by Elle James
“Stop it,” Sandy cried. She’d never had the full effect of Tristan’s blazing eyes boring into hers in anger. “Let go. You’re scaring me.”
He let go instantly—so fast that Sandy had to catch herself to keep from losing her balance. The anger drained from his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“That’s just it, Tristan. You didn’t mean to scare me. You didn’t mean to make me think you were dead. You didn’t mean to do a lot of things. But you have. And I know it’s because of that stupid job. Why would you do that? Why on earth would you become an undercover agent? That’s not you.”
He looked at her for a moment, then turned toward the house. “Go inside and go to bed. You need some sleep. I’ll lock up the house and put the alarm on.”
“No. I want an answer.”
But she didn’t get one. Tristan started walking in his awkward way toward the house. She had no choice but to follow him or stand outside alone. Inside, he set the alarm and asked her if she wanted coffee.
She shook her head.
“Yeah, me neither,” he said. He walked down the hall into the master bedroom.
Sandy didn’t know what to say, so she followed him. Finally, he spoke.
“I never wanted to work on the oil rigs,” he said. “I saw my dad turn hard and distant. He was out there more than he was home. I hated that and I swore I would never do that to my—” He stopped.
“To your family,” Sandy supplied, hearing the bitter note in her voice.
“But I had no choice.”
“Are you blaming me?”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. I’m not blaming anyone. Dad died and I had to forget about veterinary school and get a job. The oil rigs have always paid the best.
“It happened. Nobody’s fault. But when Homeland Security contacted me and told me they wanted an agent on the Pleiades Seagull who was a local and would never be suspected of being undercover for the government, it sounded like a way of making the job meaningful. I wouldn’t just be one man on one of the thousands of oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico—I’d be doing something for my country.” He shrugged.
Sandy’s heart wrenched, listening to his dreams. She took a step toward him, reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “I guess I never realized how much it meant to you to be able to contribute to the safety and security of the country.”
His back stiffened. “I’ll sleep on the sofa in the living room,” he said flatly. “That way I can see and hear anyone who might be sneaking around the house. We’ll have the alarm, but I’d like to get a look at whoever it is that’s hanging around. If I do see someone, I might set off the alarm myself just to be able to get to him and beat the crap out of him.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t even try,” she said with more than a dash of sarcasm. “You couldn’t beat the crap out of a stuffed toy bear in the condition you’re in.”
Chapter Seven
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sandy was sorry. Tristan’s face went still and his mouth flattened.
“You’ve always underestimated me, San. I’m not sure why.”
“I’m not underestimating you. I’m looking at you. You’re injured. You don’t have your strength back. Of course you can’t fight until you’re healed. But you’re not by nature a fighter, anyhow. You’re a romantic. A peacekeeper.” She held up a hand when Tristan started to speak.
“I know. I know you can take care of yourself—and me. I’ve never doubted that. But you’ve never been the type to go looking for trouble.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m talking about protecting my house. Protecting you and the baby. But there you go, underestimating me again.” He looked down then back up at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Tristan?” she called out just as he was about to close the door behind him.
He looked at her. “Yeah?”
“Don’t go.”
“I thought you were so mad at me you could do something drastic.”
“I am— I was.”
“So what were you thinking of?” he asked, his mood lightening. His mouth turned up in a mischievous smile. “This?” And he drew her to him and kissed her.
Sandy was completely caught off guard. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shaken her or pushed her out of the way and strode out of the house. But kiss her? That, she’d never suspected.
All those thoughts flitted through her head in a split second. Practically no time. Yet time enough for him to begin to nibble at her lips and flick them with his tongue in a tentative invitation for her to open her mouth.
She had no problem complying with that request. Nothing about this part of their life together had changed at all. She was still in love with her husband, still turned on by the faintest pressure of his lips on hers, the quickest, lightest nibble on the flesh of her lips and tongue and every breathtaking inch that his hands caressed as they moved from her back around to the sides of her breasts.
She moaned and opened her mouth, using her tongue the way he was using his, to thrust and explore and ease her way closer and closer. She felt faint with desire, a sensation she’d known—known—she would never feel again, because the man she’d loved ever since they were children was dead. And if it hadn’t been for his child who was growing within her, her heart would have died, too.
From long before they’d experimented with something more than kissing or innocent hand holding or hugging, she’d been insatiably drawn to him. She’d wanted him touching her, molding his body to hers, loving her, all the time. They’d both been seventeen, too young and yet plenty old enough.
Still, once they’d done it, there was no turning back. They had loved each other all their lives. And that love had always been multifaceted. It embodied every kind of love in existence: sexual, sensual, platonic, innocent and jaded all at once. They were not perfect people, by any means, but they were perfect together.
