Found: One Son

by Judith Arnold

  She wanted to trust Michael, but he hadn’t earned her trust yet.

  “Michael?” Her voice sounded strange to her, her lips tingling, her tongue thick and sluggish, as if reluctant to waste energy talking when it could instead be gliding over Michael’s, venturing into his mouth and feeling him groan.

  He sighed, a hint of surrender in the sound. He let his hands drift back to the safer territory of her shoulders and rested his cheek against her brow. “You want me to leave,” he guessed. She felt the rough texture of his jaw, a day’s growth of beard scratching her forehead as he spoke.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she murmured. “But I think you should.”

  “Okay.” He held her for a minute longer, then relented, letting his arms drop to his sides and taking a step back. She risked a glance at his face and was shaken by the raw hunger she saw there, the mesmerizing darkness of his eyes, the sharp line of his nose, the dazzling curve of his lips, not a smile so much as a question.

  She knew what he was asking. She knew he already knew the answer. Yes, she wanted him, as much as he wanted her. But she wasn’t sure of him, not yet. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake she’d made with him last time.

  He nodded, as though to acknowledge her tacit answer, then took another step back and turned to face the door. His steps seemed labored, as if he were fighting against the impulse to return to her side, but he honored her request and kept going until he had his hand on the latch. “Say good-night to Jeffrey for me,” he said, then swung open the door and strode out, apparently counting on momentum to get him away from her.

  She released a broken breath, which was followed by a small, dazed laugh. It didn’t matter that Jeffrey would be fast asleep by now; that Michael had remembered him was a minor miracle. And she didn’t really mind that Michael hadn’t also wished her a good-night. He probably knew that as long as they weren’t going to spend it together, their night wouldn’t be good.

  She chastised herself for that absurd thought. She hadn’t pined for Michael five years ago, and she wasn’t going to pine for him now. She was going to sweep the kitchen, review her lesson plan for tomorrow, take a shower and get some sleep.

  She swept. She went over her notes. She tiptoed into Jeffrey’s room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head as he clung to Teddy and Frumpy and snored contentedly. Then she retired to her own bedroom, where she stripped off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower. Maybe she ought to have taken a cold one, but she needed the heat more than she needed to douse the embers that continued to smolder inside her, still glowing from Michael’s kiss. She hoped the steaming water would relax her, massage her flesh, tranquilize her twitching nerves, soothe her yearning heart. She washed her hair and remembered the sensation of his breath ruffling the strands. She felt the shampoo suds slide down her back and remembered his hands following the same route along her spine, down to the hollow of her waist.

  She mustn’t be reckless. Not this time. She was a mature woman. She desired Michael because she hadn’t been with a man in far too long, and she knew he was a wonderful lover, both fierce and sensitive, daring and tender-the most magnificent man she’d ever been with, even if he’d broken her heart.

  She was too smart to let her heart get broken again.

  She rinsed her hair, then shut off the shower and scrubbed herself dry with a towel. She moved briskly, calmly, doing her impersonation of a smart, mature woman. She brushed out her hair, blow-dried it, pulled her nightgown from the hook behind the door and put it on. She cleaned her teeth and rubbed a moisturizing lotion onto her hands. Then she reentered her bedroom.

  Her bedside clock read ten-thirty. She was tired. She climbed into bed, set the alarm for tomorrow morning and shut off the lamp.

  The room was eerily dark and still. Through the open window she heard a faint breeze ruffling the new spring leaves. Maybe it wasn’t leaves, she thought whimsically—maybe it was the monster in the tree, stirring to life.

  She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. Her nightgown bunched around her legs. When she tried to adjust it, it pinched at her neck. She lifted her hips, smoothed out the gauzy white cotton and settled back into the mattress.

  The pillow felt as if it was stuffed with pebbles. She sensed every lump, every strange bulge. She sat up, punched the pillow into shape, lay back down and then had to lift her hips and smooth out her nightgown again.

  Her toes were cold.

  She groaned. There was nothing wrong with her toes, nothing wrong with the pillow or her nightgown or anything else but herself. She wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, not when her body wanted Michael. Not when her heart wanted him even more.

  Yet if she was foolish enough to try to get him to come back, she wouldn’t be able to. She didn’t know where he was staying in town. Some hotel... hadn’t the baby-sitter mentioned where he was staying? The day he’d shown up in town, Claire had been here with Jeffrey and Adam, and she’d spirited the boys inside to keep them away from Michael. But she’d jotted down where Michael was staying on the message pad next to the phone in the kitchen. Emmie had thrown out the note.

  Unable to stop herself, she tossed back the blanket and stalked down the hall in her bare feet. When she snapped on the kitchen light her eyes burned from the glare, but a few blinks soothed them. She grabbed the notepad. Claire’s message was gone, but its imprint remained on the new top sheet.

  Emmie tilted it against the light. “Holiday Inn,” she read.

  This was insane. She should just go back to bed. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least try to get some rest. She mustn’t be reckless. If she and Michael were destined to build a new relationship from the remnants of their old one, it would take time. She could be patient.

