Chapter 4
Monica blinked up at the ceiling. Her cleaning service was getting lazy about dusting the corners. The room was covered in cobwebs.
“Are you okay?”
Jolted by the deep voice coming from the pillows beside her. She blinked once. Twice. Huh. What do you know? Her ceiling was clean as a whistle.
Turning her newly sharpened focus on Colm, she let a lazy smile curve her lips. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
He chuckled and turned onto his side facing her, one big hand splayed across her belly. She glanced down at his fingers, startled by both the intimacy of the gesture and how very right the caress felt. The heel of his hand rested in the hollow of her hipbone. The very tip of his middle finger traced the line opposite. His palm was warm and soothing.
Meeting his eyes again, she lifted a lazy brow. “You?”
He collapsed as if she’d left him boneless. “Couldn’t be better.”
She stared at him, feeling more than a little smug about the sheer masculine beauty stretched out beside her. His cheek pressed against the impossibly pale skin inside his bicep. She almost growled with territorial jealousy when he wrapped his forearm over his head and buried his fingers in his own hair. She’d mussed his hair until it reached this level of rumpled perfection. Monica batted his hand toward the headboard and performed a minor contortion to claim the thick, dark waves again. “Oh, I bet you could,” she murmured, finger-combing those waves until they rippled over his ear.
A crease appeared between those inky black brows. “Bet I could what?”
His frown gave her the strength to overpower the part of her brain mired in post-coital stupor.
“Be better.” Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she fixed him with a pointed stare. “You said you couldn’t.”
This time, he laughed. Not a chuckle or rumble, or even a chortle. This was a full-on belly laugh. She loved hearing him let loose. Even more, she loved the way his contentment inspired him to trace slow, sensuous little circles over her own belly.
“I realize you made a massive investment in latex, but give a guy five minutes.”
He flipped onto his back, taking his deliciously warm hand with him. The bastard.
“I’m only making sure you’re prepared to live up to your…promises.”
She must have struck a sore spot because he turned to look at her, his green eyes clear and his expression sober.
“I always keep my promises.”
Carefully treading into what appeared to be a touchy area, Monica decided to keep things light by being a bit touchier in her own way. Without breaking eye contact, she marshaled the power of her yoga-pilate’d core and rolled up onto him. “I like that in a man.”
Colm sucked in a sharp breath. “I, uh, I need to take care of old business before we can move on to a new round.”
One hand planted beside his head, she swooped in and stole a soft, sucking kiss. “Hurry.”
She struck what she hoped was a semi-alluring pose as he walked away. The second the bathroom door closed behind him, she stole a glance in the mirror above her bureau and groaned long and low. Unless the guy had a fetish for Medusa-haired chicks who got their make-up tips from copying old pictures of Courtney Love, the chances of pulling off either sensual or alluring were somewhere between slim and none.
She gave her hair a quick rake and ran a dampened fingertip under her eyes, hoping to wipe away the worst of the mascara smudges. The sound of water running in the sink caught her attention. This was her house. Her bathroom. A few feet away, she had every weapon a woman needed to repair even the worst ravages. Casting a longing glance at the closed door, she ran her tongue over her teeth and cringed. She needed to move fast and decisively.
The second the door swung open, she sprang from the bed. “Back in a sec,” she murmured, hiding behind her hair as she ducked past him. Three minutes later, she emerged—hair combed, teeth brushed, and make-up smudges removed.
The second she slid into the bed, Colm hooked one arm around her waist and hauled her flush against him. “I appreciate the effort, but I really liked the way you looked.”
Giving her lashes an innocent flutter, she asked, “How’s that?”
He dipped his head and captured her mouth. The kiss started slow and sweet but ended so mind-bendingly hot, she wondered how she’d ever thought the word “sweet” could apply. He gave her a half-second to catch her breath, but no more. This time, his tongue swept into her mouth. Demanding its due. When he relinquished her at last, her breath came in short, soft puffs. They bounced off him and washed over her, tantalizing her damp lips.
