Take My Breath Away

by Christie Ridgway

  “One last night.”

  * * *

  POPPY LEFT THE kitchen with Ryan, intentionally leaving second and third thoughts behind. He hadn’t responded to her “I’m in love with you,” with anything close to the same—but she hadn’t expected that. Later, his remark about selling the lake house had stung—but she’d never expected to see him again after this month ended, anyway.

  So this was it. This was the last chance for her to be with the man who’d shown her a single mother was still a woman. And she was going to revel in it.

  Ryan directed her to take a turn in the hallway, with one hand at the small of her back. It raced hot chills up her spine and made her wonder again about the bowl of leftover icing he was carrying.

  She stole a glance at it. Surely... “Um, what’s with the bowl?”

  The look he returned was smoldering, the blue of his eyes that inner-flame shade that made her insides turn to jelly.

  “Ryan...”

  He put the icing on the bedside table, twitched back the covers to reveal the soft sheets, then he turned to her. One hand slid down her back to cup her bottom, the other tilted her face as he bent his head for a searing kiss. His tongue drove into her mouth and she welcomed it with her own, any last thoughts lost in the lavish exchange. He drew back for air. “You were saying?”

  “Um...”

  Whatever protest she might have made was lost in the cotton of her sleep tank as he pulled it over her head. His fingers found the fastener at the end of her braid and he pulled it free so that he could fluff her hair around her shoulders. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, gazing at her face.

  She clutched the sides of his T-shirt and brought herself to tiptoe, pressing her lips to his, taking for herself another kiss. His palms slid beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms, angling her hips into the aggressive jut of his sex.

  Its heat, its hardness, made her shiver. His mouth took over the kiss and she let her head fall back, going dizzy with want of him.

  He used her giddiness to get her full naked and then she was on the bed and he was naked, too, except for a wicked glint in his eyes and the bowl of icing in his hand. She scrambled across the cotton, a giggle bubbling in her chest. “Keep that away from me. You’ll...you’ll get the sheets all sticky.”

  He shook his head. “Only if you keep moving around. Poppy, stretch out and stay still.”

  “Oh, Ryan, no—” But the protest stopped on a gasp as he brushed a fingerful of the sugary stuff on the tip of her breast. His mouth followed, and she dropped her head to the pillow as the heated suction produced exquisite pleasure that mimicked the strong pulls of his lips. When he performed the same act on her other nipple, she curled her nails into her palms to keep from begging.

  He gave her what she wanted, anyway.

  “It’s like finger painting.” He drew a design on her belly. “Or invisible ink,” he said, following the pattern with his tongue to lick it away.

  She tried to take her turn at the game, but he refused to allow her access to the icing. “It’s all mine,” he murmured. “One last night, you’re all mine.”

  Then he took her mouth with another kiss, the sweetness of it almost unbearable. Poppy wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to the sensation, the moment, the man. He pulled away and dipped his finger once more into the bowl.

  He drew it over her skin, making lazy shapes, tight circles, wide parabolas. She wondered if it might be a sorcerer’s spell, a magician’s runes set on fire by the light in his supernatural eyes. Was it an incantation he was murmuring? But no, they were normal words. You’re so pretty, sexy girl. You feel so good to me. Be still, be still, I have important business to do.

  “What business?” she asked, breathless, as she once again tried to pull him over her, into her.

  “I’m drawing you pictures,” he said. “I’m telling you stories.”

  His seductive voice made every cell of her body tingle. She felt open to him everywhere and she watched through half-closed eyes as he marked her with that gentle touch and insistent tongue. With a finger, he scooped inside the bowl one last time and then set it aside.

  His gaze on her face, he came between her legs, bending one knee flat to the mattress, opening her to place the final dollop on her private flesh. She flinched, her sex so sensitive that just one stroke brought her to the brink. Then his mouth was there and she was sure she’d go over with the first touch, but he licked at the sugary paste with such delicate strokes that another flush layered over her heated skin and the arousal was pushed higher. And higher.

