Feels Like Home

by Beth Andrews

  She had enjoyed herself with Aidan, had even enjoyed riding in that souped up golf cart during their tour. But he’d been right. She didn’t often do something just for the sheer pleasure it would give her in return. Why shouldn’t she do so now? After all, Mark was a perfectly nice, handsome man. A man who was obviously interested in her. A man who seemed happy with the persona she presented, who wouldn’t try to dig deeper. He was safe.

  Unlike the man next to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’d love to dance.”

  Except she didn’t know what to do with her bag. A problem Mark solved by plucking it from her and setting it on the bar. “Aidan won’t mind watching your purse, will you?”

  Before Aidan could confirm or deny that statement, Mark placed his hand on the small of her back and led her to the dance floor.

  “IF YOU KILL HIM,” Connie said when she came back, a few minutes after Yvonne had vacated the seat, “we won’t have anyone to finish renovating the carriage house.”

  Aidan flicked an irritated glance at her, then went back to watching Yvonne. And Mark. “Go enjoy your party.”

  Instead of listening—why couldn’t everyone just do what he wanted?—she sat down. “How can I enjoy it when I’m worried I’ll have to stop you from committing murder? If looks could kill, poor Mark would be six feet under right now.”

  He sipped his Jack Daniels. Poor Mark my ass. His blood boiled as he watched the contractor twirl Yvonne, then stop her momentum with a hand to her waist. A hand that stayed there despite the song’s upbeat tempo. The son of a bitch.

  “Wow,” Connie said after ordering another soda, “she is horrible. And here I thought the great Yvonne Delisle could do no wrong. But the way she’s moving out there?” She shook her head sadly. “That is nothing but wrong.”

  Aidan grunted. She was right. Yvonne was out of her element. Her movements were jerky and stiff; the smile she gave Mark—the son of a bitch—was strained. She was nervous and unsure of herself and way too self-conscious to just let go and enjoy the moment.

  Good. He didn’t want her enjoying any moments. Not with Mark. Not with any other man but him.

  Aidan downed the rest of his drink, savoring the burn as it hit his throat. He ordered another one.

  Connie watched him as she sipped her soda through a straw.

  “If you have something to say,” he growled, “just say it.”

  “Did I misjudge her?”

  That was the last thing he expected out of his smart-ass friend. “What?”

  “Yvonne. Was I too judgmental about her when you two were together?”

  “Why worry about it now?”

  “I don’t know. I just…I guess maybe I’m wondering if she’s really as cold and unfeeling as I always thought she was.”

  “She is,” he said, staring at his new drink. “Everything else is just an act.”

  “I’m not so sure….”

  “Don’t tell me you’re starting to like her.”

  “I think she might actually be growing on me,” Connie admitted, sounding shocked by the realization. “Sort of like mold. One day you look, and the loaf of bread that was fine yesterday now has green spots. You can’t control it.”

  No, you couldn’t control mold. But he sure as hell could control his tumultuous feelings about his ex-wife.

  The song ended and another one started. A slow one, perfect for holding a woman close, swaying with her to the melodic beat. Aidan was on his feet before he even realized it.

  “Don’t cause a scene,” Connie warned him softly as he brushed past her.

  He didn’t plan on causing a scene. But he’d be damned if he’d sit by and watch his wife in the arms of another man.

  “Mind if I have this dance?” he asked, reaching them just as Mark held out his arms for her to step into his embrace.

  Mark met his eyes, and what he saw must’ve been enough to convince him not to argue. “Sure. Thanks for the dance, Yvonne. I’ll see you both at work Monday.”

  Aidan stood next to Yvonne as they watched Mark weave his way through the swaying couples on the floor. “Well,” she said in that haughty tone he both hated and loved, “that was incredibly rude.”

  She turned to leave, but he grabbed her hand. “Dance with me.” When she tried to pull free, he held firm and closed the distance between them so he could speak directly into her ear. “Please,” he added quietly.

