Cold Midnight

by Joyce Lamb

  Could he have known? He’d certainly seemed rattled when he went to the door. Rattled and in a hurry to get out.

  Sitting on the side of the bed like that, he could so easily have kissed her, and she would have wrapped herself around him in a heartbeat. But he hadn’t kissed her. He hadn’t made any move at all. Maybe he’d decided she was too much work. She wouldn’t have blamed him. She was too much work.

  Groaning with frustration, she forced herself out of bed, ignoring the unsatisfied ache that clutched between her thighs, making her want to squirm to somehow relieve the growing need. Squirming, however, would do no good. Unless Chase had his hands, lips or tongue on the throb.

  Oh, God.

  Fifteen minutes later, in clean clothes and with damp hair curling around her shoulders, she walked down the hall to the dining room, where the table was set for two. Two tapered candles, flames flickering, graced the center of the table. A romantic dinner? Really?

  When Chase walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a white dish towel, her breath stopped. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing hairy forearms corded with veins and muscle. Incredibly sexy arms, the kind you could lose yourself in. She wanted to lose herself in them again, had wanted to lose herself in them for the past ten years. But she’d been an idiot and walked away. The biggest idiot ever.

  He paused in midstep and cocked his head with a questioning expression. “What?”

  She blinked her gaze up to his and smiled, hoping her self-recriminations didn’t show in her face. “Need any help?”

  “Sure. You can pour the wine.” He nodded at the bottle of red breathing on the table next to two wineglasses.

  When he disappeared back into the kitchen, she was glad, because her hand shook as she poured the wine. Too tired, she rationalized. Tired and punchy and apparently horny. Once she got some sleep, that would fade, and she would be back in total control.

  Hearing the rumble of thunder in the distance, she glanced toward the large bay window in the living room and noted the limbs of the banyan tree swaying in the wind. Weak lightning flared, the storm several miles away yet.

  Chase returned, carrying a plate of steaming spaghetti in one hand and holding a basket of garlic bread in the other. As he set them on the table, he nodded at one of the chairs. “What are you waiting for? You’ve got to be about to gnaw off a limb.”

  She laughed softly as she sat. “This all looks really good.”

  “I slaved over it for hours,” he said with a smirk as he plopped down in the chair adjacent to hers and reached for her plate. He piled noodles and sauce on it until she protested then piled it higher before handing it over. “There’s more when you’re done with that.”

  She picked up her fork and dug in with one hand, diving for a piece of garlic bread with the other.

  They ate in a silence punctuated by occasional soft rolls of thunder, and by the second glass of wine, Kylie began to enjoy the soft, warm glow that spread upward from her belly.

  “You’re a good cook,” she said as she set down her glass.

  He flashed her a grin. “Ragu’s a good cook.”

  “But you added stuff to it, didn’t you? It’s not usually this good.”

  “Must be the company. Or the fact that you really were starving.”

  She smiled as she finished off her third piece of garlic bread. “Thanks for insisting I get my butt out of bed to eat. I feel much better now.”

  “Any time.” He clinked his glass against hers and finished the last of his wine. “If you want to crawl back in, I won’t be offended. You’re pretty exhausted.”

  Shaking her head, she pushed her empty plate back and rested her elbows on the table. She was awake now, and she didn’t want to waste this pleasant buzz. “What’s she like?”

  He met her eyes, one eyebrow arched in question. God, it was sexy when he did that.

  “Your daughter,” she supplied. “She’s, what, nine?”

  He nodded, and his eyes began to glimmer like dark emeralds. “She’s incredibly complicated for a nine-year-old. Smart as a whip. And, my God, the sarcasm.”

  “She’s sarcastic? Really?”

  “She got that from her mother.”

  “Ah.”

  He glanced at her quickly, as if to check to make sure he hadn’t said something he shouldn’t have, but Kylie sipped wine, wondering if the glowy, dizzy feeling in her head was official confirmation that she was drunk. Thunder, closer now, gave the house a mild shake.

  “So,” Chase said, drawing it out as he stirred his fork through the sauced pasta still on his plate. “Wade Bell?”

  She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, for once not a bit unnerved by the intensity of his stare. So, so drunk. In about a minute, she’d be singing Irish drinking songs. “Wade’s a good guy.”

  “He’s hung up on you.”

  She shrugged. Okay, that’s a bit of a buzzkill. “He’ll get over it.”

  “You think you’re that easy to get over?”

  She held his gaze, unblinking, earlier giddiness fading fast as rain began to lash the windows. “You didn’t have any trouble.”

  “Is that what you think?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I don’t have to think it. There’s evidence.”

  “As much as I don’t like labeling my child a mistake, that’s technically what she was.”

  “The best mistake, though. You can’t deny that.”

  “I’m not denying it. But I am denying that you were easy to get over. I met her mother in a bar—”

  He broke off when she sat back abruptly and set her glass down with an ungraceful clunk. “I don’t need to—”

  “I think you do.” He kept his gaze level with hers. “And even if you think you don’t, I’d like to tell you.”

