The Secret Baby Bond

by Cindy Gerard

  “Open,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me in. God, Tara, let me in.”

  With a whimper that could have been protest, or denial or greed, she did as he asked. She opened her mouth, gave in to the need and invited his tongue inside.

  Sleek. Silky. Seductive. He thrust and withdrew, pleasuring them both, teasing them senseless. With his mouth still linked with hers, he pulled her off the bike then pressed her back against it with his body.

  “So good,” he murmured, breaking the kiss long enough to scrape his teeth along her jaw then down her throat before returning to her mouth with an urgency that stole her breath.

  And all the while his hands, his big, mobile hands, roamed over her body, pressing her against him, molding her to tight leather and an arousal that pulsed against her belly.

  “Touch you,” he whispered against her open mouth as he lifted her and set her sideways on the bike. “I need to touch you.”

  Nudging her knees apart with an impatient hand, he moved between her open thighs, then cupped her bottom and increased the intimacy.

  Tara lost herself in his need. It was always like that with Michael. His hunger took over, sweeping her along in its wake, an eager participant, a wanton respondent in this game he played so well.

  His hands were at her throat now, tugging at buttons until her jacket came fully undone. And then they were on her, tunneling up under her sweater, calloused and possessive and lean. He sought her breast, surrounded, caressed her through the silk of her bra.

  On a deep groan, he pushed the confining sweater’s hem high and lowered his head.

  “Michael.”

  She knotted her hands in his hair, let her head fall back and let herself go. His mouth. Oh, his mouth devoured her. Suckling, licking, tugging and then nuzzling as his fingers moved to her back and flicked her bra fastener free.

  She spilled into his hand. He covered her, gently squeezed then lifted her to his mouth again. With the tip of his tongue, he lightly traced her nipple.

  She cried out, arched toward him. And then he was suckling her again, with reverence, with such tender attention that she felt the tug between her legs and deep in her womb where her body wanted him to be.

  He knew. He knew exactly how to touch her to set her blood burning, to make her yearn, make her beg, make her forget that the communication they’d always shared in bed had never overlapped to the rest of their life.

  “Michael,” she whispered when his hands and his mouth were on the verge of taking her somewhere she was suddenly afraid to go. “Michael, stop.”

  “You don’t want me to stop.” His voice was a deep, edgy whisper as he pressed his hands between her shoulder blades and arched her closer toward him. He languorously bathed her left breast with the tip of his tongue. Then he pinched her nipple between his lips, tugged before lifting his head and seeking her eyes. “I know what you want. Let me give it to you, babe. Let me give us what we both want.”

  “You’re making my head spin.”

  He chuckled, pressed an openmouthed kiss to the corner of her mouth, scraped his teeth along her jaw line. “Seems to be going around.”

  “Stop. Michael, please. I can’t think when you do this to me.”

  His mouth tracked kisses along the column of her throat, working slowly, inevitably back toward her mouth. “You don’t need to think. You just need to feel.” His hands skimmed down her back, cupped her bottom again and pressed her hard against him.

  “I do need to think, Michael. Please. I need to think about this a lot.”

  She felt his big body stiffen. Felt the heat radiate off of him in waves. Slowly, he raised his head, pressed his forehead to hers.

  “You’re killing me here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, babe, don’t do that.”

  He lifted a hand, brushed away a tear. She hadn’t even been aware that it was trailing down her cheek.

  Then he wrapped her in his arms. “It’s okay. I was out of line. It’s just…you just…” he paused, laughed roughly. “You make me lose control. You always have. Always will.”

  He let out a huge breath. “Come on. I’d better get you home while I’ve still got the will to do it. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past your old man to send the cops after me.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, managing a shaky smile.

  “No. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He smiled down at her, his eyes tender. “You can have all the think time you want, okay? As long as you’re thinking about me.

  “Now let’s get you put back together. Turn around.”

  Like an automaton, she did as he asked, then shivered when his hands tunneled under her sweater again, this time to find the ends of her bra and fasten it for her.

  “Okay?”

  She nodded.

  He brushed a kiss on her forehead then started the motorcycle. The drive home was uneventful, if you didn’t count the uneven beating of her heart or her conflicting emotions that waged a war with her common sense.

  “Come over to the condo tomorrow morning,” Michael said when they’d pulled up in front of Lake Shore Manor.

  “Bring Brandon. I need to see him. And I need to see what you’ve done with the place.”

  Then he kissed her, a kiss so tender and full of love, she almost cried again.

  “Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered against her mouth.

  She held his gaze for a long, uncertain moment before she slipped inside. Then she leaned back against the door and, for the first time in two years, felt a surge of life. A hope in love. Both were so strong that all of her resolve to stay distant from Michael’s charm couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

  Nine

  Michael was waiting for them at the condo when Tara and Brandon arrived a little before nine the next morning. He’d been up since six. Hell, he’d been up all night—in more ways than one. Thinking of her. Aching for her. Frustrated and encouraged and hopeful in turn.

  Last night at the lake…well, he’d hoped the bike ride would set the mood and the stage—a little replay of the stunts they used to pull when they were crazy in love and too young to know any better.

