by Jane Porter
“Whose are you?” he murmured, tugging her hands back an inch so her back arched and her neck was exposed. His lips brushed her skin, light kisses that made her head spin.
She felt wild for him. Desperate for relief. She dragged in air but couldn’t speak.
His mouth was at her collarbone, and then kissing his way down the slope of a breast before covering the pebbled nipple. He worked the nipple through the silky fabric, a rhythmic sucking that made her womb contract. He was making her so hot and wet. Too hot and wet.
“Touch me,” she begged.
“Only if you tell me who you are.”
“Ava.”
“And what are you?”
She groaned as his hand found her between her thighs, cupping her damp heat. “Yours.”
“Yes, mine. My woman. My lover. My pleasure.”
She nearly swooned as his palm pressed up against her, the heat of his hand scalding. She might as well have been naked. Her bikini bottoms provided no protection.
He palmed her mound, finding her nub. She shuddered against him.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She couldn’t. She felt too exposed, too wanton.
“Look at me,” he repeated, his teeth catching at the curve of her ear, biting lightly and then harder on the lobe.
She shuddered at the twin rivulets of sensation—pleasure and pain—but the lasting sensation was pleasure. It felt good. Too good. He knew her so well.
She opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his. His eyes were dark with desire, the color of the sea, but bright and fierce. He wanted her. It was a heady thought, and so very dangerous because a little bit with him was never enough. She always wanted more.
“We can’t do this here, Colm,” she said huskily.
“Why not?” he challenged, finding her through the bottoms, lightly tracing the lines of her, the curves, the softness, the seams.
She shivered as he skimmed from her lips to the ridge of her clit, his fingertip lingering on the sensitive bud, circling, teasing.
He kissed her to silence her groan, then murmured against her mouth, “I am going to make you come here.”
“Not here,” she begged, even as she bucked helplessly against his hand.
“Then where?” His hand eased beneath the edge of the bottoms, slipping under fabric to find hot, slick skin.
“Don’t know, don’t care.” She gasped, as he caressed her folds and then slipped a finger between.
And all she wanted was more.
More pressure, more friction, more satisfaction.
He pressed deeper and she groaned as he touched a sensitive spot inside of her. Her knees shook and she arched.
“Take me to your room,” she begged. “You can have me, all of me, just take me somewhere private. Please?”
Chapter Ten
‡
With virtually nothing on, it took no time to strip bare, and with all the touching and kissing outside on the sundeck, Ava didn’t want any more foreplay. She wanted Colm, buried deep inside of her. He might be gifted with talented fingers and lips and a tongue but nothing in the world felt as good as him filling her, his body covering hers, his skin warming her from the inside out.
With hands linked and bodies as one, she felt beautiful and powerful.
She felt hope and possibility. Safety and security.
She felt love. Oh, she loved him. She’d always loved him. And when they were together like this, she knew she’d always love him. It was impossible not to. She was his, and he was hers and she didn’t know why she’d spent the past thirteen months trying to forget him. She’d never be over him. She’d never not want him.
They made love once, and then again, and it wasn’t until much later when they were lying in bed, sleepy and sated, that Ava, curled against Colm, her cheek on his chest, found the courage to ask the thing that troubled her most.
“Jack,” she whispered. “Is he…okay? Is he healthy? Happy?”
Colm stroked her long hair, smoothing it down her back. “Yes. He’s perfect.”
Ave felt a prick of pain and she blinked, holding back tears as she pictured the dark-eyed toddler she’d last seen thirteen months ago. She didn’t remember much from that visit, just the sense that he’d been active, busy, and into absolutely everything. “He really is normal?”
“He’s a very smart little boy. Off the charts, actually. Our son is apparently gifted.”
She looked up at Colm, trying to see his face in the deepening shadows filling the room. “How do you know?”
“He has an ear for music. He doesn’t yet read sheet music, but if he hears a piece, he can pick it out, find the keys. I’ve just started him with a piano teacher and he loves it. His teacher said he’s never met another child with so much passion.” Colm dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m not surprised, though. He’s your son. Of course he’s gifted. He has your fire and passion.”
Her eyes welled up quickly. She couldn’t stop a tear from falling onto Colm’s chest. She missed him. Her baby.
Another tear fell.
And then another.
She couldn’t stop them anymore.
“So I didn’t hurt him?” She choked. “He really is okay.”
“He’s better than okay. He’s sweet and kind and smart and lovely in every way. I look at him and see you. He is truly your son—”
“Our son,” she interrupted.
“Our son,” he agreed quietly. “And he is blessed. Except for missing you. He does miss you, Ava. Terribly.”
She flinched. “He doesn’t know me.”
“He keeps your picture by his bed.”
“I would think he hates me—”
“He doesn’t remember anything bad. He doesn’t remember you leaving him. He only knows that you love him, and have been ill, and he prays every night that you will soon be well so that you can come be his mommy again.”
