One Night With The Texan. Lauren CananЧитать онлайн книгу.
heard the foil packet being ripped open and seconds later he returned to her. He raised her hands above her head and kissed her neck and breasts as he entered her and once again began to move. This time more forcefully, almost urgently, his strength obvious in the way he held her; the way he took her. He pounded into her until it was both too much and yet not enough, bringing her to the edge then backing off, over and over until she wanted to scream.
She whimpered her frustration.
“What is it you want, sweetheart?”
“Please,” she whispered, straining against him. “It’s so hot.”
The excessive heat between her legs burned and there was only one person who could give her relief.
He began to move again and this time it was with one intention. She became separated from reality, her body one with his. She couldn’t open to him enough as he fulfilled her every need, bringing her to orgasm then joining her. The groan he made as he found his release was the sexiest sound she’d ever heard.
He fell to her side and pulled her next to him, her head on his shoulder. She experienced the feeling of a warm, cozy cocoon, his heavy arms around her, holding her close. Later in the night she was awakened and, once again, knew mindless passion. Then, once again, she slept.
* * *
“Tallie!” a woman’s voice called out, followed by a knock on the door. “Tallie, where are you?”
She opened her eyes and looked around the room at the strange surroundings. “I’m in here,” she responded in a sleepy voice. The door opened and Ginger and Mac sailed into the room.
“When you never came back to the hotel, we got pretty worried,” Mac said, walking around the room. The soft morning sunlight attempted to enter through the edges of the lush, thick draperies. “Then early this morning some man called from your phone and left a message saying you were okay and where we could find you. He must have seen our panicky texts.”
Tallie sat up, immediately realizing she had on no clothes. Covering herself with the sheet, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight, you wicked, lucky girl.” Ginger smiled and winked at Tallie. “Who would have ever thought that, of the three of us, Miss Quiet Mouse would be the one to get lucky?”
“Eight...in the morning?”
“Yep. We need to get back to the hotel and pack. Our flight is at noon,” Mac reminded her. “And you will have two hours to tell us every naughty luscious tidbit of last night’s little escapade.” She tossed Tallie her clothes. “And this is one you’re not getting out of.”
“Are you going to see him again?” Ginger asked. “I couldn’t see him very well in the bar. Is he cute?”
Tallie didn’t know what to say. Cute was not an adjective she would use to describe him. Sixteen-year-old boys were cute. This was a man in every sense of the word. As far as his looks, she hadn’t gotten a very good look at him—everywhere they met, it had been dark. Would she recognize him again? Possibly. Possibly not. “I would have to say he was handsome,” she told Ginger. “And definitely sexy.”
“Yeah, we kinda got that.”
“He had a sexy voice when he called,” Mac added.
As Tallie moved to get out of bed she felt sore in places she never knew she had. She smiled to herself. He had been an exceedingly patient and proficient lover. Amazing. Just as she put her feet on the plush carpet a sight caught her eye. A folded store receipt. On the back was written “You are the best. Thanks, C—”
“What is that?” Ginger asked.
“Did he write you a note?” Mac asked, walking toward the bed. “I hope you got his phone number!”
Still staring at the receipt in her hand she slowly shook her head, still stunned that she’d lost all control last night.
“I don’t even know his name.”
Three months later
Tallie looked around her at the open farmland extending as far as her eyes could see. A river snaked through the golden, knee-high wheat, feeding huge trees that grew sporadically in giant clumps near its edge. An old trapper’s shack that a sneeze could probably blow down sat under the branches of a giant, towering oak. To the east were cliffs, their dark red composite a vivid contrast to the white-gold of the wheat. Dark impressions on the face of the cliffs gave indication of caves, which could have at one time been home to ancient people.
It had taken her an enormous effort to get the huge bulldozers and other machinery to shut down on this site. But she’d finally ascertained which man was the head of this operation and waved the court document under his nose. Now, with the motors of the huge machines turned off, only the sound of the wind blowing through the wheat and the occasional call of a bird remained.
Somehow in this mass of timber, cliffs and cultivated soil that went on for miles she was supposed to find confirmation that an ancient people had, at one time, existed. A tribe of Native Americans never referenced in any record book in history. Never mentioned by scholars or spoken of in the homes of the people. Except one: her paternal grandmother’s. The day before she’d died.
When a person so dear to her heart asked Tallie to find her people and, with trembling hands, opened her palm and dropped a tiny token into hers, Tallie had no other option but to promise she would do as asked. A sense of calm had overtaken her ipokini and, with a smile, she’d handed Tallie one other item: a doeskin about two feet square, rolled and tied with a braid of leather.
On the inside of the doeskin was a crude, hand-drawn map. One large area, marked in faded red powder, must relate to what her grandmother had asked her to find. It encompassed an area from a river on the west where the water washed the roots of a massive oak tree to just beyond cliffs to the east. At various points inside the red circle were rudimentary images similar to those found in caves. A horse. A deer. A warrior with a lance. A teepee village. At the top, a cryptic design indicated mountains. Across the bottom the word Oshahunntee. The tribe of no existence. Like many of the words taught by her grandmother, it was also unknown to all but a few.
Her ipokini was not a wealthy woman. Her gold was encased in a heart as big as Texas and spread among all the people she’d helped for almost one hundred years. For her to give Tallie something that must have been so special to her was a great honor. Tallie had promised her then—and in her heart now—that she wouldn’t let her down.
She had been surprised when her boss, the chief curator at the museum where she’d worked the past three months, not only okayed her request to do this search but had, in fact, become quite excited when she’d showed him the map. Instead of making her take a leave, Dr. Sterling had endorsed it as an approved dig for the museum, though Tallie would have to cover her own personal expenses. Dr. Sterling had even been able to point her to the part of Texas the map seemed to describe. Now, with the court’s backing to explore the site, only one thing might stand between her and discovery. She was pregnant.
Dr. Sterling had voiced his concern about her condition and made her promise to check in regularly. He couldn’t spare another associate to send with her and had made it clear she would be on her own. She’d convinced him she was fine. And she was. Or soon would be. Beginning her third month of pregnancy, she was almost over the morning sickness. At least, she hoped so.
Discovering she was pregnant from her night in New Orleans had been a life-changing moment. Her memories of the encounter were so hazy, it was almost as if she’d been in a blackout. But she was left with a very real reminder of what had happened. She had no hope of finding the father, and initially, her dreams of the future had gone out the window. She couldn’t imagine traveling the world on archeological expeditions with a baby. Yet as the idea of having one settled into her mind and filled her heart, she made peace with it. Other