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  “Are you worried about May?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “If there’s one thing I’m well trained at, it’s delivering babies. I did most of the examining of pregnant women in Dr. Goodale’s practice, for that was far easier than trying to convince a woman he should have a good look up her—well, you know. Plus the doctor had little patience for sitting with a woman through labor, and half the time it was all over before he got there. And…okay, I’m a little scared.” Her eyes flashed. “And if you so much as hint that to her, I’ll kill you.”

  He didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer. He’d worked enough on her hand that it was pliable beneath his fingers, but her shoulders remained stiff, hunched at an awkward angle, her features pinched. If he was going to rub the tension out of her, muscle by muscle, he might have her asleep by sunset. Maybe.

  “What was the worst case you ever had?” he asked. “Patient? Case? What do you call it, anyway?”

  “For Dr. Goodale it was a case. For me, a patient.”

  “So what was it?” He moved on to her wrist, and the bones felt delicate enough he might snap them with his thumb. But it would be a grave error to think her fragile. “The worst one?”

  “The hardest one was an elderly man, a former butcher. He’d been referred from his own doctor, who couldn’t come up with a diagnosis,” she began, a brisk recitation. “He presented with symptoms of—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “Not the most difficult to treat. The worst.” He left off massaging her wrist, hesitating only a moment before he brushed his fingers right over her heart. It leaped beneath the contact. “The one that you can’t forget. The one image that hovers, waiting for you to close your eyes.”

  She sat silently, sifting through memories. “I almost said a child; they’re always difficult. But that’s not the one, though she had children of her own, and that made it worse. She was in her early forties, and had a cancer of the breast, and her eyes were very blue, very much like Kate’s, and she—” She looked up at him, her eyes swimming. “Oh, that’s not fair!”

  “I know,” he admitted, and scooped her into his lap. Probably close to the same age as her mother when she died, he thought. And she left children behind, too. He gently pressed her head to his chest, and the first shudder ran through her. “Go ahead,” he murmured. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said. But she’d already begun.

  He held her while she wept in his arms. His shirt grew damp, the feel of her tears on his skin blindingly intimate. She shuddered against him. Sobbed. And he was the worst kind of bastard because, God help him, every good intention he had was blown to hell and gone.

  Finally she quieted, one last hiccup and a wet snuffle. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

  She leaned back. “You can’t be serious.”

  “That was the plan.” He brushed tendrils of hair away from her wet cheeks. “Not a good one, huh?”

  “It wasn’t a bad one,” she said with a spent sigh.

  “Well, well, would you look at that.” Her nose was red, her eyes swollen, her face splotchy.

  “Not a pretty sight, is it?” she said without a trace of concern.

  “No, not pretty,” he said, his voice gone unexpectedly hoarse. “Beautiful, though. Just beautiful.”

  “Jake.”

  And then, helpless to resist, he kissed her. Kissed away the tears on one cheek, and then the other. Tasted salt at the tip of her nose. Licked a drop as it ran down her jaw. A hundred kisses, a thousand kisses, one for every tear he’d pressed from her, and even more for all the ones she’d battled back in her life.

  “Jake,” she murmured, just before he took her mouth. There were even tears there; they’d slipped along her lips, flavored their kiss as he nudged her lips open and finally kissed her completely, deeply, without reserve or regret. Without anything but all the joy and pleasure he could give her. It seemed impossible to him that he’d kissed her intimate flesh, knew how she tasted and how she shuddered when she peaked, and he’d never kissed her like this.

  At last, gulping, he had to come up for air. Drowning when he kissed her, drowning when he stopped.

  “Jake? Is this…isn’t this a cliché? Comfort sex?”

  Sex. The word sizzled in his veins like wine, made his heart thunder and blood rush. To know, to decide, instead of merely follow an urge…it seemed all the more forbidden, wondrously exciting.

  “It’s not a cliché,” he said. “It’s a classic.”