“You looked like you’d been fucked,” he whispered against her damp lips. “But that’s okay.” He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. When he reached the base, he nuzzled the little notch between her clavicles and dipped his tongue into the hollow. Her breath caught and held as he lifted his head to look her straight in the eye. “This time, I’ll make sure you look like you’ve been well and truly fucked.”
His crude language both shocked and thrilled her. Fisting her hands in his hair, she pulled him to her mouth once more. Lips, teeth, tongues. Within seconds, her entire body was inflamed. She ground against every hard bit of him, and there were a lot of those. Thighs. Hips. The rock-solid ridge of his cock. There might also have been a moment when she humped his arm, but neither of them felt the need to acknowledge the act of desperation.
His hands were everywhere. Big and strong, gentle but coaxing. He covered every bit of her body, stroking, shaping, and testing. Ticklish spots were noted. The ones that made her moan and writhe exploited. And where his hands led, his mouth followed. By the time he wedged his wide shoulders between her thighs, she was already a quivering mess of do-me-now-damn-it, but, Lord, there was no way she was about to tell him to stop. Not when he was nuzzling and kissing her. He was the type of man who appreciated women even in those messy, undignified, not-so-perfectly groomed moments. Exactly her type. He brushed the tip of his tongue over her clit as she cried out.
“Yes?”
The husky question struck a chord deep inside her. The simplicity reverberated through her. Yes. God, yes, she wanted this. Wanted him. Couldn’t conceive of a world where “no” might be an option. But she could barely muster a grunt, much less a definitive answer. He flicked the sensitive flesh with his tongue again. He looked up at her, hitting her full force with his glass-green gaze.
“Say yes, Monica, because I don’t plan to stop until I make you come again.”
She wet parched lips. “Then I can have my turn again?”
“Greedy?”
Was there anything hotter than being challenged by a hot man? Hell no. And like the gambler she was, Monica had every intention of getting the most out of the winning hand she’d been dealt. Smiling, she groped through the tangle of sheets until she unearthed the string of foil-wrapped condoms crackling beneath them. “I’m in an overstock situation.”
He snatched the string from her grasp. “I think I can help with reduction, but I can’t promise an inventory blowout.”
“I could promise a blow out,” she suggested.
Colm groaned and lowered his head. Warm lips grazed tender skin. He traced the crease of her thigh with a long, lazy stroke of his tongue. “Promises like that won’t help your overstock issue.”
Wrapping her hands around his biceps, she gave an ineffectual tug. “Perhaps we can combine the warm-up activities.”
Almost immediately, his level of resistance dropped. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She flashed a saucy smile as inducement to surrender to the tug. He needed a little more encouragement. Opportunist that she was, Monica ran her hands over every rippling muscle she could reach as he levered himself over her. She pressed her fingertips to his flat nipples, running her hands down his ribcage. The contrast between the crisp hair on his chest and the unspeakably smooth skin stretching down his sides and around his back was mesmerizing.
“What did you have in mind?”
His voice was thick and more than a little raspy. Knowing she could turn him on like this intoxicated her. Emboldened, she slid one hand down to encircle the stiff length of his cock. His stare was intense. Desire wafted off them like waves of heat rising from summer-scorched pavement. She licked her lips. Slowly. Deliberately. Unabashedly proud of the way his eyes darkened and grew heavy-lidded. She bushed a kiss over the dusting of golden freckles on his collarbone, then gave his shoulders an I-mean-business shove.
“On your back, big guy.”
The moment he complied, she shimmied up to the head of the bed and swung a leg over. His long-drawn groan of appreciation only added fuel to her fire. He grasped her hips, trying to pull her down to his mouth, but she resisted. She mustered every ounce of womanly pride she had, and gave herself a little pep talk. She was on top. This was her show, and she was going to enjoy every second of this interlude. And to her way of thinking, she definitely won out in terms of the better view.
