“You don’t have any love handles.” She glared at him, but her arms loosened and dropped to her sides.
“Okay. Slight exaggeration. But you could touch me and reassure my fragile male ego,” he said.
A twitch in the corner of her mouth. Harley skimmed his knuckles down her cheek, making sure her gaze was locked on his one-hundred-percent-honest one. “You are beautiful, and you’re ripping my fucking heart out with that look on your face. As if I wouldn’t want you so badly I’m going nuts, just because of a few little silvery scars.”
She pursed her lips and blew out a breath. Then she raised an index finger and traced the rigid line of his cock being slowly strangled beneath his jeans. “You’re going to make me forget my name, huh?”
“I’m going to make you forget every damn thing.” Which wasn’t the wittiest of retorts, so he set about proving it.
Bumping her against the wall, hot skin against hot skin, he ran his hands down to her waist and wrangled the boxer shorts out of the way of his questing fingers. And damn if she wasn’t wet and ready for him when he slid a finger though her folds. Bree bucked against his touch as he circled her swollen flesh. He rubbed her clit lightly for a couple more strokes, until she whimpered, her fingers digging into his forearms.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he gritted out, dipping into her tight wetness. “Not until I’m deep inside you.”
She moaned, a raw, needy sound that made his balls tighten with the pleasurable anticipation of replacing his finger with his cock. Her fingers hooked on the waistband of his jeans, sliding inward until they fumbled with the button. The zipper’s hiss and the soft tug on his boxers before he sprang free seemed to take eons instead of seconds. But the rush, the head-spinning pleasure as she wrapped her fist around him was worth waiting for.
She pumped him firmly then ran a single finger over the head of his cock. Harley’s hip jerked toward her, a rough growl slipping from his mouth. At least, he hoped it was a growl and not an incoherent sound of a man on the brink of begging.
He couldn’t wait any longer and removed his hand from her sweetness, grabbing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Thank God for his city slicker habits; otherwise he might’ve left it on his nightstand. Short work made of sheathing himself with a condom, Harley lifted Bree into his arms. She wrapped long legs around his hips and put her arms around his shoulders. With one thrust, he slid deep inside her.
Crying out his name, Bree clenched her inner muscles around him. For a moment, he froze, burying his face in her neck, trying desperately to catch his breath, to gain some semblance of control.
God, she felt amazing. Amazing and tight and wet and…perfect. As if her body had waited all this time to welcome him home. Control evaporated like mist when she wriggled in his arms, grinding on his cock as if she were attempting to pull him deeper. Harley kissed her, then letting go of restraint, thrust into her over and over, driving them both halfway insane with the intense pleasure of their connection.
Her climax drew her tight as a bow and Bree cried out again—screamed actually—but Harley wouldn’t hold it against her. Especially not when a few strokes later, his own release roared through him. He sagged against her, groaning so loudly he thought he’d caused internal injuries. Until he realized it wasn’t his chest producing the high-pitched screech, but rather the personal alarm, which he’d somehow managed to stomp on.
“Shit!”
There was a flurry of naked limbs as he untangled himself from Bree and lowered her feet to the floor. He snatched up the little black box, stabbing the red button on the device. The room fell silent—silent except for Bree’s laughter.
“Some smooth moves you’ve got there.” As she leaned on the wall he’d so thoroughly done her against, Bree’s bare breasts gave a sexy little wobble at each gust of laughter.
Harley forced his mouth into an I’m not finding this funny line, but inside, tiny bubbles rushed through his veins, lighting up the darkest reaches of his soul. He hadn’t heard Bree laugh like that in far too long.
My God, she is beautiful.
And while he’d never forgotten that—his subconscious having brought her beauty to the forefront of his mind in frustrated dreams over the years—seeing her like this…naked, laughing, and unguarded…lifted her from beautiful to something way beyond ascetically pleasing. Something that scared him more now than it had as an arrogant twenty-year-old.
Bree could be his Hineahuone. The first and last woman he fell in love with.
