“Please,” she begged as his fingers danced on, white hot pressure building within her. Just when she thought she couldn’t endure any more, it happened: blinding, molten release. Roaring filled her head as she convulsed against him, screaming her joy, no longer conscious of time or space or even her own body. There was only this glorious heat pouring through her, new as the creation of the world.
She had barely returned to herself before it started all over again, Michael’s forehead pressed to hers as he whispered, “Hold on.” Then they were one, bodies locked together as Theresa wrapped herself around him like a second skin and he began moving inside her. Pressure began building within her again; faint at first, then sharp, concentrated. Barely clinging to the edge of reality, she cried out as her body once more broke into a million shimmering pieces. Her screams of pleasure pushed Michael toward oblivion.
Moaning, he plunged hard, his body shuddering with release as she arched up to meet him, and he filled her.
Michael couldn’t believe how beautiful Theresa looked, even in sleep. Propped up on one elbow, he’d been watching her slumber for a while now. The slow, steady rise and fall of her breath was more soothing to him than any piece of music. Her face was a mask of contentment, the soft curve of her right arm as it reached up and beneath the pillow utterly alluring to him. Reaching out to make sure she was real, Michael’s fingers barely alighted on the velvet softness of her cheek. Theresa murmured, sighed deeply, and slumbered on. She was dreaming.
He lay back down, watching the lights of passing cars crawl slowly across the ceiling. He’d call Gemma in the morning to thank her. Under other circumstances, Gemma taking matters into her own hands would have pissed him off. But in this case, he was grateful. Christ knew he would have dragged his heels, waiting for the “perfect” opportunity to approach Theresa.
Thank God for Gemma and her Dante pushiness.
Theresa murmured again, only louder. Michael glanced at her, amused. Obviously, she talked in her sleep. It charmed him. Everything she did was endearing to him, even the way she hogged the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this happy. Maybe never. He had no complaints, only dreams.
He listened to her breath slowly rise, then fall. Rise, then fall. He had an overwhelming desire to wake her and tell her how much he loved her but he resisted. She looked so peaceful lying there, so content. No, he’d let her rest. He had the rest of their lives to tell her.
Worried his restlessness might disturb her, he quietly slipped out of bed and padded downstairs into the dim living room. His eyes instinctively trained on Gemma’s red and white candles sitting like two squat tree trunks on his coffee table. Time to throw them out? He reached for them, then thought better of it, sentimentality and superstition prompting a decision to keep them. He’d tell Theresa about them in the morning. She’d get a kick out of it, especially the stuff with the tarot cards and Gemma giving the same love prescription to Anthony.
Sitting on the couch, Michael took stock of his living room. Was his place big enough for the two of them? Maybe she’d want him to move into her place? They’d have to talk about it. There was so much to think about, so much to do. More awake than ever, he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of decaf. A quick check revealed he didn’t have any food in the house. He’d run to the bakery early before she woke up and buy an assortment of pastries, which he’d serve to her in bed. He loved the idea of surprising and pampering her. She deserved it. She deserved the best of everything. He was pouring his coffee into a mug when he heard a scream and froze. Was someone being attacked on the street? But then he realized . . . the scream had come from his bedroom.
Theresa.
Racing back upstairs he grabbed a hockey stick, bracing himself for an intruder. But no one was there except Theresa, weeping as she sat in his bed, clutching the sheet to her chest.
“Theresa?”
She seemed not to hear. He approached gingerly, not wanting to startle her. He switched on the bedside light, both of them blinking furiously against the lamp’s sudden, harsh glow. Theresa slowly turned to look at him, and the fear in her face broke Michael’s heart. Slowly, as she became fully conscious, the look faded and she realized where she was.
“Michael,” she gasped with relief. “Thank God.”
“C’mere.” He gathered her up into his arms. “What happened? You have a nightmare?”
Theresa nodded, her lashes wetting his chest. She seemed to be struggling. “It was—”
“I know what it was. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Sshh, you didn’t wake me up.” He began stroking her hair. “It’s okay. You’re with me now. You’re safe.”
Theresa’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Tell my subconscious that.”
“Your subconscious will figure it out in time. The question is: Does your conscious mind know it?”
