She was sweeping up empty plastic bags when she picked up one with some weight to it. Looking inside, she found another amazingly soft sweater and another pair of jeans. In the store, she remembered, Ethan had gathered his purchases and taken them to the next checkout stand. She’d thought he was just saving time. Now she knew he’d been hiding these additional purchases.
Cradling the sweater to her chest, she sank down on the bed and buried her face in it. They were simple gifts, practical, relatively inexpensive, but they meant the world to her. In thirteen years no one had ever bought something pretty and new just for her. No one had ever bothered to consider what she wanted as opposed to what she needed. She was touched beyond words.
Rising from the bed, she quickly stripped down to her panties and socks. She carefully tore the tags from the sweater, then, shivering in the cold, she pulled it over her head and smoothed it down to mid-thigh. Next she pulled her covers off the bed, leaving only the sheet behind, then picked up the lamp. Shadows flickered around her as she carried both blankets and lamp in trembling hands down the hall to her new room.
Ethan’s lamp was extinguished on one night table. Hers showed his jeans and shirt folded over the arm of the glider, his boots and socks on the floor below. It also showed him in bed, nothing more than a long, narrow lump under a stack of covers.
“Ethan?” Her voice was husky, quivery. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah.” He rolled over, rose onto one arm. The covers slipped to reveal his shoulder, a smooth expanse of back and lightly furred chest. The sight made her mouth go dry. “What do you need?”
“I—I thought…” She cleared her throat. “We—we could probably stay warmer if we com-combine our, uh, c-covers and, uh…uh…”
For one long moment he simply looked at her. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he lifted the covers and repeated his earlier invitation. “This bed’s big enough for two.”
She set her lamp on the other nightstand, then laid her glasses beside it. After draping the extra blankets over the foot of the bed, she slid underneath the covers. Part of her wanted to slide right up close to him, to absorb his heat, to snuggle against him and feel safe. Part of her found such behavior much too forward.
Forward. Heavens, in another six weeks she was going to have his baby. With that in mind, how could she possibly be too forward with the man?
She lay on her side, her knees brought up as much as her stomach allowed, her back to him, and tried not to breathe too fast or too loud. It was silly to feel so nervous. They were simply sharing body heat in a winter emergency. That had been the motivation behind his invitation. It had been the reason for her acceptance. After all, in her condition, what else could they share?
“Grace? Sharing body heat is a little tough when my body’s over here and yours is way over there on the edge.” He sounded wide awake now, and amused. Tender. “Scoot back here and let me hold you. I won’t bite, I promise. Unless you want me to.”
His hand on her arm encouraged her to slide back across brand-new sheets warmed by the heat of his body. When she was near the middle of the bed, he moved to meet her, fitting his body to hers, sliding his arm over her middle. His fingers brushed hers, then curled around them. “You really are cold,” he remarked as if surprised. “And here I thought it was just a ruse to get into my bed.”
“A ruse? There’s nothing wrong with your ego, is there?”
“Sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with any part of me that you can’t make right.”
Within seconds his warmth began seeping into her, bringing with it an incredible sense of lazy security. Her eyes grew heavy and her breathing slowed. They could wake up in the morning with snow up to the eaves and no chance of regaining power before the spring thaw, but even that knowledge couldn’t cause her a moment’s concern tonight. She felt too safe. Too protected. Too convinced that right there in his arms was where she belonged. Where she wanted to be.
And even that knowledge couldn’t worry her tonight. Without a doubt, tomorrow she would consider the foolishness of getting any closer to Ethan than she already was. She would remove her own needs from the picture and look at it solely as it involved Annie, and she would worry whether she was making a mistake.
But tonight she was simply going to enjoy it.
Chapter 10
Awakening in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar place was nothing new to Ethan. While he’d be willing to bet that his brother had never slept in a bed other than his own, there had been entire months when Ethan had spent every night in a different bed—or, if his resources had failed him, in no bed at all.