  As she recited that sensible lecture in her mind, her hands hauled down the telephone directory from the shelf. She riffled through the pages until she found the listing for Wilborough’s Holiday Inn. Be smart, she told herself. You don’t want to rush into anything. You know you don’t.

  She dialed the number.

  Hang up, Emmie. Take your time. Get to know him better. Make sure you’re sure.

  A clerk answered the phone. “Please connect me with Michael Molina’s room,” Emmie requested.

  He’s going to turn your life upside down. He did it before and he’ll do it again, even worse this time. This time you’ve got Jeffrey. to think of. You have to be strong for Jeffrey. You have to play it safe.

  “Hello?”

  Michael’s voice silenced the nattering voice inside her skull. Her mind went blank, then filled again with an image of him, the sheer male presence of him, the implacable demands of her soul for him. “Come,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE’D SAID SHE DIDN’T want to rush into anything. But his mind and body were begging him to rush. He felt like a kid facing his very first time, anxious and excited but afraid to linger, because if the lady in question had a minute to think it over she might change her mind.

  “Come,” Emmie had said. Just that one word.

  She wasn’t going to change her mind, not about this.

  It took all his willpower not to break every speed limit between his hotel room and her house. He needed not to rush—not only when he arrived at her house but now, closing the distance between them. This wasn’t about sex, he knew. It was about Emmie’s decision to trust him, and about his resolution to live up to her trust.

  This was it. He could never betray her again. No matter what happened to him, what he stumbled into, what disasters befell him, he could never, ever leave her after this, because if he left her he would destroy himself even more than her.

  A single light glowed above her door, a beacon guiding him where he needed to be. He pulled into the driveway, parked and walked one painstakingly controlled step at a time when all he wanted was to sprint across her lawn. As he reached the front step, the door swung open.

  She stood framed in the doorway, clad only in
a white nightgown of some diaphanous material. He saw the shadow of her body through the cloth, her long legs and narrow waist, her breasts taut against the fabric, already aroused. Her eyes were round with what he interpreted as panic, but she pushed open the storm door and let him inside.

  They stood in the entry, illuminated only by the glow of the light above the front door. He heard her deep breaths and his own. He heard his heart pounding, and he believed that if he listened carefully he’d be able to hear hers, too.

  “Are you sure?” he finally asked.

  She nodded. That would have to be enough.

  He took her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers. He felt certainty in her kiss, in the possessive strength of her arms around him, in the wild yearning of her lips, her tongue. He felt it in the heat of her body pressing into his. He was hotter than she was. He was burning up, right there in her doorway.

  He kicked the door shut, then scooped her into his arms. She looped her arms around his neck and continued to kiss him, her hair spilling over his arm and her bare feet bumping against his hip. Her house was dark except for the night-light spilling a velvet-soft amber glow through Jeffrey’s open door.

  Michael wondered whether they should close it. He didn’t know. He had never made love to a mother before.

  Emmie would have shut the door if she’d felt it necessary. He continued down the hall to the room at the end-her bedroom.

  Like the rest of the house it was dark, except for the angular red digits of her alarm clock and the moonlight tracing shimmering silver outlines along her furniture. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he could see that her modest double bed had been slept in—or, more likely, tossed and turned in. The sheets were rumpled, the blanket thrown back, the pillows lopsided. Just like his bed back at the hotel.

  He lowered her onto the mattress, then stretched out beside her. Her fingers scrambled over the buttons of his shirt, yanking them free. Every time she skimmed his chest with her hand he felt his temperature soar higher. He wanted to tear the damned shirt off and let her touch him, really touch him, not accidentally glance off his skin.

  I don’t want to rush, she’d said just a few hours ago in her kitchen. God, but he wanted to rush. He wanted her to want to rush. He wanted her naked, but to remove her nightgown would require him to lift himself off her, and that would mean she would stop touching him.

  Rush, he thought, gathering handfuls of her nightgown and tugging it up over her hips. I’ve waited years for this. I want to rush.

  At last his shirt was completely undone. He released her long enough to slide it off and toss it onto the floor. Then he went back to her nightgown, eased it up over her breasts, over her head, and hurled it in the vicinity of his shirt.

  She was so beautiful. The moonlight now outlined her—her slender throat, her smooth shoulders, her creamy skin. Her breasts were fuller than he’d remembered, the nipples darker. Because of Jeffrey, he guessed. That little boy had changed everything.

  Would her body feel the same? he wondered. Would it respond as it had before? It wasn’t the same body he’d loved five years ago. She had carried a life inside it, nurtured and protected his son in her womb. He skimmed his hand down to her belly, wishing he could feel the difference through her flesh, a mystical warmth where his child had lived for nine months.

  All he felt was Emmie, soft and smooth. He slid his hands back up to her breasts, stroking them, then kissing them. He took one swollen nipple into his mouth and wondered if she had nourished his son this way. Did she understand that right now she was nourishing Michael?

  She shifted restlessly beneath him, her hands ranging across his back, down to the waistband of his jeans, up again and down, her fingers pinching the denim in apparent frustration. He knew she wanted him to take the jeans off—hell, he wanted them off, too—but he couldn’t stop kissing her breast, rubbing that soft, sweet nub with his tongue, sucking on it and hearing her gasp.

