by K. A. Tucker
“No . . . I don’t care . . . No . . .” Brett’s voice carries that rare edge. “Give them whatever they want to keep them quiet. I don’t want this getting back to her.”
Unease settles into my spine as I replay his words. That can’t be Donovan that he’s speaking to. Who needs to be kept quiet? About what? And what doesn’t he want getting back to “her”?
“No, they’re not getting a fucking dime of this . . . I don’t care . . . Just let me know when it’s done, okay? I’ve gotta go.”
I close the bathroom door quickly, before he catches me eavesdropping.
When I step out a few minutes later, Brett is just emerging from his bedroom. He smiles at me.
I hesitate. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. Will she be comfortable up there?” There’s no hint of that edge in his voice anymore.
“Yeah, she’s out cold for now. The storm may wake her up, though, if it gets any louder.” Maybe that conversation had nothing to do with me. But if it didn’t, then who did it have to do with? “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He brushes a loose strand of hair from my forehead. “As far as you and I are concerned, everything is perfect.”
Another loud crack of thunder answers, and I hold my breath, pausing to listen for a long moment, my eyes on the ceiling above us.
I have to laugh when I realize Brett’s doing the same thing.
“Come here, I have to show you something.” He retreats into his room. I follow with a stir of excitement in the pit of my stomach as I take in the half-made bed. As with every other part of Brett’s condo, this room is sleek but void of personality—white paint, white bedding, nothing but a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall.
“Just curious, how long have you lived in this . . .” My question gets lost in my throat, as Brett swings himself forward on his crutches until his broad body is looming over me, trapping me between the wall and his dominating frame.
“In this condo? About three years. Ever since I signed with the Flyers.” He leans forward to drag his lips over mine. “I’ve been dying to do this since you walked through the door,” he whispers, his long, thick lashes tickling my skin as he blinks. “I wake up every morning thinking about you.” My head thumps softly against the wall as I close my eyes, reveling in the feel of his mouth against my ear. “I go to bed at night thinking about you.” Blood rushes through my veins with the adrenaline his words create. “Please tell me it’s not just me.”
“It’s not,” I manage to get out in a whispered moan, thankful that where I’m hesitant to voice my attraction to him, Brett seems to have no fears at all.
I let my gaze drift out the window behind us, the image of Brett’s back reflecting on the glass. A twinge of worry pricks the responsible side of me. “Can people see in here?” The lights are on, the curtains aren’t drawn, and this side of the condo faces another building. Sure, it’s storming, but—
Brett slaps his hand against the light switch in answer, throwing us into darkness as he closes his mouth over mine again. This time he grasps my waist and pulls my body closer, swallowing me up in his arms as he balances on his crutches, his tongue slipping across the seam of my lips, taunting me, urging me to open for him. I do, and he sighs against me, settling into that slow, hypnotic way he has of kissing.
Heat is thrumming through my veins in seconds, waking my limbs, making my skin itch for his touch. Making my fingers tug at his T-shirt, wanting it off.
Wanting his pants off, too.
Wanting my clothing off.
Wanting to feel every inch of his hot skin against mine.
Lightning skitters across the sky frequently, sending bright flashes into the room. A tease, really, to give me the briefest glimpse of his broad shoulder or the curve of his hard jaw.
“Are you okay with me bringing you in here?” he whispers against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“How far do you want this to go, tonight?”
I hesitate. Would he think less of me if I told him the thoughts that are swirling inside my head right now? If I asked him whether he has protection in that nightstand drawer? If we have to worry about being overheard?
As usual, he somehow senses what I’m thinking. “I’m fine with anything you say, Cath. You just have to tell me, so it doesn’t go too far. You’ll tell me, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He breaks free of me to ease himself back the three feet to the edge of his bed. Leaning his crutches haphazardly against the nightstand, out of the way, he holds a hand out, beckoning me.
I’m careful not to bump his cast in the dark as I step forward. I settle my hands on his shoulders, though I can’t keep them from wandering, drawing lines along the hard ridge of his collarbone with my fingertips, marveling at how his muscles surround it. I let my fingers slip under his shirt, careful not to stretch the cotton.
Warm hands cup the outsides of my thighs, sliding up and down soothingly, slowly. On the third pass, his fingertips slip under the loose material, all the way to the edge of my lace panties beneath. I never really considered how easy the access under this jumpsuit is, and now that he’s gently gripping the curve of my backside, a deep throb settles in my core.
“You are the most stunning woman I’ve ever met.”
I shake my head at him and smile, a wordless dismissal of his flattery. He’s literally seen me at my worst—unshowered, smelling of burned and greasy diner food, in ratty threadbare clothes. He’s delusional.
He grins. “I’m glad you’re oblivious. I think that’s part of your charm.” An especially long wave of lightning explodes in the sky, filling the room, enough to catch his adoring eyes as they peer up at me. “I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you. Not even a fraction.”
My heart swells with his words, raw and emotional and undoing me with their sincerity.
“I . . .” I falter. I remember a time when I didn’t care if a guy knew I wanted him. When the idea of flirting wasn’t met with apprehension, when the thought of being abandoned and heartbroken never entered my mind. When I didn’t know what it would feel like to be shamed for my having expressed desire in the first place.
