"There are some movies in that tote bag. Put one in then come have a seat." She patted the sofa next to Clare, a silent dare in her eyes. Jonathan hesitated, still afraid to move, still afraid he was imagining things.
Sammie rolled her eyes then leaned over to Clare, who looked like she had made a complete recovery—again. "Boo, tell Daddy we want to watch a movie."
A big smile blossomed on Clare's face as she bounced up and down. "Watch a movie, Daddy. Now."
The air rushed from his lungs, leaving him reeling and gasping for breath. He swallowed, his gaze searching Sammie's. The understanding he saw in her eyes nearly did him in. It took more strength than he realized not to collapse into a worthless heap right there.
No, he wouldn't do that, not with Sammie and Clare watching him. Waiting.
He sucked in a deep breath and pulled his gaze from Sammie's, dug through the tote bag until his hand closed over the plastic case of a movie. He placed the bags on the floor, the world slowly shifting until the sense of unreality twisted and straightened and became reality.
He sucked in a deep breath, a hesitant smile crossing his face. "I guess we're watching a movie, huh?"
Chapter Nineteen
Sammie leaned over the bed, gently running one hand through Clare's thick curls. Clare shifted in her sleep, uttered a sleepy mumble, then curled onto her side, one tiny arm wrapped around the fluffy stuffed bear.
Something in his chest squeezed tight, making it hard to breathe, affecting his lungs and heart and even his vision as he stared at his daughter clutching the bear. He remembered when he bought it, nothing more than a last-minute gift he had seen at the PX on his way to pick up Sammie and Clare from the hospital. He remembered walking—no, he'd been strutting, every inch the proud father—into Sammie's room, carrying her small bag because he'd been so frazzled he had forgotten to throw it in the car when she went into labor. He held the bear in one hand, laughing when Sammie's eyes widened.
"Jon! That thing is bigger than she is!"
"So she'll grow into it." He leaned over, brushed his lips against the top of Clare's head, feeling the downy softness of the baby-fuzz that covered her scalp. Then he leaned up and claimed Sammie's mouth, this kiss much more than a brushing of lips.
Sammie pulled away, an enchanting blush staining her round cheeks, chasing away some of the exhaustion that had put dark circles under her eyes. The labor hadn't been easy or quick, and weakness still threatened to cut him off at the knees when he thought about it, thought about how helpless he had felt, unable to do anything except hold Sammie's hands and whisper soft words of encouragement in her ear.
He reached for Clare, his hands shaking as he pulled her tiny little body into his arms. She was perfect, just like her mother. Dark blue eyes, already showing a hint of brown—at least, he thought so. Chubby round face. Ten tiny perfect fingers and ten tiny perfect toes.
Perfect. Just like her mother.
Jonathan blinked against the memory, rubbed at the tightness spreading through his chest. Had he forgotten that day, just over three years ago? No, never. But he had shoved it deep into the back of his mind, afraid of pulling it out, afraid of remembering.
They'd been so happy back then, even as they stumbled through each day, trying to figure out that thing called parenthood. Reconnecting with each other as they enjoyed each new little milestone as it happened. Clare's first bath. First smile. First coo. The first time she lifted her head. And the first time she slept through the night, scaring the hell out of both of them.
And then he received his orders to ship out for the second time. They had both known it was coming, had both tried to prepare for it.
But leaving them had nearly killed him. Saying goodbye, seeing Sammie's eyes fill with sadness and fear while she held Clare and that big fuzzy bear in her arms…fuck. Seeing that had torn him apart. Had he known even then that something would happen?
Maybe.
And then—
Jonathan shook his head, forced his mind to the present as he watched Sammie ease away from Clare. His wife and daughter.
Except Sammie wasn't his wife, not anymore.
And he hadn't been a part of Clare's life since that day he'd left them standing on the porch of their small house, almost three years ago.