Awakening in the middle of the night with a warm, soft feminine body pressed against him wasn’t unusual, either, or with a lust so powerful that it was damn near painful. But a warm, soft, seven-months-pregnant feminine body, and a lust that wasn’t the slightest bit diminished by the thought of that pregnancy, that was maybe even intensified by it…that was new. Intriguing.
Apparently, the power was still off. The oil lamp Grace had left lit was still burning, casting its soft uncertain light on her face, and the air in the room was cold enough to fog when they breathed. Underneath the pile of covers, though, he couldn’t be warmer. He was just checking to make sure Grace was warm enough, he told himself when he ran his hand along her thigh. He wasn’t copping a feel, wasn’t noticing how soft her skin was, or how nicely rounded her muscles were. He certainly wasn’t remembering last summer when her hips had cradled him and her long, lean legs had wrapped around him.
But her skin was soft and warm, and her muscles were nicely rounded, and she had clung to him last summer, helpless, innocent, a virgin, getting taken for the ride of her life.
Last July he hadn’t appreciated the fact that he was her first. Oh, he’d enjoyed it. He’d had fun with the initiation. But he’d thought it odd that a woman as beautiful and sexy as Melissa was, in fact, more innocent than he’d ever been.
Now, though, he found something macho—some primitive male pride, some elemental satisfaction—in knowing that he’d been her first, and so far her only, lover. He liked knowing, with a bone-deep certainty, that no other man had ever seen her naked, kissed her breasts or stroked between her thighs. No other man had ever buried himself inside her, or sent shivers through her, or made her cry out in that incredibly erotic way. No other man had ever known the pleasures of her body.
And if he had any say in the matter, no other man ever would.
With only the tips of his fingers touching her, he inched his hand along her thigh, to the hem of the sweater and underneath. The panties he encountered were cotton—no surprise there—and bikinis. Big surprise there. In spite of the torment-inducing lingerie she’d worn last summer, he’d figured her for plain white cotton with no frills like lace or a tiny bow centered over her abdomen.
Now he was copping a feel, he admitted, and from a sleeping woman, no less. Regretfully, he withdrew his hand from the enticing warmth of her sweater and instead cupped his hand over the curve of her belly.
If anyone had told him two months ago that the time would come when he was sexually attracted to a pregnant woman, he would have laughed. But right now he’d never felt less like laughing. He was so aroused that he might explode right here, without any stimulation beyond the soft heat of her bottom pressed against him. All he’d have to do was thrust against her…slowly…just hard enough to create a little friction….
Choking back a groan as desperate need shot through him, he moved until he wasn’t touching her, at least not where he needed it. But with a soft little whimper of protest, she moved, too, seeking the same position, pushing intimately against him. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry; tried to breathe, but his lungs were paralyzed.
“Grace?” he whispered in a strangled voice. “Scoot over, darlin’. Give me a little room.”
She moved, all right, snuggling even closer, settling with a great, soft sigh. Instead of her stomach, now his hand rested beneath her brea
st, the tips of his fingers just touching the beginning swell.
He wondered if he could wake her and seduce her. Wondered how much of a bastard he would be if he seduced her, then woke her. If she had come to this bed with sex on her mind, he wouldn’t hesitate, but she hadn’t. She’d trusted him enough to sleep with him for warmth, trusted him not to take advantage of her, trusted that she would be safe—
With a helpless whimper, she moved again, twisting, arching her back until her breast was beneath his palm, pressing against soft fabric and callused skin. He gave in to one, two gentle caresses, then withdrew his hand, but she caught it, pulled it back, shaped his thumb and finger to fit her nipple. He pinched it, and it swelled in immediate response, drawing another tiny whimper from her.
“Gracie?” he whispered again. “You’ve gotta wake up, darlin’. You’ve got to tell me this is all right, that you want this, or I’ve got to get out of this bed.”
