Talking Sense: Sensual Healing, Book 3

by Serenity Woods

“You can’t be serious,” she said, hoping he was. “I’m thirty.”

  “Thirty, sexy and beautiful,” he said, unbuttoning his pants. “Get your knickers off.”

  “Not a chance of that.” She couldn’t even twist in the seat without knocking her elbows. “I’m not tiny, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Perfectly proportioned.” He gave her nipples a quick lick as he freed his erection.

  “I wasn’t talking about my…oh dear Lord.”

  He rolled the condom on, hitched up her skirt and lifted her until he brushed against her panties.

  “I’m still wearing them,” she complained.

  “Not a problem.” He hooked a finger in the elastic and pulled them to one side before sliding his fingers into her folds. “Fucking hell, Mia. As wet inside the car as it is outside.”

  “Oh my God. I hate you.”

  He slipped his fingers deep into her and groaned. “You’re so ready for me, honey. You can’t deny it.”

  “Yes I accept that, but there’s no way I could come like this, it’s too…oh.” She gave in and let him push the tip of his erection into her, and as she relaxed on top of him, she slid down his hard length. “Fuuuuuuck.”

  Colm tipped his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. “Jesus. I’m in heaven.”

  Mia tightened her internal muscles, sighing at the answering sensations. He was right—it was heavenly being like this, closing around him, encasing him in her wet heat. He stretched her until she moaned with pleasure, and when he held her hips and pushed up hard, she knew he’d filled her completely.

  She rocked her hips to slide him in and out, murmuring her approval as she found that her clit was brushing against his pubic hair. Okay, maybe she could come like this.

  Outside, the rain lashed against the car windows, which had begun to steam up. It felt as if they were in another world, cocooned in warmth and heat and quietness while the storm raged around them, and Mia found she didn’t mind being in the centre of the storm with Colm, not at all.

  She moved atop him slowly, enjoying the sensual slide of him inside her.

  Clearly, though, it wasn’t enough for Colm.

  “Too slow,” he said, and he took the collar of her shirt and yanked it down her back. The material locked around her elbows and forced her arms back.

  “Jeez,” she said, and tried to get her arms out of the shirt. But there was no room, and even as she struggled, he did something behind her back with the shirt, making it tighter, and gave a chuckle of victory.

  “My prisoner,” he said, and fastened his mouth on her right nipple.

  Mia squealed, off balance without the use of her hands and feeling exposed with her breasts propped up on display above her bra cups. “Let me go,” she whispered furiously, but he ignored her and swapped to the other nipple, using his fingers to tease the one he’d left behind. The sensitive skin was wet and puckered, and she inhaled at the exquisite sensation.

  She struggled again to free her arms, but whatever he’d done behind her back had secured the shirt around her elbows, and there wasn’t enough room for her to manoeuvre herself free.

  She half lay on him, and he lifted and turned her so they were almost side by side. She lay with her back against the car door, her hands trapped behind her, unable to do anything as he hooked her free leg around his waist and began to thrust hard, tugging on her nipple with his fingers as he did so.

  Mia began to spiral out of control, dizzy with lust and longing. It was hardly the most comfortable way she’d ever made love—the door was hard against her back, there was some kind of button or handle beneath her hip, and thank God she’d taken the painkillers, considering what kind of position he’d contorted her into. But his passion, his control of her arousal and his obvious, overwhelming desire for her blew her away.

  She closed her eyes, hoping against hope that a policeman wasn’t going to knock on the door, because it was going to take her half an hour to move upright and get her clothes sorted out, and then everything fled her mind and all she could think about was the sensations he was arousing in her. He kissed down her neck, sucked hard where it met her shoulder, and continued to pluck her nipples, occasionally licking his fingers to ensure her skin remained wet and sensitive.

  She cried out, and in response he kissed her, hot and hard, swallowing up her cries and enveloping her in his heat, smell and taste until he seemed to be everywhere, even inside her head, her mind filled to exploding with sensations as her body opened up to him and everything began to tighten between her thighs.

