August had ushered Roland out the front door zippier than The Flash himself could have made an exit, once he'd extricated the child from hugging Regina's legs, that is, and Robin prayed that he'd imagined the slight squealing of tires still ringing in his ears as the two of them sped away, Marco following closely on their heels.
"You don't see me," the older man had insisted as he took the long route towards the door, covering his face with his hand as he mosied behind Regina. "I was never here." Then the door had shut decisively behind him, leaving Robin standing before her barely dressed and smelling of wine, feeling more embarrassed than he'd ever felt in his life.
And that was saying something.
She looked him over, dark eyes shining as she bit her lower lip, and he wanted to die when she met his eyes again, the expression of dumbfounded amusement almost more than he could handle.
"I think I'm overdressed," she stated, setting down a bottle of Malbec she'd grabbed on impulse on her way out the door. He sighed, puffing out his cheeks, and she chuckled then, she couldn't help it, grinning as the man in front of her turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the hue of the wine.
"No," he mused, his shoulders slumping just so. "You're just dressed."
And with that, she broke into a round of out-and-out laughter, a sound he could listen to for hours, he decided then and there. He joined in, unable to help himself, and he felt his body begin to respond to her as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Perhaps I should put something on, too," he stated with a self-depreciating shrug, hoping his boxers wouldn't give him away and embarrass him further. Then she looked at him as if he were offering her a tray of chocolate, her mouth upturned, her eyes a bit hungry, and he knew he was in deep shit.
She dared a step in his direction, appreciating the muscled curves of his biceps, the sculpted shape of his shoulders and the way his boxers covered just enough to make her curious. Muscled, tone, in shape, but not overdone, his body was just enough to make her mouth water without feeling as if she were having dinner with Rambo. And he was obviously affected by her presence, the way he shifted his legs just so, trying to hide the fact that he was sporting the beginnings of an erection making him all the more attractive in her eyes.
She didn't know whether to be thrilled or half-terrified.
"I don't know," Regina returned, flicking her brow back at him playfully, pushing away tendrils of self-doubt. "This look actually works for you."
He almost snort-laughed at this, feeling his ears overheat as he sauntered a few steps her way, the scent of her perfume far preferable to his own odor of eau de vineyard.
"You mean filthy and domestic?" he quipped, his stomach clenching at the adorable manner in which she crinkled her nose. "Not everyone can pull that off, or so I'm told."
She blushed then, feeling warmth creep down every nerve in her body.
"You've got to have the legs for it," she grinned, earning herself a delicious flash of dimples at that comment. He extended his right leg just so, dress sock and all, making her giggle like a college girl as he swept his hand in a downward direction just past his knee.
"My mother always told me my legs would take me far," he sighed, and she laughed out loud again, her tone throaty and wonderful, tempting him to forgo dinner all together and jump straight to dessert.
"And mine told me to avoid men with a tendency towards indecent exposure," she retorted, inhaling a cackle as his brows shot up to his hairline.
"Indecent, is it?" he questioned, stepping into her space, wine-spattered boxers and all. "Just a moment ago you claimed this look was working for me."
"I also said that my mother warned me against men like you," she hummed, her tongue sliding over her lips in an innocent gesture that set his lower anatomy on a steadily upwards treck. God, he hoped an out and out tent didn't pop up before he had a chance to change. "I didn't say that I took her advice to heart."
Her eyes were nearly black now, he noticed, matching her hair and lashes and making him want to forgo the stuffed shells and devour her on the spot.
"Oh," he stated, attempting to reign himself in one breath at a time. "So you're a rule-breaker, then?"
"The worst," she quipped, her nose doing that crinkle maneuver again just before her head dropped and her cheeks flushed scarlet. "Actually, I'm pretty predictable," she confessed, chancing a look back in his direction. "Dependable, according to Henry."
"Dependability is an important trait," he added, wondering why her forehead was creased in what looked like mild dismay. "What—you don't like being dependable?"
"I do," she confessed. "It's just not the most attractive sounding of adjectives coming from you child."
He chuckled, the sound of it humming across every one of her ribs until she was tingling bone-deep.
"Believe me," he murmured. "Dependability has never been so attractive." His lower anatomy almost nodded in agreement.
"Flirt," she accused, and he laughed outright then, flashing her those dimples that made her legs feel unsteady.
"Guilty," he admitted as his mouth came in close. "But only with you." He paused, his teeth skimming his lower lip as he inhaled audibly, pup-tent and all. "And that's the truth, Regina. I haven't flirted with a woman since…well, since Marian died."
