“Even for me,” she admitted, not sure he’d believe her. “Even though I’ve known all along. Everything’s out of my control now. It’s scary. I’m not going to lie.”
Nic grabbed the decanter and poured a glass. Then he took a long, deep gulp.
Any man who kept wine behind closed doors and knew the difference between Argentinean and Chilean malbec would know one didn’t gulp freshly decanted wine. Even she knew that and the extent of her experience was the Food Network and the screw-top Bordeaux she cooked with.
She was driving this man to drink.
Add that to her list of crimes.
“We can do this, Megan. I’m going to stay focused on now, not the past,” he said as if trying to convince himself as much as her. “If I start getting hung up on the past, I’ll just drag myself back to the present. I can do this. No problem.”
Another deep gulp. The glass was nearly empty, and he refilled it then poured another, which he handed to her absently. He gave a short laugh. “Not sure why I even bothered decanting this.”
Megan didn’t say a word. She brought the glass to her lips, inhaled deeply of the earthy scent and took a small sip.
Nic ran a hand through his hair, an uncharacteristically revealing gesture. The man was clearly unsettled.
Now it was her turn to gulp.
“We’re going to handle everything as adults concerned with our daughter’s best interests?”
There was a question in there. She nodded, hoping to reassure him. She took another sip.
“All right. Sounds like a plan.” Grabbing his glass in one hand and the decanter in the other, he strode toward her. “Come on. Let’s go talk money.”
Megan didn’t get a chance to reply, or to back away from the archway leading into the dining room before he was on top of her. Hanging on to her own glass so she didn’t do anything stupid like spill wine all over herself, she glanced up at him, was startled at what she saw in his golden-brown gaze.
Surprise.
It flared in his eyes unmistakably, and with a gasp of premonition, Megan knew what he was going to do even before he took that last step that closed the distance between them.
Before he brought his mouth down on hers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MEGAN TOLD HERSELF THIS kiss was nothing more than his lips on hers. How could it be anything more? He had a decanter in one hand and a wineglass in the other. He crowded her in a doorway, bent at an odd angle, and she clutched her own glass as if it were a buoy in the middle of an ocean.
But then, this kiss was much, much more.
His mouth slanted over hers as if it belonged there, his lips tasting of malbec and him. And she knew him. From somewhere deep in memory, someplace she’d shut down and hidden long ago, Megan remembered him and his kisses.
She might have buried those memories deep, but how could she ever forget this wild expectation snaking its way into every remote part of her.
Reason shrieked wildly that they shouldn’t be doing this. Reason warned they would only make a difficult situation even more difficult. Reason urged her to deny this physical reaction that was sucking her under fast, an undertow she wouldn’t fight for long. Reason implored her to pretend it wasn’t possible to feel this way when so many years and so much had passed between them.
But this was Nic.
And she’d never been able to deny him.
So her lips parted on the edge of a sigh, the most natural response in the world. The only response Megan had to give when he took immediate advantage of her compliance, deepening his kiss, teasing her lips apart, tasting her as if he’d waited forever for the privilege.
Their tongues met, all familiarity and earthy malbec, all warm breath and incredible surprise.
She could taste it on his lips, taste it on his tongue, taste it in every shallow gasp he took. Surprise at so much need between them when years and circumstance should have calmed this storm long ago.
If there had been any question that their desire had been a product of youth and hormones, the way he breathed her name against her mouth, almost a plea, answered any speculation.
They weren’t teenagers anymore.
The realization this was Nic—now—came at her sideways.
Megan never thought she’d kiss this man again.
That thought sank in with physical force and, suddenly, she couldn’t get enough of him. This was her chance to touch him again. Megan couldn’t have resisted if she’d wanted to.
She didn’t.
She wanted to taste him, to feel the urgency of their desire, to remember him.
And she remembered.
Just how much she’d wanted Nic, wanted him to touch her in ways she’d never been touched before. Just how much she hadn’t cared about the consequences, hadn’t cared about anything but the feel of his mouth on hers, the feel of his hands everywhere. Just how much she’d never known anything like the way she felt right now, not as a teenager, not in all the years since.
As if this was exactly what life was supposed to be about, savoring the unique magic two special people could make together, only together.
Need swelled inside like a wave, built with such urgency and intensity she could only rise with it, anticipating the inevitable and sweet crash ahead.
She wanted to drink in the taste of him with her mouth. She wanted to touch him, but they had no hands, the glassware an external control that kept them from melting into each other, engaging more than their mouths in this kiss.
A kiss she wanted to last forever.
DESIRE HAD ALWAYS BEEN like this between them. Nic didn’t know how it could be this way now. The betrayal, the anger and he’d still lost control. He didn’t know how he could lose control, but he had. He’d kissed her.
And didn’t want to stop.
Fifteen years of pent-up desire had burst like a dam inside him. He hadn’t known it was there, but it was, and he was powerless to hold it back. The striking image of the wine decanter crashing to the floor flashed in his mind. He wanted to free up his hands so he could touch her, finally touch her.
