Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  Brett stood on the front porch, wet from the rain. His hair was pasted to his skull, his shirt to his chest. In his hand he clasped a small plastic bag.

  Sharon drew him inside and closed the door. Ignoring the rainwater that rolled down his cheeks and arms, he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her, right there in the entry, a deep, hungry kiss that settled any doubts in her mind, any hesitation, any concerns for the future.

  “You smell good,” he whispered.

  “Thank you.” He smelled good, too, even without having showered. He smelled of summer rain and mint. She slipped her hand into his and led him up the stairs, determined to focus only on now, on him. For tonight she would not be Max’s mom, or even Steve’s widow. She would just be Sharon, desiring this man who desired her.

  They entered her bedroom and he shut the door. “Is it okay if we close it?” he asked, still keeping his voice low. “I mean, with your son and all—”

  “He knows how to open a door if he has to,” she said.

  Brett eyed the door apprehensively. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  She smiled. “It’s good. If there’s an emergency, I’d want him to be able to reach me, no matter what.”

  “Right.” Her answer clearly didn’t thrill Brett, but he accepted it. He reached for her again, drew her into his arms and kissed her, kissed her like a man who couldn’t care less about emergencies, who had no second thoughts about what might happen. All that mattered was what was happening in her quiet bedroom, where the only sounds were the whispers of his breath and hers, the crinkle of the bag as he tossed it onto the bed, the drumbeat of the rain against her window and the hush of his fingers sliding down her throat, down the front of her robe to the knotted sash.

  And the thumping of her heart. She wondered if he could hear it—it was suddenly so hard, so fast. Two years since a man had touched her... Would making love be like riding a bike, one of those skills that, once learned, a woman never forgot? Or would she botch it?

  He stopped kissing her so he could undo the knot. Once it came loose, he lifted his gaze to her face again. He must have read the panic in her eyes, because he frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “A little nervous,” she admitted.

  “Don’t be.” He kissed her brow. “We’re friends.”

  “We are?”

  “Do you think I would have volunteered to be a tennis net for your son if we weren’t friends?”

  She smiled. He was right. Only a friend would have put up with Max and Olivia the way Brett had. Only a friend would have kept Max occupied last week so Sharon could take some pictures—even though he didn’t like children. Only a friend would race out in a downpour to buy contraceptives. A friend and a lover.

  It was the lover part that made her nervous, but the warmth in his voice and his eyes, the gentle motions of his hands on her shoulders and arms, stroking her through the terry-cloth instead of rushing to strip her naked, the solidity of him standing before her, patient and confident, when surely there were other women, women without children, whom he could pursue—all of that helped to put her at ease. If she tumbled off the bicycle, he’d be there. He would pick her up, kiss her boo-boos and help her back onto the seat. She could trust him.

  She skimmed his chest with her hands, marveling at its hardness. Max was the only person she ever touched these days, and he was all baby-round and soft. Not Brett. She felt ribs layered with muscle, the thick bones of his shoulders, the tight, flat stretch of his abdomen. He had the physique of an athlete, even though he spent his days seated behind a desk.

  She wanted more than just to touch him through his shirt. She wanted to see him, to kiss him, to feel the heat of his skin against her palms. She wanted to find out just how much she remembered about the art of riding a bicycle.

  She closed her hands around the dark blue fabric and tugged it free of his jeans. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed down at her, and his smile faded. With a quick, efficient twist, he wrenched the shirt over his head and off.

  She had known he would have a gorgeous body, but actually viewing it, observing the flow of skin and lean muscle, the glints of raindrops trapped in the hairs on his forearms... She could have been a visitor to a museum, gaping at some magnificent sculpture, except for his warmth, the movement of his chest as he breathed and his hands as he reached for the lapels of her robe and spread them apart. His fingertips brushed against her and she felt a pang of longing so sudden and demanding it nearly staggered her.

  She was going to embarrass herself. Just looking at him aroused her too much, and another glancing brush of his fingers against her shoulders sent an ache deep into her womb. She considered explaining to him that she was out of practice, that she was starving and he was a banquet so rich, she was afraid that once she took a taste she would be unable to stop—but he kissed her before she could speak.

  She tasted. She feasted. Her hands savored the texture of his skin. Her lips grazed his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw. She arched to him and her body absorbed his maleness, his height and breadth and heat.

  Her robe dropped to the floor, and his jeans and briefs joined it. Then he pulled her down onto the bed and she feasted some more. He seemed delighted by everything she did, smiling as she ran her toes along his shin, gasping as she trailed her fingers down his abdomen. It no longer mattered if she fell off the bike. She was beyond shyness, beyond embarrassment. Her senses filled with him, his scent, his bulk, the thickness of his wrists and fingers, the way his chest vibrated when he sighed. When he slid his thigh between hers she moaned, not caring if he heard her. When he bowed to kiss her breasts, she dug her fingers into his hair and held him to her, not caring if he thought she was too clingy, too needy.