Harley hastily stuffed himself into his jeans and zipped up. These weird, way-out-there thoughts needed to be stopped right now. They were obviously a side-effect of sniffing paint fumes, added to losing a few thousand brain cells from the most intense orgasm he’d had in…well, since last time he’d been with Bree.
He scooped her top and boxers from the floor. “You might want to cover up in case anyone decides to check out that early-morning wake-up call.”
With a hooded glance, Bree snatched the clothes out of his hand and tugged them on. This would be when she switched to that cool little smile he hated and blew him off with an icy dismissal. Couldn’t really blame her, his moves weren’t at all smooth. More horny and rushed and then plain awkward. He desperately wanted a do-over, but hell if he’d beg his way into her bed for a few more hours.
“I’d better take care of things in here.” Harley wrenched his gaze from Bree’s nipples still jutting against her cotton top and turned toward the open can of undercoat and the half-finished wall.
Her warm palm stroked down his spine, slender fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of his jeans. “Well, when you’ve done that”—a whisper-soft kiss on his shoulder blade—“come next door and let me take care of you.”
Hell if he didn’t start getting hard all over again.
Chapter 11
Something was wrong with her.
Even though Bree had less than two hours sleep that morning, she bopped around the gallery like a Taylor Swift groupie, threatening to shake her tail-feather right off. Mundane tasks like work and earning a living were so much more fun after multiple orgasms.
Disregard her first statement. Something was definitely right with her.
Because after said multiple orgasms, she’d scratched the itch that was Harley Komeke. Scratched him right out of her system. Now everything would return to normal.
Her smile grew impossibly wider at the male voices drifting in from the open studio window. She picked Harley’s deeper tones from that of his brother, and a shiver dashed down her spine.
After Harley had joined her for a long, soapy, sexy shower fifteen minutes after she’d left the salon, they’d tumbled into Bree’s bed, where he’d proceeded to take very good care of them both. More than once.
But she’d scratched the itch, remember?
Bree crossed the gallery into her studio and looked out into the back yard. The brothers had been hard at work in the salon again this morning—Harley having to crawl out of her bed at five thirty a.m. to run home and change before Ford turned up at West’s place at six to roust him out of bed. With the busy season about to kick off, they’d lost Ben to his boat tours and West to the business of managing Due South.
Now, both Ford and Harley stood beside their portable grill. Ford was talking to Laurie, a local fisherman, who held a bucket filled with what Bree’d bet was some sort of seafood. And Harley dealt with the sausages sizzling on the little grill top, partly bent over, his paint-speckled jeans cupping his truly delightful butt. A butt she’d had the delight of sinking her teeth into as she’d kissed her way up and down his body.
With the ESP of a man who’d been buried deep inside her only a few hours ago, Harley turned and caught her staring. He winked, showing a flash of dimples. Heat throbbed through Bree and made a bee-line for the slight ache between her legs. An ache that clearly said that regardless of saddle-sores, she was up for another ride.
The thing was with itches, once you started scratch
ing, it was almost impossible to stop.
“Hey, Bree,” Harley called.
Both Ford and Laurie paused in their examination of the bucket’s contents and glanced up. Too late to duck down and pretend she wasn’t spying on Harley’s hotness.
“Wanna try my sausage?” The cheeky bastard grinned, holding up one for inspection.
Laurie jabbed Ford in the ribs. “Listen to the city boy. As if she’d want a pre-packaged snag when she can wait for a few minutes and wrap her laughing gear around some fresh paua fritters. Isn’t that right, Bree?” Laurie tipped the bucket in Bree’s direction so she could see the five fat abalone shells inside. “Shall I bring you over a few when they’re ready?”
Keeping her features as neutral as possible, since Ford now examined her with a suddenly hawk-intense focus, Bree pasted on a polite smile and pretended she didn’t see the knowing heat in Harley’s gaze. “That would be lovely. Paua fritters are my favorite.”
