THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  The big and strong stuff didn't flatter him anymore. Not when she meant it to show his unfair, physical advantage over her. "I am," he said. "But you've got a power all your own. You can level me with a single word or a look."

  She gave him a hopeful smile. "I can?"

  His throat tightened. Where before, he would have put up every last barrier known to man, die before he let a soul in on any weakness, he said simply, "You can. And you do."

  She drew her brows together and looked again at their hands. Biting her lip, she laced her fingers with his and drew his hand to her lips, kissing his banged-up knuckles. "Don't give up on me, Brooks. Please, don't give up."

  His eyes stung. God, when she remembered…

  She rubbed his hand against her face. "I didn't want to stop. I don't…" She shook her head. "Please, can we try again?" The mixture of desire and vulnerability in her eyes made it impossible for him to let her believe for even an instant he would reject her.

  "Anything you want." The words tumbled from his lips.

  "Anything…?" At his nod, she hesitated, then placed his hands on her breasts and met his gaze. "I want to make love to you. I want to get past this. Help me?"

  Longing stampeded over him, kicking him in the head, the heart and below the belt.

  He'd imagined her body wrapped in his, imagined how she'd look wearing nothing but a satisfied smile with those red high heels.

  Damn, how he wanted to be the man who put that smile on her face. How he needed to be that man, to show her that it didn't have to be bad, that it could be so very good.

  With a groan, he picked her up, lifting her into his arms. He glanced at the old mattress in the corner. But when he looked down into those bottomless brown eyes, her trust stole his breath. And he knew in that moment, there was only one place he could love her the way she deserved.

  With quiet stealth, he carried her through the big, dark house.

  The first and last woman he'd take to his bedroom.

  * * *

  Like a child on a haunted river ride at an amusement park, Amelia clutched Brooks's neck in the darkness. At the foot of the stairs, he dropped a kiss on her forehead, and she sighed and let her head fall against his shoulder.

  In his bedroom, pale moonlight spilled through the open curtains, illuminating familiar shapes. Closing the door with his hip, he took the baby monitor and placed it on the bureau, then laid her down on the bed, ever so gently.

  But at the sight of his large, looming body in the shadows, she fought the instinct to scramble back.

  Right away, he retreated, rounding the foot of the bed to the other side. He read her so well, knew exactly what she needed. Though relief flooded through her, shame came fast on its heels.

  "I'm sorry," she said automatically.

  "For what?"

  "My Academy-award winning imitation of an old-fashioned sink with two faucets, hot and cold."

  He shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that. I'd worry if the hot wasn't working." Casually, as if preparing for bed on any given night, he turned his back and unzipped his jeans.

  Tingles raced up her arms. Denim fell to the ground. Her eyes widened. Captivated, she stared at the gorgeous, sleek lines of his bared body, bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight. Oh, yes—the hot was working just fine. Her fingers curled, bunching up the quilt.

  "A little maneuvering…" His voice came low, intimate and seductive as a caress as he kicked off one leg of his jeans then the other… "And we'll find warm."

  Desire flowed through her, warm and intoxicating, and she let herself drown in the heady rush of the moment, for in that moment she was a woman overcome with the dizzying need to see and touch and taste everything about a man.

  This man.

  Brooks's movements were slow and easy as he crossed to the closet and took a box of condoms from a brown paper bag.

  "My mall purchase," he said, dropping a few packets on the bedside table. But before she could jump to the next, logical conclusion, he cut her off at the pass. "I was thinking of you, lollipop." His deep, quiet voice rolled over her like a rumble of thunder chasing the wind. "All this time, it's been you in my dreams. No one else."

  Her lips parted on a sigh. She stared at him, at his amazing body, one hundred percent male and fully aroused. And she knew whatever happened tonight, it would be worth it.

  "Brooks…" But before she could open her arms in invitation, he pulled back the bedding and climbed inside.

  In one deft move he reached for her, lifting her with minimal effort. She landed against him, straddling his hips over the covers. Through the sheets and her sweatpants, the evidence of his desire pressed intimately against her.