As the fuel of desire flowed through Sandy, her longing for the man she had and would always love and whom she’d thought she’d lost forever grew until she was on the verge of bursting into climactic flame just from his mouth on hers and his hands caressing her.
“This is probably not a good idea,” he murmured against her lips.
“You started it,” she teased, but she felt the change in him. He was withdrawing. She didn’t know what his problem was, but she wasn’t about to give up so easily.
She had always wanted him, but at this moment, her desire for him was a burning urge like nothing she’d ever felt before. He’d been dead and now he was alive, his skin vibrant and hot, his body coursing with life. She slid her arms around his waist and kept kissing him.
For an instant he yielded. He deepened his kiss, sending electric pulses through her, each one bringing her closer and closer to the brink of climax. She pressed her body against his.
“No,” he said. He stiffened and pulled away.
Sandy moaned. “Don’t stop now,” she whispered.
“San,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms and holding her at arm’s length. He met her gaze, then he looked away. “I’m not sure I can...do this,” he muttered.
She looked up at him with a small smile. “I’m sure you can,” she said, sliding her fingers across the front of his pants.
He stepped away from her and turned his back. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?” she asked.
He said something, too softly for her to understand.
She went to him and tried to wrap her arms around him from behind, but he pulled away and turned, his face dark with anger.
“Damn it, Sandy, I can barely walk. My damn leg will never hold up to—” He gestured vaguely.
Sandy gave a short la
ugh. “You don’t have to. I can definitely handle that workload myself. I’ll be on top and—”
“I said no!” he snapped, looking cornered.
Sandy held up her hands, palms out. She took a step backward. “Fine. Sorry,” she said. Her whole body ached with the pain of thwarted desire as well as hurt at his rejection.
He shot her a glare, then said, “Okay, well, I’m going to lie down on the couch.”
She closed her eyes and then opened them again. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d stay in my—our—room,” she said. “If you want, you can sleep on the daybed.”
Tristan looked at the small bed then back at her. “Nope. I’m not sleeping on some child-sized bed in my own bedroom in my own house. You can forget that. If you want me to stay in this room—our room—it will be in my bed with my wife.”
At his words, the flame inside her that he’d so successfully damped just a few seconds ago reignited.
It was a flame that had been banked for a long time. Too long. It had been a long time since she’d been in the same bed with her husband. Before he’d fallen or been pushed overboard, he’d been on the rig for a month. The last time he’d come home she’d been dealing with a severe bout of morning sickness. Amazed, she realized it had been over four months since they had made love.
“Good night,” Tristan said, heading out the door again. “Get some sleep.”
“Wait!” she cried.
He stopped and stood in the doorway, rubbing his temple with his fingers.
She looked at him. He was a miracle by anyone’s account. He’d been declared dead. He’d had funeral rites spoken over a casket that supposedly contained his remains. Now he had returned. And she needed him as close to her as was humanly possible. “All right,” she said.
“All right what?” he asked, earning a glare from her. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Please sleep in here with me, in the bed,” she said. “I need you with me.”
He nodded slowly, his dark eyes shimmering like gems in the low light.
* * *
IT WAS A long time before Tristan came to bed. Sandy didn’t know exactly what time he’d slipped beneath the covers, but when she awoke at 2:00 a.m., her heart pounding and her breath puffing in shallow gasps, he was there.
He’d put his hand on her arm and bent his head to her ear. “Go back to sleep, cher. I’m here now.”
“Tristan?” she whispered, turning over and snuggling into his arms. “I heard something.”
She felt him stiffen slightly and couldn’t tell if it was because she’d turned a casual gesture of comfort into an embrace or because of what she’d said.
“I know,” he said. “It’s probably the wind.”
“Probably? You think it might be something to worry about?” She snuggled closer.
His breath caught. “San, be careful.”
“Oh, Tristan, did I hurt you? I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, but you’re going to wake us up if you don’t stop talking.”
She pressed her nose into the side of his neck. He smelled the same as he always had. Warm, clean, masculine. She’d never quite figured out what the combination of scents was. Something like soap and shaving cream and maybe a little toothpaste, mingled with a masculine undertone that was uniquely his. To her, he smelled like the man she’d sworn to live the rest of her life with.
“Are you sure you want me to be careful?” she whispered into his ear.
He shivered and she felt goose bumps raise on the sensitive skin beneath his ear. She blew on it, hoping to keep the goose bumps there for as long as possible.
“Is that careful enough?” she whispered. She shouldn’t be trying to seduce him. She knew that. For one thing, she was still angry with him for not letting her know that he was alive for two whole months. Granted, he’d spent most of one of those months either unconscious or asleep, recuperating on any day of those two months. But Boudreau could have walked over and saved her hours and days of horrible grief and sadness. He could have told her that Tristan was alive.