  At her acquiescence, he tugged her into his arms. He kept his hands at her waist and started moving to the music. She was stiff, her hands on his shoulders, her gaze somewhere over his left ear.

  “You know I’m not very good at this,” she said, her body leaning away from his, her feet shuffling back and forth.

  “You’re doing fine. Just relax.” He slowly pulled her closer until their thighs brushed. Her eyes widened. “You’re thinking too much,” he said, settling his hands at the small of her back, his fingers brushing the top of her ass. “Stop worrying about what you look like, what people think of you. Just listen to the music.”

  She nodded, her expression serious, as if he was going to quiz her on this later. But she inhaled deeply, and when she exhaled, her shoulders relaxed a bit and her fingers stopped digging into his skin.

  “Come a little closer,” he said softly.

  She hesitated. He continued moving, swaying to the hypnotic beat, and finally, thankfully, she stepped closer. Her hips bumped his, her breasts pressed lightly against his chest. His body tightened painfully.

  He turned his head, inhaled the sweet scent of her hair before breathing into her ear, “Now hold on to me.”

  Slowly, so slowly it took all he had not to yank her to him while he waited, she slid her hands around the back of his neck. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin, her nails lightly scraping his scalp as she combed them through his hair.

  She didn’t put her head on his shoulder, but kept her eyes on his as they danced. He led her through the motions with his thighs, his hands, his hips. For every move he made, she matched him, her body lithe and graceful.

  Tension seemed to surround them, thickening the air. It didn’t matter that they were on a dance floor with a dozen other couples, that his brothers and coworkers were all there, witnessing his weakness for this woman. All that mattered was keeping Yvonne in his arms.

  Holding her, feeling her lush curves pressed against him, it was so easy to forget everything else. His mother’s diagnosis, the guilt of keeping it from his brothers. He could let go of the pain and anger of the past. The feelings of betrayal. The sense of loss that always accompanied his memories.

  But this moment couldn’t last. Already the song was winding down. In a matter of seconds he’d have to return to the real world. A world where his mother was sick and the woman in his arms was no longer his. Hadn’t been his for a long time.

  The song ended, replaced by a faster-paced one. People moved around them, sent them curious glances. Aidan knew he looked like an idiot, standing in the middle of the dance floor with his ex-wife—the woman who’d walked out on him—in his arms. But he wasn’t ready to let her go.

  She licked her lips, the nervous gesture going straight to his groin. “Aidan—”

  He shook his head. Then stepped back so that her hands fell from his neck, brushing his chest as she lowered her arms.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he said, itching to pull her close again. He walked away, not making eye contact with anyone as he left the room, crossed through the main bar and out into the cold darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WELL OVER AN hour later, Yvonne pulled up in front of the cottage. After Aidan had left her standing on the dance floor like an idiot, she’d gone back to the bar and finished her wine. Chatted with J.C. about the possibility of her providing gourmet chocolates for Diamond Dust weddings. Traded barbs with Connie—except tonight the barbs were good-natured.

  She’d done what she did best. She’d put on a show. Appearances,
after all, were everything. They kept her safe from people looking too closely.

  She doubted anyone even realized anything out of the ordinary had happened. That she’d had a life-altering experience, one that had made her insides feel as twisted as a rope, her emotions a jumbled mess.

  Careful not to turn an ankle in her high heels, she crossed the gravel driveway as quickly as possible, the glow of the porch light doing little to dispel the darkness. That was just one of many things she hadn’t liked about living in Jewell when she and Aidan had been married. How dark it got at night. She’d missed the glow of the city. The sounds of traffic. How easy it was for her to get lost in a crowd. To be anonymous.

  And if no one knew her, she didn’t have to worry about who they expected her to be.

  Something rustled in the bushes to her right. Her heart raced, but she didn’t bolt for the door. She refused to give in to her fears of the unknown. Once a night was enough for that.

  Because that’s exactly what she’d done at the bar. She’d let her fear of the way Aidan made her feel, of how much he made her want, control her. Had been so afraid that she hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving her alone on that dance floor.

