“Nice place.” She wandered closer to the window. “Paulo’s must be treating you well.”
“It’s doing okay, better since the show. But I moved here a couple of years ago, before Paulo’s. A friend of mine did all the renovations, then was transferred to Australia for work. I’m subletting it from him and hoping to buy it when I get Paulo’s stabilized.”
She ran her hand along the smooth, cool material of the couch. A formal portrait of a middle-aged couple rested on a long narrow table. She picked it up. “Your parents?”
He nodded. “They had it done a few years ago, for their thirtieth wedding anniversary.”
She studied the photo. Paul’s mother smiled happily, but his father looked grim. “Thirty years with the same person. How the hell do they do it?”
“A lot of patience, I imagine. And a lot of love.”
She lowered it into place, using a clean line in a thin layer of dust as a guide. Lingering tension dissolved at this sign of Paul’s fallibility. “My gramma loved her husband, and he left her over her head in debt. According to my mother, my father ran screaming in the other direction when she told him she was pregnant. Commitment? Marriage?” She shrugged. “Maybe for some people, but I don’t believe in it for me.” No matter how much she was beginning to wish she could.
He tossed his keys beside a complicated-looking coffee machine. “Do you want something warm to drink? What about an herbal tea? Nothing with caffeine. You need to sleep.” He relaxed one hip against the island and crossed his arms and ankles as he waited for her answer. Dark hair fell over his forehead and fatigue deepened the creases in his cheeks.
She was so tired of fighting her instincts. Instincts that told her she could depend on him, trust him. She might continue to declare she didn’t need anyone, didn’t want anyone, but her determination was beginning to soften. Paul’s actions were doing more to defeat her stubbornly held beliefs than any soft words.
“You were there, again. How are you always near when I need you?”
“I want to be there, Jemma. Whenever you need me.” He filled a kettle under the tap. “Tonight was just luck. I didn’t like how we left it between us this afternoon. I wanted to talk to you.” He put the kettle on its electric base and rummaged in a cupboard.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of her the way Paul had done for the last few hours. For years, even before dementia reared its nightmare head, she had been responsible for Miriam, grimly determined to drag them out from under the burden of Henry’s debt, lift them above the desperate despair that smothered Alice. Jemma couldn’t afford to be weak when she had Miriam to love, to take care of. Depending on someone else was a gamble she hadn’t allowed herself to take in years.
It was a gamble she wanted to take tonight.
He clunked down two mugs and dropped a tea bag in each. “Chamomile. It’ll help you sleep.”
“I hate tea.” She walked toward him, stopping scant inches away. He watched her, a question in his eyes. She clasped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. His hands settled on her hips. His heart bumped, steady and comforting, under her cheek. Her breasts pressed against him, her hands restless on his back.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me, touch me.” She paused, then offered as much of herself as she could. “I need you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She nestled in his arms, tiny, trusting. Her personality was so forceful, so determined, Paul often forgot she was scarcely five feet tall, that he could wrap both her wrists in one hand.
She stared at him. “I need you,” she repeated.
Her eyes were electric blue. Her nostrils flared with a breath and the stud—plain silver—glinted.
He brushed his thumbs along the bones of her hips. “What exactly are you asking for, Jemma?” He had to be sure. She had to be sure.
She raised herself on tiptoe, sliding her body against him, and his groin tightened. Delicately she licked the side of his neck, sucked on his earlobe. “I want you inside me.” A hot, moist swipe on the shell of his ear. “I need you to touch me. To make me come.”
His vision blurred. Disguising the disconcerting weakness in his legs with a dipping motion, he swept an arm beneath her knees.
He carried her through the living room. The apartment was an upscale bachelor, his bedroom divided from the living area by a wall that didn’t reach the vaulted ceiling and stopped short of the exterior wall of glass. It, too, had a magnificent view of downtown Vancouver.
