Chapter Twenty-Two
MAC POURED ALL THE frustration he’d been feeling over the past week into the kiss. It had been the hardest week of his life. He’d watched Fred walking around, going about her day, talking to other people, eating, drinking, laughing, and his body had burned for her. The fact that she seemed to have cut herself off from him so easily had stung. Did she not feel anything for him? Was it all in his head?
In the end, he could cope with it no more, and he’d thrown his things in the ute, determined that night, at least, to have some peace, and hopefully he would cease to be plagued by thoughts of the woman who’d given herself to him so freely and so passionately.
And then she’d appeared in front of him, her long hair lifting in the evening breeze, and come into the house, and looked up at him with such longing in her eyes that he was lost.
His hands tightened on her arms, an involuntary gesture as he fought against his desire, but she didn’t cry out. Instead, her mouth opened beneath his, and he swept his tongue inside. Passion flooded him as she moaned in approval, and he pushed her up against the wall.
Lifting his hands, he cupped her face, moving back so he could stare into her eyes, needing to reassure himself that she definitely wanted this. All he saw there was yearning and passion, so he kissed her again, gentler this time, his tongue playing with hers, enjoying the game, the slick slide that made his blood thunder through his body, made him so hard that his erection strained at his jeans.
Sometimes when you’re hungry, nothing but fast food will suffice; however, at other times you want a culinary delight, and to savor each and every course. Last time had been quick, and now he wanted to draw out their pleasure, to make it last as long as he could.
The first thing he wanted to do was taste her.
He started by removing her T-shirt, drawing it up over her head and loving the way her hair lifted with it before flowing down over her shoulders like a bale of brown silk. She wore a lacy cream bra beneath it, and he spent a moment admiring the way the lace flowers adorned her breasts before sliding his hands behind her and releasing the clasp. He drew the straps down her arms and tossed the bra on the sofa, watching her breasts take their natural shape, her pale skin glowing in the light from the lamp. Fred sucked her bottom lip, obviously awkward about standing there half naked before him, but he didn’t care. He traced across the swell of her left breast with a finger, then slipped his hand beneath to weigh it in his palm before brushing his thumb across her nipple. A sigh escaped her lips, and he bent to capture it, kissing her deeply as he teased her nipples to tight buttons with his fingers.
God, but he wanted this woman—he was at odds with himself, wanting to spend hours playing with her, teasing her, arousing her, and yet he ached, desperate to find his own pleasure in her soft body. He’d spent too many nights lying there in the darkness, fighting his passion as he’d played through his memories of that evening, remembering the way her wet skin had glistened, and how she’d filled the air with her sighs when she’d come.
“I want you,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse as he slid his hands to her hips and splayed them there. He pushed her hard against the wall, and she gasped and sank her hands into his hair.
“Take me, then.” She tugged his head and brought his lips to hers, and her kiss mirrored his desperation.
With a groan, he kissed along her jaw and down her neck, over her breast, and then closed his mouth over her nipple, savoring the sensation of her soft velvet skin against his tongue. He tugged it to a peak, then did the same with the other one, before dropping down onto his knees.
While teasing her belly button with his tongue, he undid her jeans, then slid them down her legs and held her so she could step out of them. She steadied herself by leaning on his shoulders, and he could hear her breathing, fast, irregular. Discarding her jeans, he focused on her panties, admiring the tiny scrap of cotton that barely covered her mound before pulling them down too.
Finally, she stood before him naked, just as he wanted it, just as he’d dreamed. He kissed over her belly, smoothing his hands down her silky thighs, then slid a hand beneath her left knee and lifted it, wrapping her leg around him. Leaning forward, he pressed his nose to her folds and inhaled, hearing her answering groan above him. Jesus, there was nothing like the smell of a woman, deep and earthy, so fucking primeval that it reached into his DNA and awoke the caveman inside him.
He growled and slid his tongue into her, and Fred cried out and tightened her fingers in his hair. Ahhh, she was wet, and slick, and swollen, and she tasted divine, sweet and rich and creamy, better than the best Pinot Gris he’d ever had, and that was saying something.
His fingers parted, explored, delved inside her, while his tongue circled and teased, taking her closer to the edge with every fast flick and slow lick. He loved how abandoned she was, how she was standing here, in the living room, naked, wrapped around him, and she didn’t care. She wasn’t protesting that someone might see, and there wasn’t a hint of reluctance about her. She matched him in all ways, and that was a treasure he hadn’t expected, giving him an unfamiliar ache deep inside.
She was close, he could feel it, her muscles trembling, and she was holding her breath, her hips rocking to guide him as she felt her orgasm waiting in the wings. He slowed his pace, teased it out of her, and when she came he felt a flood of delight at her long gasps and cries of pleasure.
As if her legs would no longer keep her up, she slid down the wall. Mac caught her and fell backward, and she tumbled on top of him, all hair and soft skin and warm, wet mouth. He wrapped his arms around her, reveling in being enveloped by this woman. Her kiss was forceful, demanding, and she caught his hands in hers and pinned them above his head, straddling him and refusing to let him move.