  He wanted her back in his bed.

  It wasn’t fair for me to keep seeing her. When I kept thinking about you.

  Despite everything that’d happened between them, he still wanted her. A scary, scary thought. But also thrilling. And way too tempting.

  At the door, she dug her keys from her purse and unlocked the door. A shadow to her left moved. She clenched the keys, ready to defend herself. And then the shape emerged from the darkness.

  “Aidan,” she breathed. “You scared the life out of me.” Squinting, she searched the driveway. “How’d you get here?” Surely she hadn’t been so preoccupied that she’d missed seeing his parked car.

  “I walked.”

  “From our…from your house?”

  His eyes flashed. “I stopped by my mom’s to check on her, but when I went out to drive home I started walking, and ended up here.”

  “Why?”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. Oh, God. Yes, she knew exactly why he was here. They’d been married, had had sex hundreds of times. But she’d never before felt this anticipation, this mix of longing and pure need. Had never had him look at her with such all-consuming hunger and heat. As if he wanted her beyond hope, beyond reason.

  Aidan had always desired her, had always expected her to give him everything she wanted to keep to herself—her thoughts and feelings. The more he’d pushed, the deeper she’d gone inside herself, too afraid to fully open up to the man who’d claimed to love her. The man she’d vowed to love for the rest of her life. And now he stood in front of her wanting her to share her body with him.

  He reached out and traced a fingertip from her temple to her jawline. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  Nerves made it impossible to speak. His hair was messed, as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. His jacket was open. He smelled of fresh air and the musky scent that was unique to him. He was the only man she’d ever loved, the only man she’d ever wanted to love her. But they’d made so many mistakes.

  “I don’t think—”

  “I want you, Yvonne.”

  She could see that as clearly as she saw the twitching of his jaw. He’d walked away from her on the dance floor but he was here now, risking his pride. He didn’t love her anymore. She wasn’t sure he ever really had. He didn’t need her. But he wanted her.

  She wanted him, too.

  “Come inside,” she whispered, reaching behind her to open the door. Holding his gaze, she stepped backward over the threshold.

  She had no idea what to do, if she should go to him or let him come to her. Out of her element once again. So she didn’t do anything, just waited inside the doorway.

  He followed her in, his mouth a hard line. Her head grew light and she realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled softly. Stopping in front of her, he placed his hands on her hips and slowly dragged her toward him, giving her time. A chance to change her mind.

  She laid her hands on his chest. Felt the frantic beat of his heart, the way his fingers tightened on her hips. He wasn’t as steady or in control as she’d thought. Warmth pooled in her stomach.

  His narrowed gaze skimmed her face. Sliding an arm around her, he pulled her flush against him. She locked her knees so they wouldn’t buckle, curled her fingers into the hard planes of his chest. Each breath she took caused her breasts to brush against him, tugged the silk of her shirt tighter. Her nipples beaded. Her skin heated.

  He gently outlined her mouth with his fingertip. Lightly rubbed the indentation above her upper lip. He pulled his hand away, scowled at the faint red mark left by her lipstick. He moved his free hand to the nape of her neck, held her head still while he rubbed the thumb of his other hand across her mouth, wiping off her lipstick.

  And then he crushed his mouth down on hers as he walked her farther into the tiny entryway. He kicked the door shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the house, through her veins. His kiss was wild. Rough. And a touch mean.

  She wanted to kiss him back just as hungrily, to devour him, but she’d never felt this level of desire before. When they were together before, their love-making had been more reserved. Civilized. Nothing this desperate, this edgy. Panic suffused her. Had her squirming against him. When he didn’t so much as loosen his hold, she reached up and tugged his hair. Hard.

  He lifted his head. His eyes glittered; his breathing was choppy. She felt the tension of his restraint, what it cost him to hold back.

  His eyes on hers, he slid his hand from her hair the top of her breast, his palm over her racing heart. She searched his eyes, saw the power she had over him, power that was both humbling and exhilarating.

