Their Child?

by Christine Rimmer

  And he didn’t want to talk about her husband, anyway. He didn’t want to talk, period.

  He moved a step closer. And another. She didn’t move back. Her scent came to him, warm and fresh and sweet, bringing memories of a night so long ago, of a young, eager girl, a girl he had called by her sister’s name. Of a pink gown and a prom queen’s crown and the armful of red roses they’d given her when they set that crown on her head.

  Memories…

  Of that night two weeks ago, when she wore pink again and he’d held her in his arms and told himself that his mind was playing tricks on him. She wasn’t the same girl, the girl he would have given up the world for, if only he could have the right to hold her through all the nights to come—all the nights that were lost to him, as his son had been, for way too many years.

  “Tucker…” She said his name softly—in warning? Or invitation? Or maybe a little of both? That tiny pulse was beating, a slight flutter, so tempting, at her long, white throat.

  He lifted a hand. Again, eyes wide, mouth trembling, she held her ground. He touched her, laid the back of his index finger, lightly, against that beating pulse, felt it leap in response.

  She shuddered and sighed, unable to hide her need for him, as he trailed that finger down along the silky flesh of her neck. He traced the wings of her collarbones, slipping his finger beneath the soft cotton fabric of her top, feeling the straps of her bra, thinking that he would get it off her right away, the minute he had her alone in his room.

  Alone, he thought. Just the two of us…

  Beneath the zipper of his slacks, he was one long, hard ache. It was an ache made pleasurable by the sure knowledge of satisfaction to come. He spread his hand around her neck, clasping—lightly, carefully—thumb and middle fingers to either side, feeling again the agitated flutter of her pulse.

  “Oh, Tucker…” She wasn’t warning him now. And she was far beyond invitation. All the way to outright surrender…

  Good, he thought. Yes.

  He dipped his head a fraction closer to her uptilted mouth—but he didn’t kiss her. Oh, no. Not yet. Her warm breath flowed across his cheek. Her breasts rose and fell, the rhythm agitated. Needful.

  The silky waterfall of her hair flowed back over her shoulders. He took himself a handful of it—warm and alive and scented of her—and he brought it to his mouth, rubbed it against his lips.

  Her control broke. With a low cry, she surged against him, offering her mouth.

  He took it, smoothing the strands of hair out of the way, kissing her, spearing his tongue into the liquid heat beyond her lips. Her tongue came to meet him, sliding and slipping along his, tasting him as he tasted her.

  He gathered her close, thinking way back in some still-rational corner of his mind that he needed to keep the brakes on. He couldn’t afford to start tearing off her clothes. Brody might find them like this…

  And then he forgot Brody. He worked his hips against her, his erection past an ache of pleasure now, so hard it was hurting, so hard that his mind spun with the need to open his fly, yank up her skirt, rip off her panties and bury himself deep in her silky heat.

  Incredibly, through the dense, clinging fog of his own sexual hunger, he stayed just aware enough of where they were—and who was nearby. It came to him, vaguely, that Brody had stopped singing.

  She must have noticed, too.

  They pulled apart at the same time, he with a groan, she with a tiny cry of loss. He stepped back, so he wasn’t touching her, though his senses clung to the remembered feel of her, soft and so willing, rubbing all along the front of him. His whole body burned.

  Their eyes met, held. And then her gaze skittered on, past his shoulder, toward the door to Brody’s room. She whispered, “It’s okay. He’s still in there…”

  He started to reach for her again—and somehow stopped himself. He shut his eyes, took another step backward and swore beneath his breath.

  She promised, so softly, “It won’t be long now…”

  He sucked in slow, even breaths. He counted to ten. Through sheer teeth-gritting will, he made his erection subside enough that it stopped tenting up the front of his slacks. He was barely in control again when he heard bare feet padding toward them.

  Lori said, a little too brightly, “Well, Brody. Ready at last?”

  “Yep. Came out to say g’night.”

  “Sleep tight,” Lori said.

