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She glanced at the bottle, then back at him. “Plenty. My husband collected them.”
“We could share one with the pizza,” he suggested.
She frowned at the bottle as he set it back on the counter.
“They’re in the basement.” She pointed to the door. “Pick out whatever you like.”
There was one in particular he wanted to sip from her body. A light-bodied, priced-out-the-a
ss vintage he’d been saving for something extraspecial. Their twentieth anniversary. Their first child. But he’d always meant to share it with her. He fully intended to share it with her.
“Don’t open the door,” he warned her.
She rolled her eyes. “I had no intention of it.”
He nodded and moved to the basement, opening the door and stepping down the wooden stairs he had built himself.
He looked around the open, well-lit basement. There were few things stored there. The cover over his pool table was dusty, the heavy wooden wine shelves were shadowed, the bottles covered with a layer of dust as well.
It was obvious Sabella didn’t get down here very often. Not that he had expected her to. This had been his area, a place she’d seemed to understand he needed to get things in perspective sometimes.
He chose the bottle of wine, stared at the label, and felt that slicing pain in his chest again. There were nearly two dozen bottles of vintage wines. He’d started collecting them before he was old enough to be legal. He’d traded for them, bargained for them, lucked into a few. And each one had significance. Each one he’d planned the date or event to open.
He turned around and took another good look at the basement, watching as Sabella stepped into the doorway and stared down at him.
Her face was in shadow, but he could feel the worry that seemed to wrap around her.
“I haven’t cleaