Have Baby, Will Marry

by Christie Ridgway

  His hand tightened on Molly’s, and in the darkened hall he stopped. “Wife,” he said, the concept still puzzling.

  She half smiled. “Hus—”

  He didn’t let her finish the word. His mouth came down on hers. She moaned, her lips immediately softening, her body leaning into him.

  Blood rushed from his head to his groin, hardening him instantly. This, he understood. With his chest, he pushed Molly against the wall and slanted his head for a more forceful kiss. This kind of hunger he was familiar with. His tongue broke through the seam of her lips.

  He dived into her delicious taste.

  Molly welcomed him, her arms circling his neck, her fingers shoving into his hair, her hot mouth sucking on his tongue. He groaned, his body, impossibly, going harder. She tilted her pelvis against him, cradling his arousal, and he pressed back, trying to tell her how good this felt. How much he needed…her.

  For tonight.

  Just to ease this demanding hunger.

  His mouth pulled away. He tried to start a sentence to tell her—

  “Sh.” Her fingers covered his lips. “Touch me. Hold me close. For tonight I want it all. Daughter, husband. Everything.”

  For tonight. That’s all he needed to hear. With another groan, he took her mouth again, then slid his lips down her neck, while his hands found the hem of her T-shirt and slid up.

  She arched, her breasts pushing forward into his palms. Oh, Molly. His fingers tightened, his mouth grazed her neck. Her nipples formed taut pebbles beneath the lace, and his trembling fingers moved to wrestle with the front clasp of her bra.

  It was as bad as the lawn mower.

  He took his mouth away from the distracting flesh of her neck, took a deep breath and fumbled again.

  Smooth, Reed, smooth.

  He couldn’t catch his breath, or work his fingers, or get his heart to stop its crazy syncopation against his ribs. Another controlling breath, and his gaze flicked to her face.

  Silver rims around pupils dilated by need. The want on her face grabbed hold of him, stilling his fingers, smoothing out the wicked beat of his heart. For Molly. She’d done everything for him.

  This would be for her.

  He smoothed his hands down her ribs and brought his mouth to hers again, kissing her, with control, with her needs foremost in his mind. A tender, gentle, searching kiss that he intended to soothe and incite and reassure, all at the same time.

  “I’m going to have you,” he told Molly, drawing her toward his bedroom with a light tug. She followed willingly, and he smiled. “I’m going to taste you, and feel you, and make you cry with wanting.”

  At the foot of the bed, he undressed her. T-shirt, bra, shorts. He left on her satin panties. He struggled to keep his touch gentle and reassuring. This is for her, about her. But his breath left him as his gaze ran over her high breasts, the tautness of her belly, her lean runner’s thighs.

  He pulled back the covers and watched her slide onto the bed, concentrating on the geometric pattern of the sheets to stop from losing it right there. He swallowed, hard, as her legs parted a bit and he imagined the mysteries of her sex beneath the innocent pale satin.

  Weaver slid onto the sheets and, closing his eyes, reached out to bring her silken skin against him. He ran his palms down her back, his thumbs memorizing the fragile bumps of her spine. His fingertips found the elastic of her panties, slid under.

  Warm flesh in his palms, soft satin against his knuckles. His breath left him.

  He went to her mouth for more.

  Hot lips that opened immediately for the instinctive thrust of his tongue. She tasted good, felt good, smelled like woman—perfume and sexual heat. Desire.

  It clawed at him, urged him to go faster, but he held it at bay. For Molly.

  He brought one trembling hand to the front of her body, let his palm slide up, bumping over each rib, until—Her breast fit snugly in his cupped hand, her nipple caught between two of his fingers. He bent forward, licked the tight crown.

  She gasped, and the sound honed the already sharp edge of his desire. He licked again, then plumped her breast so he could suck her nipple strongly.

  A moan, and then her fingers holding him against her. He transferred to her other breast, teasing her by tracing the edge of her areola with his tongue, then smiling against her perfumed skin when she pulled him closer to her.