For a moment she lay utterly still, barely breathing, then she murmured, “I’m awake.”
He waited for more—“This is all right” or “Stop it now.” When she remained silent, he hesitantly rubbed his palm across her nipple. He brushed her hair away from her ear, brought his mouth only a breath away and said, “It’s not that easy, Gracie. You’ve got to tell me. What do you want me to do?”
She wanted it easy, he suspected—wanted him to make the decision for her. Then, afterward, she wouldn’t be responsible. She wouldn’t have to admit, even to herself, that she’d wanted him.
And he wanted it plain, simple, with no room for misunderstanding. He wanted to hear her say the words, wanted to know that she wanted him. Not just sex, but sex with him.
His breath tickled and raised goose bumps on her neck. His tongue, tracing the shape of her ear, sent shivers through her. “Tell me, darlin’. What do you want?”
She remained silent so long that he thought she was going to refuse to answer, which meant he was going to have to stop, and the rest of the night would be damned uncomfortable. But finally, as he was about to move away, she answered more bluntly, more honestly, than he’d ever expected. “I want you to touch my breasts. I want you to kiss me. I want—I want you inside me.”
Now it was his turn to be utterly still. After a moment, though, he burst into laughter. “Oh, babe,” he murmured between kisses to her jaw. “So shy…and so bold. You’re amazing.”
He slid his hand underneath her sweater, gliding over soft, impossibly warm skin to her breast, gently rubbing, squeezing. She tried to turn to face him, but he didn’t let her. Instead he pressed close to her, thrusting his arousal against her, achingly aware of how easy it would be to slide inside her from behind, to fill her again and again, to bring her the most incredible satisfaction and find his own incredible pleasure in doing so.
Twisting her head, she sought his mouth, and he gave it to her, kissing her hungrily, sliding his tongue into her mouth, probing, tasting. The noises she made—soft little cries, breathless gasps, heavy, throaty moans—were incredibly erotic. They sensitized his skin and made it ache everywhere they touched and everywhere they didn’t. They made him tremble.
“Please,” she whispered, pulling at him, pushing at her clothing, and he was happy to help cast aside her panties. She tried to turn onto her back once more, and once more he stopped her.
“Like this, Gracie,” he said, positioning her on her side, lifting her leg. “It’ll be easier…”
“I’ve never…”
“It’ll be good.” Sliding inside her was as easy as he’d imagined, filling her as satisfying as he’d remembered. Her body was hot, and it gloved him in a perfect fit. If he were one millimeter bigger, if she were one whisper of a breath tighter, it would be too much. But they weren’t. They were so damned perfect.
He thrust into her, setting an easy rhythm, all the while kissing her, tasting her, caressing her breasts. When he was close to completion, he slid one hand between her thighs, parting damp curls, seeking swollen, sensitive flesh. When she gasped and sucked in a frantic breath, he knew he’d found what he was looking for. With his hands and his body, with kisses and words of encouragement murmured in her ear, he brought her to climax only an instant before reaching his own. Barely aware of her ragged cries, he filled her, his body straining against hers, throbbing inside hers, and even before he was finished, he knew he wanted her again. This one time could never be enough. He wasn’t sure a thousand times could come close to satisfying his need for her, but he’d bet it would take ten times that.
If he were a betting man.
Grace felt weak. From the tips of her toes all the way to the hair standing on end on her head, she felt quivery and trembly, as if she’d barely survived some great madness. Her breathing was slowly returning to normal, her heartbeat had finally stopped echoing in her ears, and her body temperature was gradually cooling down to normal from the spontaneous-combustion range.
And all she’d done was lie there and feel while Ethan had done all the work. Amazing.
He was pretty damn amazing.
Behind her, he drew a breath, then let it out, cooling her sweat-dampened skin.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“I’m fine.” Fine? She was incredible. She felt as if she could dance around the room, lighter than air…and as if she couldn’t move a muscle if her life depended on it. She was wide awake and in awe, and could doze off in a heartbeat for the most restful sleep of her life. She felt fabulous, frightened, wondrous, smug, feminine, delicate, womanly. And, best of all, normal.
