Once Touched, Never Forgotten

by Natasha Tate

  She shivered, and he lifted his hands back up to the sides of her neck, his thumbs trailing along the line of her jaw. He pressed against the thin ridge of bone, his touch demanding and soothing at the same time. Strong fingers tunneled through her hair, dragging a low moan up to her throat as he massaged her scalp. She wanted to arch up against him, to give in to the temptation to fling her arms around his wide shoulders and haul him close.

  He stroked lower, his thumbs manipulating the tight muscles at the sides of her neck and the twin aches at the joint between neck and shoulder. Pain and delight merged, drowning her in sensation and a heavy desire for more. More. His mouth dropped to her ear to whisper, the hum of breath and sound eliciting a shiver that collected in a poignant ache at the tips of her breasts.

  “Tell me you want this, Colette.”

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes, words still out of reach.

  A low huff of laughter caressed the side of her neck. “Still stubborn as ever, I see.”

  He stood close enough that she could feel his erection, thick and insistent, against her belly. Knowing that she aroused him left her feeling slightly drunk, more than a little dizzy, and scared. Scared that she’d lose her heart to him all over again. His fingertips had drifted from her neck to graze soft circles around the tight knot of her straining nipple.

  Colette sucked her lips between her teeth and tried to keep from crying out. She wanted to snatch his wrist and pull his palm hard against her aching breast. Embarrassed by how easily he’d dismantled her defenses, she closed her eyes and willed her traitorous body into submission. Until a few seconds later, her held breath was expelled in a rush when he dipped his fingers beneath the cup of her bra, lifting her breast within his warm, waiting hand.

  “Colette,” he breathed, and her heart stuttered to a standstill as he bent his head to press his hot mouth against her puckered flesh. Trembles claimed her legs, stealing her balance and forcing her to sway against him for support. Beneath her shaking fingers, his shoulders felt like boulders.

  His other hand shoved at the silky hem of her slip, revealing her bare thighs her to his fingers. She heard his fractured breathing change tempo, felt the tremor in his hand as he delved between lace and silk and skin to cup her heat for one dizzying moment. Then he withdrew his hand and reached for her knee, spreading and lifting and positioning her with mind-numbing ease.

  A belated sense of modesty compelled her to press against his chest, to close her legs and cross an arm over her exposed breasts as he efficiently lifted her, carried her, and then deposited her on the soft, supple seat of the chair. Panic tinged with excitement arrowed through her—did he plan to seduce her here? Now?

  Struggling to sit upright, she adjusted her flimsy slip and clamped her knees together.

  Squatting before her, he drew her hands aside with surprising gentleness and then redirected them back to the supple armrests of his chair. “Don’t,” he said. “I want to see you.”

  She swallowed, not fighting him as he removed her shoes and then slid the black silk of her slip back up her thighs. Flames of desire suffused every inch of her skin. She could taste her longing and the awful awareness of how much she’d missed him, how much she’d missed this.

  Balanced on the balls of his feet, his powerful legs bent at the knee, he stared at her, and she could do little but stare back. Sunlight gilded the tips of his black hair and cool air conditioning filtered over her torso. Subtle sounds layered beneath the quietness of their joint solitude … the persistent drone of Manhattan traffic, the muffled ebb and flow of hotel elevators, the distant blare of horns and emergency sirens. But here, cloaked in nothing but air and sunlight and silk, it felt like the world had constricted to contain just the two of them. Alone.

  Light-headed and confused, Colette remained pliant and unresisting as he touched her, his hands sliding up from her knees in a slow, deliberate ascent. A tremor gained ground, making her thighs tremble as he reached the transition from flesh to elastic and damp black satin. His fingers brushed the silky panel between her legs and a small whimper of longing lodged in her throat. And then his hands continued north, until he threaded his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear, lifted her, and then skillfully peeled the scrap of satin down over the rounded curve of her buttocks.

