Get over it. If only he could.
“You say good people sometimes do bad things. Are you in that category?”
Relief twisted inside him. For a minute there, he’d thought she was going to want to delve into his stay in the hellhole in Peru. “Maybe.”
“What bad things have you done?”
He could think of several. Completely against his will, his feet took a step closer to her. Her lips parted, rosy red from her biting the lower one. His need sprang forth, inappropriate and totally unexpected. He couldn’t decide if he wanted her because he hadn’t had a woman in years or because she was Hope. A combination of both, most probably.
“Why do you think he did it?” she asked.
John stepped back and cursed himself for being an idiot. Here he was fighting the need to kiss her when she was struggling with her father’s deception and death.
“He said why he did it. Weakness. Revenge.”
“It wasn’t worth it.”
“Revenge rarely is.”
“Is that why you never went after Suzanne?”
He shrugged. For a long time, he didn’t have the energy to go after her, because he’d been concentrating on surviving and healing. Then he just didn’t care. About anything.
“What bad things have you done?” she asked again.
“This isn’t about me, Hope. This is about your father.”
“My father’s dead.” Grief flashed across her face, but she contained it.
“Yes, and we need to find out who did it.” He was desperate to get the conversation back on track. Hope had a way of derailing him, making him think of things other than their purpose. He knew she did it as a defense mechanism against the emotions battering at her.
“We will. You will. I trust you.”
“Don’t.” He took another step back, his hand going out in a motion to stop her words.
“Why does that scare you?” She tilted her head, the waterfall of hair sliding over her shoulder and shimmering in the late-afternoon sun spilling in from the window.
“It doesn’t scare me. It’s just not wise to trust me.”
“My father seemed to think it wise.”
“Hope, please—”
“What were you doing the day I crashed on your mountain?”
John suddenly had an urgent need to be outside, to get away from the walls that continued to close in on him. Nausea clawing its way up his throat, he took another step back, but Hope matched it with a step forward, determination etched in every line of her beautiful face.
“Don’t go there, Hope.” His voice sounded strangled, panicked.
“What were you doing that day?”
“Walking.”
“On Christmas?”
“People take walks every day, even on Christmas.”
Those aquamarine eyes, now more like lasers drilled into him, reading his thoughts, seeing things he didn’t want her to see. “Knock it off.”
“Knock what off?”
He licked his lips. “Don’t do this. Don’t go there.”
“What were you doing that day?”
“I told you—”
“Walking. I don’t believe it. Tell me, John.”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the pain overwhelming.
Damn it.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t shown up?”
He lowered his head and looked at her, unable to mask the darkness that lay inside.
“Oh, John.” Hope lifted her hand, cupped his cheek and rubbed her thumb across his face. He leaned into the caress and closed his eyes. She was so warm and he was so cold. They were like day to night. Sunshine to darkness.
Her other hand cupped his other cheek and he nearly groaned at the contact. Her skin was so soft. So real. For too long he’d denied himself the simple pleasure of human touch.
“Open your eyes, John.”
He stared into hers. Once again they were brimming with tears, but this time for him. It nearly buckled his knees.
“I’m sorry for whatever happened to you,” she whispered, a shaky smile pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry for whatever it is you’ve been living with all these years.”
He couldn’t speak. He was too busy fighting his own tears. Tears he’d refused to shed after the horror of Angelina’s death. Hope went up on tiptoes and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. Shocked, he reared back, but she held tight.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t pull away.”
He opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what. To his horror, the tears started falling.
“Oh, baby.” Hope gathered him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. Leaning over, he buried his head in her shoulder, took her in his arms and wept like a baby. For Angelina, for the wasted years, for the pain, both physical and mental. Hope crooned to him and rocked him while he continued to cry. When the well had run dry, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked away, embarrassed.
“Uh-uh.” She pulled his hands toward her. “Don’t go hiding behind that gruff exterior again,” she commanded.
“I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say. What was a guy supposed to say after breaking down and crying like a baby all over the woman he was supposed to be protecting?
“No, John. Don’t be sorry. Never again. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he slid his gaze to hers but found she was smiling. He hadn’t seen her smile yet, not like this. Not with her eyes. Enraptured, he reached out and touched her cheek.
“I like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Your touch.”
He pulled away and curled his fingers into a fist. She grabbed his hand and held it tight.
“Touch me again.”
Oh, Lord. “Hope, it’s not a good idea.”
