by Gayle Wilson
Her breath caught, a small, jagged intake of air, almost a gasp. The sound was distinctive. Remembered. And arousing.
Jared responded by putting his mouth over the nipple and suckling, his fingers caressing the smoothness of the surrounding skin. Robin was trembling again, but given her response to his tongue, he didn’t think that was a result of the cold.
“I want to make love to you,” he said, his lips moving against her breast. “So if that isn’t what you want, too...”
He waited, and when the silence grew and then expanded, his comment unanswered, he looked up. Her eyes seemed unfocused, as if she were lost in the sheer sensation of what he was doing.
“Robin?”
She looked at him then, her eyes not quite making contact with his, but there was no doubt this time about her answer.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Jared, I want to make love.”
Chapter Ten
It seemed almost a sacrilege to place the slim perfection of her body into these tangled sheets, Jared thought. He hadn’t bothered to make his bed this morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered. Robin would hate the disorder.
There wasn’t much he could do about it now, he thought, his eyes making a quick survey of the room. He had thrown his clothing on the floor as he’d stripped it off last night. There was a half-eaten bag of chips open on the night stand, along with a coated glass that had once held milk. Those had been dinner, gulped down as he’d watched the eleven o’clock news.
In the past, he had always tried to straighten up if he knew Robin would be coming to his apartment, but tonight... Tonight he had had no idea when the evening began that he would even see her, much less that they would end up here. And he supposed, despite everything, he had James McCord to thank for that.
“What are you smiling about?” Robin asked. “I’d really like to hear something amusing right now.”
He hadn’t realized his face was reflecting his reaction to the irony of McCord’s interference resulting in Robin being back in his bed. Jared was pretty certain that was not what the senator had intended when he’d called him earlier tonight. Not unless Jared put a wedding ring on his niece’s finger first. Still smiling, he settled down beside Robin, pushing the sheet toward the foot of the bed as he stretched out next to her.
“I was wondering if this is what your uncle had in mind when he tricked you into getting into the limo with me.”
“Somehow I doubt this was exactly what he had in mind.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Are you worried about being the victim in an old-fashioned Texas shotgun wedding?”
“I’ve been worried about a lot of things lately, but never about that. You’re the one reluctant to make this permanent.”
“I’m the one who wanted to be sure it was going to be permanent,” she said softly. “There’s a difference.”
Jared hadn’t meant to dredge up the old bitterness about his job. Instead of answering, he broke the eye contact between them, letting his gaze trace downward. The chill bumps were gone, although the bedroom had seemed cold when he carried her in. Maybe only in contrast to the steam-filled bathroom. And he supposed it was up to him to heat things up in here.
He raised his torso, propping himself on one elbow. It was a move that brought the front of his body into contact with the side of Robin’s. With his right hand, he brushed lightly across her collarbone, and then trailed the tips of his fingers downward until they reached the dark circle that surrounded the cold-tightened nipple of her left breast. He slowly ran the end of his middle finger around the ring of rose-brown and watched her breathing begin to change. To become irregular. Shallow.
“Anything I should know before we start?” he asked.
Her eyes opened, and she turned her head to look at him. Her lips tilted, but she shook her head, brows lifting. “Anything you should know about what?” she asked.
“I’ve never made love to a pregnant woman. I just wondered if there were any...precautions. Or restrictions.”
“None that I can think of,” she said.
He nodded, his finger still delicately circling her breast. “The doctor in the emergency room said nothing that happened tonight should have had an effect on the baby.”
“Were you worried about that?”
“I was worried about throwing you down. I didn’t even stop to think about the baby. I didn’t stop to think about anything.”
“If you had, the piece of metal that ended up in your shoulder might have been embedded in my skull instead. I’ve got bruised knees and scraped palms, but I’m alive. I’m very grateful to be alive. And the baby’s fine. I promise you that.”
“You can feel him moving?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Robin said, her voice very low, her lips curving again, almost a smile. “You’ll be the first to know when I do.”
He nodded, aware suddenly of all he didn’t know about this. And of all he had almost missed. Somebody else will do it. And if he let them, he and Robin could always be together.
“Maybe soon,” she added.
He nodded again, still touching her breast with the same near reverent gentleness.
“But...as far as this is concerned, nothing’s changed. I don’t want anything to change,” she whispered.
Her eyes told him that was true, but he thought he would be conscious of the added dimension the baby would bring to their lovemaking. Her body was no longer just a vehicle for their pleasure, hers and his. It was also the guardian of the small, fragile life they had created together. Maybe, after a while, that would be something that he wouldn’t think about, but this time... This time, at least, he would be aware that they were no longer on this voyage of discovery alone.
“You’re smiling again,” she said.
“I was just thinking about how a baby changes your life. Nothing’s the same. Not for the next twenty years or so. That should be something you think about a little more carefully.”
He had seen it with his brothers. And even with his sisters, who had definitely been ready to start a family when they’d gotten married. They were all different now. More settled. More in tune with the children than with their own pleasures. None of them, offered a choice, would change that.
“Does that mean you wish we’d thought about it more carefully?” Robin asked, her eyes studying his.
“It means you just have no idea how having a kid is going to change your life. No more leisurely Sunday mornings in bed. No more leisurely anything in bed,” he said, smiling at her.
“Well, I haven’t had any leisurely mornings lately. At least this baby will get me off this political merry-go-round.”
“Onto a different one—diapers, bottles, midnight feedings.”
“I think I’m looking forward to that one,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said, and held his breath, wondering if she would still deny his right to have a place in their child’s life.
“I think that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she said softly. And her eyes filled again with tears.
Hormones, he thought. Thanks to his brothers, he had a little insider knowledge about exactly what was going on here. In his mind was a fleeting image of Robin struggling to give birth to his son or his daughter. Of a small, dark head cradled against the clear translucence of her skin. Of a rosebud mouth suckling at the breast his own lips had been fastened around only a few minutes before. And suddenly he knew exactly what she meant. Those images were all as sexy as hell.
He lowered his head, again placing his lips around the pearled darkness of her nipple. His fingers, which had been caressing the areola of the breast his mouth was now covering, moved down Robin’s side, examining each rib in their slow passage. Exploring the fragile bones and the small, concave distances between them. Her skin was like silk beneath the tips of his fingers. His palm flattened over the slight convexity of her stomach, savoring with new understanding the thought of his son or his dau
ghter growing inside.
The resultant surge of protectiveness almost overwhelmed him, and his own eyes burned briefly. Tomorrow, he thought, fighting the sudden sting. Time enough tomorrow to worry about that. About protecting them from danger. About his job.
Tonight was about something else. About four long months of deprivation. And a longer period of bitterness and anger. Making love to Robin tonight would do a lot to destroy all the things that had come between them.
His fingers slipped lower and her body responded, hips arching into their touch. He heard her breath catch in her throat again, racheting inward in small, exquisite gasps. He increased the pressure of his mouth, still fastened around her breast, so that he was pulling strongly and then releasing, the suction rhythmic and powerful. At the same time his fingers dipped into the warmth of the moisture his caresses had created, and then they began a matching rhythm, slow and knowing, against the very heart of her sexuality.
There was no need to hurry. No need other than his own. They had all night, he told himself. Long, dark hours stretched before them. Hours without anything to think about but one another. Nothing to consider but pleasure. And pleasuring.
Robin’s body arched upward again, more strongly this time, straining into his hand. He was taking her too fast, maybe, but she seemed as ready as he was. As longing. As lonely.
He stopped the movement of his fingers to concentrate on the other sensations he was creating. He shifted his attention to her other breast. His tongue slowly and lightly circled the nipple before he finally allowed his lips to close over it.
Her breathing had become even more erratic, and her hand found his, still and unmoving, cupped under the globe of the breast his mouth had deserted. She pushed at his fingers, guiding them. Her legs were apart, allowing him access to the most intimate part of her body. Not allowing; demanding.
And when he touched her, only a feather stroke, her body reacted. She arched again, and then again. And she whispered the same word she had said in the bath, giving permission.
“Yes,” she breathed. The single syllable was softer this time, and more sibilant. “Oh, yes.”
His own arousal was growing, pressed hard against her body by their positions. As she writhed in response to the caress of his fingers, her hip moved against him, stimulating and enticing. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes, his lips loosening their hold on her breast. He put his forehead against her heart, feeling its rapid pulse. Her hand found the back of his head, slim fingers spreading through his hair, gripping it as he touched her. Faster and harder now. Giving her exactly what she wanted.
He increased the pressure and felt her reaction this time. Her body jerked, and her fingers tangled painfully in his hair, dominated by feelings more primitive and less inhibited than any other in their relationship. He was in charge of her body now, just as in a moment she would command his. But no matter how submissive the posture she would assume, she would be the dominant force. Because he loved her. And because his pleasure, as always, was dependent on hers.
“Now,” she said. The word was only a little stronger than the other soft inhalations, but it was obviously a command.
This was always the pattern with their lovemaking, at least the first time they made love. The hard, fast, physical-needs-fulfilling time. He would bring her to this point, and she would tell him when it was dangerous to go any further. They both liked it best when it happened together. When they climbed those last increments of feeling together. Sweating bodies straining in unison to achieve the ultimate victory. The final goal.
He eased down on top of her, and her legs came up to wrap around his waist as he pushed into the hot, wet heat of her body. It had been way too long, he had time to think before his brain exploded, only fractions of a second before his body joined it.
His back arched, his head lifted, as he drove into her again and again. There was no room in his mind for thought to form. It was too full of sensation. Ecstasy. Heat waves shimmering like lightning along every nerve ending in his body.
