“What are you doing here?” he demanded, breaching the distance between them, lack of sleep heightening anger and the odd sense of betrayal he felt by her being there.
“Oh!” She startled and scurried to her feet, keeping the oak tree behind her.
She wore a short summer dress that the breeze wrapped around her legs and a thin black sweater that slipped off one bare shoulder. Curls danced around her face, her gaze wide and defiant. She lifted her chin, and he nearly groaned when the pink tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
“I was about to call you.” She lifted her hand holding her cell.
“Why?”
Mika could feel her racing pulse drumming through her body. Her hands shook, but she squeezed her fingers so he wouldn’t see. She’d planned on meeting up with him to give him the papers; she just hadn’t expected it to be tonight. Hadn’t expected it to be at their spot. She cleared her throat. “I signed the papers.”
He stepped closer, the heat of his massive body encasing her, warming her as the sun had. She tried to read his face, but the hood of his sweatshirt shielded his eyes. She glanced to the bank on the other side of the river. The sun was low on the horizon now, reflecting gold and orange across the rippling water. Sunset burned across the sky.
“Is that what you want, Mika?” He moved closer. She wanted to touch him. To stroke his skin. To absorb his warmth. She retreated, pressing against the bark, but he was relentless. He stalked closer. “Is that what you want, baby? You left me; do you want to divorce me, too?”
She tried to answer, but no sound came out. She shook her head.
“Tell me,” he demanded, grabbing the papers from her grasp, “why you signed them then.”
Mika fought the need to look away. Despite how her hands shook, she reached up and shoved the hood from her husband’s head. “For you. I signed them for you.”
Not a moment had gone by when she hadn’t been thinking about his words, his yearning for a wife and a family. From the day they met, it’d been a shared dream. A shared future. No matter how she tried to release Rye from her heart, she’d been unable to.
“For me?” He put one hand behind her against the tree as he leaned toward her. “What about for you? What do you want?”
It was a future she still wanted, too. “You.” She touched his cheek, brushing her fingers across his sweat-damped skin. “I want you.”
He growled as he closed the distance. His mouth came down on hers. His lips were soft, but demanding. He kissed her. Kissed her gently and with reverence. A brushing of lips with a tenderness that was her undoing. She opened her mouth to him. Deepened the contact. Welcomed him inside her.
She gasped as his mouth left hers, trailing soft and moist kisses across her face. He pressed his mouth to her closed eyelids. Stroked his lips across her cheek to the tender skin below her ear, swirled his tongue along her flesh.
Mika leaned her head against the tree, her curls tangling on the bark, her eyes drifting closed. Her heart raced, heat danced across her body, desire pooled low in her belly. She trembled.
He nipped her earlobe with his teeth, then soothed the sting with his tongue.
“Rye,” she whispered, shivering.
“Yeah, baby?” He returned his lips to her mouth, nudging them apart with his tongue and gulping down any reply she meant to make. He nipped at her bottom lip, then pressed into her depths.
He tasted of sweat, of sunshine, of damp river air, of male, and oh so familiar. Her knees shook. Her inner thighs ached. She rejoiced as his mouth devoured hers, and she welcomed him inside. His tongue stroked against hers, explored and teased.
Slowly, he ended the kiss. “Say it again. Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her lips.
“You,” she replied.
He pushed away from her, his stare stormy and penetrating. “So we don’t need these?” he asked, lifting the divorce papers.
She shook her head. “No.”
He grinned and flung the papers toward the river. They caught on the breeze and scattered, flashing in the fading light like sparks against the flaming sunset. Hues of fire hugged the horizon, the sun dripping low in the western sky.
“We don’t need those,” Mika said, reaching for her husband. She grabbed his sweatshirt and tugged him forward. “But we need this.”
Hell yeah, he needed this—her—like he needed to breathe. He closed the distance between them, needing to kiss her again. Needing to touch her, to drink in her sweet sighs and breathy moans, to claim her as his own. To make up for lost time. He touched her shoulder, shoving the sweater down her arm, exposing the creaminess of her lush skin. He kissed her there, filling his free hand with the fullness of her breast.
