by Robin Gianna
“Wow,” she breathed. “This is just beautiful. I see why you moved here.”
“It is beautiful. But that’s not the only reason I moved here.”
“Because you’re close to work? Because it’s a good investment?”
“All of those reasons. And one more. Because I couldn’t stand living in the place we shared together without you there with me.”
His admission made her throat close, and she had no idea what to say in response. Their eyes met for a long moment until he moved back to the French doors.
“I’ll get everything else.”
He returned with the pizza, a bottle of wine and two glasses, pouring each of them a drink.
“Wine?”
“Your favorite—Chardonnay, as I recall. Since you’re only taking your pain meds at night, now, I figured it would be nice to enjoy a glass.”
“I’m not going to argue about a glass of wine with pizza. Sounds wonderful.”
Without conversation they sat and ate and drank as they stared out over the park. For quite a while the silence was oddly comfortable, until it stretched out too long.
With the pizza finished and a second glass of wine in her hand, Jillian decided she was going to talk with him about Noah. About what he’d told the child about his own mother being sad, which he’d never mentioned to her. About why he’d never talked to her about what he did when he wasn’t home during their marriage. Keeping it to himself. Feeding into her insecurities and fueling the belief that he didn’t really want to spend time with her.
That was partly her fault, she knew. But she wanted to understand it better.
“Tell me about your mom,” she said. “You said she was sad. Why?”
He kept on looking out over the park, his handsome profile seeming etched in stone. “Not worth going into, Jill.”
“I think it is,” she said softly. “How did you feel when your father left? How did it affect your mom, and your lives? Was that why she was sad?”
She’d begun to think he wasn’t going to answer when he finally turned to look at her.
“I suppose I may as well tell you, so you know some of the reasons I was such a lousy husband.” He sighed. “My father left when I was in kindergarten, but I still remember it well because my mother freaked. Which I didn’t understand since he wasn’t very present at home anyway. By that I mean he was gone a lot, and when he was home he didn’t talk to me or my mom much anyway. So when he left it didn’t really matter to me, because he obviously already didn’t care about me one way or the other. But it mattered to my mother a lot. Changed our lives completely.”
“In what way?”
“Well, number one was that we had no money after he disappeared, and he couldn’t be tracked by the courts to pay child support. My mother stressed all the time about how to pay the bills, and once I was old enough to help I did what I could to get odd jobs. Mowed lawns, scrounged the neighborhood for cans to recycle, walked dogs—whatever a ten-year-old could do. Once I was a teenager I was able to get regular work, bagging at the local grocery store in addition to the other stuff, and help more. But paying the rent and everything was always a worry. When I heard her crying at night I always thought that was why.”
“Oh, Conor.” Jill reached for his hand. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
“I’d lie there and wonder what to do. Try to figure out other ways to earn a few bucks.” He looked down at their twined fingers and she tightened her hold. “I vowed that once I was able to make real money we’d never be in that situation again.”
“I see.” She’d always wondered why the money he made had never seemed like enough to him, and tried to understand it better now. “Did your helping out that way eventually help your mother feel less stressed?”
“No—and I didn’t get it. I hated that she was sad, but the horrible truth is I was focused on myself way more than her. My jobs. Friends. School. I resented when she’d go out at night, thinking, What the hell? I’m working two jobs and going to school, and she’s out having fun? I didn’t see what was happening. Didn’t understand. Until it was too late.”
“What didn’t you understand?”
“That she had a mental illness. Was in a deep depression. Her escape from the pain of my dad leaving, of being alone except for me, who was hardly ever around, of the money worries—all that sent her to bars to drink. To forget. To be with people who were just as sad and miserable as she was.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and the anguish she saw there made her throat close.
“I don’t want to tell you the rest, but you deserve to know.”
She dreaded to hear what was coming. “What happened?” she whispered.
“I didn’t open my eyes to the depth of her pain. Her depression. Wasn’t there for her emotionally. Then one night she drove home drunk, lost control of her car and hit a tree.”
“Oh, Conor.” Her fingers tightened on his, her heart in her throat. “And that’s how she died?”
“That’s how she died. And if I’d been paying attention to her, instead of just myself, maybe I could have gotten her help. Maybe I could have talked with her, been there for her. Maybe if I had she’d still be alive.”
Jill stood and squeezed next to him in his chair, wrapped her arm around his neck and pressed her cheek to his. “I’m so, so sorry. But you know it wasn’t your fault. Alcoholics rarely listen. Drinking buries what hurts and numbs the pain.”
“I don’t know it. After she died I made myself face all the signs I’d ignored. All the ways I’d let her down. All the things I could have done to be there for her. And when it turned out she had an insurance policy—a pretty good one that got me through college and medical school—it about broke my heart. Made me feel like the worst human in the world. Because I’d convinced myself she was self-centered, that she wasn’t there for me just like my father. But all along she had been—as much as she could be. She’d been paying that policy when we barely had money to buy food, to make sure I was taken care of in case something happened to her. Truth is, it was me who wasn’t there for her. Just like I wasn’t there for you.”
