by Robyn Grady
Laura’s head rocked back.
She reveled in the feel of him. Her senses reeled at his clean male scent. As her palms sculpted over his shoulders and biceps, her mind visualized those hot mounds of steely flesh—how she loved to cling to them when he thrust above her—and she smiled.
His thumbs rubbed mesmerizing deep circles high on her arms as his mouth trailed her collarbone then dipped lower until the warm wet sweep of his tongue twirled and teased one nipple. Every atom of oxygen in her lungs evaporated. Gasping back air, she drove her fingers through his hair while tiny brush fires flashed and ignited through her veins. And the slow burn only grew, second by second, with every heartbeat and breathtaking loop of his tongue.
Light-headed, she tugged at his belt and murmured into the shadows, “We don’t do this enough.” His teeth nipped and tugged the bead at the tip of her breast and she sighed. “In the beginning we’d spend entire weekends in bed.”
“I remember,” he groaned, then drew her deeply into his mouth.
He’d heeled off his shoes. Now he tugged and stepped out of his trousers. When he hooked her under each arm and laid her upon the bed, she moaned with barely contained anticipation and delight. Like a big cat on the prowl, on all fours he edged up until he hovered over her. His head slowly dipped to kiss her mouth, her brow, the shell of her ear, as her back arched higher and his erection throbbed and grew.
“Should we flick back the quilt?” she asked between breath less kisses and running her leg over his. “Get beneath the covers?”
His palm, large and slightly rough, scooped under her hip. In a slow, languid movement, his muscular body grazed up against hers, drawing an urgent gasp of want from her lips. His knees nudged between hers. When his tip found her moist…silky, swollen and ready…he grinned against her parted lips.
“I’m good,” he said, and eased in more. “How about you?”
In answer, her pelvis tilted up at the same time his came down and he drove three parts in. The thrust hit a hot spot so bright she gasped for air. Her nails dragged up over rippling tendons as she swallowed loving words from his mouth. Making love with Bishop had always been wonderful, but this time…
This time was something beyond incredible. With the iron ruts of his abdomen grinding against her, his mouth sipping from her throat and strong fingers curling through her hair she felt consumed by a blanket of heat. The burn lifted her to a place no woman had ever flown to before. He felt so deliciously heavy on top her…so delectably, alarmingly male.
Smiling into the shadows, Laura held tight to the feeling.
He still wanted her. Of course he did. The same insatiable way she wanted him.
The slow, steady friction soon turned to leaping flame. As the energy—the raw imploding power—built and pulsed, she clung to his arms as her muscles contracted around him and every particle shivered, focusing on the indescribable magic awaiting her only a heartbeat away.
Perspiration slicked his skin; he slid and ground against her, making her burn wherever they touched. A rumbling groan sounded in his chest and in the shadows she saw him set his jaw. And then, without warning, he rolled away.
Working for breath, it took a few seconds for her to realize he wasn’t coming back. She pushed up onto her elbows, worried.
“What’s wrong?”
Stretched out on his back, out of breath, he laced his fingers over his brow. “We need protection.”
Protection?
Laura fell back. She wanted to say just this once, couldn’t they forget it? But there wasn’t a chance he’d listen to that. Unprotected sex could result in an unwanted pregnancy. Unwanted on his part, anyway.
So she waited for Bishop’s side drawer to open, for her husband to reach in and fish out a foiled packet from the place he always kept them. But he didn’t move. Not an inch. And as the stillness eked out, the cool in the room compressed and settled upon her.
He’d been so insistent. After being concerned about her welfare last night and today, finally he hadn’t wanted to stop long enough to pull back the covers. And yet now…
She pushed higher. “Bishop, what’s the matter? They’re in the drawer, right there beside you.”
Another few seconds ticked by before he rolled onto his side away from her. Laura watched the long powerful line of his silhouette moving, heard the drawer slide open then his grunt.
She sat up a little. “What’s wrong?”
“Condoms. They’re there. A whole pack.”
Grinning, she brushed her lips against his shoulder. “We don’t have to use them all in one night.”
“I just…” He shrugged and exhaled. “Never mind.” She heard him remove one before he turned back. Once again his mouth slanted over hers and instantly any chill was gone, replaced by the heat he so effortlessly brought out in her. The embrace intensified, the kiss deepened and the need to join in the most fundamental way grew again. When her palm filed down the hard trunk of his thigh, his own hand mimicked her move, curving down her spine then sliding between her legs. He began to stroke her, tease her, and as he kissed her thoroughly she knew this night wouldn’t end without that ticking bomb deep inside of her exploding at least once.
Teetering on the edge, she murmured against his lips, “I love when you kiss me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”
As if she’d given the golden command, he began moving down, his mouth roaming, suctioning here and there, over her ribs, her belly, around the ticklish dip of her navel. And every kiss took her that much higher, drew her that much nearer. Had her falling that much more in love.
In the dark recesses of his mind, Bishop knew he’d lost the plot. When he’d found a box of sealed condoms in the drawer where he’d always kept them, he’d sent up a prayer of thanks then had plowed on. He’d expected Laura to have ditched the contraceptives long ago, but like the wedding photo and rings, she’d left them alone. Because she couldn’t bear to touch them? Because she’d secretly wished for her husband back?