  Poppy was visibly trembling as Ryan continued to pleasure her, his tongue becoming more insistent, his mouth moving over the soft, wet, pleated flesh. Her fingers found purchase on the sheets as she lifted into the goodness of it, and then he speared two fingers into her and she arched, shuddering with spasms of incredible, bewitching bliss.

  He stayed with her through every pulse, his mouth easing her through several more mini-explosions. Then he was over her, a condom on, his expression anything but playful. He looked down at her, his chiseled face so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. Shadows hollowed his cheekbones and the dark grit of beard roughened his chin. This was Ryan of the winter, a man of long, dark nights, of black demons, of barren landscapes. The one she’d first met who had both frightened and attracted her at the same time. But now she took him in her arms and welcomed him into her body, tightening herself around his deep thrust. He grunted, pressing his bristly cheek to hers as he retreated and drove himself in her again.

  His body was heavy on her, he was all male, with thick bone and burning skin and she wrapped her legs around his hips to bind her to him. Perhaps he sensed her purpose, because he lifted his head, those hot-blue eyes boring into hers. His body kept pounding into hers and he gasped between words. “Tell me...tell me something back.”

  One hot tear rolled from her lashes toward her temple as she realized what he was asking for. He wasn’t looking for another confession. It was absolution he wanted.

  Poppy hesitated, and then...then she realized how much of a giver she could be. Because in this moment she wanted to shower him with all he needed, no matter what the cost to herself. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself tossing handfuls of love at him as if they were bunches of dandelion fluff. She saw little white parachutes drifting down around him.

  And then she told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “Come April, I won’t love you anymore.”

  The gratitude in his gaze made the lie worth it. The man lived with enough pain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HANDS IN HIS jean pockets, Ryan gazed out the windows toward the lake. Sun streamed through the panes, brightening the pale yellow of the family room walls. Outside, the sky was a sharp blue and as he watched, he saw Linus cutting through the water in the white-and-red Hurricane inboard-outboard on his approach to the dock. They’d elected to liberate the boat from storage at the marina today, and anticipating himself behind the wheel later, speeding through the light chop, poured a caffeinelike buzz of eagerness through Ryan’s veins.

  Whoa, he thought, surprised by the thrill of anticipation.

  Yesterday, while kite-flying, of all things, he’d experienced a sudden burst of exhilaration and now this. Even aware that Poppy would soon defect wasn’t quashing these new feelings. Maybe because after she’d spent the night in his bed, they’d come to a resolution of their relationship.

  Come April, she’d said, I won’t love you anymore.

  Because it was for the best, he was choosing to believe her. After all, the end had been foregone from the beginning, so he was going to go with the flow and just enjoy the hell out of these last hours. As Linus walked up from the dock, his arms full of grocery bags, Grimm came loping from the woods to greet him. Besides gettin
g the boat from the marina, his brother had been instructed to make a grocery run, and on the list were hot dogs, hamburgers, buns and chips. Grant considered himself the king of the ’cue—his words—and intended to do the grilling.

  At the sound of female laughter floating from the kitchen, Ryan cocked his head. The women were making side dishes.

  On his way to check on their progress, he froze at the threshold. Tears were streaming down Poppy’s cheeks. Alarm had him leaping forward. “Sweetheart!” What had happened? Who had hurt her? He glared at Charlie, then Anabelle, then grasped the truth of the situation, almost falling on his ass as he halted his headlong run.

  “I...uh...” With a sheepish shake of his head, he was forced to address the three women staring at him in concern. Gesturing toward the mountain of onion in front of the prettiest woman in the room, he slipped onto one of the bar stools. “I thought you were upset about something, Poppy.”

  She blotted her cheeks with a napkin as the actress chopping potatoes beside her slid him a sly smile. “That’s so...caring,” Anabelle said.

  He sent her a quelling look. “Look at you. I’ve never seen you wield a kitchen knife except in that teen slasher movie that was your debut.”