God, how pathetic did he sound, he wondered, hoping against hope that the truth and an inconvenient boner wouldn't push her out the door when she'd only just arrived.
Her face was burning up, and she tried to swallow, frustrated that her palms and her nether regions had far more moisture than her mouth.
"I'm flattered," she breathed, and then he was just there, within reach, within kissing distance, her heart pounding so hard she was amazed he couldn't hear it from where he stood. "And I don't, I mean, I don't do this sort of thing, either."
"Aren't we the pair?" he questioned, tossing her a look that made him flat irresistible. "And just for the record, I don't usually flirt with a woman I really, really like in boxers that aren't doing me much good at the moment. This is a new experience for me." He grinned, and she blushed.
Shit. She wanted to kiss him. Right then and there. And she was going to do just that.
She hooked her fingers under the straps of his tank, giving him just enough of a tug that his mouth practically bumped into hers with a rather resilient smack, hoping she hadn't hurt the nose she'd already given a sound bruising. If she shocked him, he didn't show it, his hands snaking around her hips just above her derriere, careful not to press his stained and strained underwear too close to her nice sweater and slacks. She felt electric all over, bold and brazen and so unlike herself she was nearly giddy with nerves and power.
He pulled back with a warm sigh, his forehead brushing hers, and he realized he was already sweating.
"Regina, let me go and change so I can kiss you good and proper without making an even bigger fool of myself."
She nodded, gently kissing his bruised nose before tossing him a smirk he'd like to eat, and he released her slowly, backing away a couple of steps, turning around just in time to save himself from falling backwards over one of the dining room chairs that had been pulled out a bit far from the table in all the mayhem. She bit her lower lip again, and he knew she'd seen his near blunder. God, she must think him an idiot—a ridiculous, clumsy idiot, and he was acting like one, he knew it, like a love-sick, sex-starved puppy over a woman he'd known for just over twenty-four hours.
How the hell was this even possible?
Shit. He wanted to kiss her again-now. And he planned on doing just that as soon as he was dressed in something more appropriate than Hanes and Fruit of the Loom. Thank God he hadn't listened to Frank's advice to wear a thong.
Did men even wear thongs? The thought of his brother-in-law possibly owning one made his head begin to throb. Or perhaps it was the lingering smoke from his botched attempt at dinner.
She'd have to have deduced by now what a disaster his hopes at impressing her had been. The evidence continued to make the house smell more like a boy scout camp site than the home of a man doing his dead-level best to impress a woman way out of his league. But she was still here, he reminded himself. And she'd kissed him.
God, how she'd kissed him.
He made it successfully to his bedroom, wishing now he'd spent more time on laundry as he noted his best casual slacks were all dirty. Jeans it would be, it seemed, and he drug out his best pair of Levi's, donning them over a fresh pair of boxers before throwing on a brown Henley he hoped made him look at least somewhat manly. He studied himself again, reapplied the Bvlgari and took a deep breath, praying the rest of the evening would prove to be smoother than the first few minutes had been.
He rounded the corner to the family room, remembering just then he'd forgotten to put on shoes, only to find Regina staring at his wedding photograph hanging on the wall. It was odd seeing her looking at Marian—at he and Marian smiling on one of the happiest days of his life, his past and his present colliding in such a peaceful manner on such an innocuous occasion, but it was comforting, too, and he walked to stand beside her, smiling at the fact that she'd taken off her shoes. Somehow standing sock-footed on his carpet seemed like a good omen.
"She's beautiful," she stated, her eyes never straying from the photograph.
"She was," he agreed, his sigh squeezing her heart in an odd sort of vice. He reached out and took her hand on sheer impulse, warmed by the fact that she laced her fingers into his so easily. They fit, felt right somehow, just as Marian's had all those years ago, and he let himself relax into her, into this, whatever this inexplicable madness between them actually was.
"Inside and out," he uttered, swallowing down the lump that always accompanied memories of his late wife. She leaned in closer then, daring a look up at his profile, her eyes full of something he couldn't name but soaked up nonetheless.
"You still miss her," she said, and he nodded without pause, facing her directly, allowing her to see the cracks left by bone-crushing grief.
"I do," he admitted.
"That's good," she returned, noting his muted look of surprise. "That you loved her enough to miss her after all this time."
He gave her a half-smile, pressing his lips together as he rocked back and forth on his heels.