  When at last he rose above her and thrust deep into her, she lost all sense of tomorrow, the future, the impossibility of a true love existing between a woman whose entire life was her son and a man who had no interest in children. All that existed was this moment, this unspeakable pleasure, the satisfaction she felt as he filled her. No more hunger, no more need. She had everything she wanted right now, with Brett.

  She came too soon, but he didn’t seem to mind. He let go just after she did, pressing deep, pulsing inside her and releasing his breath in a barely audible groan. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting him to stay with her as long as possible. He nuzzled her neck, exhaled a slow breath and lifted his head. He looked happy, dazed and a little sheepish.

  “Was that quick enough for you?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I’m not complaining.”

  He eased off her, and his absence chilled her. He looped an arm around her and pulled her against him, which warmed her again. She felt his mouth against her hair, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll go slower next time, I promise.”

  Next time. Her smile widened. “Brett, this was wonderful. Really. I was the one who went too fast. I—” She hesitated, unsure of how much to say.

  His voice rumbled down to her. “You what?”

  They were friends. And no matter what tomorrow brought, she trusted him. “I haven’t made love in a long time.”

  He twined his fingers through her hair, gentle, thoughtful. “Since your husband died?”

  She nodded. It wasn’t that terrible an admission. Maybe other women wouldn’t have waited three years to take a lover, but why should she be ashamed that she had? Sex was a wonderful thing—but only when it was right. And until tonight, she hadn’t had the time, the energy or the craving to pursue it.

  “You should have told me,” he murmured. Had she made him uncomfortable? Would he have said good-night and gone home if he’d known? He reassured her by adding, “I would have done a better job of it.”

  She laughed and traced a line across his chest with her index finger. Hair grew sparse and wiry across the upper portion. His nipple stiffened as her hand wandered near it. “I’m not complaining,” she repeated.

  “Because it’s been so long for you
. You have no basis for comparison.” He rose onto his side, forcing her onto her back next to him. She was relieved to see his grin as he gazed down at her.

  “I know the difference between good and bad. This was good, Brett.” She sighed, reliving for a moment just how good it was.

  “I usually have a little more lasting power. I just—” He faltered.

  “You just what?”

  “I wanted you. A lot.”

  “Well, good.” She grinned.

  He remained solemn. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He ran his fingers through her hair in a soothing rhythm. “Pretty much from day one, I’ve been—well, wanting you.”

  “Really?”

  “That first night, when you were wearing that sexy black dress—I was so turned on by you, I thought I’d go crazy.”

  The night she’d expected him to kiss her. “Why didn’t you do something about it?”

  “The first night? Are you kidding?” He brushed a misplaced lock of hair back from her cheek. “I figured you’d shoot me down.”

  “Why? Did you think I would have been shocked?”

  “I didn’t know. First date and all...” He continued to toy with her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “You weren’t some sort of fast-lane lady. You were a mother.”

  “Most mothers, by definition, aren’t virgins,” she pointed out.

  He smiled briefly. “The truth was, I didn’t want to see you again. I didn’t want to get involved with you. Knowing where you’re coming from, and where I’m coming from... I’m not into casual sex, Sharon. I don’t make love to a woman unless there’s something real going on, you know?”

  His willingness to talk about this moved her even more than the sex had. “So you think there’s something real going on between us?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look happy about it.

  She knew her son was the reason for Brett’s misgivings. She’d really hoped she wouldn’t have had to think about her son for a few hours. But of course she couldn’t bar him from her thoughts, not even when she was lying naked with Brett. Max was so deeply imbedded in her brain that to remove him, even temporarily, would probably kill her. “Max is not just an obstacle,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “He isn’t going to disappear.”

  “I know.” His fingers continued to weave through her hair, slowly, soothingly. His gaze never strayed from her face.

  “Tell me more,” she said. She wanted—needed—to know. “Tell me more about your family. Were your siblings really that bad?”

  He nodded. “They took over my life. I had nothing of my own after they were born. I’d come home from school and be stuck baby-sitting all of them, every day. I changed diapers. I fed them. I cleaned up after them.” His thumb stroked the edge of her earlobe. “I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to take care of kids—only I had four of them and they weren’t mine, and I was just a kid myself.”

  “Where was your step-father?”

  “He worked. He was an accountant—an okay guy, but very traditional. He didn’t know what was wrong with my mother. It would never have occurred to him that she needed professional help. So as soon as I got home from school, she’d go off and leave me in charge.”

  “Maybe you should hate her, instead of children.”

  “I don’t know if I hate them,” he assured her. “I just don’t want them taking over my life again. And you know that’s what children do. They take over your life.”

  True enough. But she’d chosen to hand her life over to Max. She and Steve both had wanted him, and when Steve had died she’d wanted Max even more. Not just because he was a surviving piece of Steve but because he reminded her, every day, with every breath, every smile, every dirty diaper and sticky kiss, that life went on.

  “I suppose,” she conceded, “people who don’t want children shouldn’t have them.”

  “And people who do want children should have them. Like you. You’re a good mother.”