His torso was lean and hard, his hips narrow. His cock jutted from a nest of inky-black curls. The man was a study in contrasts. Diamond-cut planes covered in soft, supple skin the color of fresh cream. Black hair, white skin. Big, masculine beyond a doubt, and a little rough around the edges, but unflinching in his defense of his little boy’s right to love a doll.
He was also funny, modest, quick-witted, and gave off an air of competence that made a woman want to curl up in his lap and let him handle all the pesky details of life. All in all, he was dangerous. Very dangerous. Because Colm was the kind of man any woman with half a brain would fall for hard and fast. If she was the type to fall at all. Plus, she had a whole brain and a big, fat lie of omission hanging over her head.
“For the love of God, you’re killing me,” he said, jerking her out of her thoughts by giving her hips another, more forceful, tug.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her. Her cheeks flamed as she ran her hands down his chest, over his hips, and gripped the taut muscle of his thighs. “I was admiring the view.”
“I’m enjoying it myself,” he said gruffly. “But something’s gotta give. Do I need to count down from three or something?”
Laughing, she took hold of his bobbing erection and lowered herself until she was poised with her mouth over him, but her butt was stuck safely up in the air. She stroked him once. Twice. Her heart fluttered with anticipation when she spotted the pearl of moisture gathering at the swollen tip of him. Striking quick and sure, she treated him to the same kind of glancing swipe of the tongue he’d used to tease her. His hips bucked and his fingers tightened on her, their blunt tips pressing into the hollow of her hipbones. He used his broad palms to spread the cheeks of her ass.
Not bothering to draw breath, she took him deep with the first stroke. He retaliated by running his thumbs along the crevice of her bottom and thrust his tongue into her pussy. Her control snapped. She drew her knees apart and allowed him to pull her down onto his mouth. He greeted her with hot, hungry swipes of his tongue. Those wicked fingers played along her ass and his tongue slid through her wetness, parting her wider, opening her up for the taking. Monica tried to give as good as she got, but the man had talent. Concentrating proved difficult when he was tormenting her with maddening flicks of his tongue, pushing her higher with bold, brash strokes, pausing to hear her whimper. And whimper she did. Those teasing fingertips tested her boundaries. Thank God her mouth was full. Otherwise she might have confessed she had no boundaries. She might have said she was his for the taking. Anything. Everything.
She came hard, the orgasm slamming into her so fast she almost screamed. But she couldn’t. All she could do was pant and puff, groaning her pleasure as he continued to take his. She was saved from total embarrassment by the silken smoothness of his thick, hard cock. The man felt so incredible, and the pleasure he unleashed in her only redoubled her determination to push him to the brink of madness. His muscles trembled with barely contained restraint. His flesh was hard and hot. She traced the thick vein down the length of him and moaned. When she felt the telltale ripple of his climax, she took him deeper.
Beneath her, Colm yanked her up. His cock sprang from her mouth with a damp pop. Gasping with shock and more than a little outrage, she lost her balance when he gripped her hips and pushed her toward the foot of the bed. She braced her hands seconds before she face-planted on the mattress. On her hands and knees, she twisted her head to glare at him.
Somehow, he’d wriggled out from under her and was on his knees. She wanted to complain about the abrupt transition, but the hard, hot length of him was pressed against the crease of her bottom. He felt so wickedly delicious, she lost all will to protest. The sound of ragged breathing and ripping foil told her everything she needed to know about his intentions. Closing her eyes, she lowered her cheek to the bed and tipped her hips up. She felt him fumbling to get the condom in place. Smiled when he cursed softly under his breath, and let loose with an unabashed moan when he ran the flat of his hand from the base of her spine to her nape, essentially holding her pinned to the bed. He pushed against her entrance and took complete control in one powerful thrust.
“Grab the rail.”
Monica opened her eyes, but the order didn’t quite compute. “Wha?”
He drew back and pushed into her with such force, she scooted a few inches toward the end of the bed. “Hang onto something,” he ground out.