But that’s all years in the past and this is Brett, a guy who I have to believe would never allow me to feel shame for a second. I can be smart and still live, still allow myself to trust.
And chase after what I want.
I can let myself love again.
“Take this off,” I ask, too shyly, but I balance the meek request by tugging at his shirt.
Without hesitation, his hands leave my body to reach over his head and smoothly peel off the soft cotton, tossing it aside. Lightning flashes and I stifle a groan at the brief glimpse of those curves and ridges.
His responding chuckle is dark and playful. “There’s a switch over there, on the wall. Hit that and then you can turn on the lamp.”
I do, and a panel of curtains slides across the windows, closing off the chaos outside. The lamp casts a pleasant dim glow.
Brett grins, his eyes twinkling as he watches me blatantly gawk at him. “Better?”
I manage a nod, and then I’m giggling at myself, at how dumbstruck and shy I become around him.
“Get over here.” He guides me onto the bed next to him, gently easing me down, struggling to twist his body toward me while keeping his casted leg away. While the angle has his stomach muscles tensing in a way that makes my jaw temporarily drop, it can’t be comfortable.
“Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself. Lie back.” I press against his bare chest, taking in his hot skin against my palms as I push him back onto his elbows. The sheer size of him, sprawled out across the queen-size bed, is overwhelming.
“How on earth did I ever get you out of that car?” I let my hand drop, intent on settling it on his stomach. Only he’s sliding himself up the mattress.
And my hand lands about eight inches lower.
I jump, pulling away quickly, but n
ot before I’ve managed a solid feel of him through his track pants. “I didn’t mean to touch that.” My cheeks flame.
He falls back against the bed, his breathing more labored than before. An intimate chuckles escapes his lips. “What were you trying to touch, then?”
“Your stomach.” My eyes flicker to the washboard ridges, but then they veer farther down, to where the sharp cut of his hips angles south, and his track pants highlight his hard length.
“Can you please stop rushing me? I’d like to take things slow.”
My giggle is soft, at first. An embarrassed sound, but it quickly grows and strengthens, until I’m laughing from deep within my belly, unable to contain myself.
“What’s so funny now?”
“My friend Misty was wondering how this would work, with you in a cast.” Clumsy, I would say. All elbows and knees, and nothing at all like the sensual scene from a movie.
“Well, if you’d stop trying to take advantage of me, maybe we could find out.”
“Oh, shut up.” I reach out to poke his rib cage but he’s ready for it, grabbing hold of my wrist. He easily pulls me over and onto him, until I can feel his heart beating wildly against my chest.
I study the beautiful face below me as he pushes my loose hair off my face and seems to study mine. Despite the butterflies in the pit of my stomach, I feel comfortable with him.
“Let me show you how it’ll work.” Brett grasps the back of my head and pulls me down, his arms coiling around to hold me against him as he kisses me deeply, the mood around us suddenly shifting.
The storm outside has passed without waking Brenna, the rumbles now distant and soft, the rain a light drizzle against the glass. It’s no longer masking the sounds of our urgent lips, growing pink and swollen from friction, or our shallow breaths, or our low moans, each of us waiting for the other to make that daring next move.
It’s Brett who finally breaks, his fingers fumbling with the silk tie that cinches the material around my waist, tugging it loose. He pulls free of my lips long enough to look up at me, asking permission as his hands settle on my shoulders, the straps within his grasp.
I give him a single nod.
And then he’s sliding the top of my outfit down, exposing the skimpy black lace bra from Target that I splurged on this past week. His mouth trails downward, landing on my collarbone as he pushes me onto my back to wriggle the loose-fitting outfit to my hips. He doesn’t stop there, though, using his one hand to pull it down past my thighs, past my knees. I lift my legs, allowing it to slip past my ankles and off.
It’s as if Brett’s reached his threshold of slow and steady, though, because he’s immediately reaching behind me to unfasten my bra with ease. I know that if I told him to stop, he would. But I don’t say a word, letting him maneuver himself until he’s propped on one elbow and taking a peaked nipple into his mouth. I gasp at the first feel of his tongue against me.
I still can’t believe this is happening.
Wrapping my arms around Brett’s head, I stroke my fingers through his thick mane of hair and close my eyes, trying to soak in the feel of him adoring my body. Trying to remain calm.
Until the hand that idled briefly on my stomach begins to slide down. I tense and his hand freezes, his fingertips resting at the edge of the waistband of my panties. He lifts his head to peer at me, his lips parted and wet, his breath skating across my chest, gooseflesh prickling.
His blue eyes dark and glossy.
“I’m just nervous,” I admit, letting him see my shy smile as I toy with a strand of his hair.
“So am I.” He leans over to kiss me gently on the lips again.
And then his hand slips into my panties.
Our sharp inhales are simultaneous, at the first slide of his finger, at the glaring proof of how much I want this, and him. He doesn’t say a word, though, sighing softly as he touches me, as I feel his calloused hand so smoothly, so masterfully work at a languid rhythm, my body relaxing and opening up to him and, soon, beginning to tilt in search of relief.
