by Cathryn Hein
He plonked the ecstatic dog on top and regarded him with his hands on his hips. ‘Move and there’ll be trouble, understand?’
Billy understood. Without so much as a turn, he snuggled down, chin on his paws, regarding his master with an expression suspiciously like a smug grin.
The pipes ceased their creaking. Realising Brooke had no clean clothes, Lachie raided his drawers for a clean T-shirt and a pair of drawstring tracksuit bottoms and laid them outside the bathroom door, calling to let her know they were there.
He waited in front of the fire, trying to shed the muscle-deep cold, wishing he had some brandy or whisky to warm his insides.
Brooke emerged wearing only the T-shirt, her skin pink from the hot water, smelling like his shampoo and soap. She laid the tracksuit pants on the couch. As she bent, the T-shirt lifted, exposing her upper leg and a tiny sliver of firm bum. Underwear. He hadn’t considered that. And now she wore none.
‘They kept falling down,’ she explained.
Lachie swallowed, mesmerised by the creamy skin of her thighs. His gaze travelled up to take in the swell of her breasts, trying not to stare at the hint of erect nipple. Desire tugged and swelled, fanned by her fragile sexiness.
He pointed stupidly to the bathroom. ‘I’ll, er, shower now.’
‘Okay.’ She walked toward the fire. ‘I’ll stay here.’
He escaped, feeling teenaged and idiotic. The shower helped. In clean clothes, smelling respectable, he felt normal again, in control. Throwing his reflection a last ‘behave yourself’ look, he headed back to the lounge.
He found her sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fire, the wide neck of his T-shirt hanging off one smooth shoulder, the loose fabric caressing her curves, hinting at the soft contours beneath. Her body shielded only by thin cotton. Close to naked.
She smiled over her shoulder, sending his heart tumbling. ‘Come sit with me.’
He sat awkwardly alongside her, knees drawn up and crossed at the ankles, arms strapping them in place. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Crappy.’ She tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder. ‘Grateful to you.’
His right arm left his legs and wrapped around her. ‘You don’t have to be.’
She tilted her face upwards, mirrored flames dancing across her shiny eyes. ‘I do.’ She looked away and fiddled with the hem of the T-shirt. ‘I’m so sorry for everything. I never used to be like this. But since …’ She bit her lip.
‘Hey, enough.’
‘I just wanted you to understand.’
‘I do. You’ve had a shit year. They happen, and they change us. The main thing is to keep looking forward.’
She nudged him. ‘Mister Deep again.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, nudging her back. ‘That’s me.’
Rain drummed on the cottage and wind stretched the timbers, but the old house held fast, its interior protected, cosy and intimate. Bored with watching humans, Billy closed his eyes in canine bliss. Lachie relaxed, staring at the fire as it wove around the logs, content to have Brooke by his side, fantasising that maybe, one day, this might be for always.
‘Lachie?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I want to go to bed.’
He hid his disappointment with a smile. ‘Okay.’ He rose and helped her up, keeping hold of her hand past the point when he should have let go. He wanted to say something before she went, some sort of hint as to how he felt, but the way she looked at him, so trusting and exposed, stole his words. Instead, he placed a long tender kiss on her forehead. ‘Sleep well.’
‘No. You don’t understand.’ She bit her lip, holding his gaze, sending wings fluttering in his chest. ‘I want to go to bed with you.’
The room stilled. He stared at her, wondering if he’d heard right, scanning her face for signs of a joke. Instead, all he saw was sweet, nervous honesty.
And a woman made vulnerable by grief.
Christ, he wanted her. He wanted to kiss all her sadness away, take her to a place where only pleasure existed, where she felt safe and cocooned in his love. But not tonight. Not when she was so emotionally defenceless. Not when she might regret it tomorrow.
‘I don’t think —’
‘Shh,’ she whispered, pressing her forefinger to his lips. Then she dropped her hands around his neck and drew him to her. Her breasts pushed against his shirt, her sweet breath caressing his mouth as she urged him on. ‘Don’t think, Lachie. Just do.’
