Chapter 3
The rest of dinner flowed as easy as the wine. Monica wondered briefly if she could order a vat of the yummy Chilean chardonnay with a spigot. Colm was as funny as he was gruff. Self-effacing, but most certainly assured. Mixed with the wine and the succulent meal, a potent combination. She had a hard time holding onto her balance as they said their goodbyes to Pablo and Carita.
The hand Colm planted to guide her made her feel both wobbly and utterly secure. The heat of his gaze made her skin prickle. As they wound their way from the kitchen to the exit, her eyes darted toward the doorway leading to the restrooms. She could grab him. Take him. Clasp his big, strong hand, yank him into the ladies’ room, and press him up against the wall. Tension wafted off him like summer heat. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. He was hers for the taking.
“I’ll see you home.”
Though the words drifted past her ear on a low, throaty whisper, she almost jumped out of her skin. His hand slid down to her hip to hold her close as he reached past her to open the restaurant door. Wetting her lips, she glanced over her shoulder as she stepped out into the crisp, clean night air. “I was hoping you would.”
His warm palm landed in the small of her back again. “Did you drive?”
She wanted to do a wiggle dance to see if she could work his hand a bit lower but resisted the temptation. They’d get there soon. She had a rock solid knot of certainty balled in her gut. The same one she got when she knew the perfect time to buy or sell. This was going to happen. And they would be good together.
“I took a cab.” She glanced down at the killer stilettos on her feet. “These shoes are not made for walking.”
“No, but I can tell you exactly what they’re made for,” he murmured as he steered her toward the closest corner.
Tickled by his blunt assessment and preening a little, Monica decided to play against type and try coy on for size. “Oh? What are they made for?”
Colm huffed a laugh as he scanned the busy cross street for an available taxi. “I’d rather show than tell.”
Leaning away, she smiled as his muscles tensed and automatically braced to absorb her weight. She inhaled a hit of his aftershave. Liking what she smelled, she upped the ante. “I like a little of both.”
His arm snaked around her waist, holding her firmly against him as he hailed an available cab with the other. Monica wrapped her hand around his forearm. The corded muscles hidden beneath his sleeve were taut and oh-so-tempting. Dark hair. All night, she’d been catching glimpses of the silky dark hair peeking out from his cuffs. She wanted to stroke his forearm. She petted the pesky sleeve instead, eyes narrowing with smug satisfaction when the battered car coasted to a stop beside them.
Colm released her long enough to usher her into the cab and climbed in after her. She rattled off her address, and he pulled the door closed. Relaxing her head against the seat, she let her neck roll until she faced him. Lit only by the passing streetlights, he looked even more appealing than he had in dappled sunlight. Contrast suited him to a tee. Dark and light. Fierce versus fair. Predatory. Protective. Provocative. Perilous. Perfect.
She blinked, stunned by her precipitous and perplexing penchant for alliteration. Good God! What did they put in the lechona? He tore his gaze from the driver’s identification framed in the Plexiglas partition and caught her staring. Huh. Plexiglas partition. Score two more.
“P words are funny, aren’t they?” she blurted. A hiccup escaped. Eyes wide, she covered her mouth. “Oops.” She grimaced through ineffectual fingertips. “Excuse me.”
“I think maybe we’ve had too much…”
“No!”
Launching herself across the cracked vinyl seat, she framed his face in her hands, her fingers sinking into the luxuriant dark waves at his temples. His hair was every bit as thick and soft as she’d imagined while she’d been snapping his photograph. No way in hell was she going to let this evening be derailed by an excess of Chilean grapes and an attack of misplaced chivalry. She brushed her lips across his. More a shot across the bow than a kiss. An uncharacteristically timid opening gambit from a woman who was used to going for broke. But this time…This time she didn’t want to be the pursuer. She wanted to be the one someone chased after.
“Don’t,” she whispered against his mouth. “Don’t be sensible or chivalrous or even politically correct. Just be.”
