His gaze strayed up the staircase to their bedroom, where wrapping paper rustled. Longing wrenched his heart. In two weeks, that room would be empty, and he had never spent a single night in this house alone. God above, what he would give if they could go back to the summer they’d decided children would be smart and change his mind.
What he’d do to be normal once again.
A dark shadow on the gold star made him frown. Damned thing had a light out. How appropriate. It never seemed to fail in its maddening existence.
Kyle hobbled to the foot of the stairs. “Aimee? Where’s that box of replacement lights? This thing’s got a bulb out.”
“Um.” Wrapping paper crackled. “I think it’s in the basement. Don’t worry about it. I probably stacked a bunch of stuff on top of the Christmas boxes.”
Don’t worry about it—had she forgotten the waging war between him and the star? He chuckled as he picked up his cane and trudged to the kitchen and the basement door. A distant flicker of red light beyond the dining room’s picture window gave him pause. Bulb temporarily forgotten, he drifted to the wide pane, scrubbed a clear spot in the frost, and gazed out at their neighbor’s decorated house, further up the woodsy incline.
On top of the peaked roof sat a lighted sleigh and two reindeer. Kyle couldn’t help but smile. Aimee and he still played Santa. Granted, their version was often a bit more…adult, and cookies and milk had never been so erotic as a child. Still, the sight of the magical sleigh drew him further into the magic of the holiday. Traditions were made for a reason, and if this was the last Christmas he had with Aimee, he would make it as memorable as their first. She would start her own, no doubt. He, however, wanted one happy memory to hang on to. One little place of peace—even if he didn’t deserve it—he could go to when the nightmares ripped him from sleep.
He left the window and went to the back patio door, hoping she hadn’t used all the wood he cut in preparation for last winter. As he slid open the glass, the hearty aroma of someone else’s burning fireplace filled his nostrils. He breathed in the smoke and the crisp winter air, let the pleasant aroma fill his lungs before he exhaled, and his breath clouded around him.
After a dozen winters in the sand, the serenity of new fallen snow was a glimpse of heaven.
He spied the remnants of his exuberant efforts last October, and relief flooded through him. Leaving his cane inside, he hobbled across the powdery white covering their deck and picked up a large armful of hand-hewn logs. It took a little coordination, but he managed to juggle the wood and his suddenly uncooperative leg, back inside the house, all the way to the fireplace. There, he knelt in front of the stone mantel and tossed the logs inside.
Kindling came from the basket on the hearth, pieces of shingles and small twigs they both collected whenever they went on walks. He drew a match from the tall box, struck it, and held it to the dried wood. When it began to crackle and flames licked at the brittle pieces, he stole a glance at the stairs, ensuring Aimee was still locked away in the bedroom.
The faint, snip-snip of scissors assured she wasn’t coming out soon.
Kyle awkwardly pushed himself to his feet and returned to the kitchen. He told himself one glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, that opening a bottle had nothing to do with wanting to recreate the other aspects of their usual Christmas traditions. The sudden racket behind his ribs as he plucked a bottle of merlot from the wine rack, however, argued sound logic.
Ignoring the unsteady drum of his heart, he poured two glasses and shuffled back into the living room. His leg breathed a sigh of relief when he sat on the couch, and the increasing ache in his knee ebbed. He’d used the thing too much today, and he had hardly done anything worthy of being called work. Renfield was out of his mind if he thought Kyle’s leg could hold up under an eight-plus hour day in meetings and hobbling around base, let alone travel overseas. Strategic lead would require nothing less.
Plain and simple, he was toast.
He refused to think about his dysfunctional leg and hand now, however. Tonight was for crude enjoyment. When Aimee left, he’d deal with his failed career.
Kyle set both wine glasses on the coffee table, leaned sideways, and clicked off the lamp. Firelight flooded the room, combining with the bright glow of the Christmas tree. Perfect. Aimee would love it.
He looked to their bedroom door. “Aimee? Could you help me find this bulb?”