  "Easy, honey." He shifted and guided her hips as if she'd mounted a horse and needed help with the saddle, then laced his fingers behind his head and turned over the reins. You're calling the shots. I'm just going to lie here and let you get comfortable. You can do whatever you want. I promise not to do anything without permission."

  She didn't move for a full minute, simply absorbed the sensation of his big, hard body beneath hers. She felt both incredibly turned-on and terribly nervous. She was dressed, and he was naked. "I … I don't want to disappoint you…

  "Ah, lollipop." His voice was like warm peach brandy, smooth and intoxicating. "It's our first rodeo. You know how that goes? You fall down, you get back up. Next time, you know a little more, you stay a little longer, you ride a little better. But we all start somewhere."

  "Our first rodeo." She smiled. "I like that."

  "Good."

  "Help me, Brooks."

  "Anything."

  "Tell me what you want…"

  "What I want…" He swore softly, as if he would have infinitely preferred showing her. But then, the words came, husky on his lips, "I want you, hot and shivery like before, only more. I want to feel your naked boy against mine, and love you like you've never been loved before. Until morning light streams in the window, and we're too tired to lick our lips. Until we forget about yesterday and tomorrow…" His voice grew hoarse. "Until the hurt goes away."

  Something inside her crumbled then. She didn't know whose pain he meant, hers or his. It didn't matter. She closed her eyes and dipped her head, slowly kissing the hollow of his throat, tasting him, inhaling his scent. Flexing her thighs, she marveled at the power harnessed beneath her, imagined the thrill of riding, the beauty and grace of a tamed beast, the exhilaration of strength that didn't work at cross-purposes but in harmony.

  One hand came untucked from behind his head. "Honey?" He was asking permission. At her nod, he grasped her hip, moving her back and forth against him just once, as if he couldn't take more than one tempting stroke, one shattering taste of how it would be between them. Then he stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. "So damned beautiful…"

  At the image of this strong, gentle man making love to her—making her feel in ways she'd never dreamed possible—she broke free of the prison that held her captive through her fear of failure. She bent and kissed his eyebrow, his eyelid, his cheekbone, before settling her mouth over his. And then the ride wasn't slow at all. But fast and bumpy.

  "Oh, Brooks." Her thighs flexed harder. "Brooks…"

  He murmured endearments between kisses, his tongue stroking hers, his hand slipping inside her sweatshirt. Deftly he whisked her away on a riptide of pleasure, transporting her to a faraway kingdom where knights slew dragons, and maidens had nothing to fear, no reason to run.

  Beneath her palms, she felt his limbs ripple and flex with restraint, while inside, her own heat intensified, building to a fiery pitch. Their breathing labored, their bodies arching toward each other through the barriers of sheets and clothing that proved both safe and confining.

  In the light of silvery moonbeams, her hands skimmed the planes of his body, growing more bold as his whispers went from gentle and soothing to sexy and provocative.

  Touching him, hearing and feeling his responses, her passion mounted until i
t flowed freely, until she found herself reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt again and pulling it over her head.

  At Brooks's sharp, indrawn breath, she smiled. It was her first rodeo, but she was learning. She leaned forward, the tips of her breasts grazing his chest, earthy sounds of pleasure like a low, bluesy melody. Brooks lifted his head from the pillow, his dark, hungry gaze making no secret of what he wanted.

  "Yes," she whispered. "Please."

  In one smooth motion, he rose onto his elbows and captured a tight, straining nipple in his mouth. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply as he expertly suckled and nibbled and blew softly until she writhed against him, until fierce, urgent desire pooled between her thighs. She loosened her death-grip on his shoulders and shifted so she could trail her hands down his abdomen to close around him.

  His body jerked in reflex, and a low, strangled groan vibrated through him. She felt it, absorbed it, and ached to have him even closer. "Brooks," she cried. "I want…"

  "What? Tell me what." He took her mouth and kissed her long and deep, until her loins quivered with longing, and a hollow ache intensified between her legs.