He hesitated, caught between what he thought was right and the demands of his heart and body.
She brushed her mouth across his. ‘Please. Tonight. Just do.’
Electrified beyond reason, he did.
Eighteen
One tender touch, one exquisite kiss, and the grief Brooke had been clinging to so tightly subsided. It still throbbed in the background, but the edges were dulled. They no longer cut blades through her heart. Instead, as Lachie took the kiss deeper, her spirit swelled, ballooned by something marvellous, something rapturous and hope-filled.
Multiple times in her love-drunk hazes she’d imagined kissing him, but not once had she imagined it would be this magical. He’d started tentative, careful, just a light brush of her mouth, as though testing her sincerity, and she’d melted against him, wanting more. Sensing her need, he’d responded, cupping her face as he pressed his mouth harder against hers. Now, he kissed with a hunger that turned her inside out and drowned her in feelings of love, lust and desperate, insistent want.
And God, was it right. Perfectly, wonderfully right.
His hands slid down her neck, across her shoulders and down her bare arms, knuckles brushing her sides, each touch electric. He kissed his way across her cheek, warm, excited breath heavy in her ear as he nibbled at her lobe then left it to kiss a trail down her neck. He nuzzled the neck of her T-shirt aside to place fluttery kisses on her collarbone. Eyes closed, she arched her back, panting with pleasure as she let the glory of it swallow her.
He nuzzled his way back up to her mouth before drawing back to look at her intently. ‘Are you really sure about this?’
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. I’m serious. I need to know.’
‘I’m positive, Lachie. Absolutely,’ she brushed her mouth against his, ‘positively,’ sucked at his lower lip, ‘positive.’
She meant it. Heart and soul meant it. She loved him, and if the tragedies of the year had taught her one thing, it was to give and show her love, not hide it, because tomorrow could see it snatched away. Every hour, every minute, every second needed to be treasured. And even if this was only one night – a display of kind-heartedness and sympathy on his part – at least she’d have it to cherish and remember.
‘If you change your —’
She pressed her finger against his mouth, shaking her head. ‘No more worry. No more talk. Just do.’
Relief eased the uncertainty from his eyes. He grabbed her finger, kissed the tip, and taking her hand fully in his, led her to his bedroom, pausing briefly in the doorway to look at her for reassurance before leading her inside. He sat on the bed and drew her between his legs, his palms light on her hips, warm through the thin fabric of the T-shirt. She smiled and bent to kiss him, returning the pleasure he’d gifted earlier.
Trailing kisses over his mouth and face, down his neck, she twirled clumsy fingers at the buttons of his shirt, popping them one by one until she could spread the cloth apart and press her hands over his chest. Light hairs tickled her fingers. Solid, tight muscles moved against her palms. He traced fingers up and down her thighs, sending goosebumps tumbling deliciously up her back and across her shoulders, teasing his way past her groin and her fluttering belly to tickle more patterns over her waist.
Brooke broke her kisses and straightened. Holding his attention, she reached for the hem of her T-shirt. His eyes flared as she raised it up and pulled it over her head. Then he slowly dropped his focus
to scan her body, hovering on her breasts, slipping lower, lips parting as his expression glazed with desire. Anticipation tingled and fizzed between them like a sherbet in water.
He leaned forwards and placed a single delicate kiss on the pale skin between her breasts. ‘You’re perfect.’
Brooke glowed as though a million fireflies fluttered under her skin. Overcome, she brushed a hand across his hair and grabbed the back of his head, kissing him hard, climbing closer until the exposed skin of her stomach joined his. Heat flared and became liquid, made molten by his words and touch.
He responded with passion to match her own, curling her closer, as though he couldn’t touch her enough, rolling sideways to ease her gently on the bed, palms stroking, fingers skimming, mouth exploring. Lower, lower.
Their breaths, gasps and moans overtook the night. She wrenched at his shirt, wanting it off, wanting him fully naked, skin to skin. Releasing a beaded nipple, he helped with the task, movements as urgent as hers, tossing the shirt to the floor before lowering his head and sucking once more.
