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The next two days follow a similar pattern. As hard as it is to keep our hands off each other, we spend the time together, talking, which was what we should have done in the beginning.
We have a picnic in the garden one afternoon—we sit on a blanket on the lawn, under the shade of an angled umbrella, and eat sandwiches and strawberries while we listen to music and talk. The next day, we drive to the beach and walk along the water line in bare feet, holding hands. Aroha makes sure Leia has a sunhat and is covered in sunscreen. I carry her in the baby carrier on my chest, facing outwards, and she’s fascinated by the sound of the sea and the seagulls swooping overhead.
In the evenings, we watch movies while we make out, teasing each other with kisses until we’re both sighing. And then we go to bed, and I wrestle with my self-control as I insist she turns over and goes to sleep.
I last for three days.
On day four, we sit at the dining table to eat dinner. Aroha, protesting she feels better, has cooked us a stir fry. Leia, now able to sit upright on her own, sits in her highchair with a couple of toys.
I tuck into my dinner, then stop, my fork halfway to my mouth, as I look at Aroha and see her watching me while she eats.
Her eyes are undressing me again.
I close my mouth around the piece of chicken, then chew while I lift an eyebrow.
“Stop it,” I scold, my phrase of the moment.
“I’m only eating my dinner.” She has a mouthful of rice, but her gaze, as it slides down me while she eats, is hotter than lava.
“You make me feel naked,” I complain, fighting the urge to cover myself up.
She snorts. “I should be so lucky.”
I give a short laugh. “I’m not taking my clothes off at the dinner table. The last thing I want is to find a fork in my sausage.”
That makes her giggle, and soon we’re both laughing. Leia joins in and bangs her rattle on the tray.
“It’s so warm in here, though,” Aroha states, getting up to take our empty plates to the kitchen.
I pick up Leia’s rattle when she throws it on the floor. “Want me to turn up the aircon?”
“No, it’s okay,” Aroha says. “I’ll just take this off.”
She’s wearing a short dress made of T-shirt material. My eyes almost fall out of my head as she lifts it up her body and over her head, then drops it to the floor.
She’s wearing a pretty cream teddy. Oh, checkmate, Aroha. It’s incredibly sexy, but it covers the bruising on her side.
“That’s sneaky,” I tell her.
She brings back two glass dishes of dessert she’s made—Tiramisu, no less—places mine before me, then slides back into her seat. She scoops up a spoonful, then eats it, her eyes dancing.
I narrow my eyes. The material of the teddy clings to her breasts, and her nipples protrude through like two buttons. “Are you cold?” I ask, somewhat sulkily.
She glances down at herself, then looks back at me, amused. She doesn’t attempt to cover herself up.
I give her a helpless look. “I’m only doing what the doctor said.”
“And I’m very touched. I’m not trying to entice you. It’s hot, that’s all.” She points at my dish. “Eat your dessert.”
I glare at her. “Tiramisu?”
“I was going to give you oysters and asparagus, but I thought that might have been a bit obvious.”
I give a short laugh and delve my spoon into the dessert. “Why is this supposed to be an aphrodisiac? I mean, it tastes fantastic, but…”
“It was invented inside Italian brothels,” she says. “It was served to reinvigorate exhausted clients. Especially after orgies.” She turns her spoon upside down and sucks it, her eyes fixed on mine.