  “Be with me,” he said, his voice guttural. “Just for one night, let it be you and me and nothing else.”

  Instead of answering, she tightened her hold on his hair and pulled his mouth back to hers.

  He groaned and deepened the kiss as he gently squeezed her breast. She arched and pushed herself into his hand. Still kissing her, he walked her backward. Her shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud, but he kept moving closer, trapping her between the heat of his solid body and the cold drywall. He bit kisses along her neck as he slid his thigh between her legs. It was all she could do not to rub against him in an effort to ease the ache there.

  He nibbled her earlobe and she gasped. Lifting his head, he tugged her shirt out of her jeans. She jerked at the feel of his work-roughened palm against the sensitive skin of her stomach. He trailed his hands across her rib cage, shoved her shirt and bra up until they were bunched under her armpits. Then he lifted her arms, trapping them overhead with one large hand bracketed around her wrists, then took a tight nipple into his mouth and sucked.

  She bucked against him, but he didn’t loosen his hold. Her breath shuddered in and out. He lightly scraped his teeth over the tip of her breast and she went wild. Breaking his hold, she clawed at his back, yanking his shirt over his head so she could smooth her palms over the solid planes of his chest, the muscles bunching at his shoulders.

  She pushed against him so that they reversed positions and he was against the wall. He kissed her and turned them again. And again. Until they were in the hallway outside the bedroom door.

  He pressed her hard into the wall, nudged her head back with one hand as he kissed her jaw, the line of her throat. His free hand slid down her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. Her hips lifted as he undid the button and zipper.

  “The bed…”

  But she trailed off when he shook his head, his eyes hot with want. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he unzipped her boots, the sound loud in the stillness. He slid first one boot, then the other off, tossing them aside before reaching up and dragging her jeans and panties down her legs. His movements were so s
low, so deliberate she wanted to yell at him to hurry up. Or grab her pants and cover herself again. She stood pressed against the wall, her fingers curled into her palms, her head tipped back as she stared at the white ceiling.

  He pulled her clothes to her ankles, then skimmed one finger up her leg, along her inner thigh. Her pelvis contracted. “You’re so beautiful.” He traced that finger along the crease where her thigh and hip bone connected, then lightly over her tight curls. She bit her lip. “I still dream about you.”

  He massaged her thighs, his strong hands turning her muscles to jelly. She moaned, the low, rasping sound seeming to come from someone else. But, oh, she dreamed of him, too. Missed him too much.

  “Let me in, Yvonne.” He kissed the juncture of her thighs and she stiffened. But he held her firmly, his fingers tight on her rear, his thumbs pressing her hip bones. “Just this once, let me in.”

  Her breath lodged in her chest. She couldn’t. She was too exposed, her shirt bunched up and her jeans at her ankles, her body open for him to see. If she wasn’t careful, he’d see inside her heart.

  But he was rubbing circles on her hips, her abdomen. His breath was hot on her, his naked chest brushing against her legs. And when he leaned forward and licked her, she couldn’t fight it any longer. She groaned and let her thighs relax.

  It didn’t matter that she was writhing under his hands and mouth, with no sense of who she was, of what she should be doing, how she should be acting. Her hips moved against him as she sought relief from the building pressure. Guttural sounds rose from her throat, mixed with her raspy breathing. And when she glanced down, saw him on his knees in front of her, her manicured nails in his hair as she held his head to the most intimate part of her, that pressure burst.

  She cried out, her fingers tightening, digging into his scalp as her orgasm rocked her. Shock wave after shock wave convulsed her, again and again.

  Gasping for breath, her body shaking, she felt Aidan lift her foot. She could barely move as he took her jeans off. He lurched to his feet, his movements frantic as he took a condom out of his pocket, then pushed his pants down, freeing his erection. She reached out to touch him, wanting to hold that hardness, that heat, in her hand. But he was already sheathing himself.