Laurie’s face folded into happy wrinkles. “Told ya,” he said to Harley. “You can’t win a woman’s affection with a plain old sausage, boy.”
“Not sure I agree with you there, Laurie.” Harley pointed the tongs at the old fisherman. “Some women are partial to a bit of sausage.”
Laurie’s face morphed into a shade of tomato red, and he nearly dropped the bucket.
“What are you, twelve? Jeez.” Ford went to smack the back of Harley’s head.
Harley laughed and ducked away. “The old fella walked right into that one.”
Fortunately, the bell over the gallery door tinkled, and Bree escaped before the brothers ended up wrestling on the ground.
After ten minutes of assisting a customer in picking out several souvenirs and gifts, including a framed print from a series of photos Bree had taken of Paterson Inlet, the gallery door tinkled again as the woman left.
A strong smell filtered through the gallery from her open studio window. Her nose crinkled. Must be the paua. The fishy scent grew stronger—grew teeth—as it coiled around her, clogging her throat. Sweat popped out on her forehead, and her cheeks suddenly flushed hot.
Her stomach gave an almighty lurch. She grabbed the door handle, fighting one hell of a battle not to puke on today’s choice of I feel sexy high-heeled red pumps.
Bile rising in her throat, Bree coughed it back, locked the gallery’s door, and flicked over the “back in 5 minutes” sign. Then she kicked off her pumps and sprinted for the toilet.
She made it. Just.
Her ribs ached as she finally raised her head from worshiping at the porcelain throne. She tracked back over everything she’d eaten in the last six hours. Coffee, homemade muesli with chopped banana and natural yogurt, an apple, and a handful of Brazil nuts. She couldn’t possibly have come down with food poisoning.
Tendrils of that smell crept under the bathroom door. Bree’s gut clenched, and as she dropped her face toward the bowl, she remembered. Oh, dear God, she remembered the last time her favorite seafood made her so nauseated she literally had puked on her shoes.
Christchurch. At her brother-in-law’s birthday. Paul’s extended family had been at his place cooking up a storm of kai moana—seafood. And Bree, three months pregnant but barely showing, had gotten one whiff of the cooking paua and had hurled.
Pregnant. With Harley’s baby. Again.
No. Absolutely not possible.
Bree staggered to her feet and yanked up her pink tee shirt, examining her stomach in the mirror. She’d been a little bit bloaty for the last couple of weeks but… She turned from side to side. Flat. Well, flat-ish. She was no supermodel, after all, but c’mon, she didn’t look too bad for a woman with a nine-year-old son. A son she’d carried for nearly two months before she even had a clue she was pregnant because her damn periods had always run on some weird schedule of their own and…her mind spun into brightly colored chaos. Bree gripped the edge of her bathroom sink.
Pregnant?
Maybe. And there was only one way to find out.
***
“This is confidential, even though you’re not my normal doctor?”
Bree took the last doctor’s appointment of the day. Mighty tempted to close the gallery early and rush to Oban’s tiny medical center, she’d held off until fifteen minutes before normal closing time. Harley could see the front door of the gallery from the workshop mural, and she didn’t want to raise any suspicions. Not until she knew for sure.
“Of course.” Joe stood at the tiny hand-washing basin in his office and glanced at the white strip he’d just dipped into her urine sample. “Even if I weren’t your doctor today, I’d still be your friend and keep my big gob shut,” he added gently.
On any other day, Bree would’ve cringed at handing the good-looking Irish doctor her pee in a cup. But not today, girls and boys. Dr. Whelan was a safer bet at keeping a pregnancy test secret than attempting to slide a do-it-yourself kit under Carolyn Russell’s gossip radar at the grocery store. Still, Bree squirmed at the thought of Joe knowing…
Knowing what, exactly? Queen Bee’s caustic little voice popped into her head. Knowing that you’ve possibly been knocked up twice by the same man? That “screw up contraception once, shame on him; screw it up twice, and the shame’s all on you”? That your future baby daddy won’t want anything more to do with this kid than he did your firstborn?
