Father Christmas

by Judith Arnold

  He must have realized how much courage this act had required of her. A faint smile crossed his lips, grateful and frankly carnal, before he brought his mouth back to her. She felt the scratch of his bandages against her side, the seductive massage of his fingers against her other side as he took one nipple and then the other into his mouth. She clung to his shoulders, trying not to dissolve into a seething puddle of sensation.

  Sinking to his knees, he kissed a path to her navel, flicked his tongue over it, and rubbed his chin against the button at the waistband of her slacks. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, making a desultory attempt to open the button with his left hand.

  She gazed down at him, and he peered up at her, looking uncannily like Michael when he was trying to get away with something. John’s expression was a bit naughty, a bit hopeful, and completely irresistible.

  Unlike Michael, though, he also looked unbearably manly, his hair as dark as night, his jaw shaded with a day’s growth of beard, his lips damp from kissing her. His eyes were as sharp and piercing as darts, cutting straight through her, as if he could see her secrets, her deepest desires.

  She couldn’t deny those eyes.

  She didn’t want to.

  Swallowing hard, she popped open the button and inched down the zipper. John did the rest, shoving her slacks and panties down her legs and then trailing his hands back up to her bottom. He kissed the curve of her belly and then lower, a light, tantalizing brush of his tongue between her legs.

  A small cry escaped her, partly from shock and partly from the jolt of sensation that flared through her. He rose to his feet and gathered her to himself, taking her mouth in a long, dizzying kiss.

  Somehow, despite his bad hand, he managed to remove his own jeans without any difficulty. He pulled her body to his, and she experienced another jolt of heat as he pressed himself to her. After a swift, hard kiss, he drew her toward the bed and down onto the thick burgundy quilt.

  She needed to catch her breath—and so, apparently, did he. For a long, lovely moment they just lay side by side, facing each other, their heads settling into the pillows. He had the most beautiful face Molly had ever seen. It wasn’t pretty or polished, but every feature was eloquent, conveying a blend of trust, affection and yearning. The combination was so potent, so poignant, she wanted to reassure him, open herself to him and promise him things he would never ask for.

  Instead, she leaned forward and kissed his nose, the edge of his cheek, the point of his chin. He skimmed his hand along her side and forward, exploring the roundness of her breasts. She ran her hands up and down his back, and his muscles flexed beneath her palms. She kissed his throat and he sighed. She touched his nipples and he gasped. Her hands journeyed across his ribs and he gasped again, this time recoiling slightly.

  “What?” she asked, worried that she’d done something wrong.

  “Nothing,” he murmured, nudging her hand away from his chest.

  She realized that she’d touched his bruises, still livid so many days after his encounter with the thug. “I’m sorry, John. I forgot—”

  “It’s all right.”

  It wasn’t all right. She slid down until she could kiss the discolored skin, wishing her kisses could heal him.

  He pulled her back up to the pillow, rolling with her until she lay under him. His thigh nestled between her legs and he moved it against her, sending shimmering heat up into her.

  She tried to concentrate on the mere feel of him, his weight and power and size, but she couldn’t. There was too much else in this bed right now—his pride and stoicism, her profound longing, the ugliness and danger of his work, the pensiveness she felt about the holiday this year.. The son he loved, and his determination to do right by that son. Her own affection for his son, and her concern for John’s safety.

  She loved him. She knew it and it frightened her, because John had never offered a hint that he returned her love. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She knew the truth when it punched her in the gut. The truth was, she loved John Russo.

  As if he sensed the change in her mood, he rose, propping himself up on his arms. His right arm buckled, and he collapsed against her and cursed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, horrified.

  Groaning again, he slid off her and sprawled out on his back. “I’m fine. Just...”

  “Just what?”

  “Mortified.”

  “Mortified?” She pushed onto her side and peered down at him. A trace of a smile curved his lips, and she felt some of her concern ebb away. “Why?”

  “Look at me.” He shook his head, his smile failing to disguise his annoyance. “I’m operating at half strength.” He raised his bandaged arm, then pointed to his discolored ribs.

  Just hearing him admit his insecurity made her love him more. “If this is what you’re like at half strength,” she said, skimming her hand gently over his chest, “I don’t think I could survive you at full strength.”

  “Molly.” He gazed up at her, ran his thumb over the curve of her lip and smiled bleakly. “I’m really a lot better with two working hands.”

  That might be, but Molly was absurdly aroused by what he’d accomplished with just one hand—and two legs, and two lips, and a naughty tongue, and a magnificent chest, and his own arousal, which was definitely not at half strength.

  Mustering what little courage she had left, she slid her hand down his body through the dark, wiry hair below his abdomen to his hard length. She skimmed him with her palms. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked with feigned innocence.

  He closed his eyes and groaned at her touch. “No.”

  “Then you’re just going to have to stay where you are and let me do the rest.”

  His eyes flew open and he stared at her, a daring, searing gaze that almost made her lose her courage right then. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said, his voice a dark rumble.