“Conor.” She pressed her mouth to his cheek, her heart aching for the boy he’d been. “You were a teenager. Every kid that age is focused on themselves. You can’t beat yourself up for being normal. Can’t take responsibility for your mother’s drinking problem. When you think of what you’ve accomplished with your life you have a lot to be proud of, and I know your mother would be proud of you, too.”
He didn’t respond for a long time, then finally shook his head. “Anyway. So now you know. All that made me think that I’d like to have what I never had. What my parents never had. A woman to love forever, to be a good father, to provide for my family.” His hand lifted and cupped her face in his palm. “I fell crazy in love with you the minute I met you, Jilly. I didn’t know then that I couldn’t be the kind of man I wanted to be. That you wanted me to be. Bad genes, probably.”
“Conor—”
His finger moved to her lips. “It’s just the truth. I thought providing a solid future for us, making as much money as possible, was all I needed to do. The way to show how much I loved you. But once I saw how miserable I made you I knew I’d been wrong. That it wasn’t enough, and that I’m missing something inside. That I can’t be the kind of husband you want and deserve. I’m a one-dimensional guy, as sad as that is. And I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know that I hurt you.”
Her heart shook. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was, everything she’d seen in the months they were married had shown he was right. No matter what she’d said or done, working and making money had been his priority. He hadn’t been capable of, or even interested in, changing that. And she hadn’t been who he needed, either. A wife who was comfortable mingling with people she didn’t know, going places she would never fit in.
&
nbsp; She wanted a normal life, doing normal things with normal friends. She wanted a husband who loved to be home, and Conor had proved he just couldn’t be that man. Even if he’d thought he wanted to be.
She stared at him for a long moment, her heart hurting for both of them, until he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her.
Jillian slipped her fingers into his hair and let herself feel the emotion in his kiss. All he felt from his youth, from his belief that he’d let his mother down. His resentment over his father’s abandonment. His grief. And tangled with all those big emotions was what they’d had together. The giddy passion, the deep love, the pain of failure—all of it hung between them as their mouths fused together.
He held her so close, her legs straddling his hips, that it almost felt as if they were one, and then the kiss began to change. It felt less about those big emotions and more about the connection they’d always had. The kiss softened, deepened, and the tenderness of it made Jillian’s heart flip inside out, reminding her of the brief time when it had been amazing between them and how much she’d loved him—how she’d believed, for a time, that there was nothing more perfect than the way they felt about one another.
“Jillian...” His mouth separated from hers just long enough for him to breathe her name. “Jilly...”
The kiss changed again. Hotter, wetter, sending her blood pounding and heat pumping through her pores. His arms tightened around her—until sharp pain had her crying out.
“God, Jillian!” He leaned back, looking horrified. “Did I hurt you?”
“My...my stupid arm.”
“Damn it! I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot to be careful.” He reached carefully to grasp her splinted wrist in his hand, staring down at it.
“Not your fault.” She stroked his cheek with her other hand and kissed the top of his head, not wanting him to feel guilty all over again. “I’m the one who forgot about it and wrapped it around you. You’d think the splint would protect it from getting jostled, but I guess not. I suppose that’s another thing for me to understand better and learn to talk to my patients about.”
“How to make love while wearing a splint?” He looked up at her with a crooked smile, then lowered his mouth to her hand, gently pressing his lips to each swollen finger. “If you give that talk I’ll make sure I’m not there. Wouldn’t want to be in a public place while being reminded of how it feels to touch you and make love with you.”
“We’re not making love. Are we?”
“No. Because that would be a bad idea...wouldn’t it?”
She nodded, but at the same time she could see the eyes meeting hers held something hot and alive, and before she could decide exactly what to do next he’d swung her into his arms and was carrying her back into the apartment and down the hall to his bedroom.
“Um... I thought we weren’t sure if—”
His mouth dropped to hers again as he flicked the covers back and deposited her on the big bed. His talented surgeon’s fingers had the buttons of her shirt undone in a blink, before he opened it, then slid it down and off her good arm. Getting it over her splint forced him to separate his lips from hers, and their eyes met as he slowly stroked his hands from her shoulders down her arms.
Jillian quivered, and she wondered if he could tell how he made her feel. Wondered if he felt as aroused and confused and uncertain about whether or not this was a bad idea as she did.
“It’s up to you if we make love or not,” he said, his gaze on her camisole before their eyes met again. “But I think you need some occupational therapy, regardless. To make your pain go away.”
“You’re a surgeon, not a therapist,” she said, and couldn’t help it that her voice was breathy.
“Sure about that? I seem to remember you liking my therapy treatments in the past.”
“Please don’t use the words ‘therapy treatments’ as a euphemism for sex. I’ll never be able to work again with that on my mind.” She started to laugh, then gasped as his fingers slowly traced along the lace of her camisole and lightly across her nipples. “But I admit that I’m curious to see what you have in mind to help me feel better.”