It took every bit of his self-control to keep from giving in to a Cheshire grin as she stepped out of the room and came to an abrupt stop. Hesitant steps brought her to the top of the stairs. “Kyle?”
“Down here.”
Her gaze canvassed the dimly lit room before it found him on the couch. She’d changed out of her clothes, exchanging workout pants and sweatshirt for a pair of short cotton shorts and one of his old T-shirts. The sight of her long, lithe legs doubled his heartbeat. He looked away before smooth creamy skin got the better of him, and he took a deep drink from his glass. Damn. Firelight and wine had not been one of his better decisions.
Aimee entered his peripheral vision, the light scent of warmed sugar carrying in the air. “It looks pretty.” She picked up her wine glass and gestured at the tree. “Very pretty.”
She sank into the cushions beside him, and his gaze skittered to the area of slight sensation where her thigh touched his. “It needs a bulb,” he answered with effort.
“Not tonight.” Aimee leaned back and let out a sigh. “It’s late. I just want to relax.”
Unable to resist the temptation of her nearness, Kyle looped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his side, and her long silky hair tumbled over her elbow. He caught a rich chocolate strand, twined it around his finger, hoping he wasn’t pulling too hard.
If his absent toying pained her, she made no attempt to move. In fact, Kyle could have sworn she snuggled closer. Her hand settled on his thigh, her dainty palm creating lazy circles against the cotton of his sweats. Circles he would kill to truly feel.
He let out a soul-deep sigh. He had never imagined how important a little touch could be, or how much he would miss the innocence of fingertips casually stroking his skin.
“Here,” Aimee said as she leaned forward to set her glass on the table. “Give me your leg.” Reclining, she grasped his thigh in both hands and eased it over hers. Those strong fingers, despite their delicate appearance, began to work deep into his muscle.
Uncomfortable with her driving need to nurse him, he moved his leg, attempting to remove it from her reach. “Don’t, please.”
Aimee clenched her hands, trapping his leg in place. “Drink your wine and stop fighting me.”
Obediently, Kyle drank from his glass. But the sweet merlot had lost its flavor, and he set the half-full glass on the tabletop. He conceded to her massage, despite the instinctual need to retreat and hide his weakness. Leaning his head on the back of the couch, he closed his eyes.
“You can’t feel this?” Aimee asked quietly.
“No,” Kyle whispered. “Just pressure.”
He concentrated on regulating his breathing, controlling the rapid beat of his heart. Though he couldn’t consciously feel the way her fingers worked into his flesh, his imagination conjured fantastic images. The grip and squeeze along his inner thigh, the way the material would pull and slide as her fingers moved closer to his groin… He clenched his teeth against a groan.
Suddenly unable to tolerate another moment of the heavy silence that hung between them, Kyle sat forward and pushed her hands away. “Stop.”
She gave him a sharp frown. “What are you so afraid of? That I might notice something different?” An elbow to his side drove him back into the cushions and gave her hands freedom once again. Only this time, as the base of her palms dug into desensitized muscle, she slid to her knees in front of him and slipped her hands to his calf. “Close your eyes, Kyle. There’s nothing about you that frightens me.”
A fact that scared him more than if she’d turned away in repulsion. F
or whatever reason, even after the horrible way he had treated her, Aimee refused to run. He expelled a ragged breath and yielded. No sense arguing. Not tonight. The tree was lit, the fire roaring, and a bottle of wine waited in the kitchen. Maybe tonight he could forget.
Aimee’s fingers glided over the back of his good calf, the firm squeeze more enticing than any therapeutic massage he’d received in the last several months.
“Feel good?” Aimee murmured.
God yes. He managed a nod.
“Keep your eyes closed. Feel it in your other leg.”
Like magic, as one hand massaged muscles more than capable of feeling, he began to transfer sensation. No nurse had ever instructed him to use his imagination and create sensation. No doctor had prompted him to try. Yet the odd suggestion worked. Maybe because he knew Aimee’s strong but gentle hands so well, maybe it was just deep-rooted longing—he couldn’t say. Whatever caused it, as she worked her way over his knee, around the back, and into the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, he recognized every press of her fingertips as vividly as if his nerves had never been damaged. Inch by inch, squeeze by squeeze, Kyle’s body relaxed.