  "You. Now. Inside me. Please."

  At once, his hips lurched against her. "Damn, woman. Talk dirty to me, and the ride's gonna be over before it starts." He growled his pleasure, and her toes curled.

  "Can we…? Can you…? I can't wait much longer."

  "Yes, and yes," his voice was thick with promise. "But one of us has too many clothes on." He was smiling at her—the intimate smile of lovers who shared inside jokes with a mere glance—and she found herself smiling back.

  It surprised her it could be like this between a man and a woman, that the act of lovemaking could be so natural. As she rolled onto her back and lifted her hips to shed the remainder of her clothes, Brooks levered onto an elbow, his heated gaze making her light-headed. "Beautiful," he said again, and she trembled, opening her arms to him, prepared to give him whatever he needed, knowing he had never been anything but gentle with her and hoping he might ease the ache inside her just a bit before he finished.

  But he didn't instantly climb on top of her as she'd expected. Instead he rained hot, moist kisses over her shoulder and the sensitive skin of her inner arm, raising delicious goose bumps. "Come inside, honey." He scooted over, making room for her, and turned back the covers.

  Skin slid against skin, and he nuzzled her neck, the scrape of late-night stubble intimate and erotic, sending electric current dancing along her nerve endings.

  She sighed. "This feels good."

  Brooks kissed her lips. "This is only the beginning." He trailed his hand down her flat belly to rest on her thigh. "Let me really touch you," he whispered near her ear. "Open for me?"

  When she did, he found her ready for him—oh, so ready. He told himself to go slow, to set an easy pace, to satisfy her completely. When she remembered this night, he wanted her to remember her pleasure was foremost in his mind.

  "Brooks, what…? What are we doing?" Her hips lifted to meet his long, leisurely strokes. She was on her back. He was still beside her, the hard length of him pressed to her side.

  "We are doing what you said you wanted."

  "But why aren't you…?"

  "Do you want me to stop?"

  "No. No, don't stop."

  "Good. Hold that thought." And then he was moving ever so slowly down her boy, his mouth joining his hand. And soon she was gasping and writhing on the sheets, trying to muffle the sounds of her pleasure with the pillow. And Brooks was sure he'd never been so turned on in his life.

  But it was more than lust as he held her hips and she bucked against him. More than an itch he needed to scratch as her knees fell limp onto the mattress and he stretched his body over hers. More as he folded her into his arms, kissed her collarbone and gave her some time to regroup.

  "More," he said then, gently easing her up the next mountain.

  "Oh, Brooks…" She lifted her trembling fingers to his cheek. "I don't think I can—"

  "Think again, honey." His mouth closed over one taut nipple, and he kindled her flames once again. She moaned softly, her hands clamping on his head, holding him to her breast. When her hips rose and fell, satisfaction coursed through him, and he groaned, matching her tempo.

  Her passion reignited, she gripped his shoulders, her muscles quivering. But it was her face when he glanced up—her beautiful face contorted in desire—that drove him mad. "Damn, if you aren't the sexiest woman I've ever known…"

  "Brooks… It's happening… Again… I think…"

  He flicked his tongue over the hardened peak of her nipple, nibbled gently, then pulled hard. She arched off the bed, convulsing around him, his name a soft cry on her lips before she toppled back onto the pillows, boneless.

  He smiled down at her, a bead of sweat trickling from his brow onto hers.

  She smiled, too, a satisfied smile, and reached up to take his face in her hands, her fingers threading into the damp hair at his temples. "Where did you come from?" She didn't even try to hide the effect he had on her. It was all there, shimmering in her eyes… Her confusion. Her passion. Her bliss.

  He was humbled.

  Her fingers trailed down his neck to caress his chest. "All of you, Brooks," she whispered, shifting beneath him, so the most intimate parts of their bodies rubbed together. "I want to feel all of you. Now. Please."