  Desire dragged him down again, with the taste of her breast in his mouth and the sensation of her hands beneath his shirt. She pulled at the material impatiently, and he broke away from her and tore the damn thing off.

  Her hands dragged across his bare chest, and he closed tight his eyes, searching for control. For Molly. But his heart pounded primally, warning him how little he could control the feelings she brought out in him.

  He pulled up one of her legs, wrapping it around his waist and rocking himself against her. She held him tightly, her mouth hot and wet against his neck.

  No more control.

  Weaver smoothed her leg away from him and quickly shed his jeans and boxers. He pulled a condom from the bedside table, put it on. One sweep of his hand dispensed with her panties, and then he hauled her up against him, bare flesh to bare flesh.

  A shudder rippled through him. Her heat, his heat, her skin, his skin. His hand found the warmth and the wet between her legs. Slick, for me. His mouth found her mouth, entered. His body found her body, entered.

  They were one.

  The knowledge slammed him, and his heart somersaulted with the strangeness of it. Not Weaver having sex with some woman. Not Weaver finding pleasure in a woman’s body.

  But Molly and Weaver. Molly and Weaver rocking with desire for each other. Molly and Weaver, blood pounding, breath mingling, bodies together.

  Molly and Weaver, one part of them moving in, one part of them moving up, arms encircling each other, legs entangling, mouths mingling. Every part of them together.

  He heard their breaths come faster and faster. Felt the goose bumps of arousal washing their flesh. They silently clung, reaching…And in the instant before climax, Weaver opened his eyes.

  Molly stared back, molten silver. As they hung on the edge, he felt them as separate beings again, the familiarity of separateness comforting. Then she clenched him, drew him invisibly closer..

  Together again. And he slid farther into her body, farther into her, and they spun away into pleasure as one.

  He came back to find himself crushing her to him, his mouth against her cheek. He pulled oxygen into his lungs, then he tilted up her chin with his knuckle to see if she was yet breathing.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” He dredged up a smile from .somewhere, but assumed it looked as battered as he felt.

  “Okay.” She repeated the word as if it didn’t have real meaning for her.

  A chill ran through him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He pushed her a little away, took in the beautiful, disheveled state of her hair, the love bruise on her neck, the darkened shade of her nipples. “I didn’t hurt you?” he asked again.

  Her lashes swept over the cooling silver of her eyes. She smiled, her lower lip trembling. “Not yet,” she said, her palm tenderly cupping his face. “Not yet.”

  Jonathon. Molly watched Weaver sleep and made herself dredge up another man’s name. Jonathon, her ex-fiancé.

  Her arms tightened around Weaver’s neck in protest. But she had to make herself remember. Jonathon.

  Hadn’t she claimed her experience with him had made her immune to other “temporary types” like Weaver? Remembering Jonathon should protect her from the wild excitement she found in Weaver’s arms.

  She forced a long, deliberate breath into her lungs. Don’t panic. A day of lows and highs capped off by the final…explosion of their sexual tension would do nutty things to anyone’s emotions. Maybe all these scary feelings for Weaver were merely the aftermath of extremely good sex.

  There. That’s all it was. Good sex.

  She concentrated on his powerf
ul muscles beneath her hands and the lightly furred legs entwined with hers. Yes, all the pulse pounding and shiver producing could be chalked up to chemistry. Simple chemistry.

  Male plus female. Yin and yang. Tab B into slot A.

  “You awake?” Weaver’s voice was slightly rough, same as the sensation of his palm sliding over her bare shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

  Heat rose up her neck on a direct path to her cheeks. It wasn’t easy to look good sex in the face.

  He leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp, and she drew away from him to shield her eyes from the light.

  “Don’t.” He captured her hand in his and brought it against his chest. “Don’t hide from me.”

  She stared at his hand holding hers, stared at the sculpted, golden nakedness of his chest. Beneath the skin, she imagined his heart pounding steadily, calmly, the same as it had pounded before she entered his life.

  “Yin and yang,” she whispered to herself. “Chemistry. Tab B into slot A.”