"Love is a gift and a curse," he uttered, clearing his throat as he looked back up at his wife. "Without Roland, I'm not sure what I would have done after she died, to be honest."
He was splintering in front of her, and she turned to face him directly, collecting his other hand into her own, allowing instinct to take over in a way she usually avoided.
"Children are everything, aren't they?" Regina asked, and he smiled at her fully then, a smile that went deep and rocked her knees, one that made her want to cradle his head to her chest and let him grieve as long as he needed.
"They are," he whispered, clearing his throat before squeezing her fingers. "Well, almost everything."
Her heart was fluttering madly, his pounding out of control. She stared at their joined hands, at the carpet, at her nearly bare feet, and she made up her mind to be honest with him, this man who was laying himself bare before her right here in his family room.
"I've been avoiding dating for a long time," she stated, and his brow quirked back at her in unabashed curiosity.
"Because of your ex-fiancé?" he asked, and she nodded in affirmation. "It makes sense. Once your heart has been broken…
"It's frightening to risk it again," she completed for him. Eyes locked, and she attempted to swallow down the trove of butterflies flapping around in her stomach.
"I still can't fathom how someone could walk away from you like that," he said, and her insides clenched down uncomfortably.
"You would if you'd known me then," she muttered, something in the way her brow furrowed bothering him deeply. He cupped her chin and raised her eyes back to his, asking her to tell him without saying a word. "He met someone who was more patient and domestic that I was, someone who was more focused on him than her career, and he decided his future plans fit better with hers than with mine."
She stopped there, wondering if she should tell him the rest of the story now or later. He had to be told—it was only fair, and both of them were of an age that they didn't want to waste time on a relationship that would go nowhere. But shit, she didn't want to get into that just yet, not when he was looking at her like she was a goddess sent down from the heavens into his living room.
"His loss," Robin returned. "I said it last night, I'll say it again."
She pressed her lips together, swallowing nervously as her pulse sped ahead.
"I was, well, pretty intense when Daniel and I were together."
He chuckled, and she withdrew one hand and swatted him lightly on the shoulder.
"Ow," he uttered, rubbing his offended arm, trying to look stern and failing miserably. "What was that for?"
"For laughing at me," she retorted, looking more adorable by the second as her eyes narrowed and nose scrunched. "When I was telling you something serious."
"And you say you were intense?" he questioned, backing up a step for his own safety. "God help me if this is your calm and peaceful side." He rubbed his arm, grinning back at her until he noticed she wasn't smiling. Uh-oh. He hoped he hadn't hit a nerve.
"You have no idea," she stated, one brow quirking up in warning as her shoulders fell. "What you're getting into with me." She sighed then, her brows knitting together in a manner that actually made her look worried. "I'm not the easiest person to put up with, Robin. I'm stubborn, I like to have the last word, and it's hard for me to relax and let go. I don't trust people easily, and it's completely out of character for me to be here acting like this with you."
It all gushed out of her so fast she was practically trembling as her toes sunk themselves into the carpet.
"Fair enough," he conceded with a slow nod, not missing how intently she was watching his reaction. "I'm also stubborn, have a tendency to sometimes act impulsively and mope if I don't get my way, I suck at keeping up with housework and have a terrible time sharing the remote. I've never acted this way with a woman in my life—Marian and I had a much longer courtship, I mean, we met when we were kids. This—this…" He paused to catch his breath, pointing back and forth between them, wondering why it meant so damn much to him that she understand exactly where he stood. "This between us is all new to me, but I want to see where it goes, what it can be, even though it half-scares the shit out of me."
She chuckled, tucking her chin, prompting him to run his fingers over her hair.
"I'm hardly Prince Charming, Regina, and I'm not looking for Snow White. I actually wasn't looking for anything when you bumped into my life."
He felt out of breath, she felt weak-limbed, and they stood gazing back at the other, wondering what was going to happen next.
"Same here," she uttered, her voice barely audible as she broke the silence. "Just the opposite, actually." She smiled, and he nudged her chin in his direction.
"So here we are," he breathed, warming her insides as no man had been able to do since Daniel. "Any regrets so far?"
Her head was shaking before her voice could catch up.
"None," she confessed. "That's the crazy thing." She wanted to kiss him again, wanted to feel his arms wrap around her and hold her close, but she reached for his face instead, cupping his cheek in a manner he seemed to enjoy. "And I don't want you to have any, either."
She had to tell him—sooner rather than later, immediately would be best. If he couldn't accept her as she was, she needed to get out now before she dug herself in any deeper, and she was in pretty deep already.