  "Yes…" His voice came out in a hiss. He grabbed a foil packet from the bedside table, ripped it open with his teeth and readied himself. Hovering for an endless moment poised above her, he feasted his eyes on her desire-slick body, aware that she was doing the same to him. He wanted to memorize everything about her, this woman who was everything he'd ever wanted, everything he would never have again.

  Once she regained her memory…

  Her hands moved to touch him, to stroke him, to close around him. "Come inside, Brooks." She urged him forward. "Let me really touch you."

  He couldn't have held back another second if his life depended on it. His gaze locked with hers, he inched into her moist, awaiting heat, their bodies rocking together as he slid ever deeper until finally, she had all of him, and he had all of her.

  Amelia didn't think she had the energy to move. She found it. She wrapped her legs around his hips, restless hands clinging to his broad shoulders, tracing the muscles of his back and gripping his bottom. And again he stoked the embers of her desire, whispering hot, carnal words of longing and sweet, tender encouragement.

  A fuse spread within her, exploding into brilliant colors, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. On and on, she catapulted Brooks over the edge with her. He cried out his release against her neck, his boy pulsing inside her. Fingers interlocked. Held tight. Tremors zinged between them like currents in a live wire.

  When at last Amelia caught her breath, she couldn't keep the amazement from her voice. "I don't think I've ever… I can't believe I…"

  "Three times." Brooks rolled onto his side, taking her with him, their bodies still joined.

  "Notches in your bedpost?" she asked, only half joking.

  "No." He wound his fingers in the strands of her hair, his thumb caressing the side of her face. "Not at all."

  She pressed her lips to his palm. "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For treating me like something … someone special."

  His voice lowered, husky near her ear, as if whispering a deep, dark confession, "You are, lollipop."

  A knot of emotion welled in her chest. "You are, too," she said and closed her eyes, unwilling to tarnish the night with worries over what the morning would bring.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  "Hey, Brooks? You up yet? Rise and shine, cowpoke."

  As his bedroom door started to open, Brooks rolled over and hauled the quilt over Amelia's naked body. They'd dozed on and off, waking to make love twice more, before Amelia declared his mission accomplished and crashed on top of him
.

  "Man, does your timing stink. New calves are waiting." Dean stuck his head inside, still rambling, "Catch up on your sleep—" At the sight of Amelia in his brother's bed, his eyes popped wide-open. His jaw went slack. "Later."

  Brooks raised a finger to his lips, cautious of waking her and wary of what he was going to say to his brothers.

  After Dean's initial shock passed, a wide grin spread across his face. He flashed a thumbs-up and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him.

  Brooks blew out a breath and sank onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling for long moments before he turned his gaze to the sweet curve of a bare shoulder exposed from the quilt. He traced it with his finger, rose onto an elbow and cupped it with his hand. Closing his eyes, he bent and brushed his lips over the delicate skin, inhaling deeply.

  He was hard in an instant.

  He'd never woken up with a woman on the other side of the bed, never mind his bed. Like a wino with the drunken shakes, his boy craved a nip before breakfast to get him through what he knew would be a trying day.

  Was this how it started, an unhealthy obsession?

  Brooks didn't want to find out. He pulled away. He needed space. Needed to be alone. To breathe his own supply of air. He rolled out of bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much, and rubbed his hands over his face.

  There was no chance Dean would keep this under his hat. He'd probably tripped over his feet, running to tell Mitch.

  Damn.

  Brooks hated to give his brothers false hope. They had no idea what had happened to Amelia, what was at stake, how complicated it was. He couldn't begin to tell them, even if he wanted. Hell, he didn't know the half of it himself.

  Who the hell was this abuser to her? An ex-boyfriend? An ex-husband? Was her past in the past, or was he still a threat to her? And the big one: Did she still love him?

  At the thought, Brooks broke into a cold sweat. He pulled on his jeans, grabbed some clean clothes and slipped out of the room without a sound. Just as he closed the door, the phone rang. He dashed to the kitchen, hoping to get it before Timmy woke up, and answered midring.