  “Michael,” she whispered. The first word she’d uttered since he’d entered her house: his name. For that alone he would stop kissing her long enough to finish undressing.

  He had brought protection with him. That morning, in a moment of defiant optimism, he’d stopped into a drugstore and bought a package between the second and third apartments he’d looked at. After tossing the box onto her night table, he stripped off his jeans and shorts and sent them onto the floor with the rest of his clothing. Then he rejoined her in the bed.

  It was heaven, touching her. Heaven, feeling her hands on him, her lips, the strength of her legs weaving through his. He no longer felt like rushing, now that they were in her bed and he could actually believe she was his.

  He caressed her shoulders, her sides, her abdomen. He strummed his fingers down her legs and up again, rolled her onto her stomach and grazed a path along her spine. He had never lost his astonishment at how soft a woman’s body could be, how delicate her bones could feel beneath her skin. Even a slim woman like Emmie had heft in places—the roundness of her bottom, the gentle curves of her thighs. He had always adored the female body—but Emmie’s body more than any other. And Emmie tonight more than he’d ever adored her before.

  She turned back to face him, her gaze imploring. As he propped himself above her, she ran her hands down his chest to his groin, molded her fingers around him. He closed his eyes to savor the friction of her strokes, then opened them again. He wanted to see her, wanted to read in her face how much she wanted him, how ready she was for him.

  He moved between her legs, caressing her, feeling her dampness. She arched against him and moaned impatiently, but still he watched her face, wanting to see it in her mouth and her eyes, wanting to hear it in the rhythm of her breath.

  “Michael,” she whispered again, “Michael...” And his heart broke a little because she was so open to him, because her trust moved him more than he could have imagined.

  He reached for the packet, grabbed a sheath and readied himself. Then he pressed into her, trying not to rush—but oh, she felt so good. So hot and tight, so right. His heart broke a little more, just from the pleasure of it.

  She relaxed, seemingly satisfied finally to have him inside her. He rocked her slowly, surprisingly relaxed himself. Minutes ago, driving over to her house, he’d felt his urges storming inside him, threatening to tear him apart, but now that he was here, now that their bodies were locked intimately together and he saw a dazed, blissful smile shaping her lips, he stopped feeling so frenzied. This was theirs for as long as they could make it last. If he rushed it would end sooner, so he wasn’t going to rush.

  Loving her was like a dance—one where he was graceful and able, where he knew all the steps. He and Emmie moved like silk and sinew, like fire and love, burning higher with each surge, giving more to each other, taking more. Beyond them only the night existed, dark and silent.

  She drew her legs around his waist, gripped his shoulders with her hands, and the smile faded from her lips. He kissed her and she groaned, clinging to him. Realizing how close she was made him want to let go, but he waited, bringing her along, holding back until she was there.

  Heaven, he thought as he thrust one final time, sinking onto her and letting the sensation sweep through him.

  For a long time they lay quietly, their limbs entwined, their hearts pounding and their breath coming in ragged bursts. He felt Emmie’s hands floating vaguely over his back and combing into his hair. He was too tired to move. Too happy.

  Then she spoke again. “Michael.”

  “Yes.” It occurred to him that he might be crushing her, and he raised himself on his hands. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes glistened. “I want this to work,” she said, her voice hushed and throaty.

  “It will,” he promised.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be.” How could he be so positive? They’d never really had a regular courtship. They’d never built a relationship the normal way, taking their time, getting to know each other.
All they had between them was a brief, almost unreal stretch of time in San Pablo and five years of sorrow, disappointment and loneliness. And now this: a night in a charming ranch house on a half-acre plot in the suburbs, with a child fast asleep just down the hall. Their child.

  Why was he making such crazy promises?

  Because the alternative—losing Emmie—was unbearable.

  “We’ll make it work,” he vowed. He settled on the bed beside her, pulling her against him and wrapping his arms around her. Her hair smelled of lavender. Her skin smelled only of her, a salty, musky scent that turned him on all over again.

  They had all night. He wasn’t going to rush, not anymore. If he was going to make this work, he was going to have to do it right-slowly, gradually, becoming a father as he became Emmie’s lover and partner.

  Her respiration grew deeper, more regular, and her hand moved in a gentle pattern against his side. Yes, he would make this work. But he had to admit that he was as scared as she was.

  TWO DAYS LATER, he moved into their house.

  He’d been looking at apartments for rent, but Emmie just didn’t see the point in that. He wanted to be a part of their family, and she wanted him to. And it wasn’t a huge move. He wasn’t bringing furniture with him—in fact, all he had was a single suitcase, his laptop and a few folders of notes. The day after he moved in, he purchased a printer-fax machine-a remarkable extravagance, she thought, but one he said he would need if he was going to keep up with his work.

  It amazed her that he needed so little: just a few changes of clothing, a computer and a printer-fax. But when she thought about it, she realized that what he really needed was nothing he could pack in a bag or a box and move into the spare bedroom. What he needed was already in her house: her and Jeffrey.

  “I still feel awkward with him,” he complained one evening after she’d put Jeffrey to bed and then joined Michael out on the back patio for an icy lemonade.