On some level, at least, he was aware that she was arching upward to meet the thrusts of his hips. As desperate as he was. Someone cried out, the sound hoarse and guttural and wordless.
And then, almost as quickly as the storm had built, it was over. Nerves shattered and shivered into stillness. At last he could hear his own breathing. Deep, gasping inhalations, attempting to pull oxygen into his starving lungs. His arms were trembling from holding his full weight off her body.
He eased down onto his elbows, his stomach resting against the soft dampness of hers. And when he opened his eyes, Robin was looking up at him, eyes tear washed again. Her hair was wildly disordered, a few strands caught in the perspiration that covered her face, despite the frigid temperature of the room.
Their gazes held, but for endless seconds they said nothing. After a while he rested his weight on his left elbow and used the still-shaking fingers of his right hand to brush the dampened tendrils off her temple and cheek. And then his thumb traced over the fullness of her bottom lip. She opened her mouth and touched the pad of it with her tongue.
“Does it taste like you?” he asked softly.
Her eyes dilated in shock, and her tongue, which had been trailing, warm and wet, against the tip of his thumb, hesitated. After a moment, it began to move again, circling over and then around. When she smiled at him, it was slow and provocative.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve never tasted me.”
Jared lowered his head, capturing his thumb between their lips, running his tongue over it and across the bow of her upper lip and then delving inside her mouth to touch the tip of hers.
“Now you have,” he said.
He moved his hand out of the way and deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue in as forcefully as he had pushed into her body, demanding the response that she had willingly given then. After a long time, he lifted his head. He realized that her eyes were open and that she had been watching him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “Just...” The silence grew. “Just a feeling,” she said finally. “Something silly.”
“About us?”
“About...the future,” she said.
“The future?” he repeated disbelievingly, laughing a little. “You’ve haven’t started predicting the future, have you?”
“I told you it was silly. Forget it,” she said. She turned her head, her eyes moving away from his face to focus on a spot over his left shoulder. In the light from the bedside lamp, he saw the tear streak. Glinting faintly, it ran from the corner of her eye to the damp, disordered hair at her temple.
“Are you crying?” he asked. Stupid question, he realized belatedly, but at least it brought her eyes back to his face.
“I had this sense of...I don’t know. Just this feeling that something bad was going to happen. Something...terrible.”
Her eyes examined his. Waiting for his response, he supposed. And he couldn’t think of one. This was so far removed from the practical and pragmatic woman he knew that he was finding it hard to believe she had really said those words.
“I told you it was silly,” she said for the third time.
“Something that’s going to happen to us?”
Her mouth moved, tightening, and then she said, “I don’t know. Just...happen somewhere. Sometime. Something bad.”
He laughed, somehow relieved at the vagueness. “You’ll never make it as the fortune teller at the county fair. Not enough detail. No surety,” he teased.
“I know,” she agreed, her lips aligning themselves, almost reluctantly, into an answering amusement.
He drew his thumb down the tear track, and then he put the moisture he’d removed from it onto his tongue, licking it off. She was still watching him.
“It’s all gone,” he said comfortingly. “Nothing bad is going to happen,” he whispered. “Not to us. Not to the baby. Not even to anybody we know.”
The til
t of her lips increased minutely. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said.
Her smile faded. Slowly. Disappearing even as the words echoed in his head. He seemed to have a real knack lately for saying the wrong thing. She put her hand on his face, her thumb under his chin and her fingers resting along his cheek.
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” she said, repeating his words like a talisman.
Then she pulled his face downward, turning her head to bring her opened mouth into alignment under his. And finally, after a long time, whatever superstitious dread her words had caused was lost in the recurring wonder of what they had rediscovered.
THE SHRILL OF THE PHONE brought him out of a sleep so deep it seemed drugged. Almost like being in a coma. His consciousness swam upward through the thick darkness, allowing him to recognize the jarring sound by the fourth ring.
He fumbled for the receiver, and then realized he was on the wrong side of the bed. Not on the side he normally slept on. Someone else was occupying that one.
Robin. He had brought Robin back to his apartment last night. To keep her safe. Because of the car bomb. Because of Gus. As the memories flooded his mind, he pushed up on his elbow and reached across her toward the bedside table. Before his fingers could get to it, the phone rang again.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath, his hand finally closing around the receiver. He brought it to his ear in one motion and snapped a single word into the mouthpiece. “Donovan.”
“Jim McCord here, Mr. Donovan. Hope I didn’t wake you,” the Texas senator said, but it was evident that he didn’t really care. At least, he didn’t bother to wait for Jared’s denial or acknowledgment. “I’m trying to locate Robin,” he continued. “I wondered if she might be with you.”
Jared had no idea what Robin had told her uncle last night. He had left her to make that call while he took a shower. Apparently, however, one thing she hadn’t told him was where she was spending the night.