It was that hint of vulnerability that got her, Marion decided. The barest suggestion of insecurity, as if he was afraid of being rejected. It blew her mind that someone so confident, so self-assured could have any self-doubt. Such a dichotomy.
“Justine should be able to handle things for a day in my absence,” she said, searching his gaze for more clues, more evidence of his thoughts.
Hope lit his eyes. “So you’ll come?”
She nodded, slid a thumb over the sleek line of his brow and smiled. “I will.”
He sighed, his chest deflating, his breath seeping into her mouth on a kiss, and it wasn’t until that moment that she realized he’d been holding his breath.
Waiting for her answer.
She smothered a whimper. Sweet, dear man, Marion thought. Her poor heart never stood a chance.
He owned it. He always had.
9
“SERIOUSLY?” MARION WHEEDLED, her eyes wide. “You’ve just watched me eat the Trucker’s Breakfast at Wilma’s Chicken and Waffles and you’re going to make me listen to ‘Baby Got Back’?” She arched a dark brow. “Permission to change the radio station, Major?” she asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
Robin chuckled, impressed that she’d asked. Hell, he’d seen friends divorce over radio and thermostat arguments. “Go ahead,” he said with a careless shrug, aiming the truck toward Mockingbird Road.
She scanned a few stations, skipping over various songs with a frown, until she happened upon Ed Sheeran’s “Give Me Love.” He nodded appreciatively and drummed a thumb against the steering wheel. Good choice.
The sky was a beautiful October blue, that bright otherworldly turquoise that only seemed to come in the fall. A rolling landscape of multicolored leaves painted both sides of the road as they drove farther and farther away from the city. There was distinct chill in the air this morning when they’d left for breakfast, a crispness that promised an even chillier evening. It was a good night for a fire, Robin thought, hoping that he could talk her into staying with him. She’d brought a bag with her and put out extra food and water for Angus, but he was trying not to read too much into her actions, afraid to get his hopes up.
He was relatively certain that he’d finally gotten through to her, that she was done running from him and would let this—whatever it was between them—play out the way it was meant to be.
This relationship had been twenty-five years in the making—he remembered when she was born, after all—and he wanted to grab hold of this opportunity and not let go.
Which pretty much summed up what he’d like to do with her, as well.
Honestly, when he’d awoke this morning, her delightful rump nestled against his groin, the pleasant weight of her ripe breast in his hand, the scent of her hair in his nose… He couldn’t remember ever feeling so content, so certain that he was in the right place at the right time. He’d cast a rueful glance around her purple bedroom, at the fluffy pillows and floral prints and breakable things, and known with certainty that, if she asked, he’d live in that feminine fortress if it meant he could be with her.
But he’d keep his balls, thank you very much.
This was why he’d avoided her—because he’d known he’d want her—and, while he’d never doubted that she desired him, wanting him was another matter altogether.
It was galling, really—and humbling, if he was honest—to be so…unsure. He thought she cared about him, but he had so little experience with love and relationships, how was he to know? He knew he’d never felt this way before. He could only hope that she felt the same way about him. And if she didn’t, then he’d figure out a way to make her.
Because she needed him as much as he needed her.
Other than Justine, the best he could tell, Marion was every bit as isolated as he was. She’d mentioned last night that she hadn’t seen or spoken to her father in years, that he’d left shortly after Michael’s death. He’d known that, of course, but he’d never realized that the rift hadn’t been repaired. As for her mother, she’d moved to North Carolina to live with her sister. Marion was careful about what she revealed about her mother, simply saying she was “remote.”
No doubt remote meant she’d severed any parental obligation to her daughter. It made his blood boil. They’d lost Michael, but Marion had, too, and they still had another child to love and protect.
In his opinion, the pair of them had failed miserably.