“Yes,” Theresa answered in a tiny voice.
Aching to take her pain away, he tilted her tear-stained face up to look into his. “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked tenderly, wiping away the wetness beneath her eyes.
“Yes,” Theresa choked out with a sob.
“Sshh, it’s okay.” Drawing her even tighter to him, he began rocking her. He didn’t care how long it took: He would sit here, rocking and comforting her until she knew, deep down in her soul, that she was safe. An image of Lubov flashed in his mind and his heart hardened. That little son of a bitch. The Russian had been sidelined for most of the season with an injury. Michael couldn’t wait to see him on the ice next year. He’d kill him.
“Michael?”
“Mmm?”
“I love you,” Theresa whispered. She lifted her head to look in his eyes. What Michael saw there made the angry clouds in his heart burst then blaze: It was adoration, pure and simple. No woman had ever looked at him like this.
Michael closed his eyes, rapturous. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” Theresa repeated.
“I thought that’s what you said.”
“I mean it,” she emphasized quietly. Calm now, she moved her arms out from his rocking embrace and framed his face in her hands. “I still have some stuff to work out, but as long as I have you, I’m not afraid to deal with it. I’m not afraid of anything anymore. You’re my rock, Michael.”
“And you’re mine, cara,” he whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers, longing to kiss away her sadness. Her mouth tasted sweet, so sweet his pulse quickened. He couldn’t believe how a simple kiss could send him reeling.
“Go back to sleep,” he soothed.
Theresa looked shy, almost embarrassed. “Will you hold me?”
“Always,” he swore, squeezing her tightly as they lay back down together. It was a vow he intended to keep for as long as he lived.
Theresa awoke to the intoxicating aroma of coffee brewing and the sound of Michael humming to himself somewhere in the outer reaches of the apartment. She had no idea what time it was, only that it was light and it was morning. She felt more rested than she had in months. Though shaken by her Lubov nightmare, she had meant what she’d said to Michael. She wasn’t afraid anymore, not of the past or of what the future would bring. As long as she had Michael, all would be well.
“Good, you’re up.”
Michael appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray of pastries and a coffee carafe. He was wearing sweats and nothing else.
“When was the last time you had breakfast in bed?” he asked, approaching her.
Theresa thought. “I’ve never had breakfast in bed,” she said, snuggling into the covers.
“You’re kidding me! Well, you’re in for a real treat.”
Carefully laying the tray down, he slipped into bed beside her. “We’ve got coffee, croissants, muffins, cinnamon buns and doughnuts,” Michael announced, pouring her a cup of coffee.
“Michael.” Theresa was touched. “You didn’t ha
ve to do this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied. “I want to spoil you. I want to pamper you.”
“And when do I get to pamper you?” she teased.
He smiled at her, handing her a cup. “Anytime.”
Theresa took a sip of coffee. “What time is it?”
“Close to ten.”
“Ten!” Theresa exclaimed in disbelief. “I never sleep till ten!”
“Well, you did this morning.” Michael’s hand reached up to caress the back of her neck. “You must have needed it.”
“I guess.” Suddenly ravenous, Theresa reached out and broke off the top of a blueberry muffin. “So what do you want to do today?”
“Make love to you.”
“And after that?”
“Anything you want.”
“Want to go see my family?” Theresa asked hesitantly as she nibbled on her muffin.
Michael’s face lit up. “Great idea! Will Phil, Debbie and the kids be there?”
“They always are.”
“Let’s do it. We’ll surprise them. Make their day.”
Theresa leaned over and playfully bit him on the shoulder. “Okay. But first you have to make mine.”
As on every Sunday, the door to Theresa’s parents’ home was unlocked. It amazed Theresa how it never seemed to bother her mother that she didn’t know whether she’d be cooking for two people or twenty. And no matter how many people turned up, there was always enough food. There was something to be said for learning to go with the flow.
“You ready?” Michael asked keenly.
Theresa could tell he was itching to see the look on her mother’s face when they walked through the door together. She took a deep breath. “Ready.”
Holding hands, they plunged inside. They were greeted with a familiar scene: Phil was on the couch watching TV. Little Phil was on the floor, swinging two Barbie dolls by the roots of their hair, prompting his sister Vicki to scream as if she were being disemboweled.