But rather than try to put all that into words, she pressed a kiss to his palm and repeated with heartfelt emphasis, “I’m fine.”
He nuzzled her neck, then settled his big hand on her stomach, his fingers spread wide. Almost immediately she felt the increased warmth, bringing with it a sense of increased security. “You’re an incredible woman, Grace Prescott,” he murmured.
It was the nicest compliment anyone had ever given her. With a lump filling her throat and tears threatening to fill her eyes, she squeezed them shut, forced a smile and said, “I didn’t do anything. You get all the credit.”
He brushed her hair back from her ear, then brought his mouth close as he slid his hand to just beneath her breast. “Marry me, Grace. This week. Tomorrow. As soon as we can get to the courthouse in Buffalo Plains. Marry me. Be my wife. Let me be Annie Grace’s father. Please.”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t twitch a muscle. She stared wide-eyed at a muddle of shadows and listened to the stillness that had wrapped itself around them, broken only by the rapid beat of her heart.
For one sweet moment, she pretended that it was a legitimate proposal of marriage—that he loved her and she loved him, that they were destined to be together, that they would marry and, just like in all her dreams, live happily ever after.
But the moment didn’t last long. That was the extent of his proposal. There was no declaration of love, no promise of forever, no hint of happily ever after. Just impulse, obligation, duty.
Was she wanting too much? Wasn’t she lucky that he’d ever given her his attention, that he was willing to accept responsibility, that he’d stuck around these last few weeks instead of taking one look at the real her and running away again? Shouldn’t she be grateful for what he was offering instead of mourning what she might never have?
“Come on, Gracie,” he murmured, his voice teasing. “Don’t get all stiff on me. We don’t have to do it this week. We can do it anytime before the baby’s born. Disreputable though I might be, to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never fathered an illegitimate child. You don’t want to spoil my record and tarnish my reputation, do you?”
Maybe Callie was right. Maybe it was better to base a marriage on something solid and tangible—like the baby—than on something as elusive as love. Maybe settling for Ethan’s poor substitute was better than having nothing at all.
“I won’t ask you to answer now,” he said carelessly. “We�
��ve got six weeks. Just think about it.”
She hated that he could be so casual about it—hated the proof that neither she nor marriage were of any particular importance to him. He only wanted to do what was right, meaning what Guthrie would expect. If not for his brother, she doubted that he would have come back in the first place. She doubted he ever would have proposed marriage.
She doubted everything about him.
Except that he really did want to do what was right. And that he’d certainly taken the disappointment of surprise fatherhood in stride. And that he’d treated her well in the time he’d been back. He’d made her laugh and feel less lonely, had shown her kindness, had treated her as if she mattered.
And had told her with that proposal that she didn’t. She was just part of the deal he had to accept to live up to his brother’s standards.
“Grace?”
She wanted to pretend that she’d fallen asleep, to plug her fingers in her ears and block out his voice. She wanted to weep.
“Gracie?” He sounded more serious now. He’d stopped rubbing her middle and moved away so his voice wasn’t a tickle in her ear.
When she didn’t answer or turn to look at him, he easily lifted himself over her, settling into the narrow space between her body and the edge of the bed. He cupped her chin in his long, strong fingers and ducked his head so he could look into her eyes. Realizing she couldn’t see much, he claimed her glasses from the night table and slid them into place on her nose, then fixed his solemn gaze on her. “I’m sorry I’m not the man you deserve. I’m sorry it wasn’t love at first sight. I’m sorry I’m no prince, no prize, no Guthrie. But if you would give me a chance, I swear I would do my best by you and the baby. I’d do my damnedest to never let you down, to never make you sorry and to never make her ashamed. If you’ll just give me a chance.”
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