He wanted to make up for that, wanted to be the person she could count on, that she could trust. He wanted to be her safe harbor in a storm, her retreat, her lover, her confidant and friend. He wanted to take care of her, not because she needed him to, but because she deserved it. She’d been taking care of everyone around her for years. Who had Marion’s back? Who shored her up? Who could she turn to?
Him, Robin thought. If she’d let herself.
They still hadn’t talked about Michael, but in reviewing the list Justine had given him—the one that cited all the people who benefitted from Marion’s “discretionary fund”—he thought he’d worked out a solution to that, as well. One that would honor both her and her late brother.
Marion’s cell phone chirped. She fished it out of her purse and looked at the display. Her eyes rounded, then watered, and a smile curled her lips.
“What?” he asked, concerned. “Is something wrong?”
She turned to look at him, her gaze soft with disbelief and gratitude. “Justine just sent me a text.” She swallowed tightly, seemingly struggling to find her voice. “Every outstanding pledge has been honored this morning. Honored and doubled.”
She launched herself at him, laughing delightedly, and rained kisses all over his cheek. “You did this,” she said. “I don’t know exactly how and I don’t care, but I know that you did it.” She drew back, stroked his cheek. “Thank you, Robin. We can do a lot of good with this money.”
Not I, but we. His heart lightened. There was hope for them yet.
* * *
COTTONWOOD WAS EXACTLY AS Marion remembered it. The big white farmhouse sat deep in a grove of cottonwood trees, overlooking a large pond. Ducks and geese currently skimmed the surface, and Robin’s cows bellowed from the pasture. The farm was peaceful, but alive with activity.
It was also surprisingly simple. The bulk of his furniture had been mined from antiques stores and an Amish community not far from where he lived. Lots of tall windows provided ample light, bathing the rooms in a golden glow. His kitchen had been outfitted with an old copper farmhouse sink—one she coveted—and copper ceiling tiles, which had been rescued from an old feed and seed store, covered the ceiling. It was big and livable and warm and the view from the front porch couldn’t be beat.
“This is gorgeous, Robin,” she said, watching his lips curl around the edges at her compliment. As though he were relieved.
“Thank you,” he said. “I thought you’d like it. Other than John, you’re only the only guest I’ve ever had.”
She turned to look at him, irrationally pleased. “Really? I’m honored.”
He slung an arm around her shoulders, then pulled her closer to him. “You’re special, nitwit, or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and pleasure bloomed through her. “Nitwit,” she echoed. “Not exactly the endearment I would have chosen, but…”
His eyes twinkled. “What would you like me to call you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. ‘Goddess’ has a nice ring to it.”
A bark of laughter broke up from his throat. “Goddess, huh? You are that,” he conceded. “My lady in red.”
“You’re really hung up on that cape, aren’t you?”
“Did you bring it with you?”
She laughed. “Sorry, no.”
He made a moue of regret. “No worries, I like your battle dress better anyway.”
She blinked, confused. “My battle dress?”
He wrapped a tendril of her hair around his finger and gently pulle
d her to him, lowered his mouth to hers, brushing her lips, once, twice, three times. “Your beautiful, gloriously naked body,” he explained, his voice husky. “That’s your battle dress. The one guaranteed to win any war. I’m defenseless against it.”
Sweet Lord, if he didn’t stop saying things like that to her, she was going to start believing him. Her breath shallowed out as desire flooded her, making her breasts go heavy and ache, her womb swell with an itchy heat. She deepened the kiss, wrapped her arms around his powerful frame, his brilliantly sculpted body. His shoulders were a work of art, the perfect combination of sleek skin stretched over muscle and bone.
“You know what I just realized,” he said, pulling her to him.
“What?”
He swept her up off her feet and headed for the door. “I haven’t shown you the bedroom yet.”
Marion giggled, licked a path along his neck and breathed into his ear, gratified when he shivered. “That’s awfully remiss of you.”