At the moment, Paul couldn’t care less about any of that. His focus was entirely on the fairy creature in his arms. He laid her on the fluffy charcoal-coloured duvet. She clung to his neck. “One last chance. Is this what you want?”
In answer she sat up and shrugged out of her thin black jacket. Underneath she wore more black—a tank top that bared her collarbones and vee’d to her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She reached for her boots and Paul stopped her.
“Let me.”
He sat at her feet, lifted them onto his lap. She leaned on her hands as he untied the laces, loosened the high ankle support, slid the right boot off.
And stared in shock.
Sombre Jemma, plain black Jemma, wore a lime green sock with neon pink pigs.
He threw his head back and laughed.
She grinned and wiggled her left foot. “Check this one out.” He unwrapped it to discover purple frogs hippeting about on an orange background, and laughed again.
Without the boots her feet were thin, delicate. He drew off the unforgettable socks, stroked his thumbs up the tender arch. Jemma relaxed with a low moan.
He crawled next to her and rolled her to her side, spooning her body, protecting it with his. She shivered, the slight movement inflaming his desire. One arm lay below her breasts, the other under her head so she rested against his shoulder.
His wanting was so hard it throbbed.
Her chin tipped forward and she kissed the inside of his elbow, baring her neck. His fingers twitched.
Not ready to unleash his control, he asked, “What does it mean?”
“Hmmm?” She worked her way down his forearm, skimming his wrist with soft lips.
“Your tattoo.” He struggled to concentrate as she sucked at the pad of his thumb. “Does it have a meaning?”
“Strength,” she said, her breath hot on his palm. “I had it done after Miriam’s diagnosis.”
He kissed her nape. “It’s perfect. Perfect for you.”
“Enough talking.” Lifting the hem of her shirt, she placed his hand on her breast. Her nipple was hard and pointed, but her flesh was soft and his fingers automatically cupped her. “You want me, I know.” Her buttocks pressed against his rigid shaft, trapped behind the fly of his jeans. “And I want you.” She wriggled over to face him. “I need to forget, for a while. I need to get away. Take me away, Paul.”
It was the first time he’d heard her say his name. Tenderness dissolved into lust, and he lowered his mouth to hers.
Paul’s firm lips coaxed warmth from hers, and Jemma relaxed into his arms. This, this is what she needed. Desire bloomed in her limbs, and rushed through her belly, sweeping away the anxiety, the worry, the confusion.
She murmured when his hand left her breast. He soothed her with his tongue, sweeping it into her mouth. Fingers bumped over her ribs, to the skin of her belly, to the snap of her black jeans. She helped him shimmy off her tight pants. He tossed them on the floor and she lay on the bed clad in her thin tank top and narrow white cotton panties. He placed the tip of a finger gently on the cloth above her yearning centre.
“What, no red unicorns? No silver turtles?”
Her hips writhed restlessly. “No.”
His finger traced the top edge of her panties and her stomach muscles tightened. “Disappointing.” It traveled over her hip then followed the crease to the juncture of her thighs.
The tip of his finger was a brand, a burning coal lighting her nerves on
fire, flaming in her core. She opened her legs invitingly, but he veered away, down her trembling thigh muscle to the hollow of her knee.
She swallowed a moan and did her best to glare. “Stop teasing.”
He grinned, and her heart flopped in her chest. “But I love to tease you. It puts fire in your eyes.” He kissed her between her brows. “I missed my cranky Jemma.”
“I’m not cranky.”
“Yes, you are. But that’s okay. I like you that way.”
Her heart flopped again, like a broken-winged bird. She scowled to hide her discomfort. “You have too many clothes on.”
He climbed off the bed and obligingly unbuttoned his shirt. Each unfastening revealed more of a muscled chest, dusky skin, and thick scattering of hair she itched to touch. He discarded it and his hands went to his belt.
She licked her lips in anticipation.
He shucked jeans and underwear in one motion and stood before her.
Wanting. Gorgeous. Hard.