  He’d been right. She’d caught the mood and kissed him like he’d been the only man. She’d kissed him like there hadn’t been another man in the two years since he’d been gone. And Tara’s kisses didn’t lie. It only made him ache for her more.

  But he tamped down his libido when his doorbell rang and he opened the door to the sight of his wife and his son.

  “Da!” Brandon ran into his arms with a squeal.

  Michael laughed and swept him into his arms, hugging him hard. “You’ve sure got that word down pat.”

  Brandon clung to him like a little monkey. This child’s unedited love never ceased to humble him, make him proud, make him strong. Strong enough to win back the woman standing just inside the doorway, her eyes misty with an emotion she couldn’t conceal.

  “Good morning,” he said over Brandon’s head.

  She nodded, closed the door.

  The signals she sent out with a look and the stiff set of her shoulders told him she didn’t want to talk about last night. That she needed some distance from what had happened between them—even more distance from him.

  Disappointed, but respecting her need for space and understanding that she needed more time to process what she was feeling, he motioned toward the kitchen.

  “I made coffee.”

  See? His smile said. Safe ground. Nonconfrontational.

  Instantly, she relaxed.

  “It’s fresh ground.”

  “Fresh-ground coffee? This from the man who once lived on instant direct from the microwave?”

  He grinned. “I keep trying to tell you, I’ve changed. I developed a taste for the real thing in Ecuador. Maria makes a mean cup of coffee. I had her teach me.”

  While Tara shrugged out of her short navy jacket, Michael unzipped Brandon’s warm coat all
the while taking in her sleek soft body. She’d dressed in narrow denim jeans that molded her slim hips and a snug yellow turtleneck that hugged her lush breasts. He’d always loved her body. He’d finally gotten his hands on it last night, gotten his mouth on her.

  He suppressed a groan at the memory and tuned in to her speculative look.

  “There’s more,” she said, her eyes narrowed in hopeful accusation as she lifted her head in the direction of the kitchen area and sniffed. “Something sinful and decadently high cal.”

  “Guilty as charged. I picked up pecan rolls at the corner bakery while I was taking my morning run.”

  She arched a brow. “Run? You make time for a run?”

  “I make time for a lot of things now,” he assured her.

  He set Brandon on the floor and poured coffee into disposable cups.

  “Some people I know, however—and I’m not naming names here—but some people don’t seem to have taken the time to get my furniture or stock my kitchen. All I found when I let myself in this morning were a lot of wallpaper books, color wheels and fabric samples. At this rate I’ll never get out of that hotel.”

  She accepted the coffee along with the smile that softened his scolding.

  “Oh, that. Actually, I have been busy. I’ve got an army of retailers ready to deliver truckloads of goods—but they’re all on hold. Michael, I couldn’t just come in here and dress this place without your input.”

  “Well, you’ve got it now. I’m all yours. But first, let’s be sinful together. The rolls,” he clarified when her eyes flashed nervously to his. “Then—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—we’ll talk decorating.”

  That made her smile. He loved her smile. And since he planned on seeing a lot of her smiles and a lot of her for a very long time, he took the low road.

  He didn’t push. He didn’t persuade. Over coffee, they talked about the weather. They talked about the Cubs and Brandon’s favorite toys and favorite food. They laughed at his antics as he alternately stuffed his face with sweet rolls and sipped milk from the ever-present sippy cup his mother had brought along.

  In short, they acted like a family, tight, loving and strong.

  We can do this. We can be this, he told himself with newfound determination as he watched his wife with his son and prayed for the patience and the wisdom to paint himself into this picture with indelible ink.

  “You’re sure you want blue in here?”

  Half an hour later, Tara stood in the middle of what would soon be Michael’s bedroom. In her hand was a color wheel. On the floor at her feet were wall-covering books and hundreds of swatches of material. And Michael was watching her with those intense gray eyes and telling her that he wanted blue.

  “What’s wrong with blue? I figure you can’t go wrong with blue, right?”

  This from a man who had always radiated red. Or maybe it was her own subconscious working its way into the conversation. Or her memories of last night on his bike, by the lake, when he’d kissed her.

  “What? I’m not right? Blue’s not good?” Michael asked, reacting to what must have been a puzzled look on her face. If he only knew. She wasn’t puzzled. She was pathetic.

  She couldn’t keep her mind off him. His hands, his mouth, his—

  “No,” she said abruptly, shaking herself away from the image. “No. Blue is fine. Blue is great. You just…I don’t know, I guess you surprised me.”

  “Because I like blue?”

  “Because you would choose blue.” She shrugged, shooting for indifference when inside she was so tuned to the rugged strength of his body she thought she’d explode.

  He was wearing old, worn jeans today. His sweater was a rich forest-green that somehow managed to deepen the gray of his eyes.

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re not just talking about a color here?” He tilted his head, eyed her thoughtfully.

  “Color preferences sometimes tell a lot about people, that’s all,” she said, hedging.

  “Really. And what does blue say about me?”

  Carefully marking the page, she folded the book shut, determined to keep the conversation geared toward decorating. A tough trick considering her thoughts kept sneaking back to the kisses they’d shared in the park.