“You gonna tell him to stop that,” Theresa asked her brother, “or should I?”
“Hey, look who’s here,” said Phil, reluctantly dragging his eyes away from the TV. He took one look at Theresa and Michael together and a sly, approving smile spread across his face. “Well, well. Finally saw the light, huh?”
Theresa grinned. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
Rocking forward off the couch, Phil rose, grabbing both of them in an embrace. “This is a sight for sore eyes, I gotta tell you. Mom’s gonna go mental.” He turned to his children, still squabbling on the floor. “Philly! Cut that out and give your aunt Theresa a kiss.”
Hopping up happily as if their battle had never happened, both kids gave Theresa—and Michael—kisses and hugs. Before Theresa could go in search of her mother, Phil called out, “Hey, Ma! Come into the living room! I got a surprise for you!”
Theresa and Michael looked at each other sideways, knowing what would come next. Theresa’s mother appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Seeing them together, she made the sign of the cross three times and then burst into tears.
“Oh, dio mio,” she wept, coming toward them. “When I saw you two together at the funeral, I prayed for this, oh, how I prayed.”
“Ma,” Theresa began.
“I wish to God your father were here. But I know he’s looking down from heaven.”
Theresa’s eyes watered as she let her mother gather her up in an embrace. She too wished her father had lived long enough to see her with Michael. But she knew her mother was right. Somewhere, her poppy saw and was pleased.
Finished hugging Theresa, her mother moved on to Michael, showering his face with grateful kisses. “My hero,” she gushed. “I prayed for this.”
“I know, Mrs. F,” Michael soothed, gently disentangling himself from her strangling embrace. “We wanted you to be the first to know.”
Theresa’s mother drew back with a gasp. “You’re getting married?”
“Um . . . yeah,” answered Michael, beginning to smile as he seemed to warm to the idea.
Theresa rounded on him, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Well, we are, aren’t we?” Michael challenged.
“That’s news to me!” If this wasn’t the ultimate in Dante pushiness!
Her mother’s face fell. “You’re not getting married?”
“No!” Theresa put a hand to her forehead. “I mean—not now. Not right away. I’m sure—eventually.” She stomped her foot in exasperation. “I don’t know!”
“She doesn’t know,” her mother repeated to Michael sarcastically. “She finally comes to her senses and she doesn’t know.”
“She’s been through a lot, Mrs. F,” said Michael by way of appeasement.
“Haven’t we all?” Theresa’s mother returned. “We need a wedding to get this family feeling happy again.”
“Should I break out some champagne?” Phil asked.
“No,” said Theresa.
“Yes,” said her mother, staring at her with daggers in her eyes. “We’ll toast your eventual marriage. Is that okay with you?”
“Fine,” said Theresa. She knew her mother. She wasn’t going to let this go.
Phil disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a grinning Debbie in tow and a bottle of champagne.
“I just heard!” Debbie exclaimed, kissing both Theresa and Michael on the cheek. “Congratulations!”
Michael beamed. “Thank you.”
“Have you set a date yet?”
“Next August,” said Michael.
“August is too hot,” declared Theresa’s mother. “Have it in May.”
“May’s out. I’ll still be in the playoffs,” said Michael.
Too stunned to protest, Theresa listened in amazement.
“How about July?” Michael offered.
“Perfect,” said Theresa’s mother approvingly.
Phil uncorked the champagne and poured it into five glasses he’d extracted from the sideboard in the dining room. “Everyone, lift up your glass.” They all held their glasses aloft. “To Michael and Theresa and their eventual marriage. It’s about goddamn time!”
There was laughter as everyone clinked glasses. Sipping her champagne, Theresa smiled. Maybe a wedding wasn’t such a bad idea. She did want to spend the rest of her life with him, after all.
And have a family with him.
And live happily ever after.
A wedding made sense then. With a reception at The Plaza . . .
Her fantasies were interrupted by her mother, who clutched her arm. “I have to ask,” she said, her gaze hopeful as she looked at Theresa.
“What?”
“You are going to live in Brooklyn, right?”
To which Theresa could think of only one appropriate response.
“Maaa!”
Fair Play Page 33
