Loving Again: Book 2 in the Second Chance series (Crimson Romance)

by Bird, Peggy

  “All with names of people with curly black hair.”

  “Exactly. At first, I let Chihuly sleep with me, to get him used to being without his littermates, I told myself. In truth, I loved having a warm furry ball of puppy next to me in bed. And when I’d wake up crying from a nightmare, he’d lick my face. It was probably because he liked the salt in my tears but it was comforting. A week or so after I got him, the dreams stopped.”

  She looked up just as he smiled.

  “So, you’ll lick my face when I have a bad dream?” he asked.

  “That’s not where I was going with this, Sam. I just meant it takes some time to feel normal again, to get past something bad. But you will.”

  In response, he kissed her, a tender, sweet kiss, full of hope and affection.

  She broke from his embrace just as he was turning it into something more serious and said, “How about I fix lunch for us? And then maybe you’d like a shower?”

  “Umm, a shower. I would have killed for a shower in the hospital.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Does helping me shower involve you naked?”

  “I got a hand-held shower head so you can keep the water off your cast and … ”

  “You’re not answering the question, Amanda.”

  Without replying, she headed for the hall. “Come on, I roasted a chicken for sandwiches and made potato salad. And there are fresh tomatoes and pears and grapes.”

  Hesitating for a moment, he finally followed, Chihuly trailing after him. “Is this like the first time I stayed over? You had enough breakfast in the refrigerator to feed the precinct.”

  “If you’re not in the mood for chicken and potato salad, there’s ham and cheese. I can make tuna salad. Of course, I can do grilled cheese. Oh, and I have a panini machine so I could make anything into one of those. There’s falafel and hummus on pita bread, if you want to go vegetarian. There’s also macaroni salad — it’s from New Seasons, I didn’t make it — and I have lettuce so we can put together a green salad … ”

  “Are you planning anything other than stuffing me with food while I recuperate?”

  • • •

  After lunch, Amanda took Chihuly for a walk. Left to himself, Sam went into the living room armed with a new thriller by his favorite writer to divert his attention from … well, from a lot of things, now that he thought about it. But after he’d read the first chapter twice trying to get into the story, he put the book down, wondering if the writer had lost his edge. He tried a second book and when that didn’t make any more sense than the first one had, he decided the writers were just fine. He was the problem. Pacing up and down didn’t distract him either, so he put in a CD, and lay back on the couch.

  But his mind wouldn’t shut off. He’d been only half-truthful when he’d told Amanda what was bothering him. Yes, he was feeling a bit off-balance after being shot and in the hospital, but he was even more uneasy about being at Amanda’s house. In spite of what she’d said, he wondered if she’d only volunteered to help him while he recuperated because she felt guilty about what happened. He didn’t want her to pity him, to take care of him like he was some kind of damned charity case. He wanted Amanda to love him.

  She’d said the words, once. But that was when he was in the hospital and she thought she’d put him there. And, okay, she’d pecked him on the cheek every time she came to see him, but she hadn’t held him or really kissed him since they’d had their last dinner together, whenever the hell that was. And upstairs today she’d backed away just when the kiss was getting interesting. Not to mention suggesting he sleep someplace other than with her. What the hell was that about?

  Suppose she expected him to leave when he was cleared to go back to his job? What would he do then? He hadn’t been kidding when he said he wouldn’t want to move out once he moved in. If he’d had his way, he would have given notice to his landlord before he left the hospital.

  He heard the sound of the door unlocking, the clunk of her keys as she tossed them onto the table in the hall, the thud of her shoes as she took them off and tossed them under the table. Chihuly came bounding in, eager for a drink and a little rest, Amanda with him, presumably on her way to the kitchen to clean up the lunch dishes.

  Might as well get it over with. At least he’d know where he stood.

  He beckoned to her. “Hey, come here, pretty lady.” He rose from the couch, as she got closer.

  “Do you need something?”

  “Yeah, I need you.” He held out his hand. “I put on your favorite Tom Grant CD.”

  “I hear.” She ignored his outstretched hand.

  The sounds of Gold began and he put his arms around her waist. “This sounds like a song you can dance to.”

  “I thought you said … ”

  “ … I wasn’t good at dancing?” He pulled her closer. “I’m not. Except for the slow ones.”