  He held her tightly as if he wanted to thrust even deeper into her, and when she came hard, he joined her in a triumphant roar, pushing her up against the door as he erupted into her. As the waves of bliss subsided, she felt him swell inside her, his hips jerking as he climaxed, and the knowledge that she’d brought him pleasure was almost—almost—as nice as her own orgasm.

  They collapsed onto the seat, still locked together, and stared at each other for a brief moment, breathing heavily.

  “Fuck,” he said eventually.

  “Jesus,” she replied. “That’s probably the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been while having sex.”

  He started to laugh, withdrew from her and disposed of the condom. “I’m sorry. But you only have yourself to blame.”

  “Me, why? What did I do?”

  “Looked gorgeous.” He kissed her. “I couldn’t wait until we got in.”

  She glared at him, but inside she glowed with pleasure at his compliment. “Now look at me. Trussed up like a turkey. Talk about humiliated.”

  She half expected him to apologise and free her hastily, but instead he just grinned, propped his head on a hand and brushed her nipple with his finger.

  “Very nice, too,” he said. “I might leave you like that.”

  “Colm!” She was genuinely shocked. “I still can’t believe you. What a fraud. You pretend you’re all gentlemanly, and then you…”

  “I what?” He tweaked her nipple.

  “Argh. Go all grrr.”

  “All what?”

  “Never mind. Can you get me out of this shirt? I think I’ve lost all sensation in my hands.”

  It took them a couple of minutes to free her, and by the time she was finally liberated, they were both laughing and exhausted.

  “The rain’s nearly stopped.” He helped her back on with her shirt and buttoned it up for her. “We should go in. Are you going to stay the night with me?” His gaze met hers.

  Mia hesitated. Mustn’t, shouldn’t, ought not to…

  “Okay,” she said. It might not be the wisest thing to do, but she liked him and she wanted to spend time with him. What was so terrible about that?

  “Come on, then.”

  He slid on his glasses, and they struggled to lever themselves out of the car. The wind wafted a light spray of rain across them, and then it was gone, little more than a fine mist remaining.

  “I’ll run with the painting,” he said, lifting it out of the boot. “I want it indoors. Come on.”

  She gave one last look at the view of the harbour, the tarmac path that snaked beside the beach glistening, the lights in the distance still blurring like drips of watercolour paint dropped onto a wet page. She wouldn’t forget this night in a hurry. But then this man seemed to have a habit of forcing his way into her mind. She hadn’t forgotten that she’d dreamed he called her Clio.

  Giving a little shiver, she ran across the road to join him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Colm opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, curled around Mia, her back to his chest, and the rain was pattering at the windows again. He lifted his head and squinted at the clock, the hands blurry without his glasses. Nearly seven. No need to get up yet.

  He lay back, propping his head on a hand, analysing this strange intrusion into his bed. The woman in his arms smelled like heaven in a curvy-shaped bottle. In spite of the fact that she went to the gym twice a week, and she’d lost weigh
t since the accident, her body remained soft and sensual, her skin like satin beneath his fingertips. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of touching her.

  Too bad he was due to leave the country in a few months.

  He stroked her shoulder, but she didn’t move, didn’t even stir, her rib cage continuing to rise and fall evenly. He could just see her profile, her long lashes dark against her cheek, lips slightly parted.

  His hand travelled down, skimming her hips, and then he slid it forward to rest on her stomach. Flat without being muscley, it was warm under his fingers.

  She probably wasn’t pregnant. If her period was due at the weekend, it meant they’d missed her most fertile time. Plus it would be very unlucky to get pregnant the one time he’d ever had sex without a condom.

  He rested his lips on her shoulder. But what if she was?

