What Mattered Most (22 page)

“I’ll tell him to call you,” Casey mumbled, half-asleep.

“No. He won’t do it.” Frustrated, she squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the awful blank look on his face. “This is important, Casey. Wake up and listen to me.”

“You two have another fight?”

“No. But you’ve got to call me, as soon as he walks in the door.” Opening her eyes, she glanced at the mantel clock and calculated the driving time to Houston. Frustration curled through her. Probably had that wrong, too. “Hell, call me if he’s not there in an hour. If I don’t hear from you, I’m calling back.”

“Hour. Got ya. Call you back.” The line went dead.

Lanie resumed pacing the living room, anger and foreboding fighting for dominance in her gut. Fear that he would do something stupid and get himself killed. Fury that he could just dump his past on her and walk out. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. He’d cheated her of giving him the support and comfort he’d shown her the night she’d told him of her mother’s suicide. The sensation was like having a lover get her almost there and roll away to fall asleep.

Damn it, if he didn’t get himself killed, she might wring his neck herself.

But first, she’d wrap herself around him and take away as much of the pain as she could.

She stopped at the glass doors, staring out at the dark ocean. His revelations explained so much—why he’d stayed when he learned she was pregnant, his involvement with Beth, his guilt over Mitchell’s actions, his strong bond with Sonny Buck. He stepped up to his responsibilities, but not his emotions. From those, it was easier to run—to use tennis or sex as an outlet.

Oh, you’re one to talk, Falconetti. If O’Reilly uses sex for release, you use it for control. Have you ever really given yourself over to him?

Cheek pressed to the cool glass, she eyed white caps rolling ashore. A shudder played over her skin. If telling him about her mother had been hard, the idea of turning sex into an emotional connection was even worse. Sex had always been about her rules, no one else’s.

They’d taken turns sharing trivia about their lives and their worse memories. They shared a child. Could she throw out the rules, share herself with him?

An hour later, after Casey called and confirmed that John hadn’t made it to Houston, she was beyond caring about her rules, her wants, her need for control. She wanted John, safe, sound, and with her. Tears trembled on her lashes, dread setting up an icy residence in her veins.

The grind of a key in the lock had her running for the foyer. She pulled the door open before he could. “Where have you been?”

Sweaty and disheveled, his hair stood out from his head. His shirt had come untucked, and the hems of his jeans were wet, covered in the same damp sand that coated his shoes. Face still pale, he tucked the key she’d let him keep for emergencies into his pocket. He stared at her, his navy eyes intense. “Figuring out there’s nowhere left to run.”

“Oh, John.” Her eyes closed, and relief left her giddy. She lifted her lashes to find him still watching her, the same hungry look on his face. Without speaking, she held out her arms, and he fell into them.

His body trembled against her, and she managed to push the door closed before his knees gave out. They slid down the wall, arms around each other, his face pressed to her throat. Against hers, his skin was cool and damp, and Lanie pressed closer, trying to transfuse her own warmth into him.

A sigh shuddered through him, and he tightened his arms. Her hands roamed over his back, hungry to make sure he was real. They sat that way for long moments, not speaking, before Lanie tilted her head back to look into his face. She moved her hands up his neck, running her fingers over the planes and angles of his features. His eyes closed, a soft sound escaping his lips. His woodsy scent, mingled with fresh, male sweat and salty ocean air, surrounded her.

The beginnings of a cry wafted down the stairs to them, and for once, Lanie didn’t jump to see what the baby needed. John nuzzled his nose against her temple. “He’s hungry.”

She pressed his cheek against hers. “I know. Why don’t you take a shower while I feed him?”

The cries grew louder. His mouth brushed her ear. “You’d better hurry. He’s demanding, now, instead of asking.”

They disentangled, and Lanie watched him walk up the stairs, a thrill of anticipation settling in her abdomen. She turned away, and his voice carried to her while she warmed a bottle.

She paused in the nursery doorway. Sonny Buck cradled in his arms, John shot her a lopsided grin. “He’s grown.”

She crossed the room to take the baby. “Like a weed.” He clamped down on the bottle with hungry glee. Settling into the rocker, she glanced up at John. “Take a shower.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Pulling his shirt over his head, he gave her a glimpse of the long, sloping muscles in his back before disappearing into the bathroom.

Eyes closed, Lanie rocked the baby while he ate. The sound of running water filled the room, and she pictured water sluicing over the muscles she’d seen, down over thighs and calves. Heat poured through her body, pooling, flowing out, tingling.

She wanted him. Not the old seeking-physical-gratification wanting, but wanted
him
. Wanted to give herself to him, lose herself in him.

As she tucked the baby back into bed, the shower stopped. Nails cutting into her palms, she walked to the bathroom. John pushed the shower curtain back, reached for a towel and froze, his gaze locked with hers.

Droplets trailed down his neck, over his chest, and into the arrow of hair on his abdomen. Her gaze dropped lower, warmth tingling along her skin. The muscles shifted in his legs as he stepped from the shower. Her breath coming in shallow bursts, she lifted her gaze back to his.

One second, she stared into navy eyes; the next his mouth covered hers. He tangled a gentle hand in her hair, his lips teasing hers apart. Her hands roamed his arms and shoulders, the skin slick and wet. The thin T-shirt she wore soaked up water from his skin and clung to her; she felt every line of his body along hers.

The kiss went on and on, and the heat pooling in her core spread out along veins and nerves, suffusing her being. He was hot, too, his skin fiery where she touched, warming the wet fabric that should have been clammy against her skin. Heat built around them, between them. Just a kiss. If just kissing him was hotter than anything they’d done before, what would making love with him be like? All of this felt so new.

