by Lori Foster
Turning in his arms, Joy slumped against his broad chest, vaguely aware of him carrying his fingers to his mouth. Looking up, she saw his eyes close as he tasted her off his own hand.
Heart thundering, legs like noodles, she whispered his name.
His eyes opened, liquid black with desire, and he kissed her, not just any kiss but one that felt powerful and possessive.
Reaching between their bodies, Joy found his erection through his jeans. Abruptly he ended the kiss, stepping back to strip off his coat while staring at her. Next he removed his lace-up boots.
Coming to her senses, she hastened out of her coat, as well, and toed off her boots.
Royce grabbed her hand, and in no time at all, they were in the small shower, warm water cascading over them, Royce on his knees in front of her, until she came again.
By the time they got to the bed, she really was limp, sated from the fast back-to-back climaxes.
It was nice, because this time she didn’t get lost in her own quest for release, which made it possible for her to watch his. The powerful way his shoulders bunched as he held himself over her, the flex of his upper body when he entered her.
The rich, almost painful pleasure that tightened his features when she gripped his ass and matched his thrusts.
No man could be more beautifully masculine than him, and watching him build to the pinnacle brought her there again, too. He drove into her one last time, pressed hard and deep and stayed that way, head tipped back, eyes squeezed closed, while he shuddered and growled out his release.
Joy kept moving against him, getting that last bit of stimulation that she needed for her final orgasm. Heaven. That’s what it was.
Heaven with Royce.
Could it be that way for a lifetime?
* * *
Royce couldn’t think of a time when he’d been this relaxed with, or this hyperaware of, a woman, of his own wants and needs, of the rareness in a moment.
Joy did that to him, draining away tensions, annihilating his plans...or more like realigning them to include her. Every moment with her felt special so that his instinct was to hold on to her, to not let go.
So far he’d been successful in fighting that inclination, but every time with her made it more difficult. And now, he didn’t think he wanted to fight it. Not anymore.
He glanced at the clock, saw they only had half an hour left before she’d need to leave to pick up Jack, and he silently resented the narrow timeframe while also kissing her temple.
He should have been spent, but having Joy warm and soft against his side, one bare thigh over his, her hand toying with his chest hair, stirred him all over again.
Her mother’s visit intruded on his thoughts, and he recalled how it had shaken her.
In so many ways he wanted to protect her.
Without a doubt he knew she’d reject that idea.
To him, to anyone who looked, she’d already proven herself to be a strong, resourceful, capable woman who could handle the world on her own terms.
Royce also knew that dealing with the outside world didn’t take the same emotional toll that dealing with family did. Trying to inch his way into her confidences, he asked, “Have you called your mother yet?”
“Hmm?” Tracing idle circles on his chest, she whispered, “No. I’m not even sure that I will.”
Avoidance? That didn’t seem like Joy, which meant dealing with her mother was even harder for her than he’d imagined. “You don’t think it’s anything important?”
“She didn’t call me to let me know Grams had passed. What could be more important than that?”
Good point. Her mother presented a rare form of insufferable detachment, and he should know since he’d lived with detachment for years.
But nothing like what Joy had suffered.
His mother had merely had other interests that took precedence. She hadn’t deliberately snubbed him.
“Royce?” Joy twisted to look up at him, then tucked close again. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Not yet.” Touched that she, too, wanted to spend more time together, he gave her a one-arm hug. “You and Jack want to go out for something? We haven’t tried the pizza parlor yet, but I hear it’s good.”
“It is. They have incredible bread sticks.” She flattened her hand against his abdomen. “But I was thinking you could eat here. With us.”
As if kick-starting, his heart gave a hard thump before breaking into a gallop. How Joy posed the request was as important as the request itself. The timid way she hid against him proved that she was inviting him into her life, not just her home.
“Nothing fancy,” she added, keeping her face down, “but I have enough pork chops, and I can easily make extra mashed potatoes.”
“Thank you.” To make sure she didn’t retract the offer, he tugged her up on top of him and accepted. “I’d enjoy that.”
Sprawled over him, her hair pouring over his shoulders, Joy smiled. “Really?”
He had to draw a slow breath before he could nod.
Her smile faded. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” he promised quickly. God, she was beautiful, inside and out. Gentle, loving. Sometimes apprehensive. This had to be as unusual for her as it was for him.
One way to find out.
He threaded his fingers through the fall of her hair, letting it sift free in silky waves. “I feel like this means something.” Waiting for a reaction, he cupped a hand over her cheek and watched her, wondering if she’d deny it or pretend she didn’t understand.
Expression softening, Joy touched her nose to his, then gave him a sweet kiss. “Does that scare you?”
So, she didn’t deny her intent to deepen their relationship. He liked that Joy was up front with him, and he understood why.
She had a lot at stake, most importantly Jack’s well-being, which left no room for misunderstandings. Having dinner out, or even at his house, was different. Jack was away from his home. By inviting Royce to stay here for dinner, she took a risk on letting him further into their lives.