In a daze, she slid her hands out from under her cheek and pressed both palms to the footboard, bracing herself for another powerful thrust. Instead, he withdrew to the point where he was barely inside her, then reached around to cup her sex. “Okay?” he asked, his middle finger gliding over her super-sensitized flesh.
“God, yes.”
“I’m not hurting you?”
“No. Please….”
The entreaty in her tone must have done the trick, because in the next moment he was driving into her, setting a relentless pace matched only by the skillful strokes of his fingertips. Her hands gripping the rail, she hung on as he pushed them both closer to the edge. And, finally, over into bliss.
Her hair spilled over her shoulder, curtaining her face as she stared down at the polished hardwood floor. She gasped and panted, each inhalation a desperate grab for air, every exhale a testament to the waves of pleasure he’d given her. They lay there, Colm draped over her like a blanket. He was heavy, and a little sweaty, but she didn’t mind. She could feel the thrum of his heart beating against her shoulder blade. His breath cooled the imprint of his hand on her neck. He pressed a sweet kiss to the curve of her ear.
* * * *
Colm blinked, hoping a little clarity might kickstart his brain. No-go. Last night, he’d laid in his bed alone, a half-hearted erection in his hand, trying to decide if he had the energy to jack off. Thank God he hadn’t, because tonight he’d had two of the most intense orgasms of his life.
A full minute passed. He tried the blinking thing again. A little dazzled, he told himself he was only caught up in the moment. When the haze cleared, he’d be able to lump this encounter in with others he’d had in the day.
Nope. His mind was officially blown.
He tried to remember the days when he didn’t have to weigh the chance to get off against his energy level. The days when his dick rarely came off the loser. Scrambling through his memories, he tried to remember if there was a time when he felt this physically…in tune with anyone. Carmen? Any of the women he’d slept with before he met her?
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this raw. This free. From the moment he first saw her at the playground, he’d been drawn to Monica. Throughout dinner, he’d tried to convince himself there was physical attraction and nothing more. He wasn’t sure calling it a physical thing made the pull better or worse. He didn’t want a one-time encounter with a complicated woman to be the yardstick he used to measure any future encounter he might have.
This attraction was more than physical. He liked her laugh. Loved her quick wit and curious nature. Wanted to know more about her. Why did she pile ten thousand pillows on her bed? Did she sleep with all those pillows, or one? Did Emma crawl in with her late at night? How did she feel about pancakes? Was she really cool with his son playing with dolls? Would he like her any less if she wasn’t?
Colm shook himself from his stupor and pushed up on his hands, relieving her of some of his weight, and giving himself some much-needed distance. Thoughts like these weren’t going to do either of them any good. They’d agreed on one night to be grown-ups. The last thing he wanted was added complications, and he knew better than anyone no one came with more built-in insanity than a single parent. He needed to stay present. Naked. Spent—for the time being. And grateful.
He dropped a soft kiss to the sharp angle of her shoulder blade. “Sorry. Got a little carried away.”
“Don’t apologize. Lay down.”
Her bossy tone made him smile. If there was anything sexier than a woman who knew her own mind, he didn’t know what. He gave her a little more of his weight, but not all. No sense in breaking her in half when they had ten unused condoms at their disposal. Grimacing, he remembered he needed to get rid of the one they’d used. He forced himself to pull away again. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
By the time he returned, she had moved. But not much. Monica lay with her head at the foot of the bed, but she was face-up and no longer hung suspended. The sheet was wound tight around one long leg. Torn condom wrappers littered the playing field, their unused compatriots trapped under her thigh. Her cheeks were pink from the head rush, her hair was a tangled mess. In short, she’d never looked more appealing. Sliding into the rumpled bed, he propped himself on his side and stared down at her, storing the image away for future use. She ran her toes up his shin. Colm stared at her foot, transfixed. It was like the rest of her—slim, polished, and deceptively delicate looking. He’d bet good money she could kick some major ass with one pale, slender foot.
