Lori Wilde - A Thrill To Remember

WHAT IN THE HELL had she just done?

Had she gone completely mental? Could the stress of the past six months have caused her to take leave of her senses and chase after the first man who showed her some attention? So what if Don Juan was sexy and handsome as Hades, and apparently more than willing to indulge in flirtatious games? None of this explained her uncharacteristic behavior.

Her brain squawked, telling her how foolish she was to take such a chance, but a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered, “Seize the moment. For once in your life, Megan Marie Scofield, live a little.”

Then again, maybe her real motivation was more of a compulsion than any sincere desire to take charge of her life. From the moment she’d spied him lounging so lawlessly against the wall, she’d felt…well, something special.

As she picked her way through the forest in the twilight, her condom-filled clutch purse tucked beneath her arm, Don Juan’s cape flapping about her shoulders, her heart rate thudded faster and faster, headed straight for the danger zone. Still, she couldn’t seem to make herself turn around and go back to the party.

She was like a songbird unaware it had been caged until one day the door was left open and the opportunity to fly presented itself. Should she take wing and explore the brave new world extending before her? Or stay safely hunched on her perch, watching life pass her by?

The answer wasn’t difficult, even to her conflicted brain. Don Juan was simply too exciting, and too good-looking, the prospect of making love with him far too sweet to be denied.

Besides, when was the last time she had been so sexually aroused? Never? Ever? Could he actually teach her to let go of her hang-ups in bed? She owed it to herself to find out.

Her shoes bogged in the mossy carpet of undergrowth beneath the towering hemlocks and swaying Sitka spruces. She was glad she’d taken the time to change into the sensible footwear she kept stashed in the trunk of her car.

A blueberry bush, devoid now of its berry harvest, grazed her leg, startling her. The air was heavy with moisture and she heard nothing beyond the gurgling creek and the faint hmm of voices and music from the party she’d left behind.

Oh dear. Where was Don Juan? She had expected him to stay close to the perimeters of the forest, where she could find him easily.

“Come.”

She heard the whisper, low and seductive. She wasn’t certain from which direction it originated.

He was concealing himself from her, ratcheting the game up a notch.

Meggie bit down on her bottom lip, tasted the opulent flavor of her own lust. She was nervous, confused, curious and extremely turned on.

What was going to happen next?

“Don Juan?” She heard a faint rustling in the trees, then nothing more.

In the phantom of rapidly dwindling daylight, she walked through the forest, pushing back vegetation, stepping gingerly over tree roots, eager not to fall and sprain her ankle. A sprained ankle would definitely blow the moment.

And the last thing she wanted was a dose of reality. She wanted to escape, as she had of late in the pages of fantasy romance novels. What she longed for was to disappear in this dreamy netherworld. She could easily envisage unicorns and fairies, woodland sprites playing flutes and dancing around magic toadstools. She ached for a pretend world of virginal maidens, stalwart knights and deep, undying passion.

Her friends had regaled her with their own tales of acute throbbing desire. Of lust at first sight. Of being drawn helplessly into earthly pleasures beyond emotional control. She’d never really believed those stories, even though she had desperately wanted to. Hadn’t known such intensity of physical feeling was possible.

Until now.

She stopped walking.

He’d been here. On this path. Right where she was standing. She could smell him. As individual as a fingerprint, his scent hung in her nostrils like a primal memory.

A faint fear, tinged with escalating anticipation, pinched her solar plexus in a dazzling heat that hastened her footsteps and sent her heart staggering headlong into a restless, thrashing rhythm.

Another step deeper into the gloaming. Another and then another.

Twigs crunched beneath her feet. A fingered fern crept across her ankle. A bubble of fear caused her to jump, and then laugh at her own spooked state.

Nothing to be afraid of. She was in control of the situation. She wasn’t little Red Riding Hood evading the Big, Bad Wolf. She could turn if she wished and go back to the party. Nothing was keeping her here except her own inquisitiveness and her escalating imagination.

Walking up a slight embankment, she glanced left and then right, saw only the tall, thin thrust of tree trunks and the full orange moon rising over the horizon.

Was it possible to breathe any faster and not faint from hyperventilation? Could her stomach possibly squeeze any tighter? Could her knees grow any weaker and not dissolve into noodle soup?

He was enticing her, this man. And she wanted him to capture her, no matter how sinfully foolish her subterranean desires.

Goose bumps pricked a warning, raising the hairs on her forearms and the nape of her neck.

He was near. She could feel him.

CALEB WAS IN HIS ELEMENT. The forest. The wilderness. Home.

He inhaled her on the cool evening breeze. Sweet, ripe, glowing. Soap, perfume, saltiness. The luscious aroma stirred a pulsating pressure of impulsive hunger deep within his masculinity.

Like predator to prey her scent drew him. His mouth watered and every fiber of his being grew taut, every male sense alerted to the wondrous female encroaching on his territory.

Relentlessly, her womanly bouquet lured him. Silently her body entreated, Come to me. Pheromones. Natures mating call. As surely as any hapless male moth enticed to a flame, she ensnared him with her spinning scent song.

He could not resist.

Through the copse of trees he caught a flash of crimson, a glimmer of her auburn hair, the sound of her teasing laugh.

“I see you,” he crooned in his heavy Spanish accent.

“Come and get me,” she dared, and darted from his sight.

He heard the sounds of her feet crashing through the woods. Grinning, he followed.

The hunt was on.

Every cell in his body strummed to life in a way he’d never experienced. Feverish heat punched through his system like a fist through a paper bag, tattering any shred of civilized behavior. A savage hunger dogged him, his feral passions mounting in shocking disregard for decorum.

He wanted her—in a way he’d never wanted another. Not even Meggie in his teenage years.

He moved with long, easy loping strides, knowing he could effortlessly outlast her.

This was his every naughty fantasy come true.

SHE’D CAUGHT A GLIMPSE of him back there. Silhouetted at the top of the embankment, with the fat full moon at his back, he’d been watching her with hooded eyes.

Consumed by both thrill and trepidation, she slipped away the minute she realized he had spotted her, too. She had issued a challenge that reverberated in the silent air.

Come and get me.

She pushed through the undergrowth and then realized with a start that she was lost. It had been a long time since she’d visited the Tongass, and she had no idea which direction Bear Creek lay.

Licking her lips, she furtively scanned the forest, every muscle in her body tense with anticipation. In the moonlight, she spotted a clearing just ahead of her.

She moved toward the opening, not knowing if she should go there, risk exposing herself to him and foiling the fun, or stay secluded and draw out their play. But she needed to get her bearings and discover her location.