“I definitely have some ideas about how to make you feel better.”
Her heart kicked hard at his sexy, teasing smile. He leaned down to cover her breast with his mouth, his tongue teasing her through the fabric, and her good hand held the back of his head as she gasped. His hands moved to her waist and she could hardly bear the delicious sensation of his fingers trailing across her skin. He flicked open the button on her trousers and unzipped them, his mouth moving down to her stomach as his fingers stealthily dipped inside her underwear.
“You’re so beautiful, Jilly.”
God, it felt so good. So wonderful. The way it always had with him. The incredible pleasure of it tossed aside any worries that this might be a bad idea and she arched toward him, wanting him. Wanting this. Wanting him to forget the sadness and guilt of just a moment ago. Wanting to forget her physical pain and her heartache over him and enjoy the delirious bliss of being with him one more time.
“Conor?”
“Mmm...?”
“Make love to me.”
“What, you think this really is some unorthodox medical treatment? Maybe being away from you for almost a year has made me lose my touch.” Smiling, he tugged her pants all the way off, then brought his mouth back to hers as he caressed her again. “Just taking it slow. Slow and easy, right? I have to, or I might lose control and hurt your arm again.”
“Is something wrong with my arm? I don’t remember...”
“Ah, good. Glad to hear the therapy is working.”
He laughed against her lips but kept up the heat, and she arched against the talented fingers that were making her quiver and burn. She could barely breathe at the goodness of it, and she pulled her mouth from his because she wanted to see his face. His eyes were smiling, but glazed, too, and he looked like he had so long ago. As if she meant the world to him.
It squeezed her chest and sent another layer of emotion into the incredible pleasure of making love with him again after all this time.
She’d just placed her hand behind his head to bring his mouth to hers for another kiss when she realized she was doing all the taking and none of the giving. And that she was nearly naked except for her camisole, but he was fully clothed.
“We have a problem here. I’m naked and you’re not.”
“I don’t see that as a problem.” He nuzzled her neck, licked her earlobe, moved his mouth to the hollow of her throat.
“It...it is a problem.” She could barely get the words out, so she needed to talk fast before she couldn’t talk at all. “Because I can’t undress you. And I want to feel all your skin against all of mine. Will you take off your clothes, please?”
“In a minute...”
His mouth continued its leisurely trek across her collarbone, down to her nipples again, and the orgasm sneaked up on her before she knew it was going to happen. Waves of pleasure skated across her skin and through her body and she let out a soft cry.
“Ah, Jilly...” He kissed her softly as his hands moved to cup her waist.
Somehow she managed to open her eyes and look into his beautiful blue ones, filled with the same passion she felt. She waited to feel regret, the fear that this was a mistake. But there was no regret. Only want.
“Wow...” she breathed. “That was very...therapeutic. Thank you.”
“There’s more.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” she said, reaching for his pants to wrestle with the button—until he stopped her.
“No. You’re handicapped, remember? Tonight you’re letting me do everything. Undress you...undress me. Kiss you and touch you and make love with you, while you just lie there and let me make you feel good.”
“And here I was
thinking that having a broken wrist was awful. Who knew it could lead to something so wonderful?”
“There’s a silver lining for everything, I guess.”
He smiled and kissed her again, softly and slowly, his mouth lingering so long she was torn between enjoying the bone-melting pleasure of it and telling him to get naked, already. Finally, he lifted his head and stood, stripping off his clothes until he was next to the bed gloriously naked.
She let herself admire his muscular body, his smooth skin, the jut of his erection. Thought about how she’d explored every inch of its beauty and how intimately she knew each small scar and imperfection.
Which reminded her of her own scars and imperfections. How she’d hated him to see them, and tried to hide them whenever they’d been naked together.
The thought briefly dimmed the excitement she was feeling—until he came onto the bed, kneeling above her. His gaze trapping hers, he slipped her camisole over her head, held her face in his hands, then began kissing her until everything was forgotten except how he made her feel.
“I think the safest place for your arms is over your head.” He gently placed them there, and she shivered as he ran his fingertips down the soft skin of her inner arms, wriggled and laughed when he stroked down to her armpits, then gasped as he caressed her breasts. His fingers continued on, slowly tracing her entire body, then opening her legs and touching her there until she was making little mewling sounds she couldn’t seem to control.
“I’m not sure if this is pleasure or torture,” she said with a gasp.
“Pleasure. Only pleasure, I promise.”
She was vaguely aware of him taking something from the nightstand and then he was inside her, moving, finding the perfect rhythm they’d always shared together. The pace grew faster, taking her higher, making her feel as if they were chasing the past. The best part of the past. Wanting to experience one more time what they’d had before they could never have it again.
His mouth crushed hers as they both moaned their release and her heart shook as hard as her body. Conor McCarthy was hers again, for this brief moment, and she would hold him close while she could.