  Tucker ordered his grimace into a smile and made himself turn. He tried to look easy and relaxed, raising a hand in a gesture midway between a salute and a wave—a casual gesture, he sincerely hoped. “See you tomorrow, big guy.”

  Brody frowned, cowlick on alert, sharp eyes tracking—Tucker to Lori, back to Tucker again. “You guys look weird. What’s going on?” And then, very slowly, he grinned. “Okay. I get it. It’s a boyfriend and girlfriend thing, huh?”

  A definite snorting sound escaped Lori. “No comment, mister. Get to bed.”

  Still grinning, Brody turned and left them alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soon as Brody shut his bedroom door behind him, Tucker grabbed Lori’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  Lori didn’t hesitate. Every nerve humming, she followed him downstairs to the master suite, to his beautiful bedroom, with its maroon walls and soft recessed lighting. The steel-blue duvet on the king-size bed was already turned down—by the capable hands of Mrs. Haldana, no doubt.

  Tucker wasted no time getting her out of her clothes. Off went her shirt and away went her bra. He kissed her, a hard, quick kiss, and then he took away the skirt she’d put on that afternoon after her shower. She stepped free of it and he tossed it on a chair. She kicked off her sandals, shoved down her panties. And there she was, standing in front of him without a stitch on.

  Strange how very natural it seemed, to be naked with him. He took her shoulders, so gently, and smiled into her eyes.

  She reached for his belt.

  He let her undress him, let her slide the belt off and away, lifting his big arms so she could push his shirt up over his gorgeous washboard belly and his deep chest. He stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed and she knelt and took off the soft leather mocs he liked to wear around the house. Grinning, she stood, grabbed his hand, pulled him upright again, and got rid of his cargoes and the boxers beneath them.

  When at last he was as naked as she, they stood facing each other, bathed in the muted light from above. She thought how very beautiful he was, a fully mature man now, broader and more imposing than she remembered him from that long-ago night, his body filled out, the muscles so strong and hard, along his arms, at his chest, down his ridged stomach and his powerful thighs. His manhood jutted, eager and ready, from the dark nest of hair at his groin.

  Another smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “At last.”

  In complete agreement, she sucked in a long breath and nodded. He offered his hand. She took it. It was only a step or two back to the bed.

  He guided her down and rose above her, straddling her. He stroked her body, slow, arousing caresses, all along the length of her.

  And he lowered his mouth and he kissed her—first her lips and then lower. And lower still…

  Until, once again, she was tossing her head on the pillows, pleading sounds rising from her stretched-back throat, as his endless, intimate kiss worked its special magic, until her body shimmered and shook and her mind flew away and there was only sensation, a rolling, sparkling river of it, flowing all through her, out along every quivering nerve.

  She called his name as she went over and she was still shaking with the wonder of it when he slid up her body and reached for the drawer in the night table.

  “Oh,” she cried. “Let me…let me…” She took the condom from his hand and tore the wrapper off. Then she wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing, sliding her hand up, over the silky head where a drop of moisture clung, and down to the thick base jutting from that wiry nest of hair—and slowly back up again.

  H
e caught her wrist, spoke through gritted teeth. “Just…do it. Put it on. Now, or I’ll lose it…”

  She obeyed, sliding the sheath over the thick, hot length of him. He straddled her once more. She guided him to her.

  Her body took him—all of him—in one smooth, even glide. He settled between her cradling thighs, bracing his forearms on the pillows, tangling his hands in the wild spill of her hair.

  “So sweet,” he muttered. “So wet and hot and sweet…” He whispered her name, hoarse and low, and then he buried his head against her shoulder.

  She wrapped her legs around him. They moved together, the rhythm changing and then changing again. All the while the pleasure was building, the world falling away to nothing. Now, at last, it was only the two of them—no anger, no hurt, no wrongs to be righted.

  Just a woman and a man, fitted perfectly together, sharing a rolling, hot pleasure that built to fever pitch and then spun out, hovered on the edge of a vast darkness—and burst wide-open, lighting the night in a shower of stars.

