Sammie's arms closed around him, her mouth seeking his, her teeth nipping at his lips before her tongue darted in to dance with his. She dragged a foot up along his calf, his thigh. Draped it around his hips and pulled him closer, rubbing herself against his straining, throbbing cock. And fuck, he wanted to plunge into her. Lose himself.
Find himself.
The only thing stopping him from driving into her was the cotton fabric of her skimpy underwear. Jonathan reached between them, dipped his hand beneath the elastic, stroked her clit with one trembling finger. And fuck, she was so hot. So wet.
Sammie sighed into his mouth, the sound long and low as she raised her hips and rocked against his touch. He stroked her again, harder, finding the exact spot where she liked to be touched.
She moaned, rocked her hips faster, her nails digging into his arms.
Jonathan slid his hand away, grabbed the cotton and yanked it off her legs, the sound of elastic snapping and breaking lost in the sound of Sammie's frantic cry. And then he was touching her again, stroking her clit. Harder. Faster. His touch matching the rhythm of her harsh, rapid breathing.
He deepened the kiss. Possessing. Claiming. He grabbed one of her hands and stretched her arm over her head, then slid one long finger inside her.
Her back arched as she ripped her mouth from his, calling his name in a harsh breath as her body shattered. Jonathan shifted, the tip of his cock teasing her wet heat. He shifted once more, closed his hand around her hips to keep her still, and drove into her.
Tight. Hot. Wet.
Fuck. Had it always been this way?
He rocked into her, thrusting hard. Held himself still as her body tightened around him. Pulled back and drove himself deep once more. Over and over. Harder. Faster.
Marveling at the way her snug body fit around his. In the way she clung to him, pulling him even deeper.
Realizing his memories hadn't even come close to this. Wondering how he could have forgotten the breathy little moans she made, the way her back arched and the way her head tilted back. The way she bit down on her lower lip as her legs tightened around his waist.
And then he thought no more, just lost himself in the wonder of Sammie's body welcoming his, as if they had never been apart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shadows filled the room, the darkness held at bay by the pale light streaming in through the part in the curtains. Sammie could just make out the faint sound of the wind, knew the night air outside would be cold. Frigid.
But here, curled next to Jon, she was warm. Safe.
Protected.
That's what she wanted to believe, but she knew it was just an illusion. A fantasy.
And a dangerous one at that.
But she didn't move. Didn't jump from the bed and run from the room. Didn't cower under the covers or hide her head under the pillow. Dangerous fantasy or not, this is where she wanted to be.
Curled up against Jon's side, his arm draped around her, her head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder. Her hand rested in the middle of his chest, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart beating beneath her palm somehow calming. Reassuring.
How many times had they fallen asleep like this? With their legs entwined, their bodies pressed so close together she didn't know where she ended and he began? So many times. All her life, it seemed.
And God, she had missed it. Missed it so much. His touch. His warmth. The sound of his breathing and the feel of his callused palm drifting across her back, lulling her to sleep.
The intimacy of just being, of knowing she was part of something bigger than just herself.
How many times in the last two years had she awakened in the middle of the night, reaching across the narrow double bed, searching for that missing connection? How many times had that vast sense of loneliness nearly overwhelmed her when she realized she was alone?
Too many nights.
She had tried so hard to forget how this felt, had tried so hard to convince herself she didn't need, didn't want. But those empty words had been nothing but lies meant to console the aching loneliness deep inside her.
And it would be easy, so easy, to stay here in Jon's arms. In his bed. To stay with him. To lose herself in the comfort of his arms, in the intimacy of his touch. Not in sex—though it would be so easy to lose herself in that as well—but in just being with him.
But she couldn't. That would be nothing but a mistake, one that wouldn't solve anything—if there was even anything to solve.
That didn't mean she regretted sleeping with him—having sex with him. Sammie knew she should. And maybe she would, tomorrow or next week or next month. But she didn't. She couldn't. It had been something they both wanted, something she had needed.
Maybe that made her a fool. If that was the case, then so be it.
Jon's hand moved, tracing small circles along her back before drifting up and tangling in the short strands of her hair. Soothing. Relaxing. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, the gravelly whisper of his voice rumbling in her ear.
"You should get some sleep."
"So should you."
"I'm fine."
Was he? There was something about his voice, too low and too quiet, that contradicted the words. Had his thoughts gone down the same road as hers, remembering how things used to be between them? Or were his thoughts haunted by something deeper? By memories she couldn't imagine and images she was afraid to picture?
Sammie shifted, pushing up on her elbow. The room was too dark for her to clearly see his face, to make out the expression in his eyes. But she knew he was looking at her, felt the strength of his gaze as he watched her.
His hand drifted along her neck, his fingers tracing the outline of her jaw. Her lips. Her cheek. He brushed the wayward strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ear, his touch soft and gentle.
"I never stopped loving you, Sammie."
The words hit her like a punch to the throat, robbing her of breath. Of reason. Of thought.
No, not of thought—she was thinking plenty, enough to send her into a tailspin of panic. She pushed away from him, heard his muttered curse as his hand dropped to the mattress.