“Better?” Aimee whispered.
“Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.
Five times better—ten. For the first time since he’d awakened in Saif’s destroyed home, Kyle knew hope. He felt good.
Aimee’s bewitching touch crept closer to the super sensitive juncture of his legs, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Too damn good. He ordered his body to unknot, to remain still despite the taunting way her knuckles occasionally brushed his cock. But rapidly budding desire won out, and he spread his knees to make room for his swelling erection. For her hands to fit around him and squeeze tight.
When that anticipated, incredible moment came, arousal launched through his body. He’d hungered for her touch. Hadn’t believed she would follow through. And yet, as her fingers wrapped around the soft cotton and moved along his shaft, disbelief gave way to an overwhelming sense of rightness. The tightening muscles unwound, and as aroused as he was, he relaxed even more.
Her intimate massage lasted only a brief moment, far too short for passion to override his awareness, yet long enough the effect seared through his bloodstream. He clenched his good hand into a tight fist.
“Relax, Kyle.” Aimee’s breath whispered across his cheek.
He cracked one eye open and found her hovering over his lap. Hesitantly, he settled his hands on her narrow waist. Knees straddling his thighs, she lowered herself onto his straining cock and looped her arms around his neck. Kyle fought for the very ability to breathe.
“These are new.” Feather-soft, her fingertips traced the scars along the side of his face.
The press of her warm feminine flesh against his hard shaft made words impossible. Hungry for the feel of her silken sheath and the grip of her moist inner walls, his thoughts slammed into chaos. A short nod was the only response he could summon.
“And this.” Light as air, her lips dusted across the long narrow scar along the edge of his hairline to the corner of his right eye.
Against his will, his fingers squeezed her hipbones. God, she was killing him. If he had half a bit of decency, he’d lift her out of his lap and explain how bad this idea was. But even as he debated doing just that, her breasts rubbed against his chest as she raised up to brush her mouth across his.
“I like them,” she whispered.
She was nuts, but right now he didn’t care. He slipped his hands down her waist to her hips, lower to the short hem of her shorts. Eyes closed, he employed the new trick she had taught him and transferred the feel of her silken skin against his good hand, to his bad, until he could feel her in both. Then he pressed her forward to recapture the fleeting kiss.
“I love you, Kyle,” Aimee murmured against his lips. “Let me share your pain. Make love to me.”
A low groan rumbled in the back of his throat as his mouth caught hers and the tip of her tongue danced with his.
Chapter Ten
Kyle could overlook the implication of make love to me. He could ignore Aimee’s request to let her share his pain. But he couldn’t set aside the declaration of her love, or the sudden fierce need to confess his own. He stifled the words by tangling his hands in her hair and deepening their kiss. If he told her, if he went down that never-ending chasm, he would bleed to death. Even if they could somehow go back to the place they’d been before her miscarriage, once she came to realize what he had done to Denton, all the love in the world wouldn’t bring her back to his arms. Better to keep the raging emotion silent and let her walk away in a week, than drag out the inevitable.
Still, he couldn’t abuse her love and allow her to believe tonight might end in reconciliation. She loved him. She made no attempt to hide that all-consuming feeling. He couldn’t hurt her more by taking her to bed, enjoying the heaven of her body, and then leaving her with unanswered questions. Once had been enough. He wouldn’t commit that wrong twice.
Wrapping his good arm around her waist, he edged her out of his lap and slowly drew the kiss to a close. He lifted a shaking hand to cup the side of her face in his palm. With his thumb, he stroked her cheek, her swollen lips. “Go to bed, Aimee,” Kyle whispered.
Her ale-brown gaze searched his face for answers he wasn’t willing to give. “Come with me.”