“Stop.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
Her heart fell even as her stomach cramped. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep fresh tears from falling. The anguish was real, and intense. Jack, her baby, who was never breastfed. Her baby that was never rocked by her, held by her, never walked by her as he wailed in the middle of the night, hungry. Lonely. Inconsolable.
She was almost sobbing and she couldn’t catch her breath.
For the last year and a half she’d tried to tell herself Jack would be fine. She tried to tell herself that he wouldn’t miss her, he wouldn’t need her, that Colm would find a beautiful, young wife and Jack would finally have the mother he needed. The mother he needed. The mother she couldn’t be.
Colm’s arms circled her and she cried against him, grieving for all she’d lost, and the years she couldn’t get back.
Was it too late to be his mother?
Was it too late to try again?
As her tears subsided, Colm kissed the top of her head. “If you had your notebook here, what would you write in it, right now?” he asked her quietly.
She drew a shuddering breath. “That I love him. I love Jack. And I’d give anything to be his mom again.”
He kissed her again. “He needs you, Ava.”
“And I need him.”
*
Ava woke to the gentle rocking of the boat. It took her several long moments to sort out where she was, and it was only because Colm reached for her, drawing her back to him that she remembered.
His yacht.
His bed.
His arms.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his deep voice a rumble in the dark bedroom.
“Yes.” But why was her throat raw? Why did everything feel broken inside of her? “No.” She pressed herself to Colm, her legs between his, her face against his chest. “I am sad. Why am I sad?”
“We talked about Jack tonight. You cried because you miss him.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “He doesn’t know me. I am a stranger to him.”
“He is so young. He has
an entire life ahead of him. You can be part of that life. It’s not too late. You’ve never been stronger, or healthier—”
“I still forget things though. My short term memory is terrible.” She pushed up on her elbow. “And I want Jack, but I don’t just want Jack. I want you. I need you.”
He caught her face and kissed her lips. “I know, baby. I need you, too. It’s time to come home. Time for us to be together again, a family again. You know you want to. And you know it’s the right thing to do.”
*
When she woke up again it was morning, sunlight pouring through the slats at the window.
Colm wasn’t in bed but she found him in the connecting bathroom’s shower.
She opened the glass door and stepped into the shower, dissipating the steam. “Well, hello there,” he said, drawing her under the hot water spray. “Have you come for a shampoo and wash?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “I heard the shower and thought I should come see what all the fuss was about.”
He took her hand and wrapped it around his hard length. “This is the situation,” he said, his hand covering hers as they firmly stroked him. He grew even thicker and harder beneath her touch.
Her eyes widened as her gaze locked with his. “Impressive.”
“It wants you, baby. But I’m worried after yesterday you might be sore.”
She didn’t know about sore. It was hard to think about being sore when his free hand was playing with her body, soaping her breasts, kneading the nipples. She arched and he stroked down her belly to slide fingers between her curls to find her clit.
She stroked him harder.
His fingers were between her legs, and then slipping into her. She groaned and then nearly fell when he went down in the shower onto his knees and hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, put his mouth on her and took her with his tongue.
She came hard, but he wasn’t done, and turning her around he slowly entered her from behind, filling her slick, tight core until she’d taken all of his length.
With him buried deeply, he caressed the length of her, finding her breasts, the small of her waist, the curve of her hips. He didn’t move or thrust and yet with him seated so deeply within her, she began to pulse around him, and the more her body squeezed him, the more he filled her and it was mind-blowing being so still and yet feeling so much.
“Don’t come,” he murmured, pressing his fingers to her clit while her body gripped his length, contracting internally.
He was hot, she was hot, she felt as if she was going to explode. It was so damn erotic. He was so damn erotic.
“Don’t come,” he repeated, parting her folds, opening the soft swollen lips to expose her to the air.
“I need to come.” She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, her body throbbing, her nerves taut, skin tingling. “Touch me and let me come.”
“You want this.”
“Yes.”
“You need this.”
“Yes.”
“You need me.”
“Yes. Always.”
And then he touched her and she shattered, like the fireworks on the fourth of July. Her orgasm triggered his and they came together and, as she leaned against the shower wall, it struck her that although the sex was incredibly good and incredibly hot, they’d never once mentioned the word love.
But then, she shouldn’t be surprised. He’d never loved her. Why should she think it’d be different now?
*
Breakfast was served on the sundeck at a table set for two. Neither Ava nor Colm were very talkative during the meal. She didn’t mind. She was definitely languid from the night of lovemaking.
Between sips of coffee, she pulled her warm, chocolate-filled croissant apart, popping bites into her mouth.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun reflected brightly off the water, the sea sparkling all around them.
It was an almost perfect morning.
It was an almost perfect holiday.
She was almost satisfied. Physically she was sated. Colm was a skilled and generous lover. He always made sure he took care of her before he asked for anything himself. She appreciated his skill. Her body hummed from all the attention but she hated how her heart felt empty.