  “Rubbing up against each other while music plays isn’t dancing, Sam.” She rested her hand on his good shoulder.

  “It’s fun, though, don’t you think?”

  She looked sternly at him. “Shouldn’t you be resting instead of dancing? You’re supposed to be recuperating, and the doctor said that meant mostly resting. You promised. I still have the address of that eighty-year-old nurse and she still has a bikini.”

  “I was resting on the couch. Couldn’t get more rest-ier than that.” He nestled her head on his chest. He didn’t want to look at her when he asked what he needed to ask. “I thought I’d check with you one more time … are you really okay with this?”

  “What ‘this’ do you mean? The ‘this’ that you can’t dance or the ‘this’ of your being here?”

  “That one.”

  She pulled back and cocked her head, a puzzled expression on her face that slowly changed to amusement. “Oh, my God, you’re still worried about why I offered to have you move in, aren’t you? I thought you were more secure than that. What happened to my tough cop who couldn’t be brought down by a stupid bad guy?”

  “I’m not so tough when it comes to you, baby.”

  Smiling at him, she put her hands on either side of his face. “I’m not sure whether I’m more flattered or amused that you’re still concerned. But for the record, I want you here because I love you. I’ve loved you for longer than I was willing to admit, even to myself. Then, about the time I finally faced it, it seemed like last year was happening all over again and telling you got lost in trying to keep everything from falling apart again.” Gently she kissed him, nibbling on his lower lip when she ended it, as if reluctant to let go of him.

  “But having you here, I have another chance. So, it’s too bad about the not dancing thing but we can work on that. While you’re here. Because I’m really happy about that. And if it turns out you never go back to your apartment, I’ll be really happy about that, too. Is that the answer you were angling for?”

  He answered without words, capturing her mouth with his. Her lips parted so he could taste her with his tongue. Her back arched, her hips pushed against him. His erection pressed into her as he slid his hands down her back and molded her against him.

  “Any more questions, cowboy?” she whispered as she kissed down his jaw line to his neck.

  “Just one more.” His hand went under her sweater and cupped a breast. He rolled her nipple between his fingers and felt it harden at his touch. “It’s been a while so tell me if I’m wrong, but don’t I start here?”

  “Please, Sam. Be careful.”

  His hand froze in place. “Did something happen to your breast?”

  “Not my breast. Your incision.”

  “My incision’s fine. The doctor said if I was careful, I could begin to do normal things.”

  “And you thought immediately of sex.”

  “Well, that’s normal, isn’t it? And I asked him about i
t. I have to keep my weight off my arms but that’s okay.” He grinned at her. “You can do most of the work. All I have to do is relax and enjoy myself.”

  “I asked him, too.” He didn’t try to hide his surprise — his delight — that she’d asked. “I knew you’d ask and I wanted to make sure we heard the same answer.”

  “Did we?”

  “Yes, but … ”

  “So, while I’m on vacation we can make up for lost time. I thought we’d start now.”

  Now she was startled. “Vacation? Recuperating from a gunshot wound is a vacation?”

  “Well, I’m not working so it must be a vacation.”

  “And your idea of how to spend your time on this vacation-slash-recuperation is, what, sex and a little light reading?”

  He pushed up the rest of her sweater with his good hand and began to massage the other breast. “Yup. Maybe just sex without the reading.” He pulled at the button on her jeans and managed with one hand to get the zipper down. “Have I ever told you that I love it that you don’t wear a bra?”

  She smiled. “Yes, usually when we’re half-undressed and headed for bed.”

  He kissed her neck and ran his hand up her bare back.

  “Sam, what am I going to do with you?”

  “I thought that was obvious. But if you want me to be specific, I thought we’d … ”

  She drew his mouth to hers, her lips parting, making a foray with the tip of her tongue, teasing, tasting, as the kiss deepened.

  Without breaking contact with any part of her, he moved back toward the couch.

  “What’re you doing? I thought we were going to bed,” she whispered against his lips.

  “Here’s closer.”

  Two pairs of jeans hit the floor. He was about to lower himself onto the couch when he stopped. “Oh, hell. We have to go upstairs. I don’t have any protection.”

  “Look in your back jeans pocket.”

  He picked up the jeans and found the condom tucked there. “How’d that get there?”