  “What are you talking about?” He grasped her chin and tilted her face toward him.

  She met his eyes and tried holding on to her thoughts. “I’m thinking about good sex.” Her blush reheated.

  He chuckled, and she felt the rumble against her hand. “Yeah? So it was good for you?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered to the blazing blue of his eyes. Chills swept down her back, puckered her nipples. “And for you?”

  “Damn good.” He gathered her close and rested his chin on top of her head.

  Against her chest, his heart pounded. Ta-boom, taboom, ta-boom. Maybe he wasn’t so calm after all.

  His big hand stroked her hair, and she turned her cheek into his neck. Hot chills raced-over her again.

  “It’s not every day I go to bed with someone.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “Me, either.”

  Now what? Molly bit her lip. “Just for tonight” was all well and good before the big event, but what did one do now? What did she do when “just for tonight” changed in her mind to “just tonight’s not quite enough”?

  “I guess we went for option four after all,” Weaver said.

  Molly’s heart squeezed and she slid away from him. “Yeah, I guess we did.” She swallowed determinedly. “Remember what I told you about me and chocolate? I thought I’d do the same and binge myself free of you.” She even tagged on a small laugh.

  He blinked and looked taken aback. His hand rubbed across his chest. Then, finally, he waggled his brows in a mock leer. “So, how many tastes do you think it’s gonna take? I’m only here for a while, you know. We should get started right away.”

  I’m only here for a while, you know. Inching back, Molly slid even farther from Weaver.

  Jonathon. This time, his name came unbidden to her mind. Jonathon had taught her a lesson she was just getting around to remembering.

  “How many tastes?” Weaver asked again.

  Jonathon had made her unable to fool herself that she could ever change a man.

  Her foot found the edge of the mattress, then air. She slid out of the bed, gathering up some of her clothes in a fist as she moved toward the hall.

  “How many?” Weaver called to her.

  She quietly opened, then shut the door. Click.

  Jonathon-no, Weaver-had reminded her that temporary never changed to forever.

  9

  Fine, Weaver silently told the slowly changing numbers of his alarm clock. No need to wait for a decent hour. No need to pretend he was the slightest bit sleepy.

  No need to miss Molly in my bed

  He’d wanted temporary, right? He’d wanted just one night.

  But he’d wanted it more than just once.

  He stomped out the need and tried thinking of business. Now Daisy was taken care of, thank God, and he’d get his attorney working on the papers tomorrow. That left only the house—realtor on that—and the stuff.

  A lightbulb-brilliant idea flashed in his head. The stuff he could get rid of today by putting on a yard sale.

  Not that it took much effort—heck, everything around the place was already for sale. All he did was open the garage door, round up a couple of catchy items from inside the house and spray paint a- piece of scrap plywood with the words Moving Sale.

  The street was alive with Sunday morning movement-walkers, joggers, people setting out in their cars. Two birds with one stone, he thought. I’ll stay away from Molly and rid myself of all this stuff, too.

  A lawn chair, the newspaper, a cup of coffee and he was set. He slapped on his sunglasses, lowered himself into the chair and proceeded to do his best imitation of a man unperturbed.

  But his “perturb” level was a mile high.

  “What’s going on?” Molly came out the front door, Daisy Ann in her arms. She looked kind of perturbed herself.

  “I’m getting rid of it.” He waved a hand around the yard. “Everything.” It would be just as easy for him to get rid of stuff as it was for her to get out of his bed.

  Her eyebrows rose over her cool silver eyes.

  An elderly couple walking by stopped and climbed up the sloped driveway.

  He shot Molly a triumphant smile. “Just watch me wheel and deal.”

  The lady half of the pair wore a sun visor over her gray curls, and the male half had on a salt-waterstained fishing hat studded with flies. They went through the goods like old pros, the gentleman immediately gravitating to the tools Weaver had strewn across the lawn.