“Do you like pancakes?” The question popped out. Why? Why did he ask her? Would she think his quest for knowledge was an invitation? Worse, an expectation? He held his breath, waiting for her answer and hoping for some indication on how to proceed.
She shrugged. “Are there people who don’t?”
Her easy answer was exactly what he needed. He let his breath go in a whoosh, trying to ignore the niggling pang of disappointment tweaking his gut. “I’m sure there have to be.”
“If there are, I don’t know any.” She shifted onto her side facing him and propped her head on her hand. “Why? Are you hungry? We’ve had a very…active evening. Do I need to refuel you?”
Thankful for the distraction, he rubbed his hand over his stomach. “Hm. I could probably use a snack.” Cocking his head to the side, he cautiously asked, “Do you cook?”
She laughed outright, her blue eyes dancing with amusement and a glint of challenge. “Do I look like I can’t cook?”
“I, uh…” He swallowed hard, pulled a pained face, and fell onto his back. “Boy, I stepped right into the trap, didn’t I? Is there a correct answer?”
Laughing, Monica rolled onto him. Her cheek landed on his chest, her hand settling low on his belly. She rested there for a second. She seemed to have a knack for becoming perfectly still as she gathered her resources. Maybe her ability to bounce back was some kind of Jedi mom trick. Something women learn in order to get through those months of being kicked and punched from the inside out.
“I actually love to cook,” she said simply. “I don’t get a chance to do a real meal as often as I should.”
He knew exactly what she meant. Most nights, it was all he could do to resist the lure of fast food. He’d spent years pushing his skills beyond dumping fish sticks onto a tray and praying they’d cook through before Aiden lost all interest in nourishment and went straight into overtired kid meltdown. A part of him was convinced he’d never known true love until the day Carita had given him a slow cooker and a recipe book.
Monica jolted him from his reverie by giving his stomach a couple of firm pats. “I can, however, handle pancakes. I think. I can’t really remember the last time I shopped.”
Horrified by the implication, he stared after her as she crawled off him and over the side of the bed. “I wasn’t hinting.”
She ran her hands through her hair, but there was no restoring order. “No? Sounded like a desperate plea to me.”
He swung his legs off the mattress. “I swear, it wasn’t.”
Hips swaying and a sassy smile curving her lips, she sashayed toward the line of clothing strewn across her bedroom floor. She shot a glance over her shoulder, bent at the waist to snag his sweater from the trail of discards. The view was anything but coy. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” she murmured as she slipped her arms into too-long sleeves.
Christ, she was incredible. Backlit in the spill of light from the hall, the extra cashmere did little to mask the subtle curves beneath. The V-neck barely dipped below his collarbone, but proved to be far more tantalizing on her. He liked the way she looked in his clothes. He liked the way she looked in his arms. He liked her. A lot. Too much.
Forcing himself to tear his gaze away, he searched the wreckage for his jeans. Spotting them wrapped around the bedpost, he reached for them, only to jump when the knot of denim began to buzz insistently. “Oh, crap. Sorry,” he said, shooting her a sheepish look as he pried the phone from a pocket. “I had it on vibe—” The words died in his throat when he saw the same telephone number he’d memorized when he was Aiden’s age splashed across the screen. Swiping his thumb over the display, he pressed the cell to his ear. “Ma? Is everything okay?”
“Daddy?”
His heart sank the second the tear-soaked syllables registered. Dropping onto the bed, he sent Monica an apologetic glance. A hot flush prickled his neck as he angled his body away from her. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”
“Can you come get me?”