Desperation rising, she fumbled with his jeans, the button cumbersome and difficult. Finally, it popped and she slid her hand inside to feel his length, shuddering and closing her eyes as he returned the favour.
He played and teased and kissed and sucked until she couldn’t stand the exquisite pleasure any longer. She wanted them together, made whole. ‘Lachie, please.’
‘Hold on,’ he said, kissing her and propping himself up to pull open the bedside drawer. He drew out a pack of condoms, and flicked the lid before extracting a foil packet.
She smiled. Trust Lachie to be prepared. Prepared and thoughtful.
God, she adored him.
She helped slide the sheath on, loving the feel of him, his smooth size. Ready, he questioned her again with his eyes. She answered with a hot hungry kiss and a tug on his hips, drawing him towards her, to where she pulsed. Bracing his weight, he pulled away from her mouth and eased his hips closer, free hand gripping her thigh, eyes locked on hers as he nudged at her and slid a fraction inside. She arched her back, curling in ecstasy, her rapture mirrored in his face.
Gently, stretching the moment, he pressed a little deeper and held. Quivers skittered across her skin, leaving it puckered and electrified. Her mouth parted, shallow breaths coming rapidly. Waiting, waiting. Still intent on her, he nudged some more. Her eyelids lowered, hands clawing on his back, needy, so needy.
‘Lachie, I can’t —’
His mouth clamped on hers, shutting her off, and with a deep moan of desire he slid fully inside.
Nothing compared to the pleasure he wrought. Physical, emotional, total. This wasn’t just sex – this was a level of intimacy she’d never experienced before. Love in its most intense form. Whether he felt the same love, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Sharing the moment was enough; his tenderness and care were enough. And he did care. Every sensuous movement, every delicate touch, every blazing response told her that. So she floated, going with him, savouring and embracing what he gave her, what she’d never forget.
‘You called me Lachie,’ he said when they were done. He rested on his elbow looking down at her, hand caressing her sweaty belly.
‘It’s your name.’
‘I know, but until this week, you always called me Lachlan.’
‘This week changed a lot of things.’
‘Yes, it did. But calling me Lachie is one of the good things.’
‘At least one good thing happened.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘One?’
It took Brooke a couple of heartbeats to work out what he meant. Then she laughed, a sound, given her heartbreak, both strange and good. As though she was healing already.
Perhaps, thanks to Lachie, she was.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, curling her arms around his neck and dragging him down to kiss his delicious mouth. ‘Maybe more than one good thing. Maybe two.’
‘What’s this “maybe” business?’
She smiled. ‘Okay, definitely two good things.’
He snuck fingers to the inside of her thigh as he trailed kisses over her collarbone and down toward her nipple, his skimming, shallow breaths raising goosebumps across her skin. ‘I think you need more good things. Two’s not enough. What do you say to three?’
‘I like three.’ She gasped, thrills shooting through her insides as he stroked upwards and simultaneously nipped lightly at her nipple. ‘Yes. I think three would be very good.’
Brooke opened one eye and then the other and smiled, smug with bliss. Lachie’s bed. Sex. Love. She raised her arms and rolled over, ready to drape him in warmth and a good-morning kiss. Her arms fell as she registered the empty space.
She listened for a while, hoping for the rattle of dishes in the kitchen, the shower or the flush of the loo, but the cottage remained quiet, except for the familiar chorus of its morning creaks. Disappointed, she buried her face in his pillow, inhaling his scent, remembering the night before. Lachie, Lachie, Lachie. His name sang in her head and swelled her heart. The sex had been, to put it mildly, amazing, but it was the rest that hazed her mind. The softness in his eyes when he looked at her, the slow, indulgent way he caressed her body, the way he’d breathed her name. Signs, perhaps, that he shared her feelings. That last night was more than compassion, more than a way to make her forget Poddy.
Poddy.