Hell, at this precise moment in time, he was way too pumped to wonder.
He’d succumbed to Laura’s wiles and, God help him, he couldn’t regret it. Particularly now as his mouth trailed an unerring course over her flat stomach and lower. When he reached those soft, moist curls, his brain stopped working altogether.
While her hips slowly rotated, he nuzzled down. After dropping a few barely there kisses on her inner thighs, he got more comfortable and, using his fingers and his tongue, exposed more of her. Her sigh of pure pleasure heightened his own, and as he made love to her with his mouth—with everything he was or had ever been—he understood that this time was beyond compare. Because it was forbidden? Or because they’d denied each other for too long? He only knew she’d never tasted sweeter and his desire for her had never been stronger.
It seemed like he’d only begun when he sensed the intensity building inside of her. Wanting to give her an experience without equal, he held her hips while his mouth covered her and he did what he knew she liked best. Her spine pushed down and she trembled, barely noticeably at first. But as the rolls of energy grew, she began to shudder and moan.
He stayed with her, adoring her fingers bunched in his hair and the series of contractions that urged him not to stop. When she was still floating down, he moved away just enough to open that foil wrapper and rolled down their protection. When he joined her again, her eyes were closed, her head was slanted to one side and a fan of fair hair was flung over her face. Sighing, she clung to him as he eased in.
With one arm curled over her head, he gazed down at her face, more beautiful than any woman’s alive. As he moved above her, found just the right rhythm, he wanted to tell himself to go slow. Make this last. Tomorrow he might not be welcome in Laura’s life much less her bed.
As the heat of the inferno licking through his veins intensified, so too did his pace. Still, as his lips traced down her cheek and he stole another penetrating kiss, he was certain he could hold out. This was simply too good to let
go yet. But then she quieted and a heartbeat later bucked beneath him, peaking again and riding another orgasmic curl. The push was too much.
Murmuring her name, concentrating on the delicious burn and how glorious she felt surrounding him, he drove in again and jumped off into the firestorm that consumed him inside and out. As white-hot flames swirled though him, Bishop held on tighter and for the first time hoped she didn’t remember too soon.
The next morning Bishop sat on the eastern porch, gazing blindly out over the hills, listening to the early morning laughter of kookaburras and wondering what the hell had possessed him last night.
What had he been thinking? Sleeping with Laura once had been a bad idea. Sleeping with her again, and again, had to be moronic. Sure, it’d felt great. Unbelievably fantastic! But that wouldn’t save him when her memory returned and she demanded to know why he’d taken advantage of the situation like he had. Never mind that she’d as good as drugged him with her words and her touches and her smiles. When the real Laura returned she wouldn’t listen to a word of it. That Laura wasn’t in love.
No more than he was.
Nothing could obliterate the words they’d exchanged during their roughest patch. The things they’d said to each other would crush the worthiest of loves. It had certainly killed his.
But love aside, clearly he still had feelings for her. He was still smitten by her scent, her voice, the cute sway of her hips whenever she walked. Laura affected him at his most basic primal level. Even when he’d sworn he never wanted to clap eyes on her again, he’d been on the verge of forcing her to hush by kissing her senseless. There’d been a time after they’d split when he thought he never wanted to sleep with another woman, the tough times had affected him that much. Truth was, until last night, he hadn’t broken the drought. Although, he’d been heading that way with Annabelle.
His elbow on the outside chair armrest, he held his brow and rubbed his temple.
What was he going to do about that? He and Annabelle weren’t in a relationship, as such. They’d seen each other a few times. They seemed to like the same things, got each other’s humor and respected each other’s space. But after what had happened between him and Laura last night…
His hand dropping from his brow, he blew out a breath.
Clearly, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to even think about getting involved with Annabelle or any other woman.
Shifting his hip, he dug the cell out of his back pocket. A moment later the recipient’s soft voice drifted down the line.
He straightened in his chair. “Annabelle. It’s Samuel.”
“Sam? I was hoping you’d phone this weekend. You’ve been busy?”
“You could say that.”
As usual, she was understanding. “There’s still most of Sunday left.”
He cursed himself. He’d never felt more like a heel, but there was no way around it.
“Look, this is probably not a conversation we should have over the phone. But…” His gaze wandered over the bush, the gazebo, the setting that used to be so much a part of his life and seemed to be again for however long. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
“Something’s wrong?”
“I told you I’d been married.”
“Yes…you said it ended badly.”
“Thing is, Laura, my ex, had an accident Friday.”
He imagined Annabelle’s long dark lashes batting as she took that in and then her eyes widening as she made a likely assumption. “You’re with her now?”
“I took her home from the hospital.”
“You’re…patching things up?”
“It’s complicated.” He rubbed his brow. Really, really complicated.
“But you’re together?” Her tone was less fragile now.
He answered as honestly as he could. In a sense… “Yes.”
He waited as Annabelle no doubt composed herself. But she sounded calm when she spoke. Understanding, even. She’d make someone a great wife someday.