"There was another reason Daniel left," she began, noticing she had his undivided attention. "Something that's not easy for me to talk about." Her heart was racing a few leagues ahead of her, her mouth now the texture of sandpaper.
"Regina," he cut in. "You don't have to tell me now if it makes you uncomfortable."
"It's very likely that I'll never be able to conceive and carry a child."
The words flew out of her in a rush, making her feel ten pounds lighter and about as steady as an unbalanced unicycle.
"I had health issues at the time," she stated. "And Daniel thought he could deal with the fact that I couldn't give him biological children, but…"
"But he couldn't," Robin finished for her. She closed her eyes, needing to see his expression but terrified of what she might find. He loved kids, obviously adored Roland, had fabulous genes to pass on to future offspring, so if he couldn't accept this part of her…
"His loss," Robin repeated. "And Henry's gain."
She felt boneless, light-headed, even, and she opened her eyes to find understanding staring her straight in the face.
"You don't mind?" she questioned, testing the quicksand before she stepped into it any further.
"Regina, I have a child," he returned. "So do you. And if things continue between us, if we get to a point where we want to discuss a real future and creating a family, well then, it seems to me that there are plenty of children out there in need of a home."
She nearly laughed and couldn't stop a sound of amazement from sneaking up her throat.
"It also makes it a hell of lot easier for me to tell you that I've had a vasectomy."
He watched her eyes double in diameter as her mouth fell open.
"Having Roland nearly killed Marian," he expounded, his tone dropping a couple of intervals. "She had lupus, had lived with it for years, but giving birth…" He paused, clearing his throat. "Well, we were informed that another pregnancy could cause irreparable damage. So I…."
"You took care of things," Regina cut in, breathing in slow and steady.
"I did," he said. "Do you still want to have dinner with me?"
His stomach did a somersault when she smiled and took his hand.
"You're in for one hell of a ride if you stick with me, Locksley."
God, she was adorable with a slight pout to her lips, her eyes all dark and uncertain, her expression one he'd like to kiss into oblivion and back.
"I'm counting on it," he hummed, flicking his own brows back at her with a smile that was downright wicked. "I've always liked a wild ride." She snickered, making him realize just what he'd said and all of the implications that went along with it. "God, I didn't mean it like that."
"You didn't?" she asked, holding back the laughter bubbling up inside her like champagne.
"Well, only partially," he conceded with a shrug, his neck now overly warm. "Just please, don't char me to a crisp before we've eaten dinner for admitting that to you. Marco will be so disappointed if you don't sample the manicotti."
Her cheek twitched as she tried to keep herself from grinning.
"I was actually considering skewering you," she stated with a shrug. "Charring's not really my style. And I never turn down manicotti."
The twinkle in his eye turned downright naughty, and he leaned in close, whispering just over her ear.
"Take all the manicotti you want," he stated, his proximity doing things to her that felt like heaven. "Just leave the skewer to me."
She shivered from top to bottom, her palms ghosting up the side of his jeans. Shit, she wanted him, really wanted this man she'd only known for a little over twenty-four hours, wanted to do things to him and let him do things to her she shouldn't admit out loud this early in their relationship.
"Well, at least I know it's functional," she teased, making him turn his head aside so he didn't snort in her face. "Nothing more disappointing than a flimsy skewer, you know."
His neck was a red as his face, and his face was practically the color of a good marinara.
"I'm sorry you were confronted with my skewer so early in the evening," he managed, making her own cheeks nearly as warm as his appeared to be. "You'd think that absolute mortification would be enough to keep things in check, but…" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as he bit that blasted lower lip again.
"Apparently, you do things to me, Regina. Things I haven't felt in a really long time."
She breathed in through her nose, trying to catch her absentee composure as blue eyes bore into every ounce of femininity she possessed. She was slipping, he was careening, both speeding down a one-way street that defied navigation.
"I know," she whispered, trembling as he reclaimed her hands within his own. "I feel the same way, and it scares the hell out of me."
One hand moved to cup her face, and she closed her eyes as his thumb traced her lips. They parted instinctively, opening for him without a second thought, and he took full advantage, skimming the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip just so. She was aching for him in ways she'd forgotten, throbbing in regions long-dormant, and she swallowed before opening her eyes, nearly bowled over by what she saw staring back at her.
God, this man.
Christ, this woman.