His body ached, his dick throbbing in the same demanding tempo as the pulse thundering behind his ears. The years slipped away, the tears gone, the hurt soothed; the past was yesterday. They were all that mattered. It was only the two of them under the burning sky.
Rye pushed the thin knit from her arm, his mouth following, his lips kissing and sampling her honeyed skin. She moaned, arching her back from the tree, filling his hand with the full swell of her body. He rolled her pebbled nipple between his thumb and finger until it hardened further. He pulled her dress away, exposing her dark nipple to the descending night and then covered it with his lips. He tugged it between his teeth and swirled his tongue around it until his wife was panting sweet breaths that had his body on fire.
She knew. She reached for him, pulling at the waistband of his basketball shorts, yanking the drawstring free, shoving them down his hips. Her playful fingers eased beneath his boxers and wrapped around his rocked up length. He damn near came into the palm of her soft hand.
“I need you,” he mumbled, his voice low and husky. His mouth left her nipple and settled against her lips. She nodded and welcomed him, nibbling at his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth as she worked her fingers down his dick, then slowly back to the tip. She was a tease. A vixen. She knew exactly what he wanted. Exactly how to give it to him.
He pressed her against the tree. His hands were on her, smoothing down along her back, his fingers finding the edge of her dress. He pushed the cloth up, his hand settling on the curve of her ass. He moved his hand lower to her thigh, then lifted her leg into the air. Rye stepped into her, adjusting her so her foot wrapped around his waist. Her hand was trapped between them, but he didn’t care. He thrust his hips forward, her hand working his length, her fingers smoothing down his sensitive ridge, then cupping his balls in her hand. He damn near exploded.
Reaching behind her, he moved his hand under her thigh and stroked her. Her lips were soaking. He pushed two fingers inside her tight body. “You’re wet,” he muttered against her mouth.
She moaned, her hips rotating into his hand as she rode down on his fingers. His dick bucked. He needed inside her. She must have known. She shoved his shorts down. Pushed his boxers away, freeing his hard-on.
“Please.” Her leg tightened around him, pulling him closer.
He growled, fighting for control. Losing.
Pulling his fingers from her body, he grabbed his dick and touched his swollen head to her plump lips. She dripped arousal as she arched into him, rolling her hips. “Easy, baby.” Her lips were gripping him, pulling him in. She was tight around him, honeyed velvet heat.
“Damn,” he said through gritted teeth as he slammed into her, so deep her arousal seeped onto his balls. Her body quivered as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She held him close, releasing short raspy pants, her head rolled back. Her hair tangled on edges of tree bark.
He began to move. He had to. Long, slow strokes into her welcoming flesh. Rotating his hips, he eased out of her body until just his head remained between her slick, swollen lips. A deep thrust, all the way back in, until her mouth fell open and she cried out. Cried out his name.
&nb
sp; He moved faster, thrusting into her even though he heard her sweater snagging against the rough edges of the bark. His wife moaned and moved with him, using her foot to pull him into her when he’d retreat. In and out, the tempo changing from fast, quick thrust to long and slow and languid and savoring. He kissed her neck. Stroked his tongue along her pulse point. Along her collarbone. Sucked the tender skin on her shoulder, leaving nips and marks.
The air cooled. The sun faded into purples as dusk overtook daytime. But he was hot, his body on fire, his skin burning.
“Rye …” his wife moaned, her body beginning to quake around him, her tight pussy pulsing and shivering against his erection. “Rye,” she called out as she soaked him in honey. Called out his name as her body shook.
And that was all. She was everything. Her body gripped him. Closing his eyes, he roared as he let himself go, releasing into her. She held him, her hands soothing the straining muscles on the back of his neck, her body arching and accepting.
Come pulsed from his body. He was drained, but completely renewed. Rye held his wife’s shaking body in his embrace, pressed between his chest and the oak tree. He was shaking with release, floating in pleasure. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her lush chest. Her breaths were sharp and short, but she held him tight as she gasped for air.