He stepped away from the doorway to let Sammie pass, watched as she pulled the door closed behind her, leaving it open just a few inches. Jonathan followed her down the hallway to the living room, watched as she crossed her arms in front of her. Her eyes met his, darted away and focused on something just over his shoulder.
"She usually sleeps through the night but you should keep an ear out, just in case."
"I'm a pretty light sleeper." The answer was automatic, the words leaving him before his mind really registered what Sammie had said. He stepped closer, frowning. "Wait. Are you leaving?"
"I should. It's getting late."
"But—" Jonathan cleared his throat, trying to tamp down the panic. It wasn't just panic. He didn't want Sammie to leave, not yet. "How about some coffee?"
"I don't—"
"Or maybe you should run through that list again. What if she wakes up crying, asking for you?"
"Then you hold her and read her a story until she calms down."
"What about—"
"Jon." Sammie stepped closer, placed a hand on his arm and squeezed. "You'll be fine, okay?"
He shook his head, needing to tell her no, he wouldn't be fine. Needing to tell her that he was scared shitless. Needing to confess every single doubt and worry and fear.
Needing her.
Desire slammed into him. Hot. Desperate. Not just desire—need. Bone-deep and frantic and so powerful his legs nearly buckled from the force of it. He swallowed, tore his gaze away from Sammie's hand, and looked up.
She was standing there, an odd expression on her face as she watched him with wide eyes. She started to move her hand, started to back away. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her in place.
"Stay." Just a single word, filled with raw need.
"I can't. This—" Her tongue darted out, swiped against her lower lip. "This is a bad idea, Jon."
"Please."
He held his breath, waiting, expecting her to pull away. But Sammie didn't move, didn't even blink as she stared up at him with those deep, brown eyes. He tightened his hold, pulled her closer, his eyes never leaving hers.
Waiting for her to push against him and run out the door.
Praying she wouldn't.
He lowered his head, slow, inch by inch, giving her time to pull away. To tell him to stop. Watching. Waiting. And then his lips brushed against hers. Once. Twice. The touch featherlight, nothing more than a gentle grazing of flesh against flesh.
He heard her swift intake of breath, felt her stiffen for the briefest second—
And then she moved toward him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pressed her body closer, warm, soft curves against hard flesh.
Jonathan held her close, his mouth claiming hers with a need so desperate, his entire body shook. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, groaned when her mouth opened under his.
And fuck. She was everything he remembered and more. Sweet. Spicy. Tantalizing. Intoxicating. Had he forgotten her taste? Her touch? He hadn't thought so. It had been those memories that had carried him through too many dark nights to count.
But the memories didn't even come close to reality. He realized that now, as Sammie clung to him, her hands twisting the thin material of his shirt. He deepened the kiss and tightened his hold on her, needing her even closer. Needing to feel more of her, to become one with her.
His fingers trembled as he trailed his hands up her back, fear accompanying the need. And God, he needed her. More than air. More than life. But it had been so long—for him, for them. Too long. Would she shy away from his touch? Push him away as hate and loathing at all the things he'd done filled her eyes?
What if she didn't push him away but he
still somehow managed to fuck things up? Things were different between them now—there was no them, thanks to him. They had both changed, become different people. What if—
Sammie sighed into his mouth, the sound a breathy moan of need that gave him courage. Gave him hope. He dragged his hands through her hair, the silky tendrils soft against his fingers, and cupped the sides of her face. Tilted her head back, deepened the kiss.
Sammie's hands dug into his arms, her fingers kneading the flesh of his biceps as she moved even closer, her hips slowly rocking against his. And fuck, she felt so good. So soft and warm against the rock-hard length of his erection.
Jonathan dragged his mouth from hers, gently teased her lower lip with his teeth before trailing kisses along her jaw and throat. Up to that sensitive spot behind her ear and across her damp cheek—
He pulled away, regret slicing through him when he saw the tears on her face. He dropped his hands, stepped back, his blood turning to ice. "God. Sammie. I'm sorry. I didn't—"
The words caught in his throat, nearly choking him. He raised his hand, needing to soothe her, reassure her. He let it drop as hopelessness and despair washed over him.