His hands cupped her face, and he pulled his mouth from hers. “Lanie,” he whispered against her temple. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, and his sigh trembled through her.

He lifted his head and stared down at her, unsmiling. His fingers moved over her face and neck, smoothing damp hair from her skin. Desire and something deeper burned in his eyes.

Strengthened by that flaring emotion, Lanie stepped away from him but not before sensing the sudden tension in his body, preparation for a blow of some kind. Holding his gaze, she smiled and reached for the hem of her T-shirt. She lost contact only long enough to pull the wet garment over her head.

The infinity pendant swung free, tapping the skin between her breasts, and his swift indrawn breath filled the room. His eyes flared hotter, and as she skimmed the lounge pants down over her hips and thighs and stepped out of them, she stared into those eyes, thinking he was going to burn her alive.

And Lord help her, she wanted him to.

His gaze dropped, traveling down her form, and for the first time, she faltered. She didn’t look the same as he remembered. Fine white stretch marks marred what had been her flat, smooth stomach. And farther down, the Cesarean scar, faded to a thin, pink line. She closed her eyes.

A finger touched her collar bone, and she startled. A trail of fire followed the line of the silver chain, traced the pendant’s outline between her breasts. Her nipples tingled, hardened.

“Open your eyes.” Even his whisper burned.

She lifted her lashes and looked into his face. He stared at her, his gaze on the necklace. Bending his head, he followed with his mouth the path his finger had taken. Her hands clutched at his shoulders for support.

He moved lower, his lips worshipping her, caressing the stretch marks, stroking over the scar. His finger danced over the tiny square patch above her hipbone, and he grinned against her thigh. “Different precautions, baby?”

His finger moved over the skin of her inner thigh, and a gasp trembled on her lips. She burned already, and he hadn’t even touched her, not really. “Look what happened the last time we used a condom.”

“Yeah.” His teeth grazed her skin, a light, nipping caress. “Isn’t he great?”

She never got a chance to reply because his tongue touched her, stroking, devouring, and her knees buckled. He laughed, a low sound of pure male satisfaction, and held her to him. His mouth moved against her stomach. “Let me take you to bed. I want to make love to you.”

Her hands tangled in the dark thickness of his hair. “Yes.”

With a swift motion, he stood and lifted her against him. Lanie wrapped herself around him, holding on, ignoring the nerves fluttering in her stomach. This was more than just sex, and the sense of exposure was worse than offering her virginity to the boy she’d never given a chance to break her heart.

He laid her on the bed, hands in her hair, his leg between her thighs. In the dim light, he stared down at her with a crooked grin. “I’m scared to death. I’ve never done this.”

She knew what he meant, but she wanted the words. “Done what?”

“Made love like it matters.” He lowered his head and feathered his mouth over her. The simple caress tingled all through her body, intensifying the ache between her legs. “Made love to the mother of my child.”

The words alone did more than any touch to her body, although he took his time about that, too. He worshipped her with his hands and mouth, stroking, caressing, turning her to molten heat. His hands slid down, skimming her curves, stroking her thighs apart. He moved, erection hot and intimate against her.

Cupping her hips, he slid inside, a slow, deep movement that took her breath. His eyes closed, opened, stared into hers. Pleasure tightened his face, and he moved within her. Fire and tension built, grew, flared in her. “Made love to the woman I love.”

“Oh, John.” The words curled in her, joining the fiery pressure that coiled and tightened until she came apart and burned in his arms. Above her, he gasped and pushed deeper, a groan rumbling next to her ear.

He collapsed, his elbows keeping most of his weight from her. Breathing hard, Lanie closed her eyes. Enveloped by him. Shattered, sheltered, and secure.

John opened his eyes, blinking at a familiar ceiling. Tentative rays of dawning sunlight poked into the room. His body ached deep in the muscles, but a hazy satisfaction curled through him. Still asleep, Lanie sprawled on his chest, a leg thrown over his thighs. She held on to him, possessing him.

He loved it.

Threading his fingers through the dark silk of her hair, he kept his touch gentle near the ridge of her incision. She shifted in her sleep, moaning into his chest, thigh brushing his early morning erection. The sensation shot through his body, and he smothered a groan. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed with her.

However, the hell on earth known as the Houston P.D.’s records division awaited him, as well as the commute into the city. Another groan, one of disgust rather than pleasure, rumbled in his chest.

Lanie moved, her fingernails digging lightly into his ribs. Her lashes lifted, and she smiled at him. A catlike stretch pressed her body closer. “Good morning, O’Reilly.”

He made a noncommittal sound. With her looking at him like this again, even desk duty didn’t seem so bad.

Her hand eased down his side to his hip. Her eyes drifted closed again, and she sighed. “What time is it?”

Everything she did drove him crazy. That little sound she purred in the back of her throat made his erection jerk like it had a mind of its own. He gritted his teeth. “Time for me to get up if I’m going to be on time for work.”

Her sultry laugh was that of the naughty lover he remembered. She brushed him with her knee, and arousal shot through his gut. “Feels like you’re already up.”

He wanted to give in. “I’ve still got to drive into the city, take a shower, get dressed—”

“You can shower here.” Her mouth moved along his stomach. “One of your suits is in Sonny Buck’s closet.”

“I’m supposed to be in uniform.” He gasped out the words as her mouth had moved lower, eradicating his ability to breathe.

Her fingers stoked his inner thigh. “Any other excuses?”

His fingers dug into the sheets. “You’re going to make me late.”

“Do you care?”

“God, no.”