  Chapter 19

  She put her hand on his chest to steady her head and instead it only spun all the more, a wonderful drunken whirl that tempted her to jump in and let herself get drawn into the tumult.

  “Jake.”

  “Yeah?” There was a spot beneath her ear where the skin felt like fine silk, thrummed with her pulse. He laid his mouth there, felt it vibrate against him.

  “Shouldn’t we”—she had to stop, gasp a breath—“talk about this?”

  “No.” Oh, she was sweetness itself. It called to him, filled up echoing places he hadn’t even known were empty. “Don’t you remember? There’re better things to do with our mouths than talk.”

  “I do remember.” She couldn’t help but remember, a low, dull ache that never left. “Jake.” Because it seemed the only way to stop him, she took his face in both hands. “I couldn’t stand it, Jake. If you woke up tomorrow—tonight—whatever, if, when it was over, you were sorry again, I…”

  “I promise you,” he said with the solemnity of a vow, “that the only thing I would regret is if I left you right now.”

  Amazing that, after all that weeping, there were any tears left. But she felt the burn of them and battled them back by planting her mouth on his, falling into the sweeping burn of another kind.

  “Oh Jesus,” he said, when he came up for air. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”

  “Beginner’s luck.”

  “I’m not sure whether I should hope to be around when you’re an expert or not.” He kissed her again, just because he couldn’t resist, quick and hard and breathless. “I would be your slave forever.”

  Talking was harder now. “Oh darn, you tumbled to my plan. Now it’ll never work.”

  He flipped open the top button on her blouse and admired the slim wedge of skin revealed, shadows and hollows, the anticipation of more. “I’m not so sure but that it hasn’t worked already.”

  She softened: knees, heart, mind. But still, one small corner of sanity remained. And worried. “Jake—”

  “It’ll be okay, Emily.” Another button, a sliver of lace revealed. His mouth went dry. “We’re not doing anything new so much as filling in the blanks.” His eyes met hers. “We skipped a lot of steps, Em. And by damn, I’m sorry I missed them.”

  He dropped a kiss on the first high swell of her breast and her voice went up three notes. “What steps?”

  “A lot of kissing, for one. Though we made a good start there.” Which encouraged him to do it again, and again, until he pulled away with a groan. “If we keep that up, we’ll never get to the rest.” The third button popped free. “And we missed naked. I’m truly looking forward to filling in naked.”

  If there were more protests to be made, she couldn’t remember them, all lost at the sound of that word. Naked. Maybe it should have embarrassed her. Worried her. Instead it made him her squirm on his lap, wriggling around until he clamped on her hips to hold her still. “Christ, Em. I don’t want it over so fast this time, and you’re pushing things along by doing that.”

  “But I—”

  “We’ll get to that, too, Em. I promise.”

  He blessed the clear morning light. He could see the snap of color in her eyes, the blush that stained her cheeks and spread down her throat.

  He ran out of room, the buttons open all the way to where her blouse snagged into her waistband. He spread the front of her shirt wide, tucking the sides around her breasts. And then held his br
eath while he did the same with her shift, nudging it aside with one forefinger, exposing one curve, the side of her breasts, then one sweet pink nipple. The other, too, as lovely and tempting as the first, and he just sat there, staring, while her breasts quivered in the yellow light and she sat with her hands light on his shoulder and watched him watch her.

  He bent his head, and the feel of his mouth on her breast made her jump, and then just as suddenly she went limp, sinking into the sensation. His hair brushed soft against her when he angled his head; it gleamed, dark and healthy, against the white of her skin. Sweetness drizzled over her like warm honey; hot mouth, gentle tongue, dazzling pleasure. When he shifted to the other breast, the air cooled the wet nipple and it beaded, tight and tingling.

  He tumbled her back to the bed and the world faded. Only the pleasure remained, sometimes slow and kind, stealing her breath, stealing her heart. And then sharp and piercing, leaving her gasping and shuddering and helpless against its power.