"Sammie. Please, babe, don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I'm not crying." She stepped closer, ran the palm of her hand up his arm and across his chest, until it was resting against his racing heart. Tears glistened in her eyes as she watched him with an intensity that seared his soul.
Jonathan's chest heaved with the force of the breath he sucked in. He raised one hand and cupped her cheek, wiped away a falling tear with his thumb. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Did he mean then—or now? Both. But he couldn't find the words, didn't know how to tell her he was sorry, so fucking sorry—
Sammie caught his hand with hers, pulled it away then turned her head to the side and pressed a lingering kiss against his palm. Fire danced across the roughened skin, tiny flames that traveled up his body, threatening to engulf him. Consume him.
Jonathan swallowed past the lump in his throat, curled his fingers around hers. "Why are you crying, babe?"
Sammie's only answer was a small shake of her head. He opened his mouth, ready to ask again, so fucking worried that he'd done something wrong, so worried that he had fucked up again—
The words died in his throat when Sammie dropped his hand and stepped closer, her gaze searing him as much as her kiss had. She reached between them, grasped the hem of his shirt, and slowly pushed it up. The palms of her hands grazed his skin—the flat plane of his stomach, the breadth of his ribs, the width of his chest. The beat of his heart echoed in the still air around them. Blood pounded through his veins, slow and heavy, hot. Sammie pushed the shirt higher, nudging his arms up. He grabbed the shirt, yanked it over his head, tossed it to the floor.
Then he just stood there, afraid to move. Powerless to move. Sammie's gaze drifted over him, the gaze followed by the hesitant touch of her hand. Across his shoulders, lower, tracing the bold lines of the tattoo emblazoned on his left chest and the scar that ran across his ribs. Her eyes darted to his, filled with silent questions. Jonathan shook his head, unable to answer. He couldn't speak. Hell, he could barely breathe, not with the way she was studying him, not with the way her trembling fingers touched him, so soft and hesitant.
Like she was relearning his body. Like she was seeing him for the first time.
And in a way, she was.
She moved around him. Touching, always touching. The tense muscles of his arms and shoulders. The back of his neck. The groove of his spine, down to the waistband of his jeans and back up again. Jonathan's breath left him with a sharp hiss. He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes as his head dropped back, just…feeling. Feeling each little touch, so afraid to move as Sammie circled him. Still moving, touching, her trembling fingers sending flames dancing across his skin.
She traced the outline of his ribs, his side, back to his chest as she completed a full circle. Still touching, always touching.
And then she pressed her mouth against his chest, above his heart, the kiss light and tender and gentle. The breath left him in a rush. He dropped his head, forced his eyes open, and tumbled into the depths of need filling her watery gaze.
"I need you to touch me, Jon. Please."
Chapter Twenty
I need you to touch me, Jon. Please.
The words rang in his ears. But they were more than words—they were a plea, uttered in a soft voice that drifted through his mind, touching him in places he'd thought long dead.
And they terrified him.
Jonathan held himself still, afraid to move, afraid to do as she asked. So fucking afraid he'd do something wrong. Could Sammie sense the fear gripping him? She reached up, traced the outline of his mouth with the tip of one finger, then ran that same finger across his jaw, over his chin, down his arm. She curled her hand around his and brought it to her mouth, her eyes never leaving his as she pressed another gentle kiss against his palm. There was something about the way she placed that gentle kiss, something about the way she was looking at him—
The paralyzing fear left him, disappearing with the doubts and worries and regrets that had held him in place. He cupped the side of her face with one hand, trailed the other along her side, down to her hip. He curled on finger through the belt loop of her jeans and tugged, pulling her closer. His dipped his head, claimed her mouth in a searing kiss that left him breathless.
She clung to him, soft little sighs of need escaping from her mouth into his. He deepened the kiss, swirled his tongue against hers. Tasting. Claiming. Demanding.