  “Why? So you can feel better about it?” Great, from buzzed to bitchy in three-point-two seconds. Gotta be a record.

  “No,” Chase said. “So you can.”

  “It’s not about me.”

  “See, that’s where you’re very wrong.”

  “I’m sure your ex-wife would appreciate hearing you say that.”

  “She knew. Rhonda’s one of the smartest people on the planet. Otherwise, we’d still be married and miserable.”

  She cocked her head, struck by the realization that he spoke about his ex-wife with sincere affection. “You like her.”

  Melancholy tinged his smile. “I like her a lot. I liked her the first time I met her.”

  “In a bar,” she said wryly and took a drink of wine that was more gulp than sip.

  He nodded. “The night you left.”

  She closed her eyes. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic. Even the crash of thunder, so close and violent it sounded as though a boulder slammed into the side of the house, didn’t alleviate her growing anxiety. She didn’t want to talk about this. Ever.

  “I drank myself into oblivion,” he said anyway. “Though I don’t remember much of it. Woke up the next morning in Rhonda’s bed, sick as a dog.”

  “How romantic.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “She made me breakfast and lectured me about drinking and driving. She’s the one who took my keys away from me.”

  Kylie swallowed against the tension in her throat. He could have totaled himself that night. Because of her. And suddenly she was grateful that someone with a brain had been there to look out for him.

  “We went our separate ways, and three months later, she showed up at my door.”

  “Pregnant.” The word stuck in her throat like a popcorn husk.

  “She didn’t want anything from me. Said she just wanted me to know, because I had a right. I showed up at her door a few weeks later. It didn’t seem right to let a child come into this world without a father.”

  He was so honorable it made her heart ache.

  “We did okay for a while. Not great, but it wasn’t horrible, either. The main problem was we never fell in love. After a while, it’s not enough to just b
e good friends.”

  “It all sounds very mature,” she mused, looking into her empty glass and wishing for more wine.

  “If mature is a synonym for passionless, then yes, it was very mature.”

  Her heart began to thud as she remembered holding tight to him, sweaty and naked and mindless, as he’d pumped himself furiously into her, his body shaking with need, his moans as incoherent as hers. Passion? Oh, yeah, they’d had passion. Nothing passionless about them. She almost smiled, and the buzz made a comeback.

  The storm was backing off already, thunder still growling but no longer as violent, as he gave her a self-conscious smile. “So you and Wade . . . how was that?”

  She tipped her head to one side, her gaze on his, and pursed her lips as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “Exceedingly mature.”

  His smile turned into a full-blown grin. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Leaning her elbows on the table, feeling lighter than she had in days . . . years, she asked, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Maddy. Well, Madeline, actually.”

  “After your mother. I bet she loved that.” She reached over and touched the back of his hand. “I was so sorry when I heard . . .”

  He turned his hand and grasped her fingers for a fleeting moment. “The flowers you sent were nice.”

  “I wanted to come for her funeral, but . . . well, it didn’t seem appropriate.”

  “It would have been fine.”

  “How long does it take?” she asked.

  “How long does what take?”

  “It’s been six months since Dad . . . but it doesn’t seem real. I mean, I’m here in Kendall Falls, and he’s not, and I’ve never been here without him, but it just . . . doesn’t seem real.” She rubbed at her eyes, embarrassed that she’d started to babble. “Think I’m drunk.”

  Chase captured one of her hands, and when he stroked his thumb over her palm, she couldn’t suppress an answering shudder. She had to blink to get herself to focus on his face. And what a beautiful, beautiful face it was. All angles and stubble and stunning green eyes. It’d be so easy to fall into them, fall into him, all over again.

  “It gets easier,” he said softly.

  When tears stung her eyes, catching her off guard, she pulled her hand free of Chase’s and sat back. Drunk and emotional. What the hell was she doing? Acting like nothing had changed in ten years, like they’d never exchanged angry words or hurt each other. Stupid, really, to try to reclaim the past, as if it were as easy as sharing a bottle of wine, a meal and a heart-to-heart.

  Chase cleared his throat, drawing her attention outward. “I talked to T.J.’s foster mother while I was working on dinner. He’s getting settled in.”

  She smiled, both relieved for T.J. and overwhelmed at how caring Chase had been with the boy. “That’s good.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to see him as soon as possible, but we should probably give him a chance to get acclimated.”

  She nodded, swallowing against a renewed surge of emotion. “That makes sense. I . . .” Her voice cut out, and she paused to draw in a breath, struck by the shift of something inside her chest. What the hell was that? Affection? Desire? Regret? All three and then some? Or a warning that it was time to flee before things got complicated again?

  Forcing a smile, she set her napkin on the table and scooted her chair back. “Think I need to go to bed before I fall face-first into my plate.”

  He nodded, face clouding as though she’d disappointed him. Or maybe he’d just wanted to talk more. Or something else. “I’ll clean up here,” he said.

  She hesitated in the doorway, rain a constant drone outside, and turned back as he rose and picked up the empty bread basket. “Thank you,” she said. “For dinner and taking care of T.J.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  And he smiled, all white teeth and crinkling eyes.