All of the above.
“Ah.” Joe’s mouth twisted to one side as he stared at the strip.
Bree sat up straight so fast her spine gave a loud crick. “What?”
“It’s a positive result.” Joe shot her a wary glance, obviously unsure whether to add a “congratulations” to the end of his sentence.
“I’m pregnant?”
Joe dropped the strip into the biohazard bin and came back to his desk, sitting beside her on his swivel chair. In a very un-doctor-like but very Joe-ish gesture, he scooped both her frozen hands off her lap and held them in his bigger, warmer ones.
“You are, indeed. About eight weeks by the calculation of your last period.”
“God,” she whispered. “Oh, God.”
Joe’s charming bedside manner extended into his savvy appraisal of the situation, so he didn’t ask anything inane like, “Was this pregnancy unintentional”? Instead, he squeezed her fingers and said, “Do you need me to call anyone for you then, Bree?”
Her mind automatically shot to Harley, fortunately focused on his mural when she’d peeked out her gallery door before slipping the “closed” sign in place. Bree bit the inside of her cheek. No. She absolutely, unconditionally could not think about Harley at the moment, or she’d end up blubbering all over Joe’s button-down shirt with the neatly pressed fold in the sleeves…and who knew a good-looking bachelor like Joe even had an iron at his disposal, and oh-my-God her mind was running so chaotically fast, it was as if she’d gobbled down amphetamines, and she shouldn’t even think that because Harley’s mother died after years of abusing legal and illegal substances, and Harley, oh-dear-God, Harley—
“Bree! Take a deep, slow breath in for me.”
Joe’s lovely, melodic accent failed to tickle her as it usually did, but the iron command in it brought her back to the here-and-now. She greedily sucked in oxygen and let out a long, shuddering breath. Did it again. And again. Until she felt as if she could speak without her voice cracking like a cheap china plate.
“I’m okay. I’m just a bit…shocked. And I don’t need you to call anyone. I’m fine.”
“Aye.” Joe released her hands and sat back in his chair, giving her a raised-eyebrow stare that conveyed his cynicism over her statement. “Well, I sincerely doubt that. I’ve some experience with stubborn females, being that I deal with Oban’s worst, so I won’t try to convince you to call one of your friends over to sit a spell.”
He picked up a pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. “Can I say something else, Bree?”
She nodded, pressing her lips together.
“I’d choose my
words with considerable care, were I your doctor, only I trust your intelligence in knowing what your options are. So I’ll advise you as a man; and as your friend.” Joe’s dark-blue eyes locked with hers. “The final decision is yours to make, but if you value your relationship with the babe’s father, tell him sooner rather than later.” This time hovered unspoken in the air between them. Joe Whelan was no slouch, and he proved it by arching an eyebrow and adding, “If he’s half the man his brother is, you won’t be walking this path alone.”
Bree stood and picked up her handbag, offering him a tight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, and I’ll make an appointment with my GP for next week.”
She said goodbye and slipped out of his office, walking on numb legs to the front desk where Maggie, the center’s nurse who doubled as the receptionist, told Bree in a cheery voice the cost of the twenty-minute consultation. She removed the correct cash from her purse and handed it over, making a point to enquire about Maggie’s grandchildren so as not to arouse suspicion about why, exactly, Bree had seen the doctor.
Joe’s words played over and over in her head as she walked out into a balmy Oban evening.
Tell him sooner rather than later…
and
You won’t be walking this path alone…
Yet alone was precisely how she’d walk the path to motherhood a second time. Once she told Harley he’d soon become a daddy again?
Alone was pretty much guaranteed.
***
Bree left the medical center with a throat so tight it was a wonder her lungs could continue to draw enough air. None of this showed on the outside, though.
Hell, no.
She stopped at the grocery store and bought a carton of milk and a few other items, managing to engage in polite chit-chat with Murray Russell, who manned the checkout while Carolyn got ready for Due South’s quiz night that evening.
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 15
