“Yes.” Talking about it more than that would make her uncomfortable. She didn’t want this moment to be about Dr. Taylor, or anything but how wonderful and anxious in the right kind of way it felt to be lying in the hammock with him.

  She glanced over her shoulder at his chair, positioned on the other side of the hammock. Getting into the hammock couldn’t have been an easy feat. “You never seem to worry about falling.”

  He shrugged. “You get past it. You have to. The first time I fell and figured out how to get myself back into the chair on my own, without it taking days, I honest-to-God felt like I’d won the winning touchdown for a state championship.”

  They lay in silence a few moments, the hammock swaying slightly from their combined weights and the fall breeze. The tree canopies above them were starting to turn yellow. In full fall plumage, they would look like the sun in leaf form.

  She remembered when he was on the football team. She’d never been to one of his games—far too noisy, too much activity. But she’d heard the recap when his family came home afterward, when she saw the light in his eyes, the flush of victory and excitement.

  It made her think of earlier today, that startling, heartbreaking moment when he’d touched her ankle.

  You can feel this, right? I sure wish I could.

  “Do you miss it a lot, playing football?” she asked softly. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  He brushed his lips over her forehead again. “You can ask me whatever you want, remember? Quid pro quo. And it’s okay. I'm okay with what my life is now. I miss it sometimes, but mostly I miss being able to move like that. I wouldn't have done anything with football after high school, because being great there doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be picked up by a college team. And now, I'm glad it wasn't going in that direction. Because to lose that, in addition to the ability to walk…not sure if I could have handled that.”

  He grimaced. “But knowing that I can still have ninety percent of what I figured my life would look like, working my family’s store, living in my hometown? I think that’s what really helped me deal with it, if that makes sense.”

  She nodded. She liked lying here, listening to him talk. His deep voice had the effect she’d mentioned to him, surrounding her, steadying her. All throughout the day, even when he was with customers, as long as she was within hearing distance, it did that.

  But here, with her head on his chest, that was the best, because it vibrated against her, filling her mind, her body.

  He’d moved his hand to her hip, his fingers wrapped at her waist. “You have any other questions for me?”

  She did, this one inspired by the playful moment with Amanda. “Les told me your mother named you after the hero of a romance novel.”

  He groaned. “I knew I should have drowned her as a baby. Yeah. It was a Viking romance called Tara’s Song, and the hero’s name was Rorik. She still has it on that shelf of books down in the basement storage room. Dad said she named me that because I came out looking ready to raid and pillage. Mom said she just liked the name.”

  “Rorik,” she murmured, trying it out. She slid her hand over his chest, back, forth, tracing the skin some more, threading through the curling hair. She spread her fingers out wide, so she could caress his upper abdomen, follow the slope of his rib cage, how it framed his muscled upper abdomen.

  She wondered if he would tell her to stop. Instead, his hand slid from her hip up her side, passing over her upper arm until he reached the side of her neck. His fingers caught in her hair, loose on her shoulders because she’d taken out the ponytail before she came to see him. He gripped her hair, tightened his hold in that way that made things in her stomach flutter as the rest of her stilled.

  He used that grip to tilt her head back, make her meet his gaze. “I want that gorgeous mouth of yours on me,” he said. “Everywhere I can feel it.”

  The switch from relaxed banter, his rueful self-deprecation, to this, a sudden dominant intensity coupled with a sentence that felt undeniably like an order, had shivers running through her.

  She adjusted so she was propped up against his side, and then leaned over him, bringing her mouth to his chest. He kept his hand in her hair, guiding her as she tasted, nuzzled his warm, firm skin, brushed her nose and then her cheek against his chest hair. His abdomen contracted under her palm, resting against it.

  A quick glance upward showed his fiery gaze fixed on her face. She moved her mouth over his nipple, licked it delicately with the tip of her tongue, kissed and sucked lightly. The response was breathtaking. He arched up, his other hand falling on her shoulder, while his grip on her scalp became even stronger, holding her there as she teased. Until he hauled her up to his mouth in a breathtakingly demanding way.

  She made a needy sound into it as he devoured, playing with her tongue, her lips, moving his other hand down so he was gripping her ass again, pulling her over him so she was stretched out almost fully upon him, her thighs open over his propped thigh so it pressed between her legs.

  He eased her back enough to pin her with that unrelenting stare. “Take off everything but your panties. Then turn around, face toward my feet, and thread your legs through here.” He reached above him, past the straight frame piece over their heads, where the strung hammock ropes narrowed into a V-shape leading to the part that was tied around the tree. “Ask me why I want you to do that.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I want to put my mouth between your legs. Feel you writhe and squirm and come apart while I play with what’s mine as long as I want. It’s a nice afternoon. A lot of time to do stuff in a leisurely, long way. Mom won’t be home until late, and no one can see us back here.”

  Her heartbeat had moved up into her throat. She moved as if through a warm, strong wind, tipping herself off the hammock to remove everything but her pink cotton underwear. He held on to her when she removed the jeans, steadying her. His gaze didn’t leave her as she followed his orders.