An oddly hippie-dippy sentiment. Definitely something more likely to be found in Melody’s repertoire than hers, but she meant what she said. For once in her life, she didn’t want to weigh risk and reward. All thoughts of strategy, angles, and outcomes went flying out the cab driver’s half-open window. They rocked against the seat as the driver punched the accelerator. She caught a glimpse of a yellow light winking red and a very rude gesture made on behalf of the cross traffic. A horn blared. Colm’s mouth claimed hers, and the two of them fell across the seat in a tangle of limbs.
He kissed her long and deep, letting her know their suddenly supine positioning was anything but an accident. When he pulled away at last, an arrogant smile curved his lips. He stared down at her, those eerily light eyes boring into her, pinning her to the duct tape-festooned seat. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” She licked her lips, delighted to find the taste of him lingering there. She tried to peer through the window, but it was no use. She couldn’t fix on a single landmark. “Should only be a couple more blocks.”
“We should make the most of them.”
He kissed her again, but this time the contact was slow and achingly sweet. Her body bowed, every nerve ending reaching for him, every impulse surrendering to the siren song of this unexpected tenderness. He brushed the underside of her jaw with his knuckles, his lips clinging to hers as he shifted to press his forehead to hers. “Sorry,” he said gruffly.
“For what?”
He pulled back to stare down at her, but his fingers fanned across her cheek. Monica would swear she could feel each whorl of his fingertips as he mapped the slope from her temple to her cheekbone. He traced the edge of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’d forgotten how soft a woman’s skin is,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You smell so good. Fresh and flowery. Not like socks, gummy candy, and sour milk.”
She laughed. “Thank you.”
He winced, pushing himself into a sitting position as the cab started to slow. Ever the gentleman, he pulled her up, then made a valiant effort to erase the evidence of their backseat tumble by tugging ineffectually at her skirt and taking a brusque swipe at the front of her blouse. She jerked at the ungainly contact, and he yanked his hand away as if he’d been scalded. “Wow. I…” He pressed the heel of his hand to one eyebrow and blew out a breath. “You have no idea how close you came to getting a spit bath.”
She shuddered at the thought. How many times had she watched Melody try to fix Emma’s appearance with a few swipes, tugs, and licks? “Actually, I have a good idea.”
But his grim frown and creased forehead told her ribbing him about his paternal impulses wouldn’t be the smartest tactic if she had any hopes of swapping more spit with him. The driver swerved closer to the line of cars parked in front of her brownstone, and she took the opportunity to scoot closer to Colm. Placing her hand on his chest, she noted the agitated rise and fall of his ribcage and pressed the center of her palm over his thrumming heart.
The cab jerked to a stop, but she stared straight into his eyes. “Pay the man,” she said in a voice little more than a husky rasp, “so we can go upstairs, and I can show you exactly how I like mine done.”
Colm dispatched the cab with heartening efficiency as she headed for her door. Keys dangling from the retractable latch, she watched as he climbed the stone steps, his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze taking in the building’s narrow facade.
“Nice place.”
“Buying was a good investment.” She twisted the key and bumped the solid mahogany door open with her hip.
He quirked an eyebrow as he stepped into the entry, taking in the refinished parquet floors and gleaming woodwork. “You get it as a fixer-upper?”
She laughed at his supposition. “Do I look like the fixer-upper type?”
Colm let out a low whistle of appreciation as he ran his hand over the scrollwork at the foot of the banister. “Hog heads must pay well.”
Monica tossed her purse onto the entry table and added a little extra sway to her step as she sauntered past him. His gaze dropped to the hand she placed on the rail. She climbed three steps, trailing her fingers along the polished wood he’d found so impressive, then pivoted to face him.
“I think you’ll find what you really want to see up here.”
He followed. Of course he followed. He was a man and she was a woman wearing a short skirt and nose-bleed heels. The promised land lay at the top of those stairs, and she’d be damned if she was up for playing tour guide. She wanted to be staring up at the crown molding, not discussing it. Five steps from the top. She tugged at the bow tied at her side and the slick satin panels of her blouse swung open.