  They rested, but not for long. He couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her, pressing himself tight to her willing body.

  And she touched him, too, every sleek, hard inch of him. She kissed him—all of him. She pushed him to his stomach and she licked the sweat from the small of his back, her hand caressing, sliding over his lean waist and under him, until she clasped him with a greedy cry and he rolled to face her with a deep, hungry moan.

  That time, she took the top position. She slid down onto him slowly, gathering him in by aching degrees. Once she had all of him, they moved together lazily, like waves lapping a smooth, sandy shore.

  In the end, she collapsed on top of him and he gathered her close. She felt the deep, strong beating of his heart against her ear as fulfillment claimed her all over again.

  After that, he settled the gray satin sheet over them and pulled her close to his side. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling limp and wonderful and thoroughly satisfied, safe in the circle of his arms.

  He pressed his lips against her hair and whispered, “We should do this more often. I’d suggest at least a dozen times a day.”

  She snuggled closer. “Excellent idea—though Brody could get a little lonely, if we’re always off in a bedroom somewhere, with the door locked.”

  “Brody…” She could hear the smile in his voice. He stroked her shoulder, trailed a finger lightly down her arm. She made a low, pleasured noise and smiled to herself, feeling like a purring cat. And he asked, “What do you think he meant by that last remark tonight—the one about you and me and a ‘boyfriend and girlfriend thing?’”

  She shrugged and ran her hand over the sculpted contours of his chest. Dark hair grew across his pectoral muscles and down the center of his belly. She followed that silky trail, out to each side and then down along his solar plexus…

  He caught her hand before she could go too low. “Watch it.”

  “I’d rather feel it.”

  He laughed then, a low, sexy laugh. “Lori Lee. You are definitely all grown up now.”

  “That’s right.” She nipped his earlobe and made a growling sound.

  He turned his head and kissed her nose. “But seriously. Brody thinks you’re my girlfriend?”

  She tipped her head back so she could meet his eyes. “Kids can surprise you, the things they pick up on. And I suppose I am your girlfriend—as of now, anyway, aren’t I?” She asked the question and then her heart skipped a beat as she realized she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.

  What if he said no? What if he told her that the last thing he needed was a liar like her for a girlfriend? What if he said flat out that just because he’d had sex with her didn’t mean she had any kind of claim on him?

  And then she caught herself. Well, if he said that, so be it. Better to find out now. Better to get the painful truth right out there. Truth, after all, was the best way. She knew that from firsthand experience.

  He didn’t answer for the longest time. Finally, he said, “Yeah. I guess, from Brody’s perspective, that you’re now my girlfriend.”

  It was hardly what she’d hoped for—but not nearly as bad as she’d feared. “So, all right then.” She was proud of how matter-of-fact she sounded. She lowered her head to his shoulder again. “There you have it.”

  “But how the hell did he know it, that’s what I’m wondering? Until today, we haven’t been near each other. And he’s never said a word before to me, about the two of us.”

  “He’s smart and observant, that’s all. He sensed that we’re, um, attracted to each other.”

  He tipped her chin up. “Has he said anything to you about it?”

  She recalled that conversation at her parent’s breakfast table the week before. “Yeah. He has.”

  “What?”

  “The day we moved in here, when he and I talked it over, he did ask if you were my boyfriend.”

  “And you told him?”

  “I didn’t. I said nothing. I let him draw his own conclusions.”

  His eyes darkened in disapproval. “Why?”

  She pushed at his chest until he released her, then she moved back to her own side of the bed and canted up on an elbow. “Think about it. You and I were hardly speaking then, but he’d seen us together before—that night he and I came over here, and at Lena’s wedding. He knew there was something going on.”

  “So you lied to him.”