  Moving on a hammock wasn’t easy, and his desires were already making her unsteady, but as always, she was able to rely on his strength, the guidance of his hands. Her body felt like it was vibrating to a dancing rhythm she could feel in her blood, as he helped her back onto the hammock, straddling him backward. He moved her with sure hands so she could thread her feet and ankles through the ropes past that cross piece. Her knees spread out and pressed into his shoulders, her shins resting on the pillow that extended out on either side of his head.

  Threading her feet through those ropes kept her legs apart, she realized, spread open the width of his shoulders. He added to the sense of restraint by wrapping his arms over her thighs and waist, bringing her farther up his chest as the pillows gave his head the angle to put his mouth exactly where he’d described.

  It was still a shock, having his mouth between her thighs. She’d only been allowed to serve her uncle and father’s pleasure. None of it was for her. Whereas everything Rory did seemed intended to take her to this place of mindless ecstasy.

  Even more amazing, he’d made it clear doing so, watching her get lost in it, gave him enormous pleasure.

  In this position, she was lying on his abdomen, her head resting on his thighs. She could feel the nest of his cock and testicles against her throat and upper chest, so she reached beneath her to find him under the shorts, explore. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. Though his cock responded to her touch, hardening, and she really liked touching him so intimately, she knew he couldn’t feel it, not right there. Still, from what he’d said, the reaction would build elsewhere, in deep parts of himself the way his touch did to her.

  From his pleased growl against her, he really liked watching her body arch and writhe as his mouth made her dance. His strong hands tightened on her and the ropes bit into her legs, creating an additional jolt to the spiraling reaction within her.

  She didn’t have to question it. Dr. Taylor worked with her on expressing herself. Rory did the same, in a very different way.

  She was shuddering, and he lifted his mouth enough to speak against her. “Am I hard, Daralyn?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. Then she gasped as he gripped her panties at the hip and ripped the seam there. When he shifted his grip to her waist, exerted pressure, she followed his guidance to slip her feet from between the ropes, turn around and straddle him. It took some time, especially with her current lack of coordination, but his hands were on her the whole time, steadying her, helping her.

  She’d praised his upper body strength to Amanda, but when driven by his desire to have her the way he commanded, the ripple of muscle across his shoulders and chest, the tightening of his stomach muscles, was riveting.

  As she completed the turn and settled back on his hips, the fabric of the torn panties slipped forward, over her mound, exposing it, the garment now only held by one leg. His brown eyes sparked with heat as he gazed at that, then he slid his attention upward, lingering on the tight points of her nipples.

  “Put me inside you,” he said.

  Her hands had only been off of him for a matter of seconds, and her body had been shifting and sliding over his groin throughout the turning process. Which meant he was still rigid enough she could put him inside her. As she tugged his loose shorts to his upper thighs, lifting the waistband over his erection, he closed his hand over her neck, the heel of his hand against her sternum to help her stay upright.

  At that pressure against her throat, another wave of sensations went through her, while everything else in her went still. He saw it, the grip tightening. It was a way of speaking to one another without words, without full understanding, but with full feeling. “Use your muscles inside,” he said. “Keep squeezing down on me. It will keep me hard enough, like the grip of your hand, and it will feel good to you.”

  It all felt good to her, but she obeyed, and discovered a new level of pleasure. His cock did respond to the internal stroking, and as he began to raise and lower her, that feeling expanded, so she was gasping with every downward stroke, the firm resilience of his body rubbing and pressing against the sensitive outside of her sex.

  “So beautiful,” he muttered. The hammock was moving with them, not always in sync, but that added to the sensations, the pinnacle staying just out of reach so the pleasure just kept building. He moved one hand on her hip, the other still on her throat, while she kept her inner muscles clutching him, over and over, her hips jerking against his pelvis, rubbing herself there.

  When she’d had that first orgasm with him, she’d fought it, afraid of it. Now, everything he did summoned those overwhelming intense surges, and the fire in his eyes wouldn’t let her fight it. If she had any doubt about that, his words confirmed it.

  “Now,” he growled. “Let go, Daralyn. I’ve got you.”

  “Oh…” As the cry burst from her, his face reflected male triumph. She felt like a conquest. Like treasure. The world swam in sunlight, green and yellow trees, and the rough hemp of the hammock. In the center of it all was him, his brown eyes locked upon her, carrying her through that swirl of colors.

  His expression became more rigid, his hand convulsed on her hip, and she knew he’d released as well. That knowledge drove her further, shuddering through her, little ripples that kept the pleasure going. And when her climax finally ebbed, he brought her down full upon him for another deep kiss. She reveled in it, splaying her hands out on his bare chest, feeling the coarse hair of his legs against her sensitive inner thighs. Her sex kept pulsing with final aftershocks against his cock and testicles.

  He had his hand deep in her hair. The kiss eased apart, reluctantly, and she rested her face against his shoulder and throat, the rope of the hammock. Her breath was fast and heavy, and his was the same, lifting and lowering her body as his chest expanded. Combined with the sway of the hammock, she felt like she was in a cradle. Of his arms, of the hammock, of nature, of bliss.