Though Colm was behind her, she heard his sharp intake of breath and made a mental note to thank Melody again for the shirt. The second she reached the top step, she shrugged and the slippery fabric slithered from her shoulders. Dropping her gaze, she sneaked a quick peek to be sure the ridiculously expensive excuse for a bra she wore was doing its job. The tiny marvel of engineering had the girls pushed up and plumped like pillows. The pale blue lace edging the demi-cups barely concealed her nipples, but didn’t seem to be as much of an issue at the moment. They were hard and aching, practically begging to be released from their borderline inadequate confines.
Glancing over her shoulder, she found Colm staring at the puddle of vibrant blue draped across his shoes. He exhaled a semi-reverent “Jaysus” which wiped away any lingering doubts she might have had about getting down and dirty with this delicious daddy.
Tonight they’d both get exactly what they needed, and tomorrow they’d return to their lives, both a little better for the release. A feline smile spread across her face as she bent an arm to unhook the clasp on the bra, but his warm hand covered hers. She waited, expecting a request to slow down, or speed up, or maybe even leave the damn thing on, but nothing came. Nothing but heat.
Her blouse slid down a couple of steps. His chest was pressed against her nearly bare back. The sweater he wore was thin and soft, but made her skin itch anyway. To be touched. For the friction of his body rubbing against hers. The thought of feeling the maddening lace covering her nipples scrape the hair on his chest almost turned her knees to jelly. She started to spin toward him, but Colm planted his hands on her waist to stop her.
“Don’t.”
The gruff command was softly spoken but effective. She let her arm fall to her side and waited, relishing the delicious anticipation stirred by his warm breath moving her hair. His fingers curled around the curve of her hipbone as he nuzzled her shoulder. There shouldn’t have been anything mind-blowing about the tender kiss he placed on her shoulder blade, but this man with his hot, moist breath and impossibly soft lips knew things. Things she didn’t even know. Like the fact that a single fingertip trailing along the crevice of her thigh packed the power to make her mewl like a kitten. Things she was more than happy to learn.
He released his hold on her hip and hooked a finger under the clasp of her bra, pulling her to the edge of the stair. He slipped his other arm around her waist and pulled her tighter against him. The stairs offset the difference in their heights. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her ass. He rested his cheek on her shoulder and exhaled long and slow.
“I haven’t slept with a woman in four years.”
Instantly, her brain started making calculations. Aiden was five. Four years. There’d been someone since his late wife, but not anyone who’d stuck. Good. The last thing they needed to do was get stuck. But four years? What kind of guy went so long between…bouts? Was this celibacy purposeful? Circumstance? The result of some kind of vitamin deficiency?
“I, uh, I didn’t want the complications,” he said, cutting into her thoughts. “And, you know, when you have a kid, everything is a complication.”
“Right.” She blurted the word as if she had a clue, but truly she was more focused on the relief his explanation unleashed. No complications she could do. “Yeah. Me either. I don’t want”—she sucked in a breath when he released the catch on her bra—“complications.”
“I can stay for a while tonight, but I’ll have to leave. I always pick Aiden up early.”
Okay. He was laying ground rules. Ground rules were good. She tried for cool as her bra straps started a slow slide over her shoulders and down her arms. “That’s fine.”
There. That should do the trick. We can go for the wham-bam and call it a night, or we can go a little more. No pressure. No expectations. Well, almost no expectations. She was fairly sure she’d explode if he didn’t touch her soon. Colm slipped both hands up under her loosened bra to cup her breasts. She was tempted to make a crack about how he could probably handle the job one-handed, but his thumbs grazed her pebble-hard nipples, and she was off like a shot.
“Hey!” He grasped at air as she started down the hall toward her bedroom.
She shook the bra from her arms and reached for the side zip on her skirt. “Hurry. You just told me we didn’t have all night.”
Colm caught up to her in the bedroom doorway, his hand closing around her elbow as she struggled with the recalcitrant zipper. “Hey,” he repeated, his voice gentler. “I didn’t mean we had to rush.”