“Making the correction now,” he said as he negotiated the stairs. He carried her as though her weight were negligible—when it wasn’t, she knew—without breaking stride or any heavy breathing. It was a romantic, caveman gesture and it thrilled her to her little toes. Marion vaguely noted the large four-poster bed before she landed against it, the mattress soft and pillowy at her back.
He was hard and firm at her front.
He looked down at her, his hazel gaze wicked, his smile rife with masculine satisfaction. “Do it,” he told her. “Whatever you’re thinking, do it.”
She chuckled low, recognizing her own words. Then she deliberately rolled him over, sat back on her haunches and let her gaze travel slowly over him. “I’m going to go ahead and get into my battle dress,” she murmured, whipping her sweater over her head.
His eyes glazed over and he waited with bated breath as she slowly unclasped her bra. She popped the front closure, allowing the fabric to sag. It clung to her nipples and with a slight shrug, she let it fall.
He gulped, his pupils dilating. His fingers clenched, but he held himself still, content to let her lead. She leaned back and unfastened her jeans, released the zipper, then took her time lowering them over her hips.
His breathing grew shallow and he licked his lips and swallowed, his eyes going a deep amber with desire. She loved the way he looked at her, the way his greedy gaze slid over her. It melted her bones, loosened her muscles. Made her nipples tingle, her sex simmer. She took as much time with her panties as she had her jeans and by the time she was fully undressed, his breathing was ragged.
“Marion,” he choked desperately, “you’re killing me.”
“It’s war,” she said, smiling foggily, her fingers trailing over his chest. While she’d taken her time removing her own clothes, she didn’t waste any removing his. She ripped his shirt off, buttons ricocheting to the floor.
He laughed brokenly, his eyes widening in shock. “I hated that shirt anyway,” he said, letting a rough breath escape as her tongue touched his nipple. She ran her hands along each one of his ribs, playing them like a harp against her fingertips, then licked a path down his belly. She rubbed him through his jeans, feeling the hot, hard length of him jump against her palm, then she crouched between his legs. She lowered the zipper and he lifted his hips, helping her in the process. She looked up at him, flipped her hair over her shoulder so it wouldn’t be in the way, then arched a brow, smiled and took him first in hand, then into her mouth.
He jerked, growled low and fisted his hands in the coverlet. “Marion.”
She circled the engorged head with her tongue, licking him. “You said to do whatever I was thinking,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice. Who was this woman? “I was thinking about doing this. About feeling this part of you in my mouth.” She licked him again, suckled deep. “The soft parts,” she murmured. Closed her lips over him once more, then relaxed her throat and ate the whole of him. “The hard parts.”
Another desperate groan ripped from his throat, emboldening her further, giving her more confidence to wage this carnal war, to lay siege, to conquer. She massaged his tautened balls, then took him deep once more, sliding her tongue along from root to tip, savoring the taste of him against her mouth. His thighs were rigid, his hands convulsing, and a look at his face revealed a locked-tight jaw and eyes that were made with longing.
It was the eyes that got her, that propelled her forward. She scaled his magnificent body, straddled him, then sank slowly onto him, fully impaling herself. He growled, grabbing her hips and thrusting up into her. He bent forward and took a breast into his mouth, suckling hard, the same way she’d just done to him. Her clit tingled in response, as though an invisible thread connected one part of her to the other and she rode him harder, undulating her hips against him. She leaned back, taking more of him, and he came with her, his mouth everywhere. Her breasts, her chest, her neck. His big wonderful hands shaped her ass, squeezing her with every measured roll of her hips.
She caught that magical rhythm, the one that made her womb quicken, her breath come in quick, sharp little gasps and followed it until the orgasm crested, then broke in a rainbow of sensation so intense her vision blackened around the edges.
Robin bucked wildly beneath her, his lips peeled back away from his teeth, his eyes heavy-lidded, clouded with want. Harder, faster, then harder still and she absorbed the thrusts, her breasts bouncing on her chest. Three manic thrusts later, he roared, then went rigid beneath her. She could feel him pulsing deep inside of her, every explosive contraction of his release.