  He sank back onto his heels and watched her face as he continued to remove her panties. Warm fingers skimmed the outside of her thighs, the backs of her knees and her trembling calves, until he’d disrobed her of every stitch of clothing but her bra and her slip. Her toes curled against the plush carpeting and he reached to wrap his fingers around her vulnerable ankle. Slowly, he drew her feet wide, planting them beside his spread thighs. He moved to her knees next, his warm hands pressing them open beneath his intense gaze. His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened with arousal as his attention dipped.

  Exposed, open, and flooded with a damp, yearning heat, she swallowed against the searing touch of his gaze upon her shadowed flesh. A sweet, shocked tremor of embarrassment and desire leaked through her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She knotted her hands against the supple leather of his chair, gripping the edge of the armrests while he stared at her. She remembered how he’d looked at her every time they’d made love, as if there were no one in his world but her. She could read his arousal in the huge, hard bulge between his legs, in the darkened crests of his cheeks and glittering eyes. And for the first time in over five years she felt beautiful. Wanted.

  The tip of his index finger trailed northward from her knee, creating a path of heat as he moved up her pale, twitching thigh. “You’re so soft,” he told her in a low voice.

  “It’s my lotion,” she said inanely.

  A small smile tugged at one side of his mouth and the rest of his fingers joined the first. She sucked in a breath as he gently transcribed circles upon her flesh. “You smell good, too.”

  She bit her lip as his long, tanned hands moved over her skin, inching higher and higher with every pass. When he brushed the juncture of her thighs, her breath stopped altogether. She wanted to press up against his fingers, to relieve the building tension that had her squirming and panting and wanting. Needing. And with the realization of her need she knew, as surely as she knew her own dreams, that if he made love to her now she’d lose herself entirely. Permanently. Only this time, she wouldn’t be strong enough to survive his rejection when it came.

  “Stop,” she said with her last vestige of self-preservation. Gripping his wrists, she pressed his fingers away from the ache that clamored for release, from the silvery surge of heat that begged her to reconsider. “Stop,” she repeated in a shaky voice.

  Her words didn’t penetrate at first. His taut focus was so centered on the shadowed evidence of her arousal that her meaning didn’t register for a long, interminable second. When it did, he felt like he’d swallowed broken glass.

  She said stop. Stephen bit down against his back teeth, his fingers pressing hard against her thighs.

  Stop.

  She meant it this time. He could hear the panicked conviction in her tone. So he would stop. Even if it killed him, he would do the impossible. He sucked in a ragged inhale and closed his eyes, the sight of the long, freckled thighs spread before him begging him to forget civility and ravage her despite her protests. The sweet scent of her desire, the flush of arousal that turned her skin pink beneath the sunlight, the small whimpering sounds she made when he touched her … All of it fired a burn of need so desperate he didn’t know how he managed to contain the beast within. Every cell burned to devour her, to bite and suck and taste and consume until the flavors and textures of Colette were branded into his brain.

  His breath hissed between his teeth as he slowly forced his fingers from her flesh. One more moment of touching her, of smelling her and watching her, and he’d explode.

  Slowly, painfully, he stood and turned, his focus so blurred he had to grope for balance against the edge of his desk. Bracing his hands against it
s polished surface, he dropped his head between his hunched shoulders and concentrated on collecting what remained of his self-control. “Get dressed,” he told her between clenched teeth. “Or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  He heard her rustling behind him, fumbling for her discarded clothing. He closed his eyes while he focused on his breathing. In. Out. He could still smell her, the salty, musky aroma of her flesh. He wanted to bury his face between her rosy breasts, to inhale her heat until she moaned and arched up beneath him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a few torturous minutes. Her voice sounded small. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t!” he interrupted harshly. “Don’t apologize.”

  Figuring it was safe, he turned to find her hair mussed and her skin flushed that lovely, kissable pink. He knotted his hands against the urge to haul her close again, to finish what they’d started.