"I really want to kiss you right now," he breathed, and she nodded before the last word left his mouth, leaning in, holding on, clasping fabric and tasting life. This was more than a second date, she realized, far more than a physical reaction, he thought. This was good.
No. It was beyond good. It was right. And neither of them had any idea why.
"Are you hungry?" he muttered just over her lips, mouths still caressing as hands refused to let go. Her stomach growled, and they both chuckled, her forehead leaning on his cheek, his hand taking hers and holding as if they were slow-dancing. "I do have food, you know."
"Manicotti," she returned, her tone rubbing him in all the right places. "So you told me."
"And salad," he added, his brows rising in tandem with her smile. "Breadsticks, shrimp scampi, and panna cotta for dessert." She leaned back to gaze at him, her expression clearly showing her approval.
"Trying to seduce me with your panna cotta?" she queried, their heads nodding in time with the other.
"Whatever works," he admitted. "And you're welcome to dig into my panna cotta anytime."
He watched her mouth spread into a smile he could eat with a spoon.
"At least you're not challenging my Italian Cream," she tossed back, making him laugh and sweat along his hairline.
"That's because I'm dying to taste it," he breathed, notching the temperature in the room up at least five more degrees. Shit, if they didn't eat soon, they'd never make it to the dinner table—he'd carry her straight back to his bedroom and fuck her senseless, something he'd never in his life considered doing on a second date.
"The secret's in the frosting," she whispered, making him swallow so hard he nearly choked on his Adam's apple. "You have to whip it just right."
He coughed before narrowing his eyes in her direction.
"Sounds perfect. When you make it, I call dibs on licking the bowl."
"Then I get to lick the beater," she retorted, shocked by her own words as he grinned back at her, his gaze now hooded. She blushed in earnest then, really blushed, and they both chuckled, her nipples tingling in time with her lips.
"Don't forget the nuts," she dared, nearly making him wheeze, only emboldening her further. ""Italian Cream without the right nuts is nothing short of a flop."
He shook his head, trying to regain some sense of decorum, failing miserably as he fell head first into this woman.
"No," he added, nibbling his lip, knowing hers would taste much better. "Floppy nuts will never do."
"Never," she agreed, wondering if she'd combust here on his carpet before she ever got to sample the manicotti. They grinned at each other, suddenly at a loss for words, each wondering if the other's body was as overly-heated as their own.
"Alonzo is the cake maker, not me," he confessed, inhaling as deeply as he could, trying to reign in his southern regions to a more manageable state. "I sort of ruined the dinner I was preparing for you, so Marco came to my rescue. Panna cotta is his specialty."
"Does this mean I should be kissing Marco instead?" she breathed, his jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight.
"God, no," he insisted. "Although he would disagree with me in a heartbeat."
Her arms slid around his neck as his wound around her waist, and they gazed into each other, both grinning like love-struck co-eds.
"And you brought wine," he added with a nod in the bottles general direction. "I'd say we're set."
"Set for what, exactly?" she questioned, and they tipped their brows towards each other, breathing in and out in time.
"That, my lady, is the question," he grinned, stating the obvious before pulling her into another kiss that hushed her ability to say anything else.
"That was amazing," Regina sighed, leaning back a bit in her chair as she took another sip of her wine. "Marco scored some points tonight."
"I'm glad you liked it," Robin grinned, looking far too smug for her comfort. "And Marco will be your devoted servant once he hears your reaction." He bit his lip and gazed at her, chuckling at something she couldn't see.
"What?" she asked, leaning forward again as he grinned back at her.
"You have marinara on your chin," he answered, laughing as her eyes widened and her napkin went to work.
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she returned. He reached across the table and took her hand, caressing fingers that had been driving him to distraction the entire evening.
"Only the ones I wouldn't mind kissing," he mused, firing up a low heat in her belly to match the warmth from the wine already weighing down her limbs. "To help get the sauce off, you understand."
"Hmmmm," she murmured, feeling deliciously full and slightly tipsy. "It's all about the sauce, isn't it?"
He brought her fingers to his mouth, coaxing them with this thumb until they were as tingly as her nipples.
"There's nothing like a good sauce," he stated, gathering one finger to his lips, drawing it into the mouth and sucking it just so. He watched her, his pupils dilating as a small moan escaped her.
"You should know," she tried as he released one finger and moved on to the next, giving it the same teasing attention that was shooting straight to her crotch. "My fingers are…very sensitive."
She hissed then, her inner thighs clenching together as he took on digit fully into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it until her eyes started to roll back in her head.