  He stroked the skin just under her navel with his thumb. Would she enjoy being pregnant, being a mother? She’d got to thirty without settling down, so clearly she was in no rush to enter wedded bliss. Maybe she’d hate it, be one of those women who felt constrained being indoors and who returned to work after a few weeks, leaving the baby with a nanny.

  There was nothing wrong with that per se, but in his daydreams he’d always pictured a wife who’d be happy to stay at home for a while. What was the point in having a child just so someone else could bring it up? He liked the idea of going to work and then coming home at night to a warm and well-lit house, dinner in the oven, baby in the bath ready for a play before his or her bedtime story.

  No doubt that was a stupid fantasy—were any households really like that anymore? The pregnancy magazine his sister had bought that he’d flicked through had talked about post-natal depression and cracked nipples and projectile vomiting, and had hardly made it sound like the idyllic experience he’d secretly dreamed of.

  And yet he couldn’t shake the image of Mia holding a baby, his baby, tired but happy as she wrapped it in a home-made shawl and put it to the breast.

  He groaned silently, withdrew his hand and lay back, looking up at the ceiling. And would she be sitting in a rocking chair with a blanket around her shoulders and chickens pecking at her feet? What century was he living in, for Christ’s sake?

  She wasn’t pregnant anyway. He wasn’t going to think about it. It was just a stupid dream.

  Dream. Hold on.

  Suddenly he remembered. He’d had a dream just before he’d woken up. Something to do with the painting…

  He’d spent an hour or so that evening trying to use his ability to obtain some more information from the watercolour, but apart from a few fleeting images of Dublin, he hadn’t been able to get anything. In the end Mia had suggested maybe he was tired and he should sleep on it, so he’d decided he’d have another go in the morning.

  But in his dream, he’d been standing looking at the painting. He hadn’t been indoors, though—he stood in a street—well, more of a winding country lane really—with large leafy trees arching above the low fences. The painting had been leaning against the fence next to a road sign.

  Old Karori Road.

  He raised his arm and rested his hand on his forehead. The name sounded Māori, which meant he was seeing a road in New Zealand, not Ireland. Was the road in Wellington? And why had he been shown this? Was this where his father was living?

  Double checking that Mia was still asleep, he slid out of bed as quietly as he could, slipped on a pair of boxers and padded down the hall to the living room. He took the White Pages from the shelf and thumbed through until he found the Gs. There were a couple of hundred Greens, eleven of which had the first initial of R.

  But none of them were listed as Old Karori Road.

  He replaced the directory and switched the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil, he went back over to the painting, which stood on the dining table, leaning against the wall. Had his father really painted this? And had Robert been seeing Mary while he did so? Maybe she had sat at his side while he sketched, reading a book or laying out a picnic for the two of them.

  Had Robert known Mary was pregnant? Kathleen Molony had seemed to think not, that Mary hadn’t found out until Robert had left. She’d implied that Mary had been distraught when he left, though, and that the parting had been a difficult one. Had Robert loved her? Not enough, obviously. If he’d loved her, he would have stayed.

  A shiver ran through Colm. The irony of the way his own current situation was mirroring his father’s didn’t escape him. And yet this time things would be different. Because if Mia was pregnant—which she probably wasn’t—he would find out before he left. And then at least he’d be able to make a decision based on knowing that fact.

  What would he do? Could he leave them both and return to Ireland, knowing Mia could be struggling as a single parent through those difficult early months? He’d help out financially, of course, but that would make it even more likely that she’d get a nanny in to help while she returned to work. What sort of stability would that give for the child? And could he really bear the fact that the only time he’d ever see the child would be the odd once or twice he could afford to fly out there?

  And yet what were the options? To make a commitment based on joint responsibility? How likely was that to work? Mia enjoyed being with him and having sex with him—that much was clear. But she’d given no sign of wanting anything more. Maybe she didn’t want kids. They hadn’t discussed it after all. What did he really know about her?

  “Morning.”