“Scare me? No.” Actually, it felt like one hell of a gift. “A few days ago it might have.” He coasted his hands down her back to her rounded bottom. He could die happy like this, Joy resting over him, his hands cuddling her sexy ass, her long hair tickling his chest. “You realize I’ll have Chaos with me, right?” Joy kept her home neat and organized—and Chaos was anything but that. “You sure that’s okay?”
Her smile twitched. “Chaos is also invited. Jack will be thrilled.” But she wouldn’t let him sideline her. “A few days ago, I wouldn’t have invited you over because I was worried about Jack getting too close to you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Sure.” The care she gave Jack was an intrinsic part of her. “I was raised by a single mom, sort of.”
Curious, she tilted her head. “What do you mean, sort of?”
Good question. “Mom wasn’t like you.”
“Like me how?” She folded her arms on his chest, clearly getting comfortable in her current position. “You said she was an artist?”
“Right, and she was wholly invested in her artwork. You know the distraction and disruption a boy can cause. Nana said I was well behaved, but I didn’t have Jack’s talent and it plagued my mother.” He gave a short laugh. Plagued, now that he thought about it, was an apt word to articulate his mother’s struggle. “She couldn’t understand why I didn’t see what she saw, how I overlooked details—details that Jack sees, by the way. That’s how I recognized the artist in him.”
“Not because you were an artist—but because your mother pointed out that you weren’t?” She shook her head. “That’s a little confusing.”
It had been more so for him as a boy. He wanted to please his mother, but he could never remember all the
little things she thought were obvious. Things like fingers on a hand, or branches on a tree.
Like many kids, he’d drawn people as stick figures. If he got two arms and two legs on a torso, he thought he’d done pretty darn good. Nana had agreed, but his mother had not.
“I think Mom assumed I’d be her little prodigy. Unfortunately, when she gave me paints, I stacked the tubes to build a fort. She gave me chalk and I rolled them across the floor, racing the red against the blue.” Those memories both amused him and still made him a little sad. “She couldn’t believe that her son would rather climb a tree than paint it.”
“Where was your father?”
“He was never part of the picture. According to my mother, they had a brief fling that resulted in me. She never gave me his name, or any details beyond that. I assume he was an artist, as well, and honestly, one disappointed parent was enough.”
Sympathy and understanding pinched Joy’s brows, and the gold in her eyes eclipsed the green.
Royce loved her eyes. His mother would have loved them, too. No doubt they would have inspired her, they were so unique. If he had his mother’s talent, he’d certainly paint them.
“Your mother told you she was disappointed?”
Joy probably couldn’t imagine such a thing since she was, as he’d said, a different type of mother. “Not outright, but I could tell.” Kids could always tell. “I didn’t share her talent, and she didn’t share my interests.”
“Your interests?” Her curiosity sharpened. “Like what?”
“I did sports all through school.” He rolled one shoulder. “Mom had no use for anything too physical, so that’s where Nana came in. She rarely missed a game.”
“Then I’m grateful that you had your grandmother.” Joy pressed a lingering kiss to his chest, right where his heart would be. “You and your mother had a good relationship otherwise?”
“She wasn’t cruel or anything, if that’s what you mean. She was a dramatic, emotional, creative person...who got pregnant and had me, and did the best she could with her artist’s soul.” He smiled. “I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor in her studio when I was probably a year or so younger than Jack. She’d put a painting tarp beneath me so I could eat my cold cereal where she could see me. She knew I needed to be watched, but her painting was ‘calling to her.’”
“Were you calling to her?”
“I don’t remember, but if I was, I was probably asking to go outside.” He looked up at the ceiling, remembering their small yard, the birds that visited one of their biggest trees, the dog two doors down that often barked... “God, she tried so hard to get me to paint, or work in clay, or even to color with crayons. I tried hard, too, but I mostly made a mess. My mother would look at my work, put the back of her hand to her forehead and lament my lack of talent. She did that a lot.” He grinned, remembering. “Hell, she did everything with theatrical flair.”
Joy touched the edge of his smile. “That’s actually horribly sad.”
Maybe. Royce didn’t want to ruin their quiet time together, so he explained an upside to his youth. “Nana would step in and carry on as if I’d created a masterpiece.”
“Go Nana.”
Royce gave a short laugh. “She kept damn near everything I made.”
“Like you kept Jack’s picture?”
Yes, he’d remembered how good it felt to have his effort appreciated, but with Jack it was different, since the kid did have talent. “One day Jack will sell his art. I was just getting a leg up on other buyers.”
Joy laughed softly, then asked, “How often did you see your grandmother?”
“She moved in with us when I was a baby. Nana said that my mother loved me too much to have me away from her, but that artists were flighty and not ideal for parenting. The ‘flighty’ part, she said, was our secret.” Everything he remembered of his grandmother filled him with warmth. “She pretty much raised me, though my mother paid the bills.”
“Your mother must have been very successful.”
Royce nodded. “I used to be bitter about it. I loved her, but I resented her talent like she probably resented my lack. Still, we made it work and then...then she got sick and required around-the-clock care.”