  “No. I just kept my mouth shut.” She realized about then that this was the moment—the time to talk about the necessity of telling Brody the truth. “Tucker, even to a ten-year-old, it’s a little odd, that we just moved right in with you. And you had me sworn to secrecy about what was really going on. So Brody explained the situation to himself by deciding it must be about you and me, since neither of us explained to him that you happen to be his father.”

  Tucker searched her face, and then he gave her one of those regal, overbearing, Ol’ Tuck-style nods of his. “All right. Now that you’ve told me a little more about it, I understand your reasoning.”

  Irritation sizzled through her. “Oh. Well. Thank you very much.”

  “Lori. Come on…” He reached for her. She saw desire kindling in his eyes—and behind it, the deeper need to avoid the subject at hand.

  She moved back. “No. Not now.” She schooled her voice to a level tone. “Look. I agreed, at first, to wait until you were ready to tell him. But it’s been a week since we moved in here, almost two weeks since you’ve known that he’s your son.”

  “A week—two weeks—it’s nothing.”

  “No. That’s not so. Two weeks is long enough. It’s too long. Brody adores you. It’s not like you need the chance to win him over or anything. He’s crazy about you. And it’s long past time—years past time—that he got to know you as his father.”

  Tucker sat up, hooked his arms around his knees and muttered to the far wall, “Whose damn fault is it, that he doesn’t know who I am? It’s not my fault, Lori.”

  “Wonderful,” she said under her breath. Dragging herself to a sitting position, she drew the sheet up to cover her breasts. “You want to play the blame game, okay. As I’ve said any number of times already, the fact that you didn’t know your son for all those years is my fault. I accept that. I own it. And whether you believe it or not, I am paying every day for the truth that I kept from you—for the father that I kept from our son. So yes. For over ten years, it was my fault that Brody didn’t know you. But for the last two weeks? Uh-uh. That’s all on you.

  “And you’re right, it’s only two little weeks. But it’s two little weeks that we’ve all—you and me and my mom and dad and Tate and Molly—all of us, have been, in the strictest sense, lying to him. Lying, as you well know, didn’t work for me at all. I’ve had up-close and personal experience with the damage lying can do. And I just don’t want to do it anymore.” He glanced back at her then. She saw pain in his eyes—and fear, too. And she found all her carefully controlled irritat
ion with him draining away. “It will be okay,” she said, softly now.

  He swore and turned away from her and stared at the far wall once again. “What if he hates me? Damn it, he’s happy. A happy kid. He thinks of your husband as his dad. He could so easily resent me for trying to take your husband’s place.”

  She looked at his broad back and wanted to touch him, a touch of reassurance, of support. But she sensed he wouldn’t want her hand on him, not right then. She tucked the sheet up higher under her arms and folded her hands on her thighs. “First of all, you’re not going to be taking Henry’s place. You have your own place in Brody’s life, a very important place. And I do know Brody. Pretty darn well. I don’t think he’s going to resent you or hate you. He may not fall all over you, not at first. He usually likes to take his time about things, to think them over, to get used to them. But eventually, he’s going to be glad to know what you mean to him, to build a relationship with you, to have you there to help him grow up.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  She knew she wasn’t. But she’d already told him that. “If I’m wrong, we take it one day at a time. If he’s angry for some reason to learn what you are to him, then we’ll deal with it. He’ll get past it. We all will.”

  Tucker still wouldn’t look at her—but his next words had her heart lifting. “You’ll be there. With me. When I tell him?”

  “Of course, if you want me there.”

  “I’ll need you there. In fact, I think it’s only fair that you be the one to tell him.”

  “Fair?”

  “Okay, wrong word. I think it’s a good idea if you’re the one who tells him. You’re his mother and it’ll be easier to take coming from you. You tell him. And then I’ll tell him that—hell, I don’t know—that I’m happy to have him for my son. Then, after that, he can tell me…whatever he needs to tell me.”

  She dared to draw in a deep, relieved breath. They really were getting somewhere, at last. “Agreed. We’ll tell him together.”

  “But you’ll break the news.”

  “That’s right. And you can feel free to chime in any time you get the urge.”