  She never knew when the rest of her clothes were removed. She swam up through a fuzzy haze of joy and bursting desire to find them gone. And then his hands molded her breasts and she dove again, nearly drowning, overcome.

  He reared back, raking her with hot eyes. His hair stuck out in all directions—had she done that? Her memories were distant, blurred by the spell he worked upon her. She’d wanted to know the texture, whether it would slip right through her fingers or tangle around them.

  “Look at you.” He pulled her arms wide, letting them arc against the dark quilts. “How many times have I dreamed of you like this?”

  “You…dreamed of me?”

  “Endlessly.” He smiled, easy, sure. “And cursed myself for having missed the chance.” His hands skimmed over her, quick and light. “But in all that imagining, I never pictured you as pretty as you truly are.” Another stroke, this time slow enough to have her arching into his touch. “You steal my breath, Emily.”

  It was good to take his breath, she thought. But she wanted his heart, and she didn’t know if it would ever be whole enough for him to give. A little dart of sadness stabbed through the pleasure but she refused to let it take hold.

  This was what she had of him. Now.

  She lifted her hand toward him, found him just out of her reach. “I’m not sure that I’m as skilled at undoing your buttons as you were at undoing mine,” she said, “but I’ll do my best.”

  Her fingers fumbled and shook. She kept getting distracted by the things she discovered along the way. Who could focus on buttons when there was a lovely stretch of neck to nuzzle? Who could worry about removing a shirt when it was already open, giving her access to a truly fascinating chest?

  So he helped. Laughing, kissing, four hands less efficient than two would have been, but that only drew out the pleasure, made her hold her breath in anticipation. And then she let it out in sheer joy when at last he was naked, too, stretched full against her.

  “Jake.” It said nothing, just the murmuring of his name. And yet Emily felt as if it carried her heart with it. Jake. It was all there was to say. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling the solid bulk of him closer even though it was nigh impossible.

  His sex was thick against her. She could feel it against her belly, and pressing further down, and the sweet, soft warmth that stirred and flowed between them exploded into blinding heat.

  She spread her legs and tilted her hips to encourage the contact, her sensitive flesh gliding slickly against his, and she shuddered.

  “Em.” He reached down to hold her hips still—tight against him, but unmoving. And she thought she would go wild if he didn’t free her.

  He lifted his head to look into her eyes, his expression so tender she nearly wept. His kiss was gentle as morning, and for a moment she was content with it. His hips moved, a tiny pulse that sent pleasure spearing through her, curling her toes.

  Unthinkingly she reached down, grabbed his rear, pulled him harder against her. Oh yes, that was better. Not enough, but better.

  “Em.” He sounded pained. “Em, I—”

  She lifted herself against him. She had to get closer. She didn’t know how, didn’t even know why; instinct had taken over, a molten urgency that flowed and twisted in her belly, made her mindless with need.

  Jake lay still, overwhelmed, awash in the bliss of her bare beneath him. Her skin was so fine, abloom with warmth, soft as rose petals against his. Her heart thumped against his chest, her breath sighed past his ear, and the whole of her was his, every inch of her skin pressed against his. He scarcely dared move for fear this dream would vanish like smoke.

  “Please, Jake. I don’t know how—please.”

  The plea in her voice broke him. Shattered every thread of restraint he owned. That he could make her feel like this clouded his vision, narrowed his world down to her. Something roused in him, an emotion so unexpected he had to let it stir and settle for a while before he could identify it.

  Joy.

  It had left him so long ago and so completely, he’d never thought to know it again. Never hoped. And yet it was there, in every breath she took, every sigh he drew from her, in the lift of her hips and the stroke of her hands. And because he now knew how fleeting it could be, how precious, he drew it out, let every second be complete and cherished of itself.

  But then she whispered his name again, impatient, near frustration as her hips shifted restlessly.

  There were borders here. Lines he couldn’t cross. But they seemed distant, unimportant—what could matter but Emily?