  “Just nothing that I would have associated with you.”

  He laughed softly. “Now you’ve got me intrigued. Come on. What does blue say about the person choosing it?”

  She hesitated then just said it.

  “Well, for one thing, it says that they want to feel relaxed. Blue generally reflects contentment, peaceful moods, tranquil feelings, and that, um, generally reflects the personality of the person who chooses it.”

  He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself and, she realized, like he was very aware that she was uncomfortable, and why—and that he was enjoying it.

  “And you don’t think that blue is reflective of me.”

  Hardly. It was hard to think of Michael in terms of blue when red screamed through her head whenever she looked at him. When the simple action of handing her a cup of coffee and the accidental brush of his fingers across hers sent her heart pounding and turned her knees weak. When she couldn’t get out of her mind the picture of his dark head bent to her breast in the moonlight.

  “I keep telling you, Tara. I’ve changed. But, for the sake of argument, you’re the expert here, so what color do you see when you look at me?”

  She lowered her head, made herself busy gathering up the rest of her samples.

  “Black?” he guessed with a smile in his voice when she didn’t answer.

  Straightening from the stack of materials she’d arranged in a neat little pile, she shoved her hair back from her face with a trembling hand.

  “Somewhat. Black exudes discipline, authority, strength.”

  “But it’s not what you’d consider my primary color?”

  She wet her lips, very aware that he’d moved to stand directly in front of her. His gaze roamed her face with a tender intimacy that made her shiver.

  “No. I wouldn’t consider it your primary color.”

  “What then?”

  “Red,” she finally said, meeting his slumberous eyes then quickly looking away.

  He gently snagged her arm, pulled her toward him until there was little more than a deep breath standing between them.

  “What about red, Tara?” he whispered, the promise of seduction in his voice, as his thumb massaged her upper arm in a slow, sensual caress.

  “Red…” She looked up and into his eyes and got lost there. “Red empowers. Red stimulates. Red…symbolizes passion.”

  His gaze locked on hers, he very slowly walked her backward across the plush carpet. She put up a dismal amount of resistance as his powerful thighs brushed against hers, nudging her along with him, infusing her with aching awareness.

  When she met up with the bedroom wall, she went perfectly still. She should stop him. She should push him away. But she held her breath instead, mesmerized by the smoky gray eyes that devoured her.

  “You empower me.” He lowered his mouth, brushed a kiss to her brow.

  “You stimulate me.” His warm breath, scented of cinnamon and coffee, whispered across her face like a caress.

  “You are every symbol of passion I could ever need.” His lips found hers then and she was powerless to turn away.

  He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing, coercing, promising a pleasure she was so familiar with and so wanted to feel again.

  On a surrendering sigh, she opened her mouth, drew his tongue inside, tasting, indulging, loving the feel of him there. And then she simply melted into the erotic heat of his kiss.

  She didn’t know that she’d raised her hands, tangled them in his hair, didn’t feel anything but the sensual sweep of his tongue, his hard body pressing her to the wall.

  Sweetly, slowly, and so tenderly that she wanted to weep, his mouth mated with hers in a thorough, studied exploration as his hips pressed, rece
ded, pressed, telling her how much he needed her. Showing her how much he wanted her.

  “Up!”

  Brandon’s voice came to her from a distance.

  “Up! Up! Up!” he demanded, making his presence known not only with his verbal demand, but also with the pinch of his little fingers on her leg.

  Michael pulled slowly away, his eyes dark, a soft, indulgent smile on his face. “It appears that somebody’s feeling left out.”

  He kissed her once more, quick and tender, leaving her dizzy. Then he bent down and lifted Brandon into his arms.

  “What’s the matter, trouble? Am I getting too chummy with your mama?”

  Brandon answered with two smacking palms to the side of Michael’s face before zeroing in with a wet, sloppy kiss.

  “I get it,” he said on a laugh. “You want in on the kissing, too.”

  “Ma!” Brandon said and made a dive for his mother. Together, they caught him. And then he grinned like a little goose, snuggled and secure in the circle of their arms.

  Michael lowered his forehead to Tara’s, his eyes dancing with contentment, peace and tranquillity.

  “Definitely blue,” he whispered and she sank into the dangerous sensation of feeling like she was coming home.

  Okay, so age hadn’t made him wiser, Michael grudgingly conceded. The night was chilly. The moon was high, like a beacon.

  “Or a damn spotlight,” he muttered under his breath and with a grunt, made a grab for the branch directly above him. When he reached it, got a good hold, he hiked his left leg up and over a higher limb of the tree that grew directly beneath Tara’s bedroom window.

  He was out of his mind. Love did that to a man. So did lust. She was driving him nuts. For the past several days they’d spent time together, talking, laughing, kissing. Oh, the kissing.

  And yet, she held back.

  He wanted more. He needed more. And tonight, do or die, he was going for broke. The motorcycle stunt had worked and now he was pinning his hopes that another little stroll down memory lane would work, too.

  It had been remarkably easy to slip past the Lake Shore Manor security; he was going to have a talk with Grant about that tomorrow. He didn’t, however, remember that this tree used to be such a challenge.