"So I noticed," he hummed, looking all too much like a cat who has just discovered a rodent safe house. "That's good to know."
She laughed, deep and throaty, and he paused his ministrations to her fingers, sucking in air to calm his already growing erection.
"Why do I have the feeling that you're planning on using this information against me?" she questioned just as he stood and offered her his hand. He guided her back to the couch in the family room before he dimmed the lights and moved to the fireplace.
"Against you?" he echoed. "I'm not certain I like the way that sounds. On second thought, maybe I do."
She giggled this time and stretched against the soft cushions, reveling in how good this all felt, her insides warm from wine, her nerves standing at attention, her eyes unable to move away from the well-defined ass in front of her.
"I don't care if you do or not," she quipped, and he turned back to face her after setting the needed logs into the fireplace, a poker clasped in his hand, his eyes unable to leave the picture of her snuggled into his sofa.
"You wound me," he tossed back. "Again."
She had the decency to look at least somewhat abashed as her eyes travelled to his slightly bruised nose.
"Is that why your poker's in your hand?" she returned, her eyes shining at his obvious embarrassment. "Too wounded to do anything but toy with your poker?"
He laughed, and she echoed, wondering what in God's name had gotten into her tonight.
"Hardly," he said. "Injury or no injury, I'm up for whatever you have in mind."
"Already?" she questioned, snuggling a pillow to her chest as he knelt to light the kindling. "It must be the shrimp if you're up that fast."
He tossed her a look just before he blew on the new flame, coaxing it to grow little by little, to burn, to spread, to fill the room with a light that was nearly as intoxicating as the bottle of Malbec they'd nearly finished off. He then situated the wood into position, giving the flame time to catch and smolder, and she lost herself in the popping and cracking of the logs, wondering just when the last time had been that she felt this relaxed.
"Undoubtedly the shrimp," he hummed, watching the fire a moment more before he returned the screen to its place and sat down beside her. He stroked her hair then, and she leaned into his touch, sinking into the feel of his palm against her cheek.
"You feel good," she admitted, her tongue almost as relaxed as the rest of her.
"You feel amazing," he returned, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. "And you smell amazing, too."
"So do you," she purred, her eyes closing as he began to rub her temple. Shit—she could get used to this, used to him, used to having a sexy-as-hell man in her life, one who partially owned a restaurant, one who knew what it was to be a single parent, one who had relatives who could cook, and one who knew how to kiss her until her limbs felt like warm wax.
"What are you thinking?" he questioned, his mouth within striking distance. She stared back at him, far too affected by those gorgeous baby blues than she should be.
"I don't do sex on the first date," she stated, her tone far less convincing that it should be.
"Well, technically, it's our second date," he shrugged, those blasted dimples sneaking out and chipping away at what resolve she had left. "But who's counting?"
"I don't do sex on the second date, either," she countered, grinning as he continued to stroke her cheek.
"No problem," he stated, somewhat relieved and disappointed at the same time. "I never have, either, to be honest."
"But it is a problem," she argued, catching him by surprise. "Because I want to have sex with you, but there's no way we should be having sex this early in our relationship. Don't you agree?"
He chuckled, licking his lips in a manner that made him look far too dangerous.
"I think we should do as much or as little as both of us feel comfortable doing," he reasoned. "We're adults, admittedly adults who've been on our own for some time, but adults nonetheless."
"Horny adults," she quipped, his resulting chuckle tickling every nerve she had.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" he teased, pressing his lips to hers before she could say anything else. He tasted like wine and the cream from the panna cotta, a heady mix that was quickly making her forget about the scar she'd taken pains to hide for two years now. Then she was under him, pressed into cushions, half-sitting, half-laying, completely kissing and being kissed. open mouthed and hot as hell. Her hands moved up his back, tugging him closer, wanting more, and he gave as good as he took, his mouth leaving her lips to trail a path to her jaw, hovering over her ear in a manner that nearly made her jump off the couch.
"We stop whenever you want to," he breathed, pushing himself up just slightly. "And if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me."
Her head was buzzing from lust-induced insanity, and she was tempted to tug off her sweater and just point to her scar as bluntly as she'd told him about her infertility. God, she might truly scare him away if she pulled a stunt like that, and she pressed her hands to his chest, needing to clear her mind even as she wanted him to continue kissing her until she couldn't think. But then his hand cupped the back of her head.
"Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?"
She was rendered completely speechless.