But even more than anger, she was feeling a deep, exquisitely painful yearning for him. He was her husband and it had been way too long since they’d made love.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice breathy and deep.
“I’m doing what I thought you wanted me to do,” she said, thinking she was treading on dangerous ground. If he chose to get annoyed with her for bringing that up, she’d lose her chance to make love with her husband.
Tristan rose up on his elbow and looked down at her. “And what’s that, cher?” he whispered.
She smiled up at him, knowing from the tone of his voice and the soft look in his dark eyes that he’d made his decision. He was ready to be her husband, her living, breathing, virile husband.
“Welcoming you home,” she breathed, barely even making a sound. But she knew he heard it and understood it. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with as much intensity, as much desire, as much love as he ever had.
Sandy melted into his embrace and took his kiss, fully, returning it the same way. When he touched and caressed her, when he kissed her, she felt like an ethereal, exquisite fairy, floating in a beautiful world that belonged to just the two of them, her and Tristan. Three, now that the little bean was with them.
Tristan slid a hand down over her rounded belly. “Hi, bean,” he whispered. Then he bent his head and kissed the taut skin. “Hey, my little boy. My son. How’re you doing in there?”
Sandy felt his hand travel down the slope of the baby bump and farther, to caress her intimately. When his fingers touched her, a painfully thrilling spasm shot through her with the speed and sense of an electric shock. She cried out.
Immediately, he tried to pull his hand away, but she held it there with hers. “Don’t stop, please. It’s been so long.”
“I know,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone so long.” He bent to lick and nibble on her distended nipples as his arousal hardened against her thigh.
Sandy arched her back, the twin sensations of his mouth on her nipples and his fingers inside her driving her to a second climax, stronger than the first. While she was still receiving little aftershocks of that second climax, Tristan suckled on a nipple.
“Tris, just so you know, I’m getting some—”
He jerked backward so quickly that, even though she was in the middle of explaining what he might encounter, it shocked Sandy.
“What? Did you hear something?” she asked, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t fixated on anything that had happened outside.
He was wiping his mouth and staring at her breast. “Was that—” he asked, looking pale.
She nodded and smiled. “Milk. Just a little bit. I’ve been noticing little droplets every so often.”
“I’m not sure I want to know that,” he muttered.
She was still shaky from her climaxes, so when she reached out for him, her hand trembled. “It’s fine, Tris. It’s perfectly natural. In fact, some couples do this. It stimulates the production of the milk and makes it easier for—”
“Okay,” he snapped, swiping a hand through the air. “Could you just stop?” He pulled away from her and got up. “I’m going to sleep on the couch, like I said I would in the first place,” he said more calmly. “I need some sleep and I’m sure you do, too.”
He stood, steadying himself against the bedpost as he retrieved his jeans from a chair. As he headed out the door, she saw his silhouette in briefs and a T-shirt. His right lower leg appeared to be nothing but skin and bone.
He closed the door behind him and Sandy flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She needed a few seconds to recover from the two—had it just been two?—climaxes.
The feeling of Tristan touching her, caressing her, dippi
ng into her, was so sharp and sweetly painful that she wanted to capture as much of it as she could before the last of the tiny aftershocks faded.
She also wanted to get up and follow Tristan and force him with kisses and touches to finish what he’d started. It was late, though, and he’d been shocked and repulsed when he’d tasted the milk from her breast. He hadn’t been ready for that.
A deep pain arrowed through her entire body. Maybe he would never be ready for it, or for her, again, after the horror he’d been through. She couldn’t imagine the pain and fear he’d suffered, certain he would die, or if he lived that he would be scarred and, worse, never have full use of his leg again.
For the first time it occurred to her that she may have had it easier than he had. It was beyond awful to find out the love of your life was dead, but was it worse than experiencing death? Especially a violent death? Was it worse than watching a vicious creature rip away a part of your body? Was it worse than needing air and sucking in seawater instead?
Tears slipped down her cheeks and wet her face and her pillow as she allowed herself to think about what it had been like for him. Dear God, how she loved him. And how she had let him down.
* * *
WHEN SHE WOKE just after eight o’clock, Tristan was in bed with her. She was lying on her side and his body was spooning hers. His half-hard arousal was pressed against her and his deep, even breaths tickled her ear. But what sent a poignant ache through her was that his hand was resting protectively on her tummy. She wanted to turn and lay her hands over his, wanted to show him the heart-filling thrill of feeling his baby kick and squirm inside her. She longed to lie there in his arms and tell him how the doctor had joked about that little thing he saw on the sonogram that made him sure the baby was a boy.