Finally, the plastic teeth gave way and she yanked the tab down. “You’re not the only one who’s been on hiatus,” she said, wriggling the snug skirt down and hoping he’d be too distracted by the lacy panties to notice the shimmy of her thighs. “Been a while for me, too.” Kicking the skirt aside, Monica forced herself to stand up straight and tall. After all, she wanted this man here in her bedroom, and now she had him. This was not the time to show even a shred of weakness. Forcing a confident smile, she reached for the hem of his sweater. “But one of us is wearing way too many clothes.”
Colm sprang into action—toeing off his shoes, tugging the sweater over his head as she pushed up from the bottom, and fumbling with his belt as he teetered from side to side, temporarily blinded but gratifyingly enthusiastic. Monica took a moment to run her hands over his shoulders. His skin was smooth as cream and stretched taut over surprisingly well-developed muscles. A smattering of golden freckles marked days spent in the sun. Black hair curled between his pecs and smoothed into a streak of silk. The line disappeared into his waistband. She ran her thumb around one flat brown nipple, smiling as the skin puckered and his stomach muscles rippled. She planned to follow the trail of hair to the very source.
He’d opened his belt and the top button on his jeans but stopped there. His hands landed on her hips again. He pulled her close and slid one down over her ass. “I feel like I ought to apologize. This is already so much better than pay-cable-induced self-flagellation. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out.”
Monica laughed, hopefully chasing some of his oh-so-earnest tension away. “Pay-cable-induced self-flagellation?”
“My friend James came up with the terminology.”
Pressing her palm to his cheek, she smiled up at him. “Okay. Well, I bought a whole box of condoms. We can keep practicing until we get the hang of things again.”
* * * *
Colm swooped in and kissed her. Hard and deep. Slow and thorough. The way he’d been imagining kissing her all day. He had abso-friggin-lutely no idea what he’d done to deserve the luck he was having, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Oh God, her mouth. Her mouth was incredible. Salty and sassy. Quick to smile and so fucking kissable he’d thought about little else since they’d squared off on the playground. He’d spent half of breakfast imagining he was swirling his tongue around hers like he swirled his pancakes through their pool of syrup. Why did she taste so sweet when everything they’d eaten had been spicy?
Needing desperately to get to the rest of her, he broke the kiss with a groan. He nibbled his way across her cheek and nuzzled her ear. She sighed, and he ducked his head, on a mission to find the pulse he’d spotted throbbing away beneath her jaw. He’d watched that spot all through dinner, fascinated by the tiny vulnerability. Her breasts flattened against his chest. They were small, yes, but he’d never been the type to chase after the overly-endowed girls. He left those for guys like James, who were fixated on a woman’s cup size. Monica’s breasts were pale and upturned, her nipples unapologetically pink and hard as cherry pits. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into them. But first things first.
He found the pulse in her throat with unerring precision. Her breathing stuttered when he ran his tongue over the spot, and he couldn’t help but smile. Her heart pounded against his chest, but he preferred the feel of that tiny thrum on his tongue. Savoring the taste of her heartbeat, he drew gently on the skin, half-tempted to leave his mark there. Instinct seized him by the throat. He wanted to mark her. Claim her. Make her his, even if only for this one night and nothing more.
The lace of her panties scratched against his palms. Cupping her spectacular ass in both hands, he bent his knees and lifted her off her feet. Their mouths met and fused. Their tongues tangled and swirled as she wrapped her long, long legs around his hips. The thin barrier of lace did little to contain the heat of her arousal. The crotch of her panties was wet. He felt the heat of her above the open buckle of his belt and called himself a thousand names for not having the balls to strip down further. He staggered toward the bed centered on the far wall, alternately cursing and blessing every step depending on which parts rubbed against what as they went. At last, his knees hit the edge of the mattress and they collapsed in a tangled heap.
“Sorry,” he huffed, easing some of his weight off her.
“No. No sorries.” She grabbed his upper arms and pulled him down again. “God, you feel good on me.” She wriggled beneath him. “Lose the jeans. Lose everything.”
For a guy used to issuing orders, Colm was surprised to find he was more than happy to follow hers. Leveraging himself off the bed, he peeled off his jeans and briefs in one motion, stooping only to make sure he slid his socks off with the rest. When he straightened, he found she’d pushed onto the bed and was laying with one knee propped. She slid her fingertips teasingly along the top of her panties.