“Mine,” she said, looking into his eyes, just that one word, but it made his heart miss a beat and took his breath away, so all he could do was nod.
She leaned back and, without saying anything, she undid his belt and slid his zipper down, and then she was releasing his erection from his boxers and giving him long, slow strokes. Mac covered his face with his hands, feeling himself swell in her palm, and he groaned, conscious that she was teasing desire from him the same way he had her.
He wasn’t going to last much longer. He was too keyed up, had wanted this for too long. He put a hand on her arm to stop her, and she took his hands and pinned them above him again, leaning over him. Her hair fell around him like a curtain, just the way he’d imagined it that first day he saw her.
Shifting up, she rocked her hips so the tip of his erection slid through her swollen, wet folds. He closed his eyes and groaned again.
Letting him part her, she paused at the point of penetration and kissed him. “I’m on the pill,” she whispered. “But do you want to use a condom?”
He looked into her hazel eyes, swimming in their depths. Again, the caveman reared up inside him. He wanted to bury himself in her, wanted to spill inside her.
“No,” he said.
Keeping her gaze fixed on his, she moved her hips, coating him with her moisture. Then, just as he was thinking this was the temptation of St. Mac and he was going to embarrass himself, she pushed down, and he slid inside her.
“Aaahhh,” she said, exhaling with satisfaction, and he felt her relaxing her muscles, letting him in all the way.
It was divine, like a slipping into a warm bath on a cool day, and he closed his eyes and just felt, just enjoyed the sensation of joining with her, of being one.
“Mmm...” She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. Happy to help, he cupped them and played with her nipples while she rocked on top of him, arousing her again until her breathing grew deep and ragged, and he was sliding easily inside her, slick with her moisture.
She was moving, but it was too slow, and he loved slow and steady, but the caveman demanded he take her hard and fast. So he caught her around the waist, pushed up, and tipped her onto her back, doing his best to cush
ion her fall. The floor wasn’t the most luxurious place for lovemaking, but he couldn’t spare the time to take her to the bedroom—he wanted her here, now, and Fred seemed to feel the same, as she dug her nails in his back and wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Yes,” she said, so he began to thrust, and soon lost himself in the blissful dance of it all, becoming little more than pleasure and sensation. The world faded away, and there was only Fred and her wet warmth and her hot mouth, and he wanted it to go on forever, to keep plunging into her, to hold onto the exquisite feeling that wasn’t just physical, but emotional too, the overwhelming joy and beauty of having her in his arms, of being inside her, of joining with her in this most ancient of ways.
And then she was coming, clamping around him, so tight, so tight, and Mac gave in to the insistent demand of his muscles and let his climax claim him, spilling jet after jet into her warm, willing body. Sex was always good, but this was fucking sensational, and his orgasm seemed to go on forever, locking them in an eternal embrace, with her hands in his hair, her hazel eyes drinking in his bliss.
And then it released him, and he sagged on top of her, discovering he’d been holding his breath, which now came in giant gasps.
“Jesus.” He tried not to flatten her, but it was difficult, as all the bones seemed to have disappeared from his body. “What do you do to me, woman?”
“Oh God. Mac.” She groaned. “We’re going to have to make it to the bedroom at some point. This floor feels like rock.”
She was implying there would be a next time. He touched his nose to hers, then kissed her. “We will, I promise. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was... nice.” She kissed him back.
Carefully, he withdrew from her and moved to one side, flopping onto his back. “Wow. Jeez.”
“Mac? Can you... um... pass me a tissue?”
He glanced at her, then at the coffee table, extracted one from the box, and passed it to her.
“That’s a first,” he said, watching her.
She gave him a somewhat shy look. “Me too.” She glanced over at where her clothes lay in a heap and laughed. The German Shepherd was lying on top of her clothes, her nose on her paws. “Poor Scully. I bet she wonders what we were doing.”
“Eh, she’s a dog of the world.” He grinned. “Bed? For a cuddle?”
“Yeah, come on.”
They went into the bedroom, and Mac stripped off while Fred climbed on. Then he slid in beside her. She turned onto her side to face him. He did the same, and they surveyed each other quietly while he ran a finger up her arm and over her shoulder, then played with her hair.
Mac watched thoughts and emotions passing behind her eyes like clouds on a summer day. She wasn’t good at hiding her feelings, and he could see she felt embarrassed and shy and sexy at the memory of what they’d done, touched that he’d wanted her so badly he had to have her right there.
He saw the moment she remembered what had brought her to him, and why she was in New Zealand. The light dimmed from her eyes, and her smile faded away like morning mist.
“I wish he wasn’t my father,” he said.
She frowned. “You can’t say that. He’s half of what makes you what you are. I’m the same with my mother—I can’t wish that because I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her.”
“Even so. I wish it had been someone else. With all my heart.” He felt a twist inside, hard enough to make him wince. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to look at me without thinking about my family and what we did to yours?”
“I...” She bit her lip. “I hope so. I am trying to forget.”
But the doubt in her eyes told him the truth. He would always be James MacDonald’s son, a symbol of the betrayal of her father and her mother’s early grave.
To his surprise, she leaned close and touched her lips to his. “Tell me about him,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk about him, not now,” he said, his voice a growl.
“I mean it. I only know what he did to my father, but there must have been more to him than that. What was he like before then? My father obviously thought him a good friend.”
“They were.” He twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. “They’d known each other since they were kids. Went to the same school. Learned about the vineyard together. From what I understand, Harry was always the explorer, the one who wanted to climb higher, go deeper into the bush, swim out farther from the shore. My father tagged along, but he was a home bird at heart. When Harry left New Zealand, his parents were already dead, so my father offered to take over the running of the estate, and Harry agreed.”
He sighed. “Harry was gone for seven or eight years, as you know. He came back periodically, but the visits became more infrequent, and I suppose Dad gradually made more decisions about the estate by himself. By the time your father came back for good, Dad must have thought of the land as his own.”
“But that was over twenty years ago,” she said, puzzled. “They worked together for another... what? Fifteen years before my father died? Do you think your dad was secretly scheming all that time?”
“No, not actively. But I think he was stewing on it. He was already an alcoholic by then, and I think it was addling his brain.”
“And what about his marriage? When did that go wrong?
“I was very young, barely two years old, when they broke up. Mum doesn’t like to talk about it, and he always acted as if she never existed. If he did talk about her, it was with real venom. He hated her, I think.”
“Ouch. That must have been hard.”
“Yeah.”
She reached out a hand and trailed a finger through the hairs on his chest. “I wonder what went wrong between them? Was it his alcoholism?”
“Possibly.”
“Although why would that make him hate her?”
“I don’t know.”
A frown marred her brow. “Do you think she might have had an affair?”
He lifted the strand of hair he was playing with to his nose. It smelled of mint, and made his mouth water. “I guess. What made you say that?”
“It’s the only thing I can think of that would make him hate her.”
He let the strand slide through his fingers. “It would make sense.”
Then he froze. His gaze fixed on her, his eyes wide.
“What?” she said.
“What if...” He couldn’t believe he was thinking it or about to say it, but the idea swept over him like a tidal wave. “What if she had an affair with someone, and got pregnant?”
Fred stared back. “You mean...”
“They’d been married for fifteen years before they had me. She told me they’d thought he was unable to have kids. And I’m an only child. What if I’m not actually James’s son?”
Fred pushed herself up. “Seriously?”
He sat up too. “It would explain everything. Why he resented me his whole life. Why he was always so fucking horrible to me, both as a kid and as an adult. Why he turned to alcoholism, maybe even why he did that to your dad, because he was jealous of your dad talking about his three daughters.”
Her jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
He sank his hands into his hair. “I can’t believe I never thought of it before.”
“You’ll have to talk to your mother,” she said. “Will it upset her?”
“I don’t care if it will,” he replied roughly. “I need to know the truth.”
His head was spinning. He might not be James MacDonald’s son. All this time he’d felt as if he had a seed of darkness inside him. For years, he’d worried the seed would take root and grow. And now...
“You wouldn’t be Mac anymore,” Fred said. “I’d have to call you something else.”
“You could try my first name,” he suggested.
She blinked at him.
“Eamon?” he reminded her. “Please tell me you didn’t forget your husband’s name.”
“I forgot we were mar
ried,” she said, and subsided into laughter.
He pulled her on top of him and covered her mouth with his until it stopped the giggles and she gave in and kissed him.
“Would it make our marriage illegal?” she whispered when he finally let her go. “If the name was wrong?”
“I don’t know.” He held his breath. “Is that what you want?”
He waited for her to say it would make things easier, or only if it didn’t invalidate the will. But instead, she gave a tiny shake of her head.
He was married to this woman, in sickness and in health, until death parted them, and it was very possible that he wasn’t James MacDonald’s son. He hoped with all his heart that he wasn’t. He wanted to be able to tell Fred that was the case, and watch her eyes fill with joy. It would wipe away all the pain and shadows of the past, and instead he could concentrate on having a real marriage, with a future. Maybe even with kids.
He saw his hope reflected in her eyes before she lowered her lips to his. Please, he whispered to the shadows in the room, to whoever might be listening, to God, if He was there.
Please.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MAC DROVE DOWN THE winding road toward Russell with a pounding heart.
Once he’d gotten the idea into his head about his mother having an affair, he hadn’t been able to get rid of it. Even though he kept telling himself it was stupid, and that his mother would never have cheated, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
When he was younger, he could remember a man coming to visit his mother. His name had been David, and Mac vaguely remembered his mother and this David sitting in the kitchen talking while he played with his Lego on the floor, and taking walks around the garden while he kicked a football on the lawn. He didn’t remember them being intimate at all, and he’d never given much thought to it, but now he began to wonder whether David had been more than a friend.
If that was the case, though, where was he now? Megan had dated a few guys over the years that he knew of, although not until he’d grown up and left home, and even then she’d been very discreet about it, so it was possible David was still on the scene, even though Mac wasn’t aware of it. Had David remained in touched with her because they shared a link stronger than friendship?
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