  “I put it there. It was sort of a welcome home thing. But you didn’t notice it. Guess I should have been more obvious about where I put it.”

  “Wish I’d found it earlier. I wouldn’t have worried so much about that suggestion I sleep in another room.” He shed his boxer briefs, then stooped to inch her scrap-of-lace thong off her. She helped by trying to wiggle out of it, making her breasts bounce close to his mouth, which went dry at the thought of suckling them.

  But she took over before he could act on the thought. Gently pushing him down onto the leather couch, she straddled his body. With painstaking care, she opened his shirt so she could touch his bare skin, stroke his chest, massage his undamaged shoulder.

  Then, after rolling the condom over his erection, she planted her fists on either side of his head and moved her body against him, grazing his chest with her breasts and rubbing the cleft of her sex against his penis.

  He groaned. “God, woman, you’re killing me.”

  “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.” With little love bites, she nipped at his mouth, his jaw, his neck.

  “Please, just let me … ” He touched her, felt how ready she was for him. Stroking her, inserting his fingers into the wet center of her, he tried to position his hips so he could enter her but she wouldn’t let him.

  “Not yet. Just kissing now.” This time, however, when she moved to kiss him, he guided himself into her. She gasped, pushed his good arm back over his head. “I thought I was in charge here,” she said.

  “Okay, baby, you be in charge. What do you want?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “This. Just this.” She began to move her hips slowly and deliberately. He let her set the rhythm at first. Sipping and licking her way from his mouth to his neck and back up again, she eluded his attempts to change the pace, to hold her close, pushing away his arm when he tried to pin her, to keep her close to him. When he swore under his breath in frustration, she just laughed.

  Finally, he ended her game by corralling her with his casted arm and holding her to him. His mouth took possession of hers; his tongue played sexy games. With his cock deep inside her, thrusting harder and faster, she came in a shuddering climax and so did he.

  When they returned to earth, he snuggled her against him, kissing her damp forehead.

  “I’ve never made love in the living room before,” she said, when her breathing calmed.

  “Sex on the nearest horizontal surface with half your clothes on isn’t what I’d call making love,” he said as he gave her breasts one last caress and pulled down her sweater, which had bunched up around her neck.

  She returned the favor, readjusting his shirt. “And what would you call it, cowboy?”

  “I think you know.”

  “You want to hear me say the word, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say it, have I?”

  “Probably not.” She waited for him to change his mind but he was apparently not going to back off. “Okay, it’s fucking. Sex on the couch with us half dressed is fucking. Happy?”

  He kissed her cheek, his grin so broad he thought his face would crack. “Yeah, I’m happy but not because of that. I’m happy because I love you, because we’re … ”

  “Hey, stop that.” She was laughing.

  “Stop what? Telling you I love you? Don’t you like hearing it?”

  “No … I mean, yes, I like hearing it. I didn’t mean you should stop. I meant Chihuly should stop. He’s licking my toes and it tickles. What do you call sex on the couch with a dog licking your foot?”

  “Our idea of normal, baby. It’s our idea of normal.”

  Acknowledgments

  As anyone who appreciates studio art glass knows, the Bullseye Resource Center and factory is a very real place. For over a decade, I’ve benefited from living a half-hour away from the place where some of the most beautiful glass ever created for an artist to use is manufactured. I can’t say “thank you” enough to the staff, teachers and talented artists there who’ve always answered my questions, fed my passion and helped me grow as an artisan and as a teacher.

  Which means I have to apologize for two things: first, for turning your workplace into a crime scene in my story. And I’m sorry I couldn’t respond to the request for a staff vote on who the murder victim would be. I was afraid it might be me.

  However, as real as Bullseye is, all the events and people portrayed in this novel are fictional. Only the fabulous glass is true to life.

  About the Author

  Peggy Bird lives with her husband in Vancouver, Washington where she writes and does kiln-formed glass across the Columbia River from Portland, Oregon where her three daughters, assorted grandchildren and grand-dogs, and Bullseye Glass live.

  If you liked Sam and Amanda’s story, you might enjoy Liz and Collins’ story, Beginning Again available now from Crimson Romance. In 2013, Crimson Romance will release Closing Arguments, the story of Margo and Tony.

  In the mood for more Crimson Romance?

  Check out Night Blooming Jasmine

  by Alicia Thorne

  at CrimsonRomance.com.