She ripped her shirt over her head, dropped to her back to wriggle out of her panties. He tumbled on top of her. She moaned in delight. The hairs on his chest, his thighs, scratched erotically against her, the differences in their bodies exactly what she needed. His erection burned against her belly. Dampness pooled between her legs. All hesitation gone, he attacked her mouth. She surrendered willingly, opening for him, meeting the lance of his tongue with her own.
He flipped onto his back and she straddled his belly. He urged her down and lipped her nipple.
Her thoughts scattered as he pressed her breasts together, nibbling from peak to peak. Her hips rocked against him until she was so sensitive she had to stop moving or explode in orgasm.
“I want you inside me.” She snaked her hand between their bodies.
“Not yet.” He captured her hand before she could reach him. “I’ve waited a long time for this. You’re not rushing me.” He lifted his head and explored her neck with his teeth and tongue, keeping her deliciously trapped all along his length with his arms on her back, his legs coiled over hers. By the time his lips arrived at her mouth she was melting with pleasure.
The tenderness of his kiss made her feel safe, cared for, loved. Everything she couldn’t afford, couldn’t allow.
She broke away and feasted her way across his chest, down his stomach. This was just sex, she reminded herself, nothing more. Couldn’t be anything more.
The heat of his erection brushed her breasts and he growled. She rubbed against him, reveling in the power, the turbulent energy. “To hell with it.” He flung out his arm and fumbled for the nightstand drawer. “We’ll go slower next time. Condom.” She rose over him and rummaged around, faltering as he suckled at her breasts. With a sob she found a packet and ripped it open.
She sheathed him, and the instant they were protected he grabbed her hips and lifted her until the head of his shaft teased her wet opening.
His gaze was heavy lidded, hot, and fierce. He lifted his hips and she wiggled to centre him. White teeth bit his full bottom lip, but his eyes never left hers.
She welcomed him into her body, linked eye to eye, skin to skin. He lowered her, slowly, agonizingly slowly, until his full length found a home inside her. It was unbearably sensual, unbearably intimate and her lids fluttered closed. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered softly. “I want to watch what you feel.”
Strong hands holding her, he began to move. She accepted his thrusts, her fingers clutching his shoulders, and savoured the suck and pull of their joining. A tingling began in her pelvis, spread to her belly, her thighs, exploded out the ends of her hair. She shouted and clenched around him. His hips rocked into her once, twice, three more times before finding his own release.
She crumpled on top of him, knees at his hips, breasts pressed against him, nose nuzzling his neck. Their hearts pounded against each other.
She never wanted to move again, wanted only to linger in his heat, his smell, his touch. Wanted it too much. She raised herself on her elbows.
He patted her ass. “I’ll be right back.” She slipped off his body and he disappeared through a door near the head of the bed. She heard a toilet flush and water running. He returned with a warm cloth. “Here.”
She cleaned herself up and handed him the cloth, vaguely surprised there was no awkwardness or embarrassment. Flicking off the bathroom light he climbed into bed and hugged her to him.
“Sleep,” he said. So she did.
Paul’s nose itched and he swatted it sleepily, his hand brushing silky strands of hair. He opened his eyes, enough to see the top of Jemma’s dark head resting on his chest.
His pupils adjusted to the daylight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the foot of the bed. Jemma lay curled at his side, one arm resting on his stomach under the puffy grey duvet. He basked in the intimacy, before twisting his neck and squinting at the alarm clock: 9:49. He relaxed onto the pillow with a grunt of relief.
It was Date Day. He and Sappho were taking salsa lessons, and then heading to a club for the evening. He had to be at the dance studio by three, and he assumed Jemma would have to be there even earlier. But there would be plenty of time to check on Miriam first.