Pain struck. Instant. Piercing. She buried her face deeper, hugging the pillow, expecting tears. Though her throat roughened, to Brooke’s surprise her eyes remained dry. Whatever grief she held, Lachie had once again assuaged it. Not totally, but enough to halt the suffocating rush of panic like that which had attacked her last night and caused her to embrace Poddy’s grave in a futile hunt for comfort.
She turned onto her back, wishing Lachie would come back. She wanted to apologise again for her behaviour and to thank him for his understanding. For taking care of her when he didn’t have to. And she wanted to probe how he felt before she did something stupid, like blurt out how in love she was.
The jazzy jingle of his phone’s ringtone echoed from the kitchen. Brooke held her breath, hoping he’d rush in to answer it, but after several rings the noise stopped. She glanced at the bedside clock, amazed to see it was after seven. The horses would be hungry, their yards in need of cleaning. Her stomach rumbled. And she needed breakfast.
Brooke slid out of bed, hunting for something to wear. Last night’s T-shirt lay folded on top of the dresser. She padded over and pulled it on, wishing for something Lachie had worn instead so she could have a little bit of him against her skin. As she scouted for his shirt, her attention was caught by a blue velvet box, lying on its side against the mirror.
She glanced at the door, listening for him over the loud thump of her heart. The cottage remained quiet.
Brooke reached out, hesitant. This was Lachie’s room. These were his things, not hers. She should mind her own business. Self-censured, she dropped her hand to her side, but the blue velvet box called. And it called loudly. This wasn’t just any box. The size and shape said ring box. A ring box in Lachie’s room on Lachie’s dresser.
Anxiety nagged at her insides. Was it his ring or a ring for someone else? Perhaps it was an heirloom, a harmless thing.
A harmless thing. Of course it was. And one little look wouldn’t hurt.
Relieved, she picked up the box and flicked the lid.
Brooke swayed and reached for the dresser. She shut her eyes but the vision of the diamond remained.
A solitaire diamond. An engagement ring.
Time ticked. Breathing hard, she reopened her eyes and stared at the thing in her hand, willing it away, but it kept glittering, teasing her with shards of light. Though aware of her growing hurt, she couldn’t resist the need to know more. With clumsy fingers she extracted the ring and turned it to expose the inside.
Tamsyn. Love always, Lachie.
Tamsyn.
She stared at her sex-tousled ref
lection in the mirror. Her smug expression was gone, cut across with uncertain lines of doubt; was last night was only kindness, a response to her grief?
Whatever the ring’s explanation, ecstatic or heartbreaking, she’d find out.
Movements robotic, she tucked the ring into its velvet nest, closed the lid and carried it with her to the kitchen to wait.
Nineteen
Anxious to get back to Brooke, Lachie drove faster than usual down Kingston Downs’ drive, causing the two resting racehorses in the front paddock to jerk their heads in surprise. A posy of jonquils nicked from Nancy’s garden sat on the Hilux’s passenger seat. Billy lay on the floor, his head on his paws, eyes raised in a martyred expression, extremely put out to have had his perch usurped.
He grinned at the dog. ‘Better get used to it, Billyboy. That’ll be Brooke’s seat from now on.’
And, with luck, so would the space in his bed be hers.
The bed he couldn’t get back to fast enough.
He’d left her sleeping and gorgeous, knuckle curled under her chin like a baby, lips soft and still a little pouty from the night before. After planting a light kiss on her shoulder and resisting the urge to caress the smooth rounded edge of her exposed breast, he’d snuck out of the house to feed the horses and do the yards, before dashing across to Nancy’s for some flowers.
He’d wanted roses – luscious, heavily scented red ones – but the delicate white and yellow jonquils would have to do as a gift to the woman he loved. As would a long morning kiss. And more.
Lots more.
He slowed, not wanting to wake Brooke with a noisy arrival, and parked near the verandah steps. Snatching up the posy, he winked at Billy. ‘Wish me luck.’
The little dog raced ahead as Lachie leapt up the stairs. All Lachie could think about was getting to Brooke, kneeling by the bed, kissing her awake and then, finally, telling her he loved her.
And then he’d make love to her again.