  Remember, he told himself. It would end soon. It must. But a little more…just a little more, to hold her, to give her back some small bit of what she’d given him.

  To give her joy.

  He moved his sex against her, and it slid easily over flesh that was hot, slick, soft. So soft. She fell into the rhythm, as if they’d been lovers for years, as if their bodies had accepted this moment, planned for this moment, for far longer than their minds had known.

  Only a little more.

  She strained against him. So beautiful; he was grateful for the light that let him see her: eyes half closed, mouth open, stunned and lovely. He could live a thousand years, see a million sights, and this one would remain.

  Not enough. It wasn’t enough, this simulated joining, when heaven was so near.

  He levered back a fraction, positioned the tip of his sex at the entrance to her body. And let himself lean forward just a bit, torturing himself with what he couldn’t have, what he wanted beyond life.

  “Now, Jake. Now.”

  He circled his hips and her eyes flew open. “Oh Jake, I…”

  “I’ll stop before—”

  Her eyes flew open, and she glared at him. “If you leave me now, I’ll kill you.”

  Laughter exploded, a short, pained burst. “I won’t.”

  He could do this, he told himself. Maybe even believed it. He would think only of her, give only to her, and it would be enough.

  An inch…he could do an inch, give them both a taste of what they wanted. She cried out. And then he held himself there, the muscles in his arms shaking with the need to keep himself still because he knew even the slightest bit further would take him irrevocably past control.

  “More,” she demanded.

  “I can’t,” he gasped.

  “But—” Before he registered what she was about she reached down between them and took hold of him. Oh God, he was going to die, he was going to live, he couldn’t—

  She pulled him into her body. Cried out and arched into him, her body closing around him as if to hold him there. And the pleasure pumped through him, a fiery heaven, and he could do nothing but drive deep and let go.

  Gray light sifted through the old shack, blurring edges, coloring it with fond nostalgia. Emily awoke, disoriented, a little sore, tingling pleasantly in places that until recently she’d not given much consideration.

  She couldn’t remember if it was morning or evening; the light wa
s soft and indistinct. She had a vague memory of having awakened at some point, thrown on her dress and going to check on Mr. Bishop. She found him sleeping peacefully and stumbled back to bed, ripped off her clothes and climbed back in next to Jake. It was impossible to sort through how much time had passed. Her brain spun with images, wondrous, blatantly sexual, flashes of Jake bending over her with hot eyes and ardent hands. The feel of him, urgent and thick, pressing deep inside her. What meaning did time have against that?

  Moving seemed more trouble than it was worth. Jake lay flat on his back, arms over his head, and she’d wrapped herself around him. Belly cuddled up against his hip, leg thrown over his thigh, arm slung across his lower belly. Her head fit neatly against his shoulder, and it was so easy to shift a fraction and press a kiss there, his skin hot and salty on her tongue, and memories simmered, then kicked right into heat.

  Smiling, she tilted her head, found his jaw with her lips. He’d grown bristles while they slept, his whiskers a rough and male abrasion. Interesting. She shifted yet again, wanting to admire him while he slumbered, and found herself looking into dark and angry eyes.

  “Oh no.” She sat up abruptly and pushed the tumble of hair out of her eyes. “You promised. You promised me you wouldn’t be sorry.”

  “I know I did.” That was what he regretted most of all and always had. All the promises he’d never been able to keep. “But I didn’t know…I didn’t think it would go that far. I’d planned to stop in time.”

  Her hair streamed over her shoulders and curled around her breasts. Unable to resist, he reached out and smoothed a tress aside, revealing the pretty bud of her nipple, and promises seemed irrelevant. He brushed it once with his thumb, watched it pucker up, and his mouth went dry. One afternoon in bed with her had done far more to encourage his passions than sate them.

  She knocked his hand away and glared at him. Which he deserved, and she was so appealing with that fire in her eyes he almost smiled. Which would earn him more than a glare, he suspected, and rightly so.

  “You thought you were going to…quit in the middle of things?”