  No. Though he knew he could overrule her wishes and seduce her body into compliance, he found he wanted more than control, more than being in charge. He wanted her. Willing, pliant, and beneath him because she wanted to be there of her own volition. Suddenly the obligation he’d forced upon her tasted like ash in his mouth, and he had no appetite for it anymore.

  His own arousal aside, he had to take her home, out of arms’ reach. Away from him. “Don’t think this is over.” She exhaled unsteadily. “I won’t.”

  Swallowing back the desire that still clubbed within his chest and made his suit feel ten sizes too small, he adjusted his jacket and then collected his keys from his desk. He snagged the negligee from the floor as well, stuffing it deep into his pocket.

  “Is Emma at home?” he asked, making his uncomfortable way to the open door.

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to tell her I’m her father.”

  “Now?” she asked in a high, panicked voice.

  “Yes. Now. She’s my daughter. It’s time she knew it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  EMMA must have seen their arrival through the window, because she’d already pushed the screen door open before they’d finished climbing the porch steps. She wore a voluminous yellow gown that Stephen thought looked a little the worse for wear, making her look like a bedraggled fairy plucked from a picture book.

  “Momma!” she hollered, launching herself at Colette’s waist with undisguised glee. “You’re home!”

  Colette staggered a bit for balance, one arm flying up to wrap about Emma’s back while her free hand shot out to grip the handrail. Stephen reached to press a steadying hand at the small of Colette’s back, and she immediately stiffened away from his touch. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, dipping to press a kiss against their daughter’s tousled head. “Have you been a good girl this morning?”

  The grinning mite nodded enthusiastically. “I drawed a picture and me an’ Janet maked lemonade. From scratch!” she crowed, a budding chef who’d obviously internalized her mother’s exacting standards for freshness.

  “You remember Mr. Whitfield, don’t you?”

  Emma cocked her golden head, her blue eyes tracking his features with undisguised interest. “'Course. Momma’s your en … your em …” Her tiny rosebud mouth puckered as she tried to recall the word. “What’d you say she was?”

  She was supposed to be my mistress. “My employee?”

  Emma beamed and nodded her head. “Yes, your employee. An’ you like princesses with blue eyes.”

  A queer rush of possessiveness gripped his chest as he stared down at his daughter. How had he not recognized her as his from the very first? “Yes, I do.”

  “Sweetheart,” Colette interrupted as she moved up to the top step and reached for the door. “Why don’t we go inside and fetch Mr. Whitfield some of that lemonade you made? He and I have something important to tell you.”

  “'Kay, but we hafta make more,” she said as she turned to skip past her mother. “Me and Janet drinked it all.”

  He and Colette trailed inside after their daughter, her excited chatter informing Janet of their arrival. “Let me do the talking,” Colette murmured beneath her breath.

  Resenting her claim of control yet again, he felt irritation coil in his chest. “Why? So you can spin it in your favor?”

  “So I can spin it in hers,” she hissed. “I want to minimize her shock and confusion.”

  “There wouldn’t be any shock or confusion if you’d—”

  “I know that,” she snapped, turning to face him with her hands knotted at her thighs. She checked over her shoulder and then lowered her voice. “But it doesn’t change the reality of here and now. She doesn’t know you are her father yet, and we can’t just spring it on her without taking time to prepare her.”

  “Prepare her?” he asked, arching a brow.

  She scowled, a trapped lioness protecting her cub. “She’s a child, Stephen, a sweet, innocent child, and telling her will require a bit more sensitivity than you possess.”

  He felt himself bristle beneath the insult. “I can be—”

  “You can’t.”

  Scanning her mulish expression and the lines of worry around her hazel eyes, he realized with a sudden lurch in his gut that she was scared. Despite his anger and frustration, he felt something within him soften and shift. And, even though she deserved everything he saw fit to inflict, he decided it wouldn’t kill him to exhibit a little mercy. He could grant her this small modicum of control. “Fine. You do the talking. I won’t intervene.”

  Her shoulders slumped with her relief. “Thank you.”

  “But you owe me for this,” he said, reminding her that his capitulation came at a cost.