  “Why? You like to be in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  That was blunt. “Well, tough luck, Detective Russo of the Arlington Police Force,” she retorted, feeling a fresh burst of audacity. If he’d challenged her at all this evening with his steamy gazes and his orders for her to undress, nothing challenged her more than this.

  Her sudden bossiness seemed to intrigue him. That hint of a wicked smile returned. “Tough luck?”

  She tried to suppress a grin. “Oh, yes, John. Very tough.”

  “I think I’m worried.” But he didn’t look worried. He looked downright pleased—and if possible, more aroused than before.

  “Trust me,” she said, wishing she could trust herself. She had no idea how to be in charge in bed. The only thing she knew how to be in charge of was a preschool.

  Even though she felt way out of her depth, he seemed to be responding quite intensely to her gentle caresses. She tightened her hand and he responded even more intensely. A broken groan escaped him, and he eased her hand away.

  “I thought I was in charge,” she protested.

  “It feels too good.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, then placed it on his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, feeling as if she’d failed, somehow.

  “Come on top of me,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”

  There were advantages and disadvantages to loving a man of few words. The main disadvantage was that he always left her wanting to know more. The main advantage was that he stated his wishes quite clearly.

  She did as he asked, easing herself down onto him. He massaged her shoulders, her sides, the outer curves of her breasts, her waist. Then he drew her toward him, arranging her legs so she was straddling his hips. She braced herself on her arms and he touched her breasts. What he could do to her with one hand was astonishing.

  His fingers glided down her body and she shuddered, her hips moving of their own volition, her fingertips digging into his shoulders. “Look at me, Molly,” he whispere
d when she closed her eyes.

  She obeyed, forcing her lids open and peering down into his face. His gaze reached into her like his hand, stroking her soul as his fingers stroked her flesh. Her muscles tensed, her body needing more, needing him.

  She whimpered, deep in her throat, and arched her back. “Are you still in charge?” he asked.

  Through a haze of passion she saw his smile. She opened her mouth to answer, but he flicked his thumb against her in such a way she could only moan. She might have been imagining it, but she thought she heard him moan too, as if seeing her so aroused aroused him, as well.

  “There are condoms in the drawer,” he told her, gesturing with his idle right hand toward the night table beside the bed. He let go of her, and the loss of his touch chilled her. She groped frantically through the drawer, her hands trembling as she pulled out the box. She searched John’s face, hoping that he would take over from there. But he only lifted his bandaged hand and smiled again.

  Anyone who could awaken such heavenly sensations inside a woman could certainly tear open a foil wrapper, with or without two working hands. But now, when she was on the verge of burning up, John was going to feign helplessness.

  She did what she had to do, her fingers still shaking, her breath shallow. When she had him ready, she turned back to him and found his smile gone, his eyes luminous. He clamped his hands over her hips and pulled her down onto him, thrusting deep.

  For a moment she refused to move. She wanted to savor the perfection, the glorious possession of his body. Soon she would want more, but this one moment, this first taste... It was heaven.

  Her fingers curled against his shoulders and her breasts skimmed his chest as he rocked her body with his, helping her find her rhythm, angling her to take even more of him. She understood what he’d meant when he said it felt too good. What he was doing to her felt much too good, immeasurably too good.

  Her body absorbed him, welcomed him, let him lead her onward. The boundaries between them blurred and vanished. John was a part of her, his body locked inside her, carrying her with him until they were both on fire, exploding with pleasure, closer than two people could possibly be.

  She sank onto him, too weak to move. He stroked his hand languidly up and down her back. She cuddled against him, cushioning her head with his shoulder. His skin was warm, satiny against her cheek. She could hear the rapid pounding of his heart.

  A long while passed, neither of them moving, nothing said as their bodies slowly cooled off, their pulses slowed and they separated. John kept his arms snugly around her, giving her a sense of safety. She shouldn’t feel safe. She’d just admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. He sounded weary.

  Her emotions were raw, but other than that she was splendid. “‘Okay’ would be an understatement,” she told him.

  She couldn’t see his smile, but she could picture it. “It’s been a while for me,” he said. “I hope I wasn’t too rough.”

  She took a minute to digest his comment. She’d never before known a man who could say so much in so few words. In his statement she heard strains of his obsessive responsibility, worrying over how she was and whether he’d caused any problems for her. She also heard it’s been a while. For some reason, that surprised her.

  “I’m sure it’s been longer for me,” she said. “I’m three steps short of being a nun.”

  “Three steps?” He chuckled, sliding his hand up into her hair and letting it spill through his fingers. “You don’t seem like a nun to me. A nun would never take charge the way you did.”

  She laughed out loud, her lips bumping against his chest as she did. “You’re the biggest con artist in the world—telling me to take charge. You were in charge the whole time.”

  “Like hell.” He edged out from under her and rolled onto his side so he could view her. A lock of hair fell across her eyes, and he lifted it back into place. “You made me crazy, Molly. I could scarcely think, let alone control myself. You were running the show.”