“Yes it is. Here.” She pulled his hand up to her face, ran his fingers across her cheekbone, her chin, her lips. Like a blind person who could suddenly see, he felt. Brushing the tips of his fingers across her lips, feeling the moisture, the softness. Like rose petals. Only better.
“You can kiss me,” she whispered, her words vibrating on his fingers, her breath caressing his knuckles.
He stared at her mouth for the longest time, then slowly lowered his head until he could feel her breath on his own lips, mingling with his ragged breathing.
“Kiss me,” she repeated.
He closed the distance between them, brushing his lips against hers. Soft didn’t begin to describe it. Heaven.
Hope tilted her head and moved forward so the kiss became more than a touching of the lips. Deeper. And a hell of a lot more scary. He stomped down on the rising panic.
Hope opened her mouth and his tongue found its way home. He crushed her to him and she mewled, the sound resonating inside him.
He felt alive, and it was a damn good feeling.
Hope pulled away first or else he would have kept going. She stared up at him, eyes shining with laughter, face flushed. He touched her hair, running his hand through the silky strands, feeling the softness there as well. Was she soft everywhere?
He reined those thoughts in. It was one thing to kiss her, another to think about making love to her. To drive home that point, the baby kicked. Hope was pressed so tightly to him, he felt it against his hip and looked down in shock.
She laughed and pressed his hand to her stomach where all kinds of movement was going on.
“What’s it doing in there?” he asked in awe.
“I wonder that myself sometimes. I think cartwheels.”
“It’s…amazing.”
Her expression softened. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I can’t imagine someone giving this up. Jerry Kemper is a fool.” The minute the man’s name left his lips, John cursed himself for being the fool and bringing the man up, but Hope only laughed.
“He is,” she agreed.
He pulled out of her arms to give himself a chance to breathe, to get his body under control. But he couldn’t resist running his hand down her arm, touching her one last time. Somewhere the panic inside him slumbered.
“I want to make love to you.” He surprised himself by voicing the words and quickly tried to backpedal. “I mean… Damn, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She grinned and pressed a finger to his lips. His tongue flicked out. She tasted so good—salty and warm—that he couldn’t resist.
“Make love to me, John.”
He shook his head and took a step back, breaking contact, missing it immediately. “Not a good idea.”
“Why?” She stood alone, her hands at her sides, the late-afternoon sun pouring in behind her. Like an angel.
Like Angelina.
His gut tightened and he ran a hand through his hair. But Hope, being Hope, wasn’t taking no for an answer. He should have figured. Maybe had even…hoped. She invaded his personal space, wrapping him in her warmth.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Her voice turned sultry, sexy and oh-so tempting. His body responded, leapt to life in a way it hadn’t in such a long time.
“Hope—”
“Give me one night,” she pleaded. “One night to hold off the memories that will haunt me forever. Give me something good in all this bad. You said good people make bad choices. But don’t good people also make good choices?”
He stared at her, his body a whirling mixture of needs and demands that superseded all rational thought. One night. What he wouldn’t give for one night with Hope.
Little did she know—or maybe she did—that he too needed to hold off the memories that haunted him. Needed something good in all the bad that had become his life. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She held out her hand. He took it and they stood there like that, linked by their fingers and so much more.
They turned together and headed into the bedroom.
Moonlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains in the guest bedroom. Hope turned to face John, excitement and apprehension in her expression. He faltered, wondering if this was the right thing to do. What if he failed? What if he discovered he couldn’t do it? Touching her wasn’t a problem anymore, but being inside her, being close to her in the most intimate, personal way might be.
And what if, once he started, he couldn’t stop? It’d been a damn long time and he feared he wouldn’t be able to control himself.
She smiled. Weak light barely highlighted one side of her face. He couldn’t resist touching her with his fingertips, memorizing through feel alone the warmth of her skin.
She did the same, her fingertips floating from his face to his chest where his muscles flexed with every brush of her hand.
“Touch me,” she whispered. Her hands wandered from his shoulders to his biceps until they found his fingers. John leaned down, taking her lips in a tender kiss that required all his self-control to contain. He wanted to back her against the bed, lay her down and yank her jeans off.
“I’m scared,” he said against her mouth, ashamed to admit his fear, yet needing to tell her.
“Oh, John.” She cupped his face, stared into his eyes. It helped that he saw no pity. “I’m scared, too.”
Her admission made him weak in the knees and he smiled. “We’re like two teenagers. Like it’s our first time.”
She chuckled and patted her belly. “Well, we know it’s not mine.”
“Mine either.”