  “How much do you want for this?” He held up the cordless drill that Weaver had used to fix the back fence. A shot of heat ran up his leg, a memory of Molly’s warm shoulder against him as he’d used the tool. Another shot of heat raced toward his groin as he remembered clutching both her shoulders the night before when he moved deliciously into her body.

  He dropped the newspaper onto his lap and cleared his throat. “I can’t sell that.” The words popped out of his mouth.

  The older man looked disappointed. “My nephew Dave could really use—”

  “Sorry,” Weaver said firmly. “I shouldn’t have had it out here.”

  “Twenty bucks,” the old guy said.

  “No dice.”

  “Twenty-five?” The man still held the drill, Weaver’s drill, in his hand.

  Weaver rose out of his chair. “Sorry, sir. No sale.” He took the tool from the man. “I’ll just stash it away so no one else is confused.”

  He put the drill beneath his lawn chair and resettled in the seat.

  “Yoo-hoo,” called the man’s visored wife. “The lawn mower doesn’t have a price tag. What are you asking for it?”

  Weaver’s fingers tightened on the plastic arms of the chair. Not the lawn mower! He and the beast had an understanding now. “Uh-uh. Sorry, can’t part with that, either.”

  “Fifty dollars, dear.”

  He shook his head.

  A few more people joined the elderly shoppers. To be safe, Weaver wheeled the lawn mower over to flank his chair. After a few minutes he had the barbecue on the other side, and then the set of barbecue tools joined the drill beneath the chair. All had received decent offers, but he just didn’t feel the time was quite right to get rid of those particular things.

  Suddenly, Molly’s perfume curled around him. “You’re a regular Monty Hall.”

  He breathed in her scent, savoring it. “None of these people are dressed up like pineapples.”

  She laughed. “So you’d sell if they were?”

  No. But he didn’t want to admit it.

  He made himself get out of the chair and approach the older man in the fishing hat. “Anything else I can interest you in?” Weaver bent over, picked up a small appliance. “How about this?”

  The man took it in his hand. It had a small square surface and an electrical cord. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Me, neither,” Weaver answered. “Two bucks.”

  Molly came between them and snatched the item away. “It’s a mug wa
rmer, and it’s mine.” She shot Weaver a mean look. “Not for sale.”

  The old guy grinned as Molly stomped away, back to the house. “Word of advice, son. Check with the wife before selling anything.”

  Weaver grimaced. She’s not my wife.

  Yet, he reminded himself, and ignored the strange slide and bump in his gut at the thought.

  The yard sale went downhill from there. He was able to collect some money for a few items-he hoped to heaven they weren’t Molly’s-but a lot of the things seemed to have some relevant use for the time being.

  Molly might need them.

  Molly had touched them.

  “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!” The visor lady’s voice again. The older couple had stayed for an hour and collected a small pile of items at the bottom of the drive. “Yoo-hoo!” The woman and her husband emerged from the depths of the garage, each holding one end of a wicker cradle.

  “How much for this?” She smiled, her visor askew with excitement. “My niece Andrea is expecting her first baby next month and—”

  “No.” Weaver barely recognized the hoarse and strangled sound of his voice.

  The lady wilted. “Are you sure? Your baby is too big for this little cradle. This is for a tiny newborn.”

  “No.” In a baby book were pictures of a just-born, doll-like Daisy swaddled in a blanket and lying in that cradle. The cradle was part of Daisy’s heritage.

  Like he was.

  He threw away that thought and walked over to the couple, taking the cradle into his arms.

  The lady straightened her visor, a disappointed expression on her face. “I understand, young man. You and your wife are thinking about another baby already, hmm?”

  The old man chuckled. “Whether she is or not, I’ll betcha he is.”

  The lady elbowed her husband. “Cut that out, Marv.”

  Weaver barely heard the banter. Right. Molly might want the cradle for her next child. The one she’d have with her husband.

  Not her first husband, he hastened to remind himself. With her forever husband. He heard the front door open, then shut.

  Molly again. She walked out alone, the baby monitor in her hand. Obviously Daisy Ann was down for her nap. She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he followed her gaze to the cradle.