This shouldn’t be happening. But Nic couldn’t think beyond her sighs bursting softly against his mouth, the familiarity of her eagerness. This was Megan, and she wanted him, too. Had always wanted him. That much he did know. That and how right she felt with her face tipped up to kiss him, this woman he hadn’t known he still wanted.
But he did. Nic knew that now, too.
He hadn’t realized that he’d shut down a part of himself all those years ago. Had no damned clue that every woman he’d slept with since hadn’t matched up to what was inside his head. Because this was the way a kiss should be, all hot want and sweet greed.
They might have been two teenagers again, except that what he felt right now had been years in the making. This wasn’t any hormonal excitement by an overeager kid who wanted to see some skin. This was survival.
He’d been denied what he wanted for too long.
Suddenly, he was crowding her against the wall. With his arms outstretched and his mouth on hers, he forced her to yield until she could go no farther, unable to stop himself, needing to press close and feel her against him.
Her glass was the first casualty. It shattered the instant it hit the kitchen tile, but Nic didn’t care. All he could think about was that one of them had free hands…
Her arms slipped around him like a silken vise, and they came together as if their bodies were magnetized. He could feel every smooth curve against him, breasts gently crushing his chest, thighs lifting her closer, ever closer. Her hips tipped slightly, enough to cradle what had become a raging erection when he hadn’t been paying attention.
How he wanted…
His body’s response was electric. Every drop of blood surged through him with such force he groaned. She kissed the sound from his mouth, hot liquid glides of her tongue that somehow echoed the pulse throbbing inside him.
She wasn’t tentative or shy, only needy. He could
only kiss her back, refusing to let thoughts interfere with the way he felt right now, as if he’d been dead and hadn’t known it, until now when he’d come back to life.
“I want you.”
“I know.” Came her breathless reply.
No pretense. No denial.
Only need.
He broke his mouth from hers with effort. The dining room table was closest, and with his last few working brain cells, he unloaded the decanter and glass, freed his hands.
Then she was all his. He wouldn’t let her get away.
Not again.
Those blue, blue eyes were liquid when he turned to face her, her mouth was parted and red from his kisses. She was so beautiful, the real woman so much more than his memory.
For one startling instant, Nic couldn’t move, afraid she might disappear before his eyes, vanish as she had before.
Then he stepped close, blocking any escape with his body, pinning her against the wall. Bracing himself with a hand above her head, he stared down into that face, tried to convince himself she was real.
Megan. She was here, and she was his.
For the moment.
The thought spurred him into action. He fully intended to make the most of this moment. With his free hand, he thumbed her lower lip, a slow, sensual motion that made fire flare in her eyes.
“Make love to me.” A dare.
Her expression visibly melted, and he recognized what he saw—eagerness, want. For him.
No matter what had passed between them, Nic knew there was no lie in her now. And knowing that she still wanted the way he did punched him low in the gut.
Sliding his fingers down, he traced the curve of her chin, the slim lines of her throat, the feel of her skin so impossibly familiar. He hadn’t known he remembered. But the familiarity was there, proving that he could still feel for her despite every rational objection.
Fingering the top button, he paused to give her a chance to deny him, but there was no denial in her. She slipped her arms around his neck, tipped her face to his and melted into him, moves that gave permission louder than any words ever could.
She wanted. Him.
He brought his mouth down on hers again, unable to resist the whisper of her shallow breaths, unable to deny how much he needed to feel her desire right then.
And he felt it, in the way they kissed, as if he hadn’t kissed in forever. Fingering the buttons of her blouse, he released each one with precise motions. She arched into his motions as he brushed aside the silky fabric, rested his palm against her chest, warm skin against warm skin.
Such a simple touch.
Suddenly, she was tugging up his shirt, splaying her fingers over his chest. She dragged smooth palms along his skin, reacquainting herself with no hesitation. Her hair tickled his nose when she dropped a kiss onto the exposed throat over his collar, such a sweetly seductive gesture that he could only close his eyes.
The scent of her shampoo—that damned tropical scent—wound its way through his senses, undermining the very last of his control.
Then he was dragging his shirt over his head, tossing it away before making quick work of her blouse. She stood before him, a delectable sight with the swell of her breasts peeking above a lacy bra, the smooth expanse of her stomach exposed above her skirt.
He made quick work of the skirt, too.
With a soft whoosh, the fabric slid over her hips and down her legs to puddle at her feet. He pushed away from the wall enough to gaze down and enjoy the view.
Sucked in a hard breath at the sight.
Megan, all lean curves and creamy skin, standing before him in nothing more than a lacy bra, barely there panties and peep-toed sandals.
Megan, a vision he’d never allowed himself to remember.
How could he when his hand trembled stupidly while snapping open the clasp of the bra, brushing lace out of his way until her breasts spilled out in a swell of creamy skin. Dragging a thumb across a nipple, he watched as the delicate skin puckered. She gasped, a raw sound in the quiet.