  He looked up in surprise to see her leaning against the doorjamb, watching him. She’d slipped on his T-shirt, which fell to just below her butt, the sleeves down to her elbows. Her black hair was all ruffled and she looked sleepy and content. She looked gorgeous.

  “Penny for them,” she said. “You looked away with the birds.”

  “I don’t get why you say ‘penny’.” He unfolded his arms and leaned on the worktop as she walked toward him. “Why don’t you say ‘a cent for them’?”

  “I guess it’s just a saying brought over from Britain with the first settlers.” She stopped before him, slid her arms around his waist and snuggled up to him. “We borrowed a lot of your strange phrases. Especially from you Irish. ‘Top of the morning.’ ‘Begorrah.’ ‘Look you.’”

  “‘Look you’ is Welsh,” he said, amused at her terrible accent. “I don’t really sound like that, do I?”

  She chuckled and kissed his neck. “No, Col-um.”

  He tightened his arms around her and nuzzled her hair, which still smelled of strawberries. For all his musings and warnings to himself, with her in his arms he couldn’t stop pleasure flooding through him. He’d liked Juliet, and they’d had fun together, but she’d never made him feel like this. No woman had ever prompted this urge to care and protect. What the hell had she done to him? She’d turned him into a Neanderthal. Next thing he’d be dragging her to the cave by her hair before going off to fight a woolly mammoth.

  “Why the sigh?” She pulled back and looked up at him, puzzled. “Something bothering you?”

  He kissed her. “I had a dream last night. Well, this morning.”

  “Ooh. Was I good?”

  He smiled. “It was about the painting.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Any revelations?”

  “Kind of. I don’t know.” The kettle boiled and switched off. “You want a cuppa?”

  “Coffee if you have it, please. I’ve never understood the European fascination for tea.”

  “It’s refreshing.” He put a bag in his mug and a spoon of coffee in hers. It’s only tea, he told himself. But somehow it seemed to symbolise the difference between them. They were worlds apart. In spite of the fact that the two cultures were similar in so many ways—speaking the same language, driving on the left side of the road, similar cuisine and sporting tastes—there were so many differences. She’d probably hate Ireland.

  She nudged him impatiently. “Colm, for God’s sake, come on, spill.”

  So h
e told her about the scene he’d observed, and the name of the road sign by the painting.

  “Old Karori Road?” she queried.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes studied him thoughtfully. He waited for her to say something, but she remained quiet, so eventually he said, “Ring a bell?”

  “I know the name.” She looked away, took the kettle and poured water into the mugs.

  “Is it in Wellington?”

  “Yes.” She stirred the cups.

  “Far from here?”

  “No, not at all.” She squeezed the teabag and took it out, added milk and handed him the mug. “You want to go there this morning?”

  “I’d like to.” He sipped the tea. “What are you up to today?”

  She stirred her coffee. “Nothing. I’m going shopping with Grace and Freya tomorrow, but I’m not doing anything today.”

  “Grace must be due soon,” he said as they made their way back to the bedroom.

  “Sunday, actually. But there are one or two bits she wants for the nursery, so Freya and I said we’d take her into town.”

  “No more news from the stalker?” He slid into bed, waited for her to join him and pulled the duvet over them.

  “I don’t think so, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Ash was keeping something from her. Freya told me that Nate hinted they’d received more letters, but I’m guessing they spirited them away before Grace got to see them.”

  “Just what she doesn’t need,” he said. “What with all the stress of having a baby.”

  “Yeah.” She looked into her mug, then took a sip.

  “Do you want kids?” Colm asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Colm heard the words come out of his mouth but couldn’t quite believe he’d said them. Why had he asked her that? It was too late to retract it now, though.

  She met his gaze briefly before looking away again. “Yes. I suppose.” She twirled a strand of her hair through her fingers. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it before. Neither Grace nor I ever talked much about that sort of thing. We’ve always been busy with our work—you know what teaching’s like. It can completely take over your life.”