"Sammie—"
"No. You can't say that. You don't get to say that." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, fighting with the tangle of covers and nearly tripping in her haste to get away from him. A light came on behind her, the glare making her squint. She spun around, feeling raw and exposed, the sensation having nothing to do with her lack of clothes.
Jon stood on the other side of the bed, his face carefully blank of all expression—except for his eyes. She could see plenty in their brown depths. Annoyance. Frustration. Confusion. Hurt.
And then he blinked and even his eyes became empty, void of all emotion as he stared at her.
"You don't get to tell me what I feel."
"Yeah, Jon, I do. This—" She motioned at the bed, at the mussed covers still holding the scent of their mixed bodies. "This doesn't mean anything. It just…it just happened. That was all. It doesn't mean anything."
"It doesn't mean anything?" He repeated the words, his voice showing the first hint of emotion.
"No." She crossed her arms over her bare breasts, feeling even more vulnerable as he kept staring at her. But his gaze was focused on her eyes, nowhere else.
Somehow, that was even worse.
"What we just did—" She cleared her throat, ran her tongue across her dry lips and forced the words out. "That was just sex—"
"Don't even go there. It wasn't just sex and you know it."
"It was." And God, she was such a liar. A coward. Could Jon see her real thoughts? Could he see how much it cost her to hide the truth? "It can't be more than that."
He was quiet for several long minutes, the silence in the room stretching around them, growing so thick and heavy, it threatened to suffocate her. He finally moved, breaking the awful tension as he stepped around the bed, coming closer.
But
he didn't reach for her, didn't touch her. He just stood there, his gaze holding her prisoner as some unknown emotion flashed in his eyes.
"We didn't use protection."
The words hung in the air—a statement. A question. An accusation. Sammie didn't know what to say, didn't know how to answer. She hadn't given it any thought, had never had to worry about it before, not when they were together. But that had been almost three years ago.
Was he trying to tell her something?
Or was he asking her something?
"I—I'm on birth control."
Jon stepped back, like he'd been slapped. A dozen different emotions flashed in his eyes but it was the last two that took her breath away: anger—and pain.
He turned away, ran a hand through his thick hair, then just stood there with his back to her. His shoulders tensed, the muscles in his broad back bunching as he took a deep breath. A few seconds went by before he turned back to face her.
"Do I need to worry about anything?"
Sammie frowned, not understanding the words—until she did. Her eyes widened in hurt shock and she opened her mouth. Snapped it closed. Opened it again.
"Go to hell."
If he was fazed by her language, he didn't show it. "Don't get all righteous with me, Sammie. It's a valid question. We didn't use protection. So I'll ask again: do I need to worry about anything?"
She wanted to lunge at him. To hit and scream and kick. How could he even ask her that? How could he even think it? Sammie didn't bother to answer, just threw a question of her own back at him.
"Do I?"
His eyes never left hers when he answered. "I haven't been with anyone since you, Sammie."
She hadn't expected that answer, didn't want to hear it—even though she knew any other answer would have torn her apart. And how stupid and petty was that? They were no longer married, hadn't been for over two years. It was irrational to think he hadn't—
Except he hadn't, and he wasn't lying—she could see the stark truth in his eyes as he watched her. Unexpected tears suddenly welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, trying to focus instead on the anger still simmering beneath the surface from his silent accusation.
"I haven't been with anyone either." That wasn't exactly what she had planned on telling him. And she hadn't meant to say it so loudly, like it was somehow his fault. "And how dare you even ask me that!"
"You said you were on birth control. What the hell was I supposed to think?"
"That maybe I never stopped taking it. That maybe there are other reasons for it. Like cramps. And heavy periods. And…and—" She stepped closer, leveled an accusing finger at his chest. "And controlling mood swings!"
"Stop raising your voice."
"I am not. Raising. My. Voice." Except she was, because she had seen that stupid flash of male arrogance and satisfaction in his eyes before he managed to blink it away. She wanted to scream at him, tell him that the reason she hadn't been with anyone else was because she was too busy, because her main concern was Clare.
Because she didn't need a man.
She never got to tell him any of that because Clare's voice cut through the thick silence. Small and soft, filled with sleepy confusion—
And just on the other side of the closed door.
"Mommy? Daddy?"
Panic crashed into Sammie. Her gaze darted to the door then shot back to Jon—who was standing there, completely nude.
Just like her.
"Oh God, no. She can't find us in here together—"
"What are you talking about?"
"Clare. She can't see us like this. Can't know that we…that we—"
Jon closed the small distance between them, his hands closing around her shoulders. "Sammie, stop. It's okay. She's only three. I don't think—"
"Daddy?"
"Jon! You have to do something!" Sammie hissed the words, the panic only marginally held at bay by the sudden urge to hit him. He was laughing! How could he laugh? There was nothing funny about this!
Maybe he saw the murderous urge in her eyes because he stepped back and moved toward the dresser, yanking open two different drawers. He pulled something out of one and tossed it to her, the gray material hitting her in the face.