He went on to tell her how she made him laugh, how he couldn't keep his eyes off of her last night when she'd come into the restaurant and how he thought it was amazing that she was a pediatrician, how he admired how she'd channeled her love for kids into a career that saved lives. All the while he was rubbing her back, relaxing her, making her feel safe and a bit foolish for nearly jumping him just minutes ago. Then she was lying on top of his chest, listening to him talk about Roland's colic and his mother's stew, about Marian's lupus and how the car accident that had taken her life had seemed like such a waste when she'd fought her disease so hard for so long. He opened up about his father's fight with cancer, and how now he was determined to keep his legacy alive in the restaurant that meant more to him than he'd realized until his dad had passed away, how he wanted Roland to always have a sense of his family, even if they weren't with him anymore.
She told him of her fear of thunderstorms and how she'd always been a daddy's girl, how her mother had been critical to the point of pain, prompting her to move out as soon as she could once she began college. She shared how she'd met Daniel her freshman year, how they'd bonded over a shared love of horses and how she'd lost her virginity in the back seat of his blue Oldsmobile. She then took a leap and opened up about being born with a weak heart, how she'd learned to compensate as a girl and a teenager, how she'd tackled college with the same zeal she had everything in her life, how she'd pressed on to medical school without a second thought, somehow pushing Daniel away in the process by focusing more on her studies than she did on him.
"Do you think your heart condition prompted you to become a doctor?"
She pressed her palms to his chest, pushing herself up just far enough to look him in the eye.
"I'm sure of it," she answered, more affected by his resulting smile of approval than she'd anticipated. "I'd had two surgeries as a child, surgeries that saved my life and allowed me to actually live. On my twelfth birthday I announced to my parents that I intended to be a pediatrician and asked them to help me open a savings account so I could start saving for medical school."
He chuckled then, making her insides feel like warm velvet.
"How did they react?" he asked, his fingers swirling over her spine in a spot that prompted her to close her eyes and practically purr.
"My father was inordinately proud. My mother—not so much."
He shook his head, puffing out his cheeks in an exaggerated exhale.
"How could she not support you in such an incredible decision?" he questioned, threading some of her hair into his fingers, making her glad she'd decided to leave it down. "I'd be bursting at the seams if Roland asked me to do something like that for him on his twelfth birthday."
"My mother had one ambition for me and one ambition only," she explained. "That I take care of my looks and marry a rich, ambitious man with a budding career in politics."
He coughed, almost choking, and she swatted his chest a couple of times before he claimed her fingers once more and gave them a kiss that liquefied her bones.
"How could she not see your potential?" he asked. "Your intelligence, your compassion, your empathy for kids who weren't born with a perfect bill of health?"
She brushed her lips against the scruff on his jaw, she couldn't help it, and he shuddered slightly beneath her, his hand moving under the fabric of her sweater but remaining on her lower back.
"Illness was weakness as far as my mother was concerned," she stated, watching his brows flinch at her words. "I was born weak, I grew up weak, so she wanted me to achieve a position of power, not one that wouldn't bring me any fame or public notice in life."
"I'm sorry, but I don't understand your mother's reasoning at all," he sighed, and she laughed, the sound warming him from his chest to his toes. "People who learn to live and thrive regardless of their physical limitations, they're usually the strongest people I know, not the weakest." He paused, thinking of Marian, of her inability to spend much time in the sun, of days when she barely had the energy to get out of bed, of tears she'd shed because she couldn't walk her baby in the park with the other mommies because the sun was out in full force.
"It's called survival," she whispered, her mouth so near his he suddenly couldn't see anything else. He lifted her chin as he stretched his face towards hers, brushing his lips across hers, mouths slightly parted, breaths mingling, fingers tracing soft lines across skin.
"It's called living," he breathed, sucking in air just before he rolled her underneath him, claiming her mouth with a fire that surged over both of them in a heartbeat. They were living now, she realized, seeking each other frantically as they re-entered that world they'd been observing from the sidelines, afraid that pain might single them out yet again. Her hands slid underneath his Henley, nails scratching and discovering, making their way from back to front, teasing him just below his naval just before he nearly jumped off of her with a yelp.
"You're ticklish," she observed, with an expression that looked rather like the Cheshire Cat about to pounce.
"I prefer sensitive," he corrected, a bark of laughter escaping her. "I'm betting you have your sensitive spots as well."