Carefully he slid over, lowering Jemma’s head to the mattress. She snuffled and smacked her lips, then rolled to her stomach, her face turned away from him. He shifted onto his side and studied her. Without her black armour, she appeared delicate and fragile. Which was an illusion. She was wiry and robust, silk and steel. He was still shaken by her decision to make love with him. Because that’s what it had been. Despite what she’d said before walking into his arms, despite her outward dismissal of commitment, she’d thrown caution away, given him her trust, and twined her future, Miriam’s future, with his. After weeks of prickly defensiveness, she’d allowed him into her body, accepted him with her soul.
He leaned forward and scraped his teeth gently over her shoulder. “Time to get up.” That fascinating tattoo called to him again, and he traced it with his thumb while his index finger caressed the shell of her ear.
Jemma mumbled and rolled to her back, dislodging the duvet so the swell of one breast was exposed, the pink tip tightening in the cool air.
She might not be awake, but he certainly was, he thought ruefully. Too bad there was no time for play this morning.
“Wake up, Jemma. We should go and see Miriam.” She groaned and stretched her arms over her head, the sheet slipping to her waist. To Paul’s delight, she appeared completely unfazed by the fact. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
She held her stretch a moment longer, then her eyes popped open and she bolted upright. “Ten!”
He trailed one finger down the bumps of her spine. “You needed your rest.” A wicked grin tugged at his lips.
Jemma leaped off the bed. “Damn. I need to see Miriam before work.” She gathered her clothes, those outrageous mismatched socks glowing against the black. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”
“When do you start?”
She hurried into the bathroom. “Two o’clock.”
“That’s plenty of time.” He shrugged into a robe and leaned against the door, knotting the belt around his waist.
“Not when I have to go all the way home to get my car.” She yanked on her jeans and tugged her tank top over her head.
“Why would you do that? I’ll drive you to work.”
She stared in horror. “Are you kidding me? Of course not. Someone might guess...” She waved a hand between them. “Where’s that spare toothbrush you said you had?”
He opened a drawer. “I don’t like sneaking around.” He unwrapped the package and handed the toothbrush to her.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to do it again.” She squeezed paste onto the brush, scrubbed vigorously, spat out a mouthful of foam. “Because trust me, this was a one-time thing.” She rinsed out toothpaste and scrubbed a cloth over her face.
“A one-time thing?”
Paul�
�s low voice raised the hairs on her forearms. She laid the folded towel over the bar neatly and waited for him to get out of her way. He refused to move. She folded her arms and jutted out her chin.
“Thanks for helping yesterday. With Miriam. You were great. And the sex was good, too.” His eyes narrowed and she hoped he couldn’t see through the lie. Good was double fudge ice cream with peanut butter. Sex with Paul had been—but she couldn’t let herself go there. “I wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink otherwise.” She patted his cheek, his morning bristles shooting tingles through her palm.
Touching him was a mistake. He hauled her against him, her arms trapped between them. “So I was nothing more than a sleeping pill, was I?” His eyes flashed. Gold flecks in the hazelnut irises sparked with fury.
“I don’t understand why you’re upset. Nothing has changed.” She ignored the roiling in her stomach. “We can’t be together. I need my job more than I need—” Her teeth shut, cutting off the rest of the sentence. It was too cruel to say. And she was very afraid it wasn’t the truth.
He wasn’t a fool. For long, hot seconds he stared at her. She thought she saw hurt dodging behind the temper in his eyes, and guilt tightened the back of her throat.
He released her with a little shove. She edged past, careful not to touch him again, found her boots and sat on the edge of the bed to put them on.
“Tell Miriam I said hello,” Paul said stiffly. “I hope she’s feeling better.” He shut the bathroom door. A few moments later she heard the shower turn on.
She let herself out of the apartment. On her own, once more, just the way she wanted it.
Right?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paul kept his face carefully blank, despite the ember of rage curdling in his chest, as Jemma hustled across the kitchen set and behind the false wall.
Thirty-six hours after she’d left his apartment, he was still trying to talk himself out of his fury. It choked him to admit it, but Jemma was right. She had warned him, she had been upfront about her priorities, her point of view. He was the stupid one, to believe one night of sex would change her mind.
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