Page 39 of Child of Mine

He doesn’t comment on my continued inability to form sentences, just slides the cards out of the worn cardboard box.

I open my mouth, determined to tell him, but when he takes my hand, words fail all of us—Quinn, Izzy, and Bella.

“I just wonder…” He looks away, pressing full lips together for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “Do you ever think about the couple we might’ve been if I hadn’t left that night?”

Not what I was expecting to hear,Quinn says.

Aww,Izzy coos.

He rubs a thumb over my knuckles, silencing them both. “Your life is jammed full of jobs and people, and I don’t want to be another problem you have to solve. But… the past few weeks, I can’t stop thinking about that night. Every time I’m near you, I… I just want a do-over. Another chance to figure out if we’d be good together.”

Who the hell knows what he reads from the expression on my face, but something makes him pull away. “I’m sorry. You’re right; I should—”

Stupid me, I grab his hand. “I feel… I have wondered too.” I blow out a breath. “But my world is complicated. And so am I. I have a lot of baggage, and I’m not sure you… I mean, it’d be a lot to take on.”

One side of his mouth quirks. “As was proven earlier today, I’m capable of hauling around quite a bit of baggage.”

I free my hand from his to whap him on the arm. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Nah, sweetheart.” His sexy-as-all-get-out accent deepening, he captures my other wrist before I can hit him again. “I’m sayin’ I’m stronger than I look.”

Maybe it’s the dare in his eyes, maybe it’s pheromones, maybe it’s being out in the woods miles from my many responsibilities, but something deep inside me saysFuck it.Not Quinn. Some primal part of me wants a do-over too. So I slide my hands to the back of his neck and pull myself up until we’re nose to nose, my heart a wild thing in my chest.

* * *

HENRY

It’s like seven years ago was seven minutes ago when Bella presses her forehead to mine. The desire I’ve benched since she stepped back into my life three weeks ago takes the invitation and runs with it.

Thankfully, it’s quite clear that she’s up for carrying the ball. Her lips find mine, urgent and demanding. Worries bubble up briefly:Am I her boss? What about her kid?But her breathy moans and impatient groans bat all thought away. When I ask, “Your ankle?” with my last shred of sanity, she just grapples for the bag of ice and chucks it to the floor.

Mumbling “Don’t worry about it,” she clambers on top of me.

When I pull her Camp Boomerang tee over her head, she breathes, “I’m sweaty.”

“Me too.”

We’re not smooth, we’re not polite, we’re a scramble of two people who simply need to be skin to skin.

The scent of her is green grass and sunshine, her skin a meadow I want to luxuriate in. My shirt disappears, and her moan has me harder than I’ve been since… since the last time we did this. Greedy for more, I pull her sports bra over her head. It takes some squirming from her and awkward tugging from me, but finally her breasts are free. A 3D image from my memory—palm-sized boobs with pert pink nipples—is replaced by her new reality. Heavier, fuller globes more than fill my hands. Wider, browner nipples harden between my fingertips. The desperate moan for more and the grind of her pelvis against mine are exactly the same.

“Please, god, tell me you have a condom,” she whispers.

“That I do.” These days, you have to have a condom. When I lived in New York in the early eighties, women hardly ever asked. One, I always assumed they were on the pill. Two, asking for one implied that the other person might have an STD, so it wasn’t polite. But AIDS raised the stakes, so now it’s a given.

That’s about all the thinking my desire-soaked brain can handle, especially because her hot little hands have found their way to my zipper. “Okay, okay, I got the message.”

After rolling her off of me, taking care with her ankle no matter what she says, I free myself from my shorts and boxers, find my wallet, and pull out a condom. Without taking my eyes off her, I lock the door and pull the curtains. Rolling on the condom, I cover her body with mine, and then I’m in heaven.

Warm and slick, she greets me, but too soon, a thrust from me sends her over the edge. The harsh moan of my old nickname in my ear drives me on to the finish. Next thing I know, my forehead’s pressed into her breastbone, and we’re panting in a pool of sweat.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

“Yeah,” she answers. “Let’s do that again.”

Meeting her gaze, I can only agree. “Maybe a wee bit slower this time.”

* * *

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