“What if I want something to happen?”
He wanted the something.
And that knowledge only intensified her pleasure.
Dropping her mouth to his shoulder, she bit the firm, inked skin as total bliss flowed through her body. And caused hallucinations and a hearing disability too, because no way had he just stated he wanted to get her pregnant.
Seconds later, he was emptying inside her, his groans mingling with hers.
But she’d heard it. The option of the something.
And wondered if lightning could strike twice.
They sat like that long afterward, her in his lap, arms and legs wrapped around him like a pretzel.
Neither spoke.
They’d both said too much already.
Finally, when she unwrapped herself before the sweat covering their bodies permanently fused them together, he banded a strong arm around her bottom and rolled them so they each lay flat on their backs, staring up at the ceiling of the porch.
Their bodies touched shoulder to foot. He still wore his jeans. She still wore her bra, panties, and that chunky pearl necklace. It shouldn’t feel romantic, this afterglow. Not after their frenzied, half-clothed coupling induced by grief.
But somehow, it was.
“This is pretty,” he said, rolling to his side to trace the necklace. Then his gaze swept over the length of her body. “And this is pretty. Beautiful. Best I’ve ever been inside.”
“Damn right,” she said, shooting him a dirty look. “Best you’ll ever be in even if you live to a hundred, buddy. You should thank me for the honor.”
His mention of being inside another woman—women—dampened that afterglow significantly.
“Thank you,” he replied easily. “And none compared, cupcake. Never could; never would.”
When he leaned down and kissed her, it was chaste compared to his usual carnal quality, adding, “It’s that annoying love thing we share.”
Then he smiled, ever so sexy and solely for her, and it could best be described as dreamy. The dreamiest.
Running her hand over his stubbled cheek, she traced his features, so masculine and yet, as beautiful as he labeled her. Features so precious, so similar, it made her ache with emptiness deep inside. An emptiness forever unfilled, no matter any future somethings.
It also made her want to flush her birth control pills.
Letting her head flop back, she stared at the ceiling and sighed. Hoped chips of peeling lead paint wouldn’t drop down, fall into her open mouth, and cause her to have a two-headed baby. Jesus, she needed to pressure wash and repaint Maine Lane pronto, inside and out. Lead paint was toxic to children.
Because yeah, this house wasn’t meant to host weddings.
It was meant to raise babies.
“Do you really wanna live in this house?” he asked, staring at the same thing she was. The toxic ceiling. “Or stay in the carriage house?”
“This house,” she said, turning into his long, rangy body and nuzzling his pec muscle.
Even his armpit turned her on. Pheromones in force.
“What would you do with it?”
“Live in it.”
He laughed. “No, I know, but . . . where would you sleep? In the master bedroom? That’s my parents’ room.” His tone said . . . icky.
“Maybe I’ll sleep in your old bedroom. We did some dirty, fun things on that twin bed back in the day.” Grinning, she circled his nipple with her fingernail.
“I won’t even sleep in that room now. The mattress ends at my knees. Your ancient one in the carriage house is better. At least I fit on it.”
They’d done some dirty, fun things on that mattress too.
“I’m going to remodel. Knock down some walls and make it more functional. A family home.” Because the event-worthy scenic grounds were only an excuse. “I’m building up my savings first.”
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that she thought he might be upset that she planned to modify his childhood home.
“Tell me,” he finally said. “About this home for a family.”
Her pulse surged.
“Well, the main level will stay the same layout, just with updates. Refinish the hardwood floors, paint the walls, spruce up the furniture and light fixtures. The kitchen won’t change. It’s perfect as is. I feel Lydia when I’m in there, and I like that.”
“I like that, too.”
“Can’t chance her haunting me if I replace her beloved marble countertops. She’ll make sure every chocolate soufflé I bake sinks once I pull it from the oven.”
Plus, she wanted someone else to feel her, too. If he ever stood in that kitchen someday, his blood her blood.
“Upstairs is where I’d make the most changes,” she continued. “Spend the bulk of the budget.”
“How?”
“There’re five bedrooms up there. I only want two, but for resale purposes, I’m keeping three. I’ll take two of the secondary bedrooms and combine them into a large master suite and convert your parents’ room into an en suite bath and walk-in closet.”
He nodded as if he could see her vision, then turned his head toward her. “Why only one?”
“What?”
“Why only one other bedroom besides the master?” He hesitated. “You don’t want a lot of kids? Why make them share?”
“No. I don’t want a lot. I only want one.” She rolled her lips and closed her damp eyes. “One very special baby.”
He murmured something unintelligible but wrapped her in his arms.
“Funny thing,” he choked out, clearing his throat before breaking her heart all over again. “I wanted that too, cupcake. One very special baby.”
Wanted.
His use of the past tense did not go unnoticed, nor his bold-faced lie. But before she could call him out, he spoke again, this time without the emotion he had a moment ago.
“Hey, do you know who John J. Hennessey is?”
If a meteor slammed into Maine Lane right that second, Chloe would’ve been less shocked. And not nearly as quick to move.
“Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit,” she said on a rush, crawling over his big body and kneeing him in tender places in the hasty process.
Scrambling for her shirt and pants crumpled on the porch floor, she checked her watch but already knew. She was late.
Late for Riverhead.
An unprecedented event.
“What the fuck, Chloe?” He sat up, irked at her sudden need to leave.
“I gotta go. My appointment.”
“Where is it?” He swung his legs around, lazily rubbing his bare chest. “I can go with you.”
“No,” she said, her tone sharper than intended, and his head shot back. “It’s . . . private.”
Sliding her pants on, she felt his tension.
“What the hell does that mean? Private?” He stood, rearranging his fly and buttoning his jeans back up. “It’s not for a thingamajig?”
It was distracting, watching him rearrange himself. It wasted three precious seconds. And she smiled at his use of the word thingamajig. It wasn’t derogatory like Genevieve’s use of the word soiree. It was just . . . male.
“That’s what private means,” she said breezily. “Not work.”