Colm had talked about her moving in with him. He’d talked about them becoming a family for Jack. But if Ava was honest, she wasn’t sure she could handle spending her life with someone who didn’t love her.
She needed to tell him somehow. She needed to let him know that they couldn’t just move forward with plans…at least, not with his plans. Surely, there was a way to see Jack and still protect her heart?
“Should we talk about what happens next?” Colm asked, breaking the silence.
Her insides suddenly felt fluttery, as if she’d swallowed a handful of butterflies. “Okay.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“It’s scary.”
“I thought you wanted to give Jack a family. I thought you wanted to be with him.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Because, yes, she wanted Jack loved and happy, but she worried that she wouldn’t be loved and happy living with Colm. “I’m just wondering if there are options we haven’t explored.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe we should try to work me into Jack’s life slowly with visits…playtime…things like that.”
“You don’t want to live with him?”
“I do, but I’m not sure it would be good for him if I live with you.”
Colm just stared at her, expression shuttered, and, as the silence stretched, it became heavier and more uncomfortable.
“I’m confused,” he said after a long moment. “I thought—” He broke off, brow furrowing, his jaw tightening. “What about us?”
She swallowed hard and wrapped her fingers around the stem of her water glass. “There isn’t an us, though.”
“Ava.”
“We’re good in bed. But that’s all we are, all we have.”
“Oh, Ava.”
“You know it’s true. You never wanted me. You didn’t want Jack, either—”
“That’s the past. We have to leave that in the past. It’s time we lived in the present. We have a son who is three and he needs his parents to pull together, to function together. And we can. We can be a real family. It’s what you wanted for Jack. It’s what I want for Jack. It’s the best thing for him. We both know that.”
No wonder Colm had been so successful in life. He made everything sound easy. He didn’t believe in complications. He ignored obstacles. But she wasn’t like that.
She couldn’t bury her head in the sand. “One doesn’t just create a stable family, Colm. Stability comes from within. It can’t be imposed from the outside.”
“It won’t be imposed. It’s something we’re choosing. And it’s the right decision.”
She didn’t speak, struggling to organize her thoughts, trying to make sense of the objections forming inside of her. She knew he was right about Jack needing security and stability but Ava knew she needed the same thing. She didn’t do well with chaos. She needed calm, and structure and order.
In the silence, she could hear a voice from a steward down below, and the lap of waves against the side of the sleek yacht.
“What you’re suggesting is practically an arranged marriage,” she said finally.
“But I didn’t want to marry Senor Carlito, and I don’t want to marry you. Not if you don’t love me. That’s why you were so upset about the pregnancy. You didn’t love me and didn’t want a baby with me. You were angry because you felt like I was trapping you.”
One brow lifted. “Weren’t you?”
Her jaw dropped, shocked. “You really did feel that way?”
“I’d be lying to you if I told you it hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Why would I trap you?”
He shrugged. “You loved me. You didn’t feel secure about my aff
ections. It was a way to keep me in your life.”
Sickened, Ava stumbled to her feet. Pushing away from the table, she walked as quickly as she could from the sun deck, her hand on the rail for support.
Beneath her feet the yacht shifted, rolling. They were moving again. She could hear waves breaking against the bow.
“Ava, stop,” Colm called after her, following.
“Leave me alone.” She choked, hating him, hating how he ruined everything. The pleasure he gave her never equaled the pain he caused her.
His footsteps sounded behind her and then his hand closed around her arm, forcing her to a stop. “Stop running from me. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Better I hurt myself then let you hurt me with more of your words!” She flashed, bruised. “How little you thought of me…how much you must despise me to imagine I’d trap you with an unplanned pregnancy.”
“You weren’t always so ethical,” he said, pinning her with his body against the railing. “You’re an intelligent, passionate woman. But that doesn’t make you a saint.”
He was leaning close, far too close. She could smell his spice and vanilla fragrance, the scent heightened by the heat of the sun and the warmth of his skin and her whole body reacted, nerves screaming. “I’ve always been ethical,” she protested. “I’m a product of convent education. I know my ten commandments better than anyone.”
“Then you know, thou shalt not lie.”
“I’m not lying. I’ve no need to lie. Ask me what you want to know and I’ll tell you…if I can remember.”
His head dipped, his mouth grazed the corner of hers, placing the lightest kiss possible on the edge of her lips. “How convenient.”
His whisper sent icy-hot rivulets of feeling up and down her spine while his light kiss made her tummy curl and the hair rise on her nape. She remembered the way he’d kissed her in the shower, remembered the heat and intense sensation.
She shook her head, chasing the memories away. “At least I was willing to give you my heart! You wouldn’t even offer me that.”
His blue-green gaze sparked. “I did care for you. But it wasn’t enough for you.”
Care, she repeated silently. What a small strange word. Completely colorless, nearly sterile. Like caregiver and caretaker and everything else cold and burdensome. Care and duty could be sisters. Dowdy sisters while love, joy, and pleasure were the beauties that went to the ball.