Every muscle in his body quivered, the tension finally released. Holding onto her thigh, he pulled her from the tree and spun them, collapsing into the grass and clover bed, settling her on top of him.
“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered.
He grinned. “I’m glad.”
She nipped his ear.
“I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met.” He smacked her on the ass. “Nothing’s changed, baby.”
“I’m glad.”
He felt her body go slack as she relaxed into his embrace. There was still so much that needed to be said, so much that needed to be talked about. But all he wanted to do now was hold her. To be enveloped by the love that had always been so strong between them. The rest could wait. They had a lifetime to make it right, and he meant to enjoy every moment.
The burning sun was gone now, set on the pain of their past. Holding his wife’s limp body to his, he inhaled the sweet scent of her. He smiled. They were together again, and the sunset brought the promise of their second chance.
Renee Luke has been writing poems and stories since she first learned to write. After getting a box of Harlequins delivered by mistake, her love of romance novels blossomed from an obsession of reading into the desire to write her own stories of the heart. She writes keeping-it-real erotic romances featuring funky (sub) urban characters who get their groove-on and give up their hearts. She strives to write stories that both stimulate physically and satisfy emotionally. She’s a believer in happily-ever-afters and definitely found her own, living in Northern California with her children and her real-life hero, her USMC husband.
THERESE LEONARD STARED AT the spot where her breasts used to be. Back before the crazy began. Before Gary had left and the tests had come back positive and the seemingly interminable rounds of treatment had started. Back when she was just a pretty woman in love with a handsome, successful man.
She turned sideways to the mirror, lifting her right arm so she could stare at the unfamiliar profile of her upper torso, then prodded gently at one of the newly inflated pillows they’d tucked under her skin to replace the poisoned, traitorous flesh. Inflated. The exact opposite of her ego, which had barely survived the dual defection of her longtime boyfriend and her lifetime breasts. Or was that a triple defection, technically? One ass, two boobs?
She sighed and turned forward again, then gently cupped the foreign globes, testing their weight, marveling at their unnatural symmetry. Even the nipples looked real if she squinted a little. Not that anything about the process had been natural. Not the surgery that had changed her life or the treatments that had stolen her hair or the long series of appointments in which they’d blown up the implants a bit at a time, something like going to the orthodontist as a teen, though far more humiliating than having her wires adjusted. Surreal. That’s what the whole thing was. Completely and utterly surreal. Except it had really happened. And it was really over, the intense part, anyway. She’d had her final post-surgery follow up this week and then hit Goodwill and her therapist to drop off the last of the crap Gary had left behind. It was time to start rebuilding her life again.
But was she ready to live? Live, live? Not just survive? Because she’d pretty well have to start over again. Her savings and 401K were gone along with the man she thought she’d spend her life with. The house she loved was about to go on the market. A surprising number of the people she’d once called friend had drifted away, too busy or too afraid to cope with the threat of mortality Therese now represented. Her body wasn’t the only thing she barely recognized. She still had her job, at least, and she’d always loved that. Besides, she could hardly hang out in limbo until the magical five-year mark passed by. She’d missed too much already, wasting most of a decade with a man she’d always known didn’t quite love her. Funny how obvious that fact seemed now—and how easy it was to face. Looking death in the eye had a way of clarifying one’s vision, she supposed. Then there were the skipped girls’ trips to Las Vegas and the Bahamas, adventures that would have interfered with her determination to pay off the house before they had kids. That foresight, at least, would come in handy once the house sold. They’d been almost there, after all. She supposed she could have bought Gary out. But, somehow, she didn’t want to. She liked the idea of being debt free. Stuff free. Free.