Had anyone ever responded so eagerly to him, so attuned to his slightest touch?
Only Megan.
Their gazes met. Hers dreamy with desire his surely wild with need.
Suddenly, Nic was done playing. Unsure where the shattered glass was and refusing to waste time finding out, he lifted her into his arms. She clung to him, arms slithering around his neck to hang on as if her life depended on it. He wanted her in his bed, naked and stretched out against him.
He headed to his bedroom.
He couldn’t risk thinking right now, couldn’t do anything but kick open the bedroom door and send it crashing against the wall with a sound that made her start in his arms.
Lowering Megan to her feet, he savored every inch of her as she slid full length against him, warm skin and sleek curves, a drug that kept the buzz going, kept rational thought at bay.
The night had cast the room in darkness, but Nic didn’t bother with lights, content with the glow from outside that concealed almost as much as it revealed, illuminated her fair skin until she became his beacon.
He didn’t want to see her face right now, didn’t want to meet her expression, not with this urgency spurring him to strip off the remainder of his clothes. He just wanted to lose himself in her arms. He didn’t want to think about how long it had been since he’d felt alive. Didn’t want to question why only she made him feel this way.
He wanted to hear her soft sighs, feel her body unfold beneath his, bridging the distance of the years and proving she felt exactly the same way about him.
Her pale arms beckoned. Nic sank onto the bed and pulled her against him.
And got exactly what he wanted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MEGAN AWOKE SOMETIME during the night and stared into the darkness, remembering.
Nic.
He cocooned her with his body, arm draped around her waist keeping her tucked firmly against him, legs tangled with hers so she couldn’t get away if she’d wanted. She didn’t. Her body curled perfectly within his, fitting everywhere as if they’d been designed exclusively for each other.
Megan lay utterly still, refused to do anything that might bring an end to this moment, to the hot weight of this man wrapped all around her in the dark. She only wanted to memorize the steady rise and fall of his chest, listen to the slight whisper of his each breath against her ear.
She remembered everything about him, yet the Nic who held her now was no longer the young man who’d seduced her with his irresistible kisses so long ago. He was harder, bigger, so much more closed—a grown man who’d spent the years obviously honing his skills at making love.
Her body ached tenderly in places she didn’t even know could ache, and she still couldn’t think straight.
Not that she ever could around him.
They’d never slept together like this before, either, wrapped in each other’s arms, passed out from passion. Not once in all their reckless months together. They’d been so young. They’d had to steal each moment. Her more so than Nic because she couldn’t stand up to her parents. Tonight was no less stolen. But rather than the desperate excitement of their youth, tonight was the bittersweet past mixed with a difficult present.
They’d made their situation so much more impossible. Why had they needed to know they could still want each other? That despite everything that had passed between them, all the unresolved feelings, his anger, her guilt, their need to make peace to usher in a new era of parenting their daughter together, why had they needed to know that the passion they’d once shared still smoldered beneath the surface?
Why had Megan needed to know she still could be influenced against her better judgment after convincing herself she was a strong, independent woman?
Because she wasn’t as strong as she thought.
Independent, maybe, but not nearly as strong.
She’d wanted Nic, even knowing that giving in would complicate things between them, for both of them
. They’d never concluded their relationship, hadn’t seen where it would lead, hadn’t let it work its way to a natural end.
She’d hadn’t given either of them that chance, had run away instead, and avoided him ever since because she’d been in over her head and determined to stand on her own two feet.
She’d done that, hadn’t she?
As she stared into the darkness, wrapped tightly in the arms of this man who’d influenced so much of her life, knowingly and unknowingly, Megan realized the truth.
It was very simple.
She’d been honest with Nic, hadn’t known if she would have eventually accepted the New Orleans project. It seemed as soon as she convinced herself facing the past was the best for all concerned, she’d talk herself out of that decision.
Back and forth. Day after day.
Now here she was, in the only place in the world she wanted to be, the very place she had no right to be.
Because Violet had made the choice for her.
Because Nic had made the choice for her.
Given her way, Megan would still be in Chile bouncing between accepting or not accepting the project, no closer to a decision as the deadline neared and her anxiety elevated to a feverish pitch.
She’d had no choice but to deal with Violet’s rebellion.
Like she’d had no choice but to deal with her parents when they’d driven up yesterday.
But she’d had a choice with Nic tonight, and she’d let desire—hers and his—dissuade her from behaving rationally.
A simple truth. Megan might be independent, but she wasn’t strong. She’d only been avoiding the tests.
Tonight had been a test.
As she felt Nic’s warm breaths against her hair, felt the solid strength of his body around hers, Megan could only acknowledge…
Epic fail.
So she lay in his arms, memorizing every hard hollow of his body, staring into the darkness… Her gaze caught sight of a dull green glow of a alarm clock on the night table.
Two forty-two.
Oh, no… Megan’s heart throbbed dully in her chest, so hard she could barely draw a breath.
Then There Were Three Page 16