"Don't you dare," she yelped as his fingers pressed into her armpits, making her buck and squeal for a few seconds until both of them were laughing and breathing heavily in a tangled heap. She looked back at him, he gazed down at her, his eyes were nearly as dark as her own, her heart was racing in time with his, and they swallowed simultaneously, caressing, breathing, waiting for the other to say something.
"Stay tonight."
His words ran over her like warm syrup, and she gazed up at him, her mouth suddenly dry, her scar tingling beneath her sweater. She wondered about telling him the one thing she hadn't—that the heart in her chest wasn't hers, that it had taken a transplant to keep her alive, the truth moving to the tip of her tongue just as he misunderstood her silence.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have pushed—I know you said no sex, and we don't have to have sex, even if you stay here. I'd just very much like to hold you tonight, to go to sleep and wake up with you in my arms—"
She raised her index finger to his lips, giving him a smile that prompted him to kiss her finger with more tenderness than she'd ever witnessed in her life.
"I'll stay," she breathed, nearly giddy with the smile he gave her in return as his elbows nearly buckled. "But I'll need something to sleep in."
His mouth grazed her cheek, and she was burning, pulsing, pressing up into him, thinking maybe she didn't need anything to wear after all as his hand traced bare skin up to her ribcage.
"I think I have a t-shirt you can borrow," he uttered as his thumb rubbed just below the swell of her breast. "And some boxers if you're really that desperate."
"Trying to get me in your underwear?" she teased, a low moan escaping her as his tongue curled just under her ear. She was killing him, the way she felt, the way she sounded, the way she moved against him in just the right places until he thought he might lose his mind.
"Well, since you've already seen me in my underwear, it seemed like a logical next step," he mused, his fingers continuing their dance along her ribcage. She was going to come out of her skin if he didn't touch her breast, but if he did, her sweater would most certainly come off and there would be another conversation they'd have to have, one she'd rather put on hold at the moment so they could just do more of this. Because, God, this felt good.
"So where's that t-shirt?" she managed, her head lolling back as his mouth slid down her neck, making her toes practically curl into the cushions. He grinned against her skin, his warm breath hardening her nipples further with each exhale.
"In my bedroom," he answered, his lips resting just above her collarbone. Of course—it would be.
His tone was huskier than she'd ever heard it, and it did things to her, things that were making it really difficult not to cross the line she'd drawn. In fact, why had she drawn that line in the first place? Her scar was feeling like less and less of a reason to keep her shirt on when he kept looking at her like she was a buffet and he a starving man.
"Shall we?"
"Alright," she muttered, her stomach fluttering as he pushed himself off of her and on to the floor, extending his hand in her direction. Her lips were dry, her mind caught in a continual loop, but the rest of her took over for the parts that weren't working so well, although getting off the couch was going to take some effort, she realized, as comfortably sunken in and sprawled out as she'd been. But there was no way she was going to miss whatever happened next, no matter how nervous and uncertain she might be. So she took his hand.
God—he could barely breathe.
She was a vision, her hair mussed, her lips bare and slightly swollen, and he kissed her forehead, he couldn't help it, finding himself more drawn to her that he ever thought possible after losing so much. She tasted like sweat, warmth and woman, a taste he could drown in and devour, one he wanted to imprint on his palate and savor in his sleep.
"I have a scar," she whispered, and he leaned his face in closer, coaxing a wayward strand of hair from her forehead. "On my chest."
"A surgery?" he deduced, and she nodded as she swallowed. "For your heart?"
Then he kissed her before she could say anything else, his finger tracing a straight line down the center of her chest until his palm flattened over where her heart beat below.
"Thank you for telling me," he breathed, wishing he could kiss away every speck of insecurity from her expression. "And thank God for that scar."
Her eyes filled then, and she blinked repeatedly, shaking her head as she tried to get a hold of herself.
"You don't have to show me, you know," he assured her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "We can just go curl up in bed, pull the blankets on top of us and go to sleep if you like. I don't want you to feel any pressure from me, Regina. Truly."
She couldn't say what took over at that point, what prompted her to step forward, to lean in, to pull his mouth down to hers and kiss him until they were both panting and breathless. But whatever it was, she liked it, it felt like life, like power, like an aphrodisiac cracked open and spilled out over every nerve she had. So she let it guide her, let it prompt her to move one hand under his shirt, the other around to his ass, shaking at the heat his kiss unleashed as his mouth kept moving down.
"I know," she uttered, drawing his lower lip through her teeth, watching his eyes turn nearly black as he scooped her up to his chest and carried her to his bedroom, kissing her every step of the way.
Thoughts, anyone?