She’d missed her fifteenth high school reunion for her final chemo treatment, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like there was a “most likely to be diagnosed with cancer the week after your boyfriend elopes with another woman” award for her to win. Besides, she’d quickly learned that no one knew what to say to a woman her age with breast cancer—not even the other young women with breast cancer. She couldn’t imagine spending an entire evening with her old classmates, all of them wondering what was safe to ask. With the big C hovering silently in the background, no one wanted to talk about the other Cs: college, careers, and children. They’d forget she’d had the first two and assume she’d never have the last one. They’d be unable to stop thinking about how it could be them. And how she might die. Just that short time ago, she didn’t think she’d survive, either, though her odds were good. Now, she was pretty sure she would. Which made the question she’d posed to herself that much more significant. Given the number of women—and men—who didn’t get the option, could she justify not giving her all to the rest of her life? Even if it wasn’t the life she’d imagined.
Her phone alarm chirped a reminder to take her vitamins, and she blinked, surprised at how long she’d stood pondering her new contours. She needed to get a move on if she wanted to make it to the cancer center’s weekly produce market before the best goodies had been snaffled. Her pulse skipped a beat, not at the thought of the farm fresh eggs she’d come to love, but at the sudden mental image of the farmer himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and deeply tanned from working in the sun, J. P. Taylor had an easygoing manner that soothed her nerves, eyes that crinkled with his ready smile, and a range of knowledge that made her wonder about his past. Lately, she’d been wondering quite a lot. Dreaming occasionally, too. Then, last week, Nurse Turner had made that silly remark about how much he seemed to enjoy helping Therese choose her tomatoes, and now she couldn’t stop remembering the way his strong, calloused hands gently squeezed the firm, ripe fruit. What would those doubtless skillful hands feel like on her body—on the breasts she hadn’t yet gotten used to? Not much, according to the literature. But that didn’t mean his touch would be any less arousing.
Her face flushed as red as her favorite heirlooms, and she shook her head, laughing at the sheer joy of rediscovering her libido. She paused, th
en slowly shook her head again, her eye distracted by the slight bounce of the short reddish curls that had grown in since her final treatment. She pulled one out to its full length. Three inches maybe? Not bad. She’d worn her hair straight, long, and blond for so many years that she’d almost expected it to come back that way. Her gaze strayed to the wig block on her dresser, and she fingered the high-quality synthetic golden strands as though touching them for the first time. Fake hair, fake rack, fake love. Was anything real in her world anymore?
Her eyelashes. Those were real again, finally, and pale as always. She reached for a tube of mascara, then stopped. Why? Why did she need to gunk on a heavy coat of God knows what? She’d fought for those lashes, dammit, sat through seemingly endless nausea, plowed through seemingly unendurable pain. It was about time she stopped taking things for granted. Her lashes, her hair, her body. Her relationships. She glanced at the wig again, then slowly opened the top dresser drawer to pull out the sparkly green barrette her goddaughter had given her for her birthday. She fluffed her curls, marveling at their softness, and then carefully clipped the barrette into place. Funny, but the emerald stones brought out her eyes almost as much as mascara ever had, and her natural hair color was far less orange than she’d recalled. Or maybe she was looking at herself with open eyes for the first time.
Time! She glanced at her phone again, then scurried into her closet to choose a skirt and blouse, sparing a thought for their looseness for the first time in a year. It might be time for new clothes, actually. To go with her new outlook on life. And maybe new bras. She’d fought for the breasts, too, after all.
HOLY CROW, SHE WAS a redhead! J. P.’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets, and he blinked purposefully to keep from alarming those around him. The color wasn’t surprising, really, given the deep green of her eyes and the creamy fairness of her skin. What shocked him was that she’d covered it up to begin with. Not that there had been anything to cover up for most of the time he’d known her, of course. She’d have been hiding bare scalp and then peach fuzz beneath the wig. God, that must have itched. He rubbed a grateful hand across his own dark hair. The growing-in stage was a bitch. His gaze lit on the pep of her curls again, so different from the smooth, controlled style he’d grown used to. So different from the blinding blondness that had covered her bent head the first day he’d seen her seven months earlier, when her hair was her own. Or not, apparently. Today was much, much better.
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 16