It was a t-shirt, soft and worn, bearing the insignia of his old unit on the front. Sammie yanked it over her head, smoothed the hem down as it fell past her thighs. She looked over as Jon stepped into a pair of sweatpants, pulling them up as far as his lean hips. He didn't bother to look at her, didn't even glance over to see if she was dressed, as he reached over and opened the bedroom door.
Clare stepped inside, the bear clutched to her chest, her curls a wild halo around her sleep-creased face. She glanced at Sammie, then turned to Jon, one arm reaching up for him.
"Wanna sleep with you and Mommy."
"Boo, I don't think—"
"You do, huh?"
Clare nodded, her big eyes focused on Jon. He bent over and picked her up, holding her close as he moved toward the bed. He leaned down, readjusted the sheets and comforter with one hand, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Jon, this isn't a good idea."
He settled Clare into the middle of the king size bed then sat down on the edge. "Yeah? Why not?"
"Because—" Because it wasn't. Because it was too much like playing house. Too much like pretending they were a real family.
Because it was too dangerous to her mind. Her heart.
But Sammie couldn't say any of that, not with Clare right there, watching her with sleepy eyes. She wouldn't have been able to say it even if Clare wasn't there, would never admit any of that to Jon.
She shot him one last look then eased onto the bed, shifting on her side and pulling the covers over her and Clare. The mattress dipped as Jon stretched out on the other side, dipped again as he leaned over to turn out the light then rolled toward them.
Sammie lay there for a long time, listening to the sound of Clare's soft breathing. To the sound of Jon's deeper breaths.
And finally fell asleep, letting herself dream, just for tonight, that they were a family again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Pick it up, ladies! I want to see some speed out there!" Coach Reynolds' voice cut across the ice, the words laced with steely command and what Sammie figured was supposed to be motivation.
She ground her teeth together and pushed harder, her blades digging into the ice. The muscles of her legs stretched, burning as she bent low and hurried across the ice. Faster. Back and forth, sweat pouring from her face, her chest heaving with each breath of cold air she sucked in.
Holy crappola. She hated sprints. Hated them with a passion. They made her feel heavy and slow and out of shape, like she was nothing more than a slug placed on the ice to race a centipede.
Sammie's stride faltered and she nearly fell, gritted her teeth and regained her balance. Where had that crazy comparison even come from? It was stupid, made no sense—further proof that she was losing her mind.
No, not losing her mind. She was just tired. So tired. Work. Practice. Games. Clare. It was getting harder and harder to juggle everything, and she was so afraid that somewhere along the way, she had lost sight of her priorities.
That she was neglecting Clare.
A shrill whistle split the air, signaling an end to the sprints. Sammie slowed to a stop, bent over at the waist, the stick braced across her legs. She sucked in deep gulps of air, willed her heart to slow down.
At least she wasn't the only one who was bent over, sucking in air. Even Taylor and Dani, who were both in much better shape than she was, had sweat rolling down their flushed faces.
Yeah, but they didn't look like they were ready to drop to the ice, gasping like a fish out of water.
It was her own fault, Sammie realized. She hadn't been spending as much time working out as she should have been.
Just one more thing she was trying to juggle, one more ball she was dropping.
Taylor skated over to her, slight
ly out of breath—which made Sammie feel a little better. "You okay?"
Sammie nodded, finally straightening. She turned her head to the side, wiped her face against her shoulder. "Yeah. Fine."
Taylor studied her for a few seconds then smiled. "If you say so." She placed her stick behind her neck, draped her arms on either side of it, then twisted from side-to-side, stretching. "I hate sprints. God, I hate them so much."
"Glad I'm not the only one." Sammie lowered herself to the ice, braced her hands on her stick, then leaned forward, stretching her back. Her legs. Her entire body.
Telling herself it would be a bad idea—really bad—if she simply just collapsed there and closed her eyes. Only for a minute—
Except she couldn't. They had another hour left in practice before she could shower and go home. Then she had to tuck in Clare—no bedtime story tonight, because her daughter would already be asleep—and go over her lesson plans for the following week. She wouldn't have time to do it this weekend because they had an away game Saturday afternoon then another small demonstration during the first period of the Banners' game Sunday afternoon, followed by an autograph session on the concourse.
She pushed against the stick, rounding her back as she sat back on the heels of her skates, stretching, trying to get rid of this sudden sense of…inadequacy? Failure? Exhaustion?
All of the above.
At least there was one good thing about being so tired, she thought. She hadn't had time to think too much about Jon. About what they'd done two weeks ago.
About what he'd told her.
I never stopped loving you.
Anger swept through her, pushing away some of the exhaustion. What gave him the right to say that? To drop that bomb on her? He didn't have that right, not after what he'd done. Not after the way he'd just abandoned them. It didn't matter that she understood—more than she wanted to. What mattered was that he had made that decision on his own, without giving her a choice. Without giving them a chance.
Sammie jumped to her feet, a burst of anger energizing her as they moved to the next drill, backward snake bites.
Focus. Concentrate. Clear her mind. Knees bent and chest up as she moved through the cones. Fast. Faster.
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 15