“You put your own life on hold?”
Exactly how it had seemed. “There was no one else, definitely no one who would have understood her artistic bent. Now she’s gone and...”
Laying her cheek against his chest, Joy whispered, “And you came here to be unencumbered?”
Wishing he’d never said that to her, Royce rubbed his mouth. How could Joy ever be a burden? Wasn’t possible. She brought laughter into his life, warmth and direction. All good emotions, with lots of sizzling physical need, too. Around her, he felt completely alive.
Somehow, without obvious effort, Joy had drawn him from his sad, burdened past and focused him squarely in the positive present.
When he didn’t answer, she tentatively asked, “How long did she have dementia?”
“Years, with the last few being the worst. It’s a disease that steadily steals from a person—memories, thoughts...the ability to function.” God, he still hated thinking about it. “She started falling, each time causing more damage, until she ended up in a wheelchair—and hated it.” He should have stopped there. He meant to, but the words flowed seemingly against his will. “Sometimes she hated me.”
“Royce.” Scooting up so she could look him in the eyes, Joy cupped her small soft hand to his jaw. “That can’t be true.”
“Honestly, I have no idea if it’s true or not. The doctors told me that people with dementia react in different ways, some with rage, some going completely passive.”
“Your mother raged?”
“I think she was understandably miserable.” Saying it aloud helped Royce believe it, to maybe start to understand it. “She had me late in life, and got the disease early. Before that, she’d been a strong person, doing as she pleased, when she pleased. Celebrated for her talent. Physically healthy, but steadily losing her independence and dignity.”
Putting himself in her shoes, Royce could only imagine how he’d react. Anger might be the least of the emotions.
“I’m so sorry.”
He lifted her palm to his mouth and pressed a kiss there. “She got to where she wouldn’t eat, then to where she couldn’t drink.” His voice softened to a rasp. “She cursed me daily, but there wasn’t anyone else. No other relatives. So I cared for her the best that I could.”
“Because you’re a good, kind person. And you were a good son.” With her eyes growing misty, she said, “I’m sure it was the disease, not your mother, who said unkind things.”
It wasn’t easy to let Joy see him like this, a grown man baring his fucking hurt. He only told her now to explain the stupid way he’d started this relationship, the absurd boundaries he’d set.
Because now he wanted more. From her. With her.
It relieved him when Joy settled down against his chest again, no longer looking at him, quiet but still very much with him.
“Mom never forgot her painting.” For some reason, stroking Joy’s hair made it easier to talk. “I changed jobs so I could be with her more, and I made sure she always had her art supplies at hand.”
“What did you do for a living?”
“Mobile sawmiller.” He briefly explained that to her, and doing so made him miss it. He’d always enjoyed working with his hands, being outdoors and later repurposing the wood. “I took only the jobs I wanted, and since I worked on my own timetable I could arrange for the occasional caretaker to stay with Mom while I was away.”
“Did she do well with the caretaker?”
He gave a short laugh. “She despised anyone I hired, no matter how kind or qualified, so before leaving for a job, I’d set her up in her studio, getting her wheelchair arranged just right wi
th a canvas in front of her. It was best for the caregivers to be there in case of an emergency, but otherwise they’d leave her be and let her paint.” He thought about that, again seeing his frail mother, lost to her own little world where only her painting existed. “There were times she could barely hold a brush, but her eye for color and light never faded. Her talent was a fundamental part of her, or so the doctor said. One day I’d like to show her work to Jack. It might inspire him.”
“That would be nice,” Joy replied softly, “but I thought she sold her art.”
“She did. There were several galleries who bought her, and toward the end, before the disease worsened, her paintings had tripled in value.” Even now, gallery owners asked about his personal collection. “Through the years she gave me different pieces for my birthday, Christmas. Sometimes just because.” He couldn’t bear to look at them right now, but neither would he part with them. Not ever.
“Really?” Excitement brought Joy to her elbows again. “What a special gift that would be. Can you tell me about some of the paintings?”
Why not? As the minutes ticked past, talking about his mother and her obsession became easier. “The tree I most enjoyed climbing? She painted me in it.” A memory rekindled and he laughed. “Mother told me every day not to climb that tree, that I’d fall and break something, but I always did, anyway. I’d sit on this big branch and let my feet dangle. Sometimes I’d find a caterpillar in the leaves, or a bird would land nearby and I’d sit real still so I wouldn’t scare it. That’s what she painted. Me in torn jeans straddling a branch, my bare dirty feet dangling and a blue bird looking at me from a different branch.”
Joy smiled. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He let out a breath. “Honestly, it’s an amazing piece. You can almost feel the heat of the summer day when you look at it.”
“What else?” Joy asked, and there was something in her eyes, a spark that turned them more gold than green.
Thinking about it, Royce said, “She did a massive painting of me at eight years old, sleeping on top of my covers. Another of my toy race cars lined up on a shelf. All you can see of me is my forearm, and a grubby little hand arranging the cars.”