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
“Except, I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask you not to lose my number, you know, in case things don’t work out?”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
But as he hung up, Bishop knew he wouldn’t contact Annabelle again. Not because things would work out between him and Laura; he was damn close to certain it wouldn’t. But because if they saw each other again, Annabelle would always wonder whether he was thinking about his ex. If he were in her position he might do the same.
Besides, Annabelle deserved someone who could offer her a future and Bishop hadn’t been after commitment even before Friday’s incident.
And so another short chapter in his life was closed, while the case of the amnesiac ex was still wide-open.
As he slotted the phone away, his nose picked up on an aroma that came from the kitchen. Butter melting in a pan.
It was Sunday. Tradition decreed they have brunch on this porch. Hash browns and bacon, pancakes and maple syrup, or their old favorite, eggs Benedict? No matter which, from experience he knew the meal would be mouth-watering.
Bishop moved inside, thinking how easy it’d be to slip back into this lifestyle…if Laura remained this Laura and they could work their issues out. But it was dangerous to think that way. Yes, he’d had the best sex ever last night with his ex. He knew no complaints would be coming from her quarter. But relationships were about a whole lot more than physical attraction and sexual gratification. If he’d understood that over two years ago, he’d have held off asking Laura to marry him.
He hated to admit it, but snooty Grace was right. He’d fallen in love so hard and so fast he hadn’t spared the time to think things through. Amazing, given his stellar track record regarding decision making.
He moved down the hall and as that delicious hot butter smell grew, so did his concern.
In sleeping with Laura last night he’d set a precedent. This afternoon they were off to Sydney, and she would expect them to make love again tonight. And he couldn’t deny that he wanted to do just that. More to the point, if she didn’t get her memory back between now and then, he knew that he would.
Seven
“Sam Bishop? Is that you?”
In response to the male voice at their backs, Laura pulled up at the same time Bishop swung around. A smile breaking on his face, Bishop offered his hand to the jovial-looking man striding up.
“Robert Harrington.” Bishop shook the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Mr. Harrington, a rotund man in an extralarge dinner suit, arched a wry brow. “Enjoying the ballet, son?”
Bishop tugged an ear. “It’s…lively.”
The man chuckled as if to say he understood. Obviously, Robert Harrington wasn’t a Swan Lake fan, either.
Earlier, on the heels of their Sunday morning eggs Benedict tradition, she and Bishop had journeyed to Sydney and, after strolling around the Rocks, one of Sydney’s most historic harbor-side suburbs, had checked into their Darling Harbor residence, a five-star-hotel three-bedroom penthouse Bishop used if business kept him in the city during the week. Soaking up the sunshine on the balcony and watching the boat activity on the sparkling blue waters below had absorbed the rest of their lazy afternoon. They’d arrived at the Opera House with barely enough time to be seated. Five minutes ago they’d joined the rest of the Opera Theater’s glittering crowd to partake of refreshments during intermission.
Their seats could have been better, but Laura wouldn’t complain. It was the thrill of the experience she adored. Her mother had introduced her to the theater, in all its guises, at an early age. She’d dreamed of perfecting pointe work and pirouettes and one day starring in the Australian Ballet. But professional ballerinas were superb athletes; heart conditions, even mild ones, weren’t the norm. So Laura, along with Grace on occasion, had been content to enjoy a number of magical performances as enthusiastic spectators.
Laura wished Bishop shared her love of th
e art form, but she was only grateful he hadn’t bleated on about coming along; a lot of men might suggest their wives take a friend while they chilled out at a football match or poker game. But Bishop was one of the most supportive people she’d ever known.
That’s why she was certain they could work out this difference regarding how to start their family. When he truly understood how important having her own child was to her—when he evaluated the risks from a less, well, paranoid point of view—he would come around. He’d support her, as he always had. This time next year, they might even be singing lullabies to their firstborn.
Boy or girl, she’d be beyond happy with either. Or both.
Laura put those thoughts aside as she smiled a greeting at this middle-aged couple. Wherever they went, it seemed Bishop bumped into someone he knew. Why should a night at the Opera House be any different?
“You haven’t met my wife.” Robert Harrington turned to a lithe, graceful-looking woman. “Shontelle, this is Samuel Bishop. We had business dealings a year back.”
“Pleased to meet you, Samuel.” Shontelle’s pearl-and-diamond necklace sparkled under the lights as the chattering crowd wove around them. Laura waited. Bishop was usually prompt with introductions but, for once, he missed a beat.
Taking the initiative, she introduced herself. “Pleased to meet you, Robert, Shontelle. I’m Laura.”
While Shontelle returned the greeting, Robert scratched his receding hairline. “Laura… Sam, wasn’t that your wife’s name?”
Her cheeks pinking up, Shontelle delivered her husband’s ribs a silencing nudge.
But Laura only laughed. “Not was. Is.”
Robert’s eyebrows shot up and his smile returned. “Well, that’s great.” He clapped Bishop’s tuxedo-clad shoulder heartily. “Great to see you together.”
The two couples bantered on a few minutes more, then went their separate ways. She and Bishop found a relatively quiet corner in the bustling room, away from the heart of the glitter and constant clink of glasses.