  “Take that back,” his best friend’s wife protested. “I was just telling your mountain girl that we don’t live the kind of rarefied existence she might imagine.” Anabelle turned to Poppy, who was scooping the diced onion into an immense glass serving bowl. “That whole Hollywood clubbing lifestyle—not us, at least not anymore. We have a small, close circle of friends, including that ugly guy over there, and we conduct ourselves like real people.”

  “Real people who have a thousand pairs of shoes in their closet,” Ryan said, “half of which I think I lugged into your bedroom yesterday.”

  “Not a thousand!”

  Charlie dumped a handful of sliced celery into the glass bowl. “I saw it on a celebrity lifestyle show. They were filming in your closet. And counting. At least a thousand.”

  “Complete fabrication,” Anabelle said, waving a hand. “Charlie, we’ll have you and Linus over, and you’ll see.”

  The younger woman beamed a shy smile. “Yes? You really think I’ll fit in?”

  “Of course. We’ll make sure of it.”

  Poppy observed the interaction, clearly pleased her cousin had found a champion. Though Charlie would be fine; his brother was a goner for the woman, so Linus would never make it less than so. Poppy would thrive down the mountain, too, he thought. Why not? He could see her on the deck of his house in Laurel Canyon, surrounded by eucalyptus, fan palms, scarlet bougainvillea and the white-starred jasmine. He’d build a fire for her in the clay chimenea, and as night fell they’d watch it burn down to glowing embers before heading inside.

  “Look out, Duke!”

  Her son’s voice shook him free of the vision. He lifted his feet so they didn’t impede the trajectory of the soccer ball the boy was chasing. Grimm tagged behind, pausing a moment to swipe Ryan’s hand with a long pink tongue as he galloped by.

  There was room for that pair at the Laurel Canyon house, too. The dog would sprawl on the terra cotta tile floor in the kitchen, always in everyone’s way. The blue guest room across from the master could be turned into a boy’s hideaway—

  God. That was never going to happen. There would be no Poppy. No dog. Absolutely no boy.

  Disturbed by the path his mind had been wandering, Ryan exited the kitchen and headed outside. Grant had rolled the grill onto the lawn near the lake, and he now wore a neon bib apron proclaiming I Play With Meat. Linus showed up, and between the three of them they pulled chaise lounges and an umbrella table and chairs from a storage locker and arranged them on the grass. With a broom and a rag, Ryan made sure to eradicate any eight-legged invaders.

  Linus suggested they set the kites aloft again, and Ryan took that to be his job. Poppy’s son came out onto the grass to watch the launches. Staring upward, the kid shoved his little hands in his little pockets. “It’s been good knowing you, Duke,” he said, like he was thirty and they’d been on an assignment together that had now reached its conclusion.

  The sun glinted off the kid’s blond hair, the brightness making Ryan’s eyes sting. “Uh, it’s been good knowing you, too. You stay on the job for your mom, all right? Look after her. She doesn’t think she needs anybody.”

  The boy nodded. “We’re Walkers, we’re tough,” he said, then wandered away.

  Ryan remained where he was, head tilted back to watch the bright shapes flying.

  His brother strolled up, nudged him with an elbow. “How you doing?”

  Ryan looked over, lifting a brow.

  “We’re coming down to the wire.”

  Did he mean to the anniversary of Tate’s death or to the moment of Poppy’s leave-taking? He didn’t want to dwell on either. “Let’s not go there.” He returned his gaze to the kites, watching the butterfly dip and twirl in the breeze. “I’m not thinking of calendars. Just taking pleasure in this, moment by moment.”

  He stuck to that as the day wore on. The entire group—except Grimm—donned sunscreen, sweatshirts and hats and took a cruise around the lake. There were plenty of other boaters out enjoying the balmy spring day and after Ryan tired of driving, Linus set Poppy’s son on his lap, allowing him to act as captain. Then it was time for lunch, and they clambered back to the grass, where they filled up on picnic fare.