  They stayed that way for a while. She opened her mouth to ask if she was too heavy, if he needed her to move, but he made a quelling noise before she could speak and she subsided. He reached down, found the side of her panties where the seam was still holding, but he fixed that, tore it too and pulled the ruined garment away, tossed it over on top of her folded clothes. She looked at it there, evidence of his impatient desire for her, and her heart beat a little harder.

  “Sorry about that,” he murmured. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”

  She nodded against him, not because she cared about that, but because she didn’t have any words that matched all the feelings she had right now. She spoke to him through touch, her fingers tracing patterns along his biceps, his chest, exploring every inch of his tanned skin. His hands were running slow, caressing lines down her back, the upper rise of her buttocks. Then back up, tracing her vertebrae.

  Her body responded with a low-level aroused attention that followed his touch wherever it went, while her mind entered a drifting, dreamlike peace as she rode those sensations. She could stay balanced on that edge forever.

  “Shit,” he said abruptly. “I didn’t use a condom. The way I come, my swimmers mainly end up in my bladder, but still. There’s a chance…”

  “It’s okay,” she said drowsily. “I can’t get pregnant.”

  “What?”

  The dreamlike feeling vanished, replaced by tension at the sharp surprise in his voice. She cursed herself for speaking without thought. People wanted children. Rory would make a wonderful father. She shouldn’t have told him…

  No. Maybe she should have told him sooner.

  She started to push away, figuring he’d want her to get off him now. He did let her move, but only to guide her to lie next to him again so they could look at one another more easily. He adjusted his shorts back over himself, then guided her leg back over him, her arm too, not letting her withdraw or curl her arms defensively against herself. He gave her the warmth of his body for her suddenly much colder one.

  “Oh Daralyn, I’m so sorry.”

  She saw he was gazing down at her, his eyes full of pain. He cupped her face, stroking her cheek. “Had you thought about having kids?” he asked.

  His distress and concern were for her, not him. As she swallowed an aching lump in her throat, she wondered if he’d shut down any thoughts of having kids himself because of the chair. “I don’t know. Maybe. There’s so much I’ve only just started to think about. I know that seems strange, after five years.”

  “Doesn’t seem strange at all.” He paused. “I want to ask more about it, but I don’t want to upset you. So how about you tell me what you can, and if that’s nothing, we’ll leave it alone for now. All right?”

  She wet her lips. “You could ask Dr. Taylor. Could you ask her?”

  “Yeah. I can do that.”

  He seemed okay with it, but the knot in her belly wouldn’t go away, a peculiar feeling after everything else being loosened from the orgasm. He helped by wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “It’s all right,” he said. “But I bet you’re going to be a mother someday, like by adopting. You just have so much love in you.”

  How could she be a mother when she couldn’t handle normal things, like going to a movie or simply offering an opinion? How could she raise a baby, protect it?

  “Do you want them?” she asked, fearful of the answer.

  The broad shoulder under her hand lifted. “If it happens, I’ll be happy about it. If it doesn’t, my life can be full without them.” His arm tightened around her. “Especially if I have the right person to spend it with.”

  He hadn’t answered the question directly, but her awareness of that was pushed aside by the significance of that last sentence. She didn’t breathe. She couldn’t.

  “I’m not saying something like that to lock you into being with me, Daralyn. You’ve got a lot of living to do before you make that kind of choice.”

  Her head snapped up and her lips parted, but he touched her chin and gave her that look that kept the words from being spoken. “I know you’ve said you belong to me,” he said evenly. “I love hearing that. But when I know for sure that you chose me, that you believe it down to your soul—that’s when I’ll tell you you’re mine for good.”

  She wanted to argue with that, but she knew she couldn’t. Which left her feeling out of sorts and strange. Fortunately, he shifted the topic. “If I didn’t mess things up with this cut on my leg, we’ve been invited to a party when we go to Florida.”

  “A party?” She didn’t handle crowds well, but she trusted his knowledge of that. Maybe she could handle it with him by her side. Even enjoy it. She’d be willing to try, for him.

  “Yeah. It’s a special kind of party.” When she glanced up at him, she was surprised to see he looked a little uncomfortable. “How much do you know about Domination and submission? BDSM?”

  During those pajama parties with Les, Julie had talked about the performances at her erotic theater. The topic of BDSM had come up. Les had asked Julie a lot of surprisingly in-depth questions about it.

  As Julie explained the basics of Dominance/submission relationships and BDSM play, Daralyn had absorbed the details the way she gathered information on anything new that crossed her path. But she’d also felt an unsettling recognition of it. When Julie went into the more emotional parts of being Dominant or submissive, it was as if she were describing something Daralyn knew, deep inside. Something already part of who she was.

  Other things Julie talked about had brought Rory right out front in Daralyn’s mind, which made her feel warm and prickly, needing him then and there, his strength and support beside her. It also made her think of how often during a family get-together, like when they had finished a meal and were hanging out in the living room at Elaine’s, or Marcus and Thomas’s, she ended up choosing to sit, not just near Rory, but at his feet, her shoulder propped against his shins. She couldn’t exactly remember when it had started, but it was habit now, a place of comfort and security for her.