He reached between them, his fingers thick and clumsy as they worked the buttons of her shirt, taking minutes to do what should have been accomplished in seconds. He pushed the shirt off her shoulders, heard the soft hiss of material as it fell from her arms. And God, she was warm, so soft and warm. He broke the kiss, the sounds of harsh breathing filled the air. His. Hers. Mingling together, an echo of need. Of desire.
He drank her in, feasting on the sight of pale skin tinged with the faintest of blushes. The column of her graceful neck, the pulse beating fast and heavy against soft flesh. The slope of her shoulders, the lean lines of her toned arms.
The flushed skin of firm breasts pushing against soft cotton, rising and falling with each short breath. Jonathan swallowed past the desperate need filling him and reached out with both hands, tracing the straps of the bra. Down, then up. Down again, his knuckles grazing the gentle swell of flesh. The flush coloring her skin deepened. Her breath rushed out in a small gasp as he reached behind her and undid the hooks of the bra and gently eased it off her.
And fuck, she was beautiful, so fucking beautiful that it took his breath away, that it almost hurt to look at her. He ran his tongue along his lips, swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.
He needed to tell her how beautiful she was, needed to tell her a million different things, but he couldn't get the words out, not with the way his throat was closing up. Could he show her?
Yes. At least, he could try.
He ran the backs of his hands along her shoulders, reveling in the feel of warm, bare skin. Lower, slow, so slow, grazing his knuckles along the gentle swell of her bare breasts, finally cupping each one in his hands. He circled each nipple with his thumbs, watched as the dusky peaks tightened under his touch. Sammie gasped, her head dropping back, the movement pushing her breasts more fully against him.
Jon bent down, closed his mouth over one tight peak, and pulled. Sucking, licking, gently nipping. She gasped again, the sound a low, keening wail, and dug her nails into the flesh of his arms. One hand wrapped around the back of his head, pulling him closer.
Holding him in place.
Jonathan wrapped one arm around her waist, supporting her as she leaned back. He pulled harder on her nipple, the peak hot and hard and tight against his tongue. Her hips rocked, not quite meeting his as she whispered his name in a breathy moan.
Jonat
han swirled his tongue around the tight peak one last time then released it, leaning up to capture her mouth with his in time to swallow her sigh. He bent down, caught her behind the legs, and swooped her into his arms, deepening the kiss as he carried her to his room.
He nudged the door closed, carried her over to the bed and followed her down to the mattress, still kissing her. Touching her, his hands roaming along bare flesh, skimming the denim covering her legs.
He pulled away, his hands shaking as he reached for the button and zipper of her jeans. Sammie nudged his hands away and pushed the jeans over her hips, pausing long enough to kick off her shoes before shoving the denim down and off. She looked up at him, her gaze a gut-wrenching contradiction of shyness and need.
And a reflection of the same desperate hunger coursing through him.
Jonathan fell on her, bracing the bulk of his weight on his elbows as his mouth crashed against hers. Hotter. Harder. Demanding her full surrender, giving his own in return.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, rocked her hips against the length of his cock. Her hands grazed his back, her fingers kneading, sliding across his slick flesh, drifting down into the waistband of his jeans. And fuck, if she didn't stop moving like that, didn't stop rocking against him—
She reached between them, undid the button of his jeans, fought with the zipper, her knuckles grazing his cock through the denim. Jonathan tore his mouth from hers, fighting to breathe, and grabbed her wrist.
To stop her? To turn her hand so she could cup his length through the denim?
Both. Neither. He didn't care, was beyond caring. He just wanted her. Needed her.
More than he'd ever needed her before.
Now.
Forever.
He eased her legs from his waist, rolled off the bed and to his feet in one quick move, and shoved his jeans and briefs down and off. Then he was back on top of her again, losing himself in the feel of warm flesh against warm flesh as he stretched his body along the length of her own.
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 14