Her smile faded. “We’ll be all right, you know.”
“Yes.” Yes, they would be all right. They would heal. He wouldn’t have thought that three days ago, or even two. “Because of you,” he said.
She shook her head. “Because of us.”
His eyes burned and he realized he was damn close to crying again. What this woman did to him. “Tell me.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me if I’m too rough. Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I trust you. But I’ll tell you.”
She stepped back and, in a swift move, pulled her sweater over her head. He groaned at the sight of her breasts spilling over the top of her bra. Of course, he’d seen them before, when he’d undressed her after the wreck, but this was different and this time he looked. They were even bigger than before. Fuller. Ripe. Ready for the baby, her nipples large and erect. He’d known men who thought pregnant women sexy and had never understood the concept until now. Her pebbled nipples pressed against the thin silk and his hands itched to touch them, his mouth watered to taste them. He brushed the back of his hand against one. Hope gasped and arched forward, her eyes closing halfway. “Oh, yes. Please touch me.”
Touch. His knees were ready to buckle. He was so hard it hurt but he forced himself to go slow, monitoring every movement, testing his restraints and pushing the envelope with each touch, each thought, each fantasy. He fumbled with the front clasp of her bra until her breasts sprang free and she moaned, the sound pounding at his self-control. “Oh, that feels so good,” she whispered.
He was finding it harder and harder to pull in a breath. He cupped her breasts, weighing each one in his hands. The skin was so soft and supple.
He flicked his thumbs across an engorged nipple. Her head fell back, exposing the long column of her neck. He nibbled on her skin. “Oh, John.”
He chuckled, or at least he thought did. He couldn’t tell through the sensual haze that had him all wrapped up. He lowered his head and flicked out his tongue, wetting a nipple, then taking it in his mouth. She grasped his head between her hands and countered his sucking movements with a thrust of her hips. Each suck, each flick of his tongue made her go faster, her belly brushing against his.
Her breath became ragged and he switched breasts, his hand going to the one he’d just left, massaging it as he pleasured the other. Little sounds escaped her throat, whimpers of need that drove him on. Then he lifted his head, his hands going to her waist as he backed her toward the bed.
She lay on her back and John loomed above her while she wrestled with the zipper of his pants, brushing her fingers against an erection so hard it pained him and he had to hiss in a breath as his hips automatically lunged forward. With the zipper down, she wiggled her hand inside his underwear and her fingers encircled his hardness. He grabbed her hand to stop her.
“How are you?” he asked.
Her eyes flew to his, tinged with amusement. “Just fine. How are you?”
“Desperate.” He smiled. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She squeezed and his eyes closed. “Hope.” His voice sounded strangled, pained.
“I’m fine, John. More than fine. But I won’t be if you don’t let us continue.”
He knew he was being stupid. Overly cautious. But the last thing he wanted was to hurt her.
“Can I have my hand back?” she asked on a laugh.
“Please.” His head fell forward as she pumped him. Each stroke brought him closer to the brink. His breath came fast, then faster as he thrust into her hand. He could feel himself grow harder, the pressure building to an explosive conclusion, but he didn’t want to come this way.
“Stop.” The word was strangled. For a moment he remained perfectly still as his penis throbbed against her hand. “That was close,” he whispered, leaning down and brushing a kiss across her forehead. He pulled her hand away and fell beside her, rolling her toward him.
“Is it safe?” he asked as he caressed her belly. The skin was tight, underneath hard as a rock. The baby seemed to be sleeping.
“Perfectly.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose up, kissing his lips, his nose, his cheeks and chin while he worked on pulling her jeans off.
“I want you so bad it hurts,” he said, his breathing once again going ragged.
“Me too.” She kicked off her jeans and worked on his pants. Both pants and boxers came off together and his penis sprang free.
“I don’t have protection,” he said, cursing silently. He’d never even considered needing it.
“It’s not like I can get pregnant.” She arched her back, silently begging for his touch, but he held back.
“I haven’t been with anyone for four years.”
Her gaze flew to his but it was too dark to read the expression in them.
Embarrassed by his declaration, he looked away and cleared his throat. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m clean. I’ve… I’ve been in and out of the hospital since then and tested for everything known to man.”
She leaned down, her elbows on either side of his head. “Someday we’re going to talk about this. About what happened to you. Not now, though.”
“No. Not now.” Not ever if he had his way.
She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m glad it’s you.”
Her breasts brushed against his chest and he felt himself harden even more. Distracted, he watched the way they swayed. “Glad what’s me?”