  Afterward, Linus and Charlie stretched out on one double-wide chaise, Grant and Anabelle on the other. Earlier, they’d retrieved a bocce ball set from storage, as well, and Poppy and her son played a pre-K version of the game. Ryan lay on the grass, dozing in the sun.

  He drifted into a dream where he was once again at the Laurel Canyon house. It was dark, and he was walking around the interior, securing it for the evening. A night-light glowed in the bedroom across from his but he bypassed that door to push open his own. Poppy was propped up in pillows on the bed, reading. As he stood there, dumbly taking her in, she looked up from her book. Smiled.

  His breath caught, his heart expanded in his chest, euphoria rushed like a flash flood through his blood.

  Then a hand was shaking him awake. “Wha—?” He opened his eyes, the sun nearly blinding him.

  “Cake’s been served,” Linus said.

  Sitting up, he pushed away the sense of disappointment. Relish this moment by moment. The others were gathered around the table, paper plates in hand. Ryan took up his own, inspecting the baked layers. Their slight pink cast reminded him of Poppy’s blush.

  He glanced up, saw her looking back, though she quickly redirected her gaze. “It’s strawberry cake,” she said to everyone. “Mason’s favorite.”

  Her boy was already digging in. The rest of the group followed, accompanied by mmms and groans of appreciation. “Love the frosting,” Linus added. “Delicious.”

  “Agreed,” Ryan said, and this time Poppy’s eyes didn’t shy away from his, though he could see that telltale color on her cheeks. He tried messaging her through their shared connection. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more for you.

  She smiled, gave a little nod, and his flagging mood lifted again. It was a beautiful day. A beautiful moment. Nothing was over yet.

  Then he felt a tug on the hem of his T-shirt. The kid stood at his side, his big blues latched onto Ryan’s face. “I made you something, Duke.”

  “Yeah?” He noticed there was a folded sheet of paper in his hand. “Another map?”

  “No,” the boy said, holding it out.

  Setting down his cake plate, he sent Poppy another look. When she shrugged, indicating she was out of the loop, he inspected the front side. It was more marker-work, bright colors and shapes. Kites? Or balloons, maybe. Then he opened the sheet.

  Inside were words that were like an elephant kick to the gut.


  A solar eclipse occurred as he stared at them. The day turned dark and cold, mirroring what was happening inside him. A shudder wracked his body, his bones rattling beneath his clammy skin.

  Linus said, “Ry...?”

  The child’s voice piped through the high whine in his ears. “I copied the letters from a book we have. I heard Charlie and Linus talking about your boy. It’s his day. I know he’s not here, but we can make this party be for him, right, Mommy?”

  “Oh, Mason.” Poppy’s voice sounded thick with tears. “What did you do?”

  “I made Duke’s boy a card.”

  As Ryan stared down at it, the childish print wavered, distorting the uneven letters spelling out Happy Birthday Tate!

  The kid kept talking. “Because everybody should have a celebration on their day.”

  * * *

  RYAN RETREATED TO the farthest corner of the basement, his back to the wall, his ass on one of the boxing mats. Grief ravaged his insides like a monster, with snapping teeth and swiping claws. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t scream, he sat through the savagery dry-eyed. Tate.

  His mind had skipped over the significance of the date. For the past four years, the next day’s tragic anniversary had overshadowed it. When it came to misery, March 31st became the one day to rule them all.

  Something changed in the big room. Ryan’s skin prickled in awareness. Poppy. His inner radar recognized her before she came into sight.

  Her feet were silent as she crossed the foam, Grimm at her heels. Ryan rested the back of his head against the wall and watched her approach.

  She stopped before him, her soft mouth turned down, her big gray eyes moving from the birthday card discarded on the mat beside him to his face. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea. Linus and Charlie feel terrible. They didn’t realize he overheard all of that about Tate. They told him how to spell his name.”

  “Adults forget kids have ears.”

  Her tongue ran over her bottom lip. “What can I do?”