It was odd, that sensation, knowing that, had she not been on birth control, the seed she literally felt filling her body could have taken root and produced a little Robin. A little archer. A vision of this child, this tawny-haired version of Robin, made something in her throat tighten, made her feminine muscles contract, ostensibly to hold that part of him in, to encourage it to take root.
Shaken by the longing that suddenly welled up inside of her, Marion collapsed against his chest. His chest heaved beneath her, his fingers stroked her spine, then he picked up a corner of the white sheet and waved it awkwardly at her.
“I surrender,” he said, chuckling breathlessly. “You win.”
Yes, Marion thought, happiness and contentment washing through her, saturating every pore as she lay there with him, afternoon light spilling into the bedroom.
For the first time in her life, she believed in the victory.
10
“IT’S GOING WELL, THEN?” John asked. He inspected the fuse box, deemed it acceptable, then turned to Robin and waited for his answer.
“It is,” he said.
“’Bout damned time,” John said with a meaningful nod. “Honestly, it’s like the blind leading the blind with you two.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robin said, walking back into what would be the communal kitchen of the Maid Marion Safe House. “So what do you think?” he asked. “I called you down here to inspect the building, not critique my love life.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a love life.” He offered Robin an annoying smug look. “Have you forgotten the foot-kissing bet?”
“Have you forgotten you owe me two grand?” Robin replied.
John grinned. “The structure is sound. I can put a team on it and have the first three floors completely renovated within a month.”
Robin winced. “I need it sooner,” he said. “At least the kitchen and a single apartment.” Gage, in all probability didn’t have a month. The boy needed a safe place to go now, a clean place to lay his head, a stocked kitchen to put food in his belly. Out of all the people on Marion’s personal list, Gage’s situation was admittedly the most dire.
He’d finally drummed up the nerve to ask her about the boy last night. She hadn’t been the least surprised that Justine had outed her. “She can’t keep a secret,” she’d complained with an eye roll. They’d laid on the braided rug in front of his fireplace last night and talked for hours, t
hen made love, then slept. Seeing her hair spilled out on his pillow this morning had made him want to beat his chest and roar, a seemingly perpetual state of late.
She was lovely, his lady in red. A breathing angel.
John was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll fast-track it,” he said. “In the interim, the boy can come and stay with me.”
Robin blinked. “Stay with you?”
John shrugged. “I’m in the city. I’ll get the kid a key and a cell phone, and he can stay with me when he wants to with the understanding that I need to know where he is. I won’t put any demands on him, since it sounds like he’s carrying a heavy enough load as it is.”
Robin was speechless, evidently insultingly so to John, who suddenly glowered at him.
“Don’t look so damned surprised,” he said. “Hell, I’m not heartless. You haven’t got the market cornered on good deeds.”
“No, I—” He nodded, still at a loss. John Little didn’t live a monastic life by any stretch of the imagination. He liked to drink, watch movies with tasteless humor and eat junk food.
Come to think of it, a teenager would probably be a good roommate for him.
Robin smiled at him. “It’s a wonderful idea. Marion will be thrilled.”
“Yes, she will,” John said with a succinct nod. “And that’s all you care about, anyway, isn’t? It’s always been for her.”
Robin stilled, frowning at him. “What do you mean?”
“The clinic,” John told him, his gaze clear of all humor, of sentiment. “Admit it, Robin. It was never about Michael—it was about Marion. About keeping her close. About holding on to to her.”
For reasons that escaped him, Robin’s heart suddenly raced, and his mouth went dry, forcing him to swallow. “That’s not fair,” he said. “Michael was a friend.”
“Yes, he was, but if I died tomorrow, would you found any kind of memorial in my honor?” He shook his head sadly, as if Robin was slow. “Not that I’d expect you to, of course. But you wouldn’t.”
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IX: The EqualizerGod's Gift to Women Page 8