“I have a thong. Matches the bra,” she said with a sly smile. “This was so…impromptu. I didn’t have time to do much in the way of…prep work.” She dragged the center of the low-slung panties down to show a hint of curling brown hair. The elasticized lace snapped into place. “I hope you don’t mind the natural look.”
There was no containing his growl. Years of pain, anger, loneliness, and yes, self-flagellation, erupted from him like a burst of rock and lava shooting from the mouth of a long-dormant volcano. Colm was worried the force of his desire might blow the top of his head off. A simple crook of her finger obliterated every reasonably non-Neanderthal thought from his brain.
Sliding one arm under her leg as he dove for her, he hauled her knee up and planted his face in that sweet, damp triangle of baby-blue lace. He heard her gasp, but nothing on heaven or earth could or would stop him from getting a taste of her. Not now. Not when she was wiggling beneath him, her fingers threaded in his hair and her hips rising up off the bed. He dragged his tongue along the seam of her panties, every fiber of his being attuned to her breathy gasps and pants. She whispered his name and his dick grew harder. Inhaling deeply, he drank in the unmistakable perfume of a woman profoundly turned on. Thankful he didn’t seem to be the only one riding the knife’s edge, he pressed his aching erection into the mattress and his tongue to the sweet spot beneath the thatch of au natural she’d worried might offend him. He proceeded to devour her, kiss by kiss and lick by lick.
“Off,” she panted, planting her heels on the mattress and arching up to meet each stroke of his tongue. “Take them off.”
He caught a bit of the thoroughly-wet lace between his teeth and gave a playful tug. “No.”
Monica moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair until he feared she might tear it out from the roots. Pleasure. Pain. His scalp prickled. His dick throbbed. Actually throbbed. He’d probably end up with some kind of contact burn from humping her sheets, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not until he made her come at least once. He had to get there before he allowed himself to do anything else, or he’d pop off like a teenager. And the second those panties were gone, he was going to be inside her. Deep inside her. So deep. His self-control slipping with each passing thought, he hooked a finger in the leg of her panties and yanked them aside. Damp light-brown curls glistened with her arousal. She spread her legs wider in the kind of bold, blatant invitation a man would have to be dead to resist. And he had a helluva lot of life left in him.
He drove her up fast and furious, each kiss, lick, and nip calculated to push her straight over the edge. He slipped a finger into her hot, tight wetness and groaned as she closed around him. Using the single digit to ground him, he focused all his attention on her clit. Flying high on her moans and whispers, he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth, alternately swirling and sucking until, at last, she spasmed around him.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head, not wanting to miss a moment of watching cool, confident Monica Rayburn’s unraveling. She rode his hand hard, taking him in short, swift strokes, matching the staccato pace of her breathing. Christ, she was incredible. Every bit of her. Peachy-pink skin. Summer-blue eyes. Tumbled brown hair. Her pretty panties were twisted obscenely to the side. He could see where the tension caused the waistband to cut cruelly into her hip and stomach, but she seemed oblivious. Thank God. He didn’t want to do anything to detract from her absolute pleasure. The second her jerky movements slowed, he pulled his hand away.
She whimpered gratifyingly, then hissed a breath of relief when he stripped the mangled panties down her legs. Sitting on his heels, he took two long, hopefully steadying breaths. He ran his hand through his hair, massaging the tender spots on his scalp. He gazed down at her sprawled on the bed, all loose-limbed and flushed.
“I got a little carried away,” he confessed, his voice so husky he barely recognized himself. He drew her underwear down her legs and tossed them aside. “But I’m not sorry.”
A feline smile spread across her face as she shook her head from side to side. The gesture was a lazy nope and a shrug all wrapped up in one beautifully satiated package. Pride hit him square in the chest and exploded, flowing through him like the contents of some kind of sexual water balloon. He’d done this to her. He was the guy who turned this poised, purposeful woman into a rag doll.
