you. This isn't about getting it on with this particular woman. The stakes are too high for that.

  Despite his admonition, he nevertheless continued his study of her. She'd reached the corral but instead of unlocking the gate and going in, she rested her elbows on the top railing and leaned forward, prompting the animals inside to wander over and sniff her. She stood motionless and on tiptoe for so long that he wondered how her calf muscles could handle the strain. Something about the way she carried herself, her ease and comfort around creatures many times her weight and size, forced his mind off what he intended to use her for and onto questions of what kind of woman she was.

  A widow. He knew that. A lonely, sex-starved widow?

  Stop it. You aren't that kind of man.

  But he was a man, a fact now making itself abundantly clear by his rapidly expanding cock. Angry, he readjusted his jeans to better accommodate himself, not that that eliminated the problem.

  The problem, for lack of a better term, was that there'd been no time or room for a woman in his life for the better part of a year. He'd occasionally dealt with pent-up frustration by showing up at one of Anchorage's bars and letting nature take its course—he'd never had any trouble getting women to come on to him—but he'd always gone to their bedrooms and left before morning. Hot, intense sex satisfied his immediate needs, but…