  “Not quite.” His face was so close to hers, it took vast amounts of willpower not to lean forward and kiss him. “I told you, I’m practically a nun. I wouldn’t know how to run this particular show, even if I wanted to.”

  “You’re the sexiest nun I’ve ever known.” He kissed her tenderly and leaned back. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it was enough to make Molly feel like the exact opposite of a nun.

  She studied his face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He looked solemn in spite of his smile. It’s been a while, he’d said. Was she the first woman he’d been with since his wife had left?

  And how in heaven’s name could a woman leave a man who made love the way John did?

  “Why did she leave you?” she blurted out, then clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”

  “It’s all right.” He stroked her hair again, tucking it behind her ear. “She left me because she didn’t love me.”

  “That’s the part I’m having trouble with,” Molly said, figuring that since he hadn’t kicked her out of his bed for being too nosy, or at the very least changed the subject, he must not mind talking about it. “She married you. She had a child with you. She must have loved you at some point.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think so.” He ran his hand through her hair again while he collected his thoughts. “We were dating, and we were careless, and she got pregnant. She wanted an abortion, but I begged her not to do that. I told her I’d marry her and we’d raise the baby together. I was persuasive.” He paused for a minute, lost in thought. “It was never what she wanted.”

  Molly appreciated that he’d told her so much. But there was something missing, some flaw in his logic. Perhaps he’d been persuasive, perhaps his wife hadn’t wanted marriage or a baby. But he was such a good man. If he could persuade her to marry him and become a mother, why couldn’t he have persuaded her to stay with him?

  He must have guessed her thoughts. “It wasn’t what I wanted, either. We didn’t marry out of love. I wasn’t a good husband.”

  “You’re the most responsible person I’ve ever met. How could you not be a good husband?”

  The soothing pattern of his fingers through her hair would have lulled her into a trance if the conversation hadn’t been so important to her. He sifted his words as his hand sifted her hair. “I was wrapped up in my work,” he finally said. “I lived for it. I took the hardest cases, put in the longest hours. I was single-minded and aggressive. I was going to be the best damned cop in Arlington. In the world.” He sighed. “I wasn’t what she needed. I didn’t do my share with Mike. She got stuck doing the hard stuff—the diapers, the feedings—while I was putting in the time and earning my shield. When I was home, my mind wasn’t with her. It was on whatever case I was working.” His hand went still and he stared directly into her eyes. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she argued, but she sounded less than certain. For ten years she’d listened to Gail rant about cops, their hunger for power, their arrogance, their disregard for justice, their lack of compassion. Maybe cops made bad husbands because their work was so demanding and so violent, but... No. She simply didn’t want to believe John’s assertion was true.

  She didn’t want to believe it because she was in love with him.

  She didn’t want to let him believe it, either. She was going to prove to this fine, honest, brave man that he was capable of anything: being a good father, being a wonderful lover—being the best cop in the world, if that was what he wanted. John could do it all.

  If only she could convince him of it.

  If only she could absolutely, without a doubt, convince herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AT NINE-THIRTY Monday morning, John swung into the glass-enclosed office overlooking the squad room and said, “I want to get back to work.”

  Coffey looked up from the s
tack of memos on his blotter. Squinting slightly, he scrutinized the tall, intense detective standing on the opposite side of his desk. John still had on his jacket; the morning’s chilly air clung to him. He hadn’t paused to admire the Christmas tree in the lobby downstairs, or to shoot the breeze with the cops loitering in the squad room. He’d marched directly into Coffey’s office, prepared to make demands.

  Before coming to work, he’d spent a half hour with his doctor, having his stitches and butterfly-clips removed and his wounds examined. Before that, he’d dropped Mike off at the Children’s Garden, where he’d seen Molly.

  Just thinking about the two minutes they’d shared in the preschool’s entry made him grin. With other parents coming and going, he and Molly hadn’t had the privacy he would have liked, but perhaps that was just as well. If they’d had privacy, he would have kissed her. And once he’d kissed her, he would have wanted to do a hell of a lot more. Only the swarm of parents kept him from ravishing her right there.

  Coffey remained seated at his desk, but didn’t motion John to sit in one of the chairs facing him. “What did your doctor say?” he asked, eyeing John skeptically.

  “He said I was fine.” Actually, he’d said John was healing well, which wasn’t quite the same thing. But the doctor had only examined John’s arm and his hand. He’d had no idea about how good the rest of John was feeling.

  Molly. All he had to do was close his eyes and think about the way he’d held her, touched her, made love to her...and he felt as strong and spirited as a stallion. A couple of knife wounds were irrelevant.

  “I don’t want to do Santa, either,” he added, feeling bold. “I want real work, Coffey. I want a case.”

  “I don’t know.” Coffey pressed his hands together as if he was going to pray, and gave John a patronizing smile. “The Santa stint worked well. You got a lot of collars. And we know from experience that it was high-risk work. You’ve made a success of it, Russo—”