Closing his eyes, Colm inhaled deeply through his nose. He hadn’t had a call like this in weeks. Of course, Aiden had to pick tonight, of all nights, to relapse. Disgusted by the flash of resentment he felt toward his own kid, he balled up his impatience and selfishness and swallowed them whole. He yanked his boxer briefs from the legs of his jeans and shook them out. One thing to try to talk to your five-year-old when naked, totally another to do so in front of an audience. One who was probably fifty times better at defusing difficult kid situations than he was. One who hadn’t had a single sobbing phone call from her kid all night. Feeling as helpless as he had the day they first placed his infant son in his hands, and knowing he was fighting a lost cause, he made a futile attempt to salvage the first adult sleepover he’d had in years.
“It’s really late, Squirt. What’s the matter? You have a bad dream?” Snapping the waistband of his briefs into place, he started to unravel his jeans. “Turtles again? I told Grandma not to let you watch the turtle movie.”
“But I like the turtles,” Aiden sobbed.
Of course he did. Aiden loved the smart-mouthed little sewer thugs in the daytime. The problem was at night, when those freak-show reptiles haunted his little man’s dreams. Any wonder the boy preferred the company of Princess Clarissa and her sparkly annoying songs? He shoved his legs into his jeans and jumped to his feet, bouncing to hike the waistband into place.
“Maybe Grandma can make you some cocoa.”
“I had cocoa. Di’nt helllp.”
Colm dropped to the edge of the bed and curled his shoulders in, his son’s plaintive wail wringing the last drop of hope from him. Breathing deeply, he willed the vise gripping his heart to ease up. Though he knew exactly what he had to do, he didn’t want to.
For the first time in five years, he wished he wasn’t Aiden’s father, mother, and protector. A few hours where he didn’t have to be everything to someone. One selfish, reckless night where he could just be a guy. A man. Not a dad.
The guilt came hard and fast, a tidal wave of remorse washed away any tiny seedling of self actually taking root inside him. He scanned the floor for the remainder of his clothing. Socks, shoes, undershirt—they all lay scattered at his feet. Everything but his sweater. It was wrapped around the woman he’d been banging while his kid was having a nightmare.
“You really want me to come get you?”
The question was largely rhetorical. A way of making it clear he was going to need his sweater without having to meet Monica’s questioning gaze. Surely she’d understand. There wasn’t a parent in the world who hadn’t gotten a “come get me” phone call at least once. She was lucky Emma was so comfortable staying with her aunt. But of course she was. Monica was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected. Why wouldn’t her kid be, too? Plus, Monica’s sister probably had a relationship with Emma from the day she was born. Too bad his parents couldn’t say the same. Tucking the phone under his chin, he pinched his socks with his toes and bent his knee until they were within reach. Aiden’s gut-twisting sobs slowed to stuttering hiccups as he pulled them on.
“You’re okay, buddy. Hang in there. I’m coming,” he said with a resigned sigh. He’d liked the sound of those words so much better a few minutes earlier. Which, of course, made him the worst freakin’ dad in the world. Shoving his toes into a shoe, he rose from the bed. “Lemme talk to Grandma for a minute.”
There were most certainly more dignified ways to slip out of a lady’s bedroom than doing the shoes-half-on scuff, but Colm figured whatever cool he might have convinced Monica he had was blown. He ducked his head through the neck of his undershirt and turned his back on his hostess. This way, he could pretend the woman who’d made him see God minutes ago wasn’t listening to his conversation. Wasn’t getting a fairly accurate glimpse into his everyday life.
“I thought I told you not to let him watch that movie,” he growled the minute his mother came on the line. He pulled the phone away from his ear as she launched into a litany of excuses and explanations, all of which he ignored. “Yeah, I know he says he likes the movie, but Ma, I told you it gives him bad dreams.”
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and took all three of the deep breaths the parenting books recommended in one big gulp. Colm was starting to think training his already lackluster parents to be decent grandparents might be harder than keeping one scrawny boy alive. “Going to take me about forty minutes,” he warned his mother. He paused for a second, mentally adding in extra time to find the right words to tell Monica their date was over and ask for his sweater. “Maybe closer to an hour.”