Kyle shook his head, let his hand fall to his lap. “I can’t. We can’t.” The words pained him more than signing his divorce decree had. Then, he hadn’t sat in front of her and looked her in the eye. He could pretend she didn’t care. Now, all her emotions poured out through her crushed expression. She cared all right, and he would carry that damning knowledge to his grave.
To escape the flood of guilt that threatened to drag him under, he reached for his glass, tossed back the last of his wine, and eased to his feet. “I’m going to try that bath on my own.”
“Is that…wise?”
Damn her. Just once, couldn’t she think of herself and stop worrying about taking care of him? If he slipped and broke his neck, it would be better for them all. He echoed her earlier answer to his similar question. “I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t give her opportunity to question him further. Cane in hand, he limped to the bathroom and locked himself inside. Tradition had been a bad idea. Where he’d sought to savor the memory, now he faced a night of self-induced relief and longing he couldn’t deny. If Walsh had left him there… If Walsh hadn’t come to…
Kyle thumped a fist against the wall. Damn it all. He wanted to fucking die all over again. Coming home had been the worst mistake. Not the first, by far, but the worst. He’d known it would be, but in his wildest dreams, he never would have imagined Aimee would still be here. Waiting on him to return. Determined to break through the walls he had erected. Committed to loving him.
The pipes shuddered as he turned on the faucets. One hand on the porcelain basin, the other braced on the wall, he set his good leg over and stepped into the tub. Extending his right so his heel touched the bottom, he levered himself into the inch deep water. Aimee’s sweet flavor still lingered on his lips, and closing his eyes, Kyle leaned against the back of the tub to relive the memory.
His body tightened at the imaginary press of her gentle curves, the glorious fall of her long thick hair. She came to life in his mind, sitting in his lap, lowering her body in time with the lifting of his as he slid deep inside her warm, wet haven.
As the sound of running water filled his ears, Kyle wrapped his hand around his flagging cock. He couldn’t have her, but he would always have the memory.
****
Aimee lay on the bed that had once brought them so much happiness and stared at the ceiling, forbidding her rising tears to fall. Months had passed since she cried over Kyle. So much time she believed she had finally moved beyond the heartache. His silence, his refusal of her, brought all the confusion of the past year to the surface.
The touch of his hand, the tenderness that glint
ed in his eyes, spoke truer words of love than any verbalization. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, he was determined to keep them apart. Why? It didn’t make any more sense tonight than it had the day she’d opened the door to find the sheriff on her doorstep, divorce petition in his outstretched hand.
We can’t.
Why the hell couldn’t they? What had crawled so far beneath his skin that he would throw away six years of solid, happy marriage? It couldn’t be just the nightmare of Afghanistan and the mysterious man in the photographs. Kyle had filed in January, two months before his injury. Up until she received the papers, they still had regular phone conversations. None of which hinted at trouble beyond his new habit of keeping the slightest detail about his missions under wraps.
For the thousandth time she wracked her brain for something that he’d said before he deployed, a tiny hint at what might have triggered Kyle’s gradual retreat that ended in complete withdrawal.
Try as she might, nothing raised a red flag. The day he had shipped out had been full of the same vigor and life as the day he’d come home the last time. He had laughed. Held her hand. Kissed her goodbye with every bit of passion he possessed.
She rolled onto her side and stared out the window at the bright silver moon. Christmas was a day away. The one holiday she treasured seemed doomed to end in disaster. Every time she thought she was making progress, Kyle did a one-eighty, and she was back where she’d started when he walked across the tarmac.
Common sense told her to quit. To stop fighting a battle she couldn’t hope to win. Kyle had set the rules, they combated on his home territory. While she couldn’t begin to fake it, he held the upper hand with his mastery of deception. Breaking a Delta Force operative was more impossible than cracking open a safe. Hell, they were trained to keep themselves bottled up tight.
Vows she’d made, oaths she’d sworn, and too many years of hard work and devotion refused to let her throw in the towel. She didn’t know how to give up on those things. On the life she’d built.
A Broken Christmas Page 8