  She snorted. “I’m not so sure about that. I’m just winging it. Sometimes I’m convinced I’m doing everything wrong. I’ve got no one here to point out my mistakes or show me the right way to do it.”

  “But look at your kid. He’s healthy. He’s smart. He doesn’t look deprived to me.”

  “He’s messy.”

  “I raised four kids, Sharon. They’re all messy at that age.”

  It amazed her to think Brett might know more about child rearing than she did. Not only did he have more experience, but he’d attended a Daddy School class. Except for one lecture she’d attended in her eighth month on bathing and burping techniques, safety standards for cribs and breast-feeding strategies, she’d never taken any classes at all. She wondered if Molly at the Children’s Garden ran a Mommy School for women like her.

  “Do you get along with your siblings now?”

  “More or less. They all live in the Boston area and I’m here, so it’s not like we see each other very often.”

  Sharon didn’t point out that Boston was barely two and a half hours away, and that if he were close to his siblings he could see them as often as he liked.

  “I think they know I resented them. But they all had each other. I was this older person, removed from them, yelling at them when they spilled something—and then mopping up the spill while they ran off to wreak havoc somewhere else. We get along now, sure, but I don’t think we could ever be close.”

  Her heart squeezed tight and tears filled her eyes for the little boy he must have been. First he’d lost his father, and then he’d lost his home when his mother moved to Boston, and then he’d lost her to a new husband. And then he’d lost his childhood. She used to worry about how much Max had lost with Steve’s death—but whether or not she was a great mother, she loved her son fiercely. She would never exploit him and ignore his needs the way Brett’s mother had ignored his. She would never place so much responsibility on such tiny shoulders. She would never deprive her son of the chance to be young and silly and carefree.

  She could think of no words that wouldn’t come out sounding like pity or a furious condemnation of his mother and step-father. So she said nothing. She only cupped her hand around his head and pulled him down to her so she could kiss him, kiss away some of the little-boy pain that still ached within him, kiss away the unfairness of his youth and the scars it had left behind.

  He returned her kiss, using his lips, his tongue, playing his teeth against her lower lip. His kisses earlier were hard and greedy but this one was leisurely and thorough. He was taking his time now, and if everything he did to her felt as good as this one deep, consuming kiss...

  It did. Everything. The unhurried forays of his hands across her skin, cupping her breasts, circling her waist, his warm breath against her nape as he rolled her onto her stomach and massaged the length of her spine and then turned her onto her back again. His mouth taking one breast and then the other, his palms on her hips, his legs between hers, knees pressing her inner thighs... it all felt better than good.

  She touched him, too, because she couldn’t lie passive while he made love to every part of her body. She raked her hands through his hair as he kissed her belly, clutched at his shoulders as he licked between her legs, pulled him up when she couldn’t bear another moment without having him inside her. And then when he was inside her she couldn’t bear that, either, because it felt so good, too good.

  When she climaxed, he paused, then started again, deep, slow thrusts that seemed to fill her soul as much as her body. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she closed them, and when she opened them again she saw only Brett, his beautiful blue eyes, his lips parted as he tried to keep his breathing even. She circled her arms around him, and her legs, wanting him to experience the pleasure she’d already known, but he held back, his muscles taut as he braced himself higher above her. The new angle created more sensations inside her, friction and pressure and love coiling together and pulling tight, tighter.

  It hit her like an ocean wa
ve, fluid yet hard enough to knock the world out from under her. He caught her cry with his mouth, kissing her, pumping hard until the wave crashed over him as well. He shuddered, sinking heavily into her arms and gasping for air.

  For a long time she remained incapable of lucid thought. When her brain finally cleared, her first realization was that he’d been right. Slower was better. She had a basis for comparison now.

  He seemed in no rush to slide off her, and she was glad. He was heavy, his skin damp with sweat, and she loved the weight of him. She loved the harsh whisper of his breath through her hair, and the vague motions of his fingers against her upper arm.

  Love, she thought. She had fallen in love with this complicated, stubborn, honest man. The wrong man, yes, but there was no denying it. She loved Brett.

  * * *

  She slept soundly. Brett was egotistical enough to believe he deserved some credit for that. Three years without sex would have turned him into a perpetual insomniac. Now she was probably enjoying the first satisfied sleep since her husband’s accident.

  Unlike her, he was unable to fall asleep—and she deserved no blame for that at all. Her body felt surprisingly natural against his, slim yet soft, her bottom nuzzling his hip and her hair splayed across his shoulder.

  After all that lovemaking, he should be out cold. But his eyes refused to close, his mind refused to shut down.

  He was in trouble.

  This hadn’t been intended. Of course, if he analyzed it, he would be forced to acknowledge that he’d been heading straight down this path from the moment he’d decided to pick up the company photos instead of sending Janet to get them. That had been the crucial instant, the telling step. He’d decided that, in spite of her son, he wanted Sharon.

  Nothing had detoured him from this moment, this night. Not his common sense, not the boy’s brattiness, not the truth when he’d laid it out for her. Not a two-hour stretch in the Daddy School followed by a long afternoon immersed in child activities.