  A flush climbed her face while her eyes flashed. “Fine. I owe you. Add it to my tab.”

  Her tab. As if she ever intended to pay. He scowled, wishing he was merciless enough to exploit this new role of creditor to its fullest.

  Now that the moment was upon them, Colette didn’t know quite how to feel. Nervous, jittery and scared, she couldn’t begin to predict how Emma would react.

  Trepidation filled her lungs as she entered her bright yellow and blue kitchen to find Emma on her knees atop a kitchen stool, helping Janet squeeze fresh lemons into a pitcher. Colette’s heart twisted painfully but she persevered, donning a cheerful smile and a somewhat steady voice. “Janet,” she began, “would you mind excusing us for an hour or so?”

  Her nanny arched curious gray brows, her gaze skipping from Colette to Stephen to Emma and then back again. “Of course not, dear. Is there anything—?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Colette interrupted.

  They stood awkwardly, a silent tableau of untold secrets, until Janet blurted, “I’ll just pick some things up at the deli, then. And catch up with Helen. It’s been a while since we’ve had a good talk.”

  “Thank you,” Colette said as Janet collected her purse and then bustled out the back door.

  Colette waited until Janet disappeared from sight before pulling out one of her three chairs and gingerly lowering herself into it. “Emma, sweetheart, why don’t you come sit on Momma’s lap?”

  Emma must have sensed that something momentous was afoot, because her eyes widened momentarily before she climbed down off the stool and came to stand before Colette’s bent knees. “What about your lemonade?”

  “We can have it later.” She reached for her daughter’s sturdy little torso and lifted her up onto her thighs. “Mr. Whitfield and I have something important to tell you first. Remember?”

  Emma’s blue gaze, so like her father’s, skipped to where Stephen now sat, across from their scarred kitchen table. “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you remember that Momma used to live in a place called England before she had you?” “Like Mr. Whitfield?”

  “Yes, just like Mr. Whitfield. And when I lived there Mr. Whitfield and I … we were friends.”

  Emma stared at Colette, her expression curious and not at all alarmed. “Is he still your friend?”

  I doubt it. “Yes, sweetheart. He
is. And he wants to be your friend, too.” Colette felt her stomach pitch as Emma’s compact body twisted to look at her father. “Would that be all right with you?”

  “You wanna have play dates with me?” she asked, her small brow furrowing.

  His eyelashes flickered for an instant, betraying a nervousness she’d have thought him incapable of feeling and sending a sharp lurch through her chest. “Absolutely,” he answered with a smile, and his blue eyes were filled with a tenderness Colette had never seen before. “But only if you want me to.”

  She paused for a second, studying Stephen where he sat. “Do you have prince clothes?”

  “Prince clothes?”

  “For Beauty and the Beast.”

  He cocked his brow at that, a disarmed smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you think I’m a beast, Emma?”

  The trill of her giggle diluted some of the tension in the room as she nodded. “'Course I do! You’re gigantic!”

  “In that case, I think I can probably come up with some prince clothes.” He angled a look at Colette. “Do you think a tuxedo would suffice?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling despite herself. Hauling in a stabilizing breath, and praying that her voice held steady, Colette brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Emma?”

  Emma looked over her shoulder at Colette. “What?”

  She tried to keep her hands from tightening too much about Emma’s body. “It turns out that Mr. Whitfield here is more than just a friend.” She offered a comforting smile. “To us, at least.”

  Curiosity lit her baby’s eyes. “He is?”

  “Yes. Mr. Whitfield is …” Her smile lost a bit of its moorings as she lifted shaking fingers to brush back a wayward curl from Emma’s upturned face. “Mr. Whitfield is your daddy.”

  Emma stared at her with wondering eyes, her expression slowly transforming from curiosity to surprise. “My daddy?” “Yes.”

  She turned back to Stephen. “You’re my daddy?”

  “I am.” His deep voice held none of Colette’s unsteadiness, but she could detect the note of emotion underlying the words nonetheless.