A fall of pale green wool appeared in front of his eyes, and he heaved a heavy sigh of defeat. He turned to find Monica dangling the sweater by two fingers. A very sexy, very short silk robe patterned with big red flowers clung to the subtle curves he’d only begun to explore. Looking her square in the eye, he exhaled through his nose, relieved her of his sweater, and mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, well, I know it’s late and you’re tired, but I’m not the one who lets a kid who’s barely over three feet tall boss me around.” Lie. A big, fat lie, but neither Monica nor his mother needed to know the extent to which Aiden ruled their roost. “I’ll be there as soon as I can get there.”
Ending the call, he tossed his phone onto the mattress and pulled his sweater over his head. “I’m so sorry,” he said, grateful for the thin barrier of fabric between them. He was positive there was no masking how sorry he was, for so many reasons. He yanked the sweater down and yanked the sleeves to settle it into place. “Please tell me you understand.”
Monica hit him with a rueful little smile and he felt one hundred percent better. “Oh, I understand.”
Patting his pockets, he made certain his keys and wallet were in place. He paused as he bent to scoop his phone from the bed. One corner of the fitted sheet had slipped its moorings at some point in the proceedings. The string of unused condoms lay stretched across a pillow. Their pristine orderliness in the midst of the havoc they wreaked on her bed seemed almost like a taunt.
“Come on.” Monica tugged on his hand and turned toward the door. “I’ll walk you down.”
Her hips swayed under the slinky, silky fabric. She paused at the top of the stairs, casting a sidelong smile over her shoulder as she stepped over her discarded bra and blouse. Midway down the stairs, he caught her arm, urging her to turn and face him. Staring into those cool blue eyes, he shook his head in helpless defeat. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
Monica pressed a fingertip to his lips. He kissed her knuckles tenderly, and she fell against the wall, her expression mirroring the smug, wistful thing he had going on inside. “Don’t be sorry. We had a great date.”
“Yes,” he agreed gravely.
She grinned up at him, her eyes twinkling. “And you can’t say the evening didn’t go out with a bang.”
He groaned, equally appalled and abashed by her quip, and moved closer, crowding her. She tipped her face up in clear invitation. One he had no intention of refusing. He kissed her firm and sweet, waiting until the magic moment when her lips went pliant beneath his. The second she surrendered, he poured his all into the kiss. If he was going to get cock-blocked by mutated turtles and the fallout from their shenanigans, he wanted to leave her with something to remember him by.
Monica heaved a gratifyingly tremulous sigh when he pulled away. He laced his fingers through hers and started down the stairs again. Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? They’d agreed to an evening without complications, and he’d proved he couldn’t even manage that. Bad jokes about banging aside, Colm agreed with the sentiment. Better to have their grown-up kind of play date end on a high note.
Pausing inside the front door, he brushed a lock of tangled brown hair away from her cheek. “Thank you.”
She gave him a slow, smug smile. “Thank you.”
There were so many things poised on the tip of his tongue. Things like “You’re incredible” and “I’d love to see you again” and “I’ll call you,” but any mention of the future seemed to go against the unwritten rules they’d been playing by all evening. In the end, he settled for another kiss, this one soft but lingering, and a simple, “Goodnight, Monica.”
She ducked her head, a peachy blush coloring her cheeks as she twisted the locks and gave the heavy old door a no-nonsense yank. Slender fingers wrapped around the edge, she rested a cheek against the varnished wood and met his eyes with her disconcertingly direct gaze. “Goodnight, Colm. And wish Aiden sweet dreams.”
He stepped out into the crisp, cool night. Regret rose in his throat like bile. He forced himself not to look back as he started down the stairs. The door closed with a solid kerthunk. He held his breath until he heard the locks click into place, ducked his head, and took off toward the corner at a brisk pace. Time to leave all thoughts of rumpled sheets and a certain sweet-smelling woman behind and get back to his real life. First, he needed to catch a cab to get to his car. Then, he’d break every speed limit posted between him and his scared, motherless little boy.