  A wave of dizzy need swirled through her. She wanted him. She’d never wanted anyone as much as she wanted him.

  She swallowed jerkily at the tug of inner muscles making a heated demand. And as he cocked his head, silently asking her what she wanted, she stopped thinking and strode over to him, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her.

  He dropped the bread basket and met her halfway, his mouth just as eager as hers. Somehow, her back hit a wall, and he pressed fully against her, his thick, muscled thigh slipping between her legs while his big hands gripped the sides of her head and his tongue stroked against hers, sensuous and hot.

  Everything about him was consuming: his garlic-pinot noir taste, his sunscreen scent, the scrape of his razor stubble against her skin, the way he couldn’t seem to get enough of kissing her, going deeper and longer and wetter every time their lips met. Without leaving her mouth, he slid a hand under her shirt, his fingertips feathery against skin that jittered at first contact then warmed under his caress. She gasped into his mouth when his fingers stroked over her bra then began to knead and tease until her nipple was so hard and sensitive that each gentle touch and tweak weakened her knees and sent a spear of need straight to her center. He started on the other breast, and she arched her head back against the wall, breathless and aching, exactly where she wanted to be, mindless and doing nothing but feeling.

  He took advantage of the unconscious invitation and trailed kisses over her throat, down to the hollow of her collarbone, his tongue setting off firecrackers of pleasure everywhere it touched. She couldn’t take much more. She needed him inside her. Now.

  “Bedroom,” she gasped.

  The world went dizzy and spinning as he lifted her, and she clamped her legs around his hips and held tight as he carried her down the hall.

  And then they were discarding clothes as fast as they could, panting and desperate. As she yanked her shirt over her head, she watched him shuck his jeans down his legs, saw his erection spring free. Her breath left her, and she stared at him in silent fascination. He was built like a god. His long, sculpted torso tapered down to a flat belly and narrow hips. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on all that muscle, to take his hard, hot flesh inside her and ride.

  Catching her watching him, he grinned and dropped his last sock on the floor. Naked and glorious, he advanced on her with a predatory glint in his eyes. He took her down to the bed and braced himself above her without giving her his weight. She grasped his hips, arching her own toward him, but he held back and instead took her mouth in another deep, wet kiss that wiped her mind clean.

  She moaned as he skimmed his hand up the inside of her thigh, let her head drop back, closing her eyes. Yes, yes, yes. This was what she needed. Chase, Chase and more Chase.

  He slid a finger inside her heat, and she arched, gasped, then felt him smile against her lips. “You’re already wet for me,” he murmured.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Now.”

  He obliged, sinking into her with a long, drawn-out groan. The pleasure of the slide stunned her, and she opened her eyes to find his gaze locked on hers. Sensation spiked at the intense connection, and he began to move, slowly, in and out, sinking in deeper with each long thrust, his hot, glittering gaze steady on hers, his jaw clenched.

  The knot of pleasure tightened, began to build, and her breathing went more ragged. Oh, God, oh, yeah, that’s it, that’s exactly it. She tried to quicken the pace, to race to the finish line, but he suddenly pinned her hips to the mattress, stilled her.

  “Don’t stop,” she gasped, frustrated and digging her nails into his back.

  But he did. He kept her immobilized while he breathed slowly, as if battling back from the edge. She wanted release, needed it, was so close that the pulse of it throbbed inside her, beating, beating, beating, now, now, now.

  But he had other ideas, another pace, and he lowered his head and kissed her, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth, the tip glancing off the underside of her top lip, setting off sparks. Her heart, already hammering, tripped and stuttered at the intimacy, t
he tenderness. With his eyes on hers, he moved his head down to roll his tongue over her nipple, then gave it a gentle tug with his teeth, his gaze never leaving hers. He resumed thrusting, grinding forward and sliding back, forward and back, deepening each stroke with an extra, subtle jerk of his hips.

  She bowed back, her heart about to explode out of her chest.

  He took her hands and raised them above her head, trapped her wrists there with one hand while he gripped her hip with his other and thrust and thrust, harder and faster, grunting now and groaning, straining for the peak, sweat sliding between their bodies, sticking them together in wet delight. The whole time, his eyes stayed intent on hers, not letting her look away, not even blinking, his jaw tight, his teeth clenched, his neck corded with muscles and tendons and strain, pumping into her, ruthless and hard and oh so wonderful.

  Her body rose to meet his, little mindless whimpers of pleasure catching in her throat, trying to explode out of her each time his hard, hot flesh hit her in just the right spot. She tried to free her hands, to touch him, to roam, but he held fast while the pleasure built, rode her like a piston, faster and faster, higher and higher, impossibly higher still, until the wave she rode bucked her off, and she soared, her body taut and singing, screaming its release in long, hitching, uncontrollable jerks and shudders.

  For long moments, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could feel only the ecstasy repeatedly stretching her muscles as tight as guitar strings, the music of orgasm flooding her heart, her soul, again and again, blinding her to everything but the explosion of feeling that blossomed from her center out to the rest of her body in a reckless, bucking cacophony.