And still those blue eyes remain locked on mine, and instead of feeling self-conscious, I don’t mind at all, grazing the fine stubble on his cheek with my thumb as my breathing grows ragged and my throat begins to burn and, finally . . . he watches me as my body tenses and pulses beneath his touch, his own breaths shaky.
He falls onto his back; the strain of holding himself propped on one elbow must be wearing. “God, you are so fucking beautiful. Your body . . . the way you come . . .” His hooded gaze roves over my slender frame, naked expect for the skimpy pair of black panties. “I want to do that every single night.”
“Uh-huh.” Doubtful that any guy would be that keen.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Every single night?”
A sly grin unfolds across his lips. “Well, in one form or another. Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”
“As if I could ever get bored.” My eyes drift over his heaving chest and his splayed legs and . . . that sizable ridge. To have that every single night. He’s so vibrant, so alive, so . . . mine. Deep inside, I hear that little voice insist that I saved him. Every inch of him.
My hand aches with the need to feel him again.
I roll onto my side and smooth my hand over his stomach, as I meant to before.
And then I reach lower to grasp him, this time intentionally.
He’s impossibly hard.
He simply watches me as I gather the nerve to push my fingers beneath the waistband, first of his pants, and then his briefs, to fill my hand with him, delighting in the smooth, velvety soft skin.
A soft curse slips from his lips with the first swipe of my thumb over his tip, his fingers reaching up to toy absently with strands of my hair as I slowly begin to stroke him. But the elastic makes it difficult.
“Help me take these off,” he says, tugging at one side. Freeing my hand, I sit up and seize both sides of his pants, waiting for him to lift his hips, the anticipation of seeing Brett naked for the first time almost too much to handle.
“Mommy!”
“Shit,” I hiss at the sound of Brenna calling me, her voice laced with fear. I look at Brett, sprawled out on the bed. “I’m sorry. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Put this on.” He hands me his T-shirt and I yank it over my head. The hem reaches midthigh.
“Mama!” It’s louder, more urgent.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’ll be back.” Stealing one last quick kiss, I rush for the stairs, not wanting her to try them half-asleep. Or wake up Richard. I find her huddled in a ball on the landing, a sulky, sleepy look on her face. Scooping her up, I bring her back to bed and tuck her in to the warm, silky sheets. She reaches for me, though, her eyes closed but her little fingers grasping the air, and I know that I won’t be free to simply walk out.
I lie down next to her, and she slithers over to curl into my chest. “You smell like Brett’s perfume,” she murmurs.
I smile, not correcting her, and quietly wait for her shallow breathing. It’s twenty minutes before I can peel myself away without her stirring.
Ducking into Brett’s bathroom, I gingerly search his drawers for the spare toothbrush, while taking inventory of all his personal things—his brand of deodorant, the razors he shaves with, the small glass bottle of cologne, half-full.
My heart skips a beat when I spot the opened box of condoms in the bottom left drawer. A peek inside shows me that there are only a few left. While I don’t want to think about Brett having sex with other women, I’m wondering if maybe I should bring one down with me.
I contemplate that as brush my teeth and then, reminding myself that we’re better safe than sorry—and it’s already been well proven that I can’t take birth control pills reliably—I tuck one into the palm of my hand and tiptoe back to Brett’s room.
He readied himself for bed while I was dealing with Brenna. His track pants now dangle from the bottom corn
er bedpost, his body is covered to his waist by a sheet.
And he’s sound asleep.
So I simply sit on the edge of his bed and admire his peaceful, beautiful face for a long moment.
And think again how close he was to dying that night.
How close I was to never getting the chance to know him, to feel this.
Whatever this is, that’s growing between us. It’s intense and fast-moving, that much I know. And I expected no less, no in between with him, no casualness, not after what we’ve been through together.
It does feel magical. It does feel like a fairy tale. That a man like Brett—so charming, so talented, so breathtakingly handsome, so seemingly perfect in every way—would become infatuated with an ordinary woman like me.
No wonder people want the happily ever after between us.
I want the happily ever after.
Even if I’m having a hard time allowing myself to believe it can exist.
I resist the urge to rest my palm on his chest—not wanting to wake him now that he’s managed to drift off—and I shut off the lamp.
And decide, right then and there, that I’m going to take full advantage of every second with him, for as long as this crazy spell fate has cast over us lasts.
Chapter 24
It takes me three seconds to remember that I’m in Brett’s bed.
And another two to realize Brenna’s not beside me.
It’s seven A.M. She likes watching cartoons as soon as she gets up. At home, she can turn on the TV by herself, but Brett’s setup is more complicated than ours. She’ll try, of course, because she’s stubborn. She’ll start pushing buttons until something works or the screen is full of noisy static and she wakes up both Brett and Richard and—
I throw the sheet off my body and head downstairs to retrieve her before my imagination becomes reality.
I hear nothing at first, which makes me more than a little nervous. She’s usually pretty good about not getting into things, but she is still only five. From the bottom of the steps, I see Brett’s bedroom door open a crack.
“. . . but all he does is change his clothes and put on glasses. How come people can’t recognize him?”