“Not sorry, either,” she murmured. “Do some more.”
He crawled up over her long, lithe body, keenly aware of how perfectly they matched up. His shin slid along hers. Smooth, pliant thighs pressed against his, urging him to settle in the spot he wanted to be more than he wanted his next breath. But one of them had to be sensible. He planted his hands on either side of her head and pushed up even as she tried to drag him down. His dick grazed the soft, wet curls between her legs. The minimal contact was all he needed. The red-hot flow of lust her order unleashed swept away the last vestiges of his control.
“Condom,” he managed to grunt.
Monica jerked her pointy little chin toward the nightstand and shot him a sly smile. “Drawer.”
He lunged for the handle, ignoring the tickle of her fingernails running down his spine. Her hands closed over his ass as he located his quarry. She squeezed, and he tore the box nearly in two. With a combination of fumbling fingers, sheer determination, and the help of his teeth, he managed to separate a package from the string and tore the wrapper open. The condom landed with a soft thunk on Monica’s collarbone.
“Talented man,” she cooed, recovering the coveted ring of latex. “Need some help with this?”
He plucked the condom from her fingers. “No!” Squeezing his eyes shut, he inhaled through his nose. He had to blink twice to bring her into focus. “I can’t. I’m so…if you touch me—”
Monica interrupted him by lifting off the pillows and kissing him square on the mouth. “Let’s bust your cherry again and get it over with.”
“My cherry?” he asked, mortified.
She fixed him with a grave stare. “If you were a woman, we’d call you born again.” When he failed to come up with any kind of response, she laughed and kissed him once more. “Stop worrying so much. We’ll take this one as a mulligan, and you can impress me with your skills again later.”
Wetting his parched lips, he searched those clear blue eyes for signs of mockery. “Really?”
Her smile softened. “Really.” Relaxing into the nest of pillows, she sighed as she ran her hand down the center of his chest. “Trust me, I’m not nearly through with what I want to do with you.”
Biting down on his bottom lip, he looked anywhere but at her as he stroked the condom into place. Eyes locked on one of the spindles on the headboard, he settled into the cradle of her hips with a long exhale. Monica trailed her fingers from his ass to the nape of his neck, cradling the back of his head in her palm. Finally, she reached between them to guide him home. She lined him up at the entrance to her slick, sweet channel, then drew her hand aside, leaving the next move entirely up to him.
He claimed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and pressing them into the pillow beside her head. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he dredged up the courage to meet her eyes as he pressed into her.
“Jesus, Monica,” he whispered when the heat of her enveloped him.
He managed to sink the rest of the way without completely losing his shit. Seated deep inside her, he took a moment to draw a shuddering breath, but pausing did no good. Her muscles tightened around him, and he was shredded. Toast. A mindless machine stuck on full speed ahead. She raked her nails down his back, and he almost howled. Or maybe he did. He made some sort of noise when his balls drew up tight, but he wasn’t exactly sure how the groan came out. In his head it was more of a roar, but he’d lost all connection with reality the moment she squeezed his ass and pulled him in deeper.
“Oh, Christ, I’m coming.” He ground the words out from between clenched teeth, half-hoping he could hold off, but knowing he couldn’t. His climax hit him like a freight train. He started to come, and kept on coming. So hard it almost hurt.
Almost.
It felt so incredibly good to be fucking an actual honest-to-god woman instead of his fist. The orgasm packed a punch. Almost over the edge into punishment. But pain was impossible to quantify when he was buried so deep inside her. Monica. The woman who didn’t bat an eyelash over his son playing with a doll. One who drank Chilean chardonnay and flirted outrageously with plump little chefs.
And she was a mom, so she knew exactly how hard an evening with no kid talk could be on a parent. A mom who understood why he wouldn’t be staying for breakfast. He’d found possibly the only woman in the world with no expectations beyond one incredible night where they could both be unencumbered, unfettered, uninhibited adults. Best of all, she’d kissed him sweetly and promised him a mulligan, because she bought a whole box of condoms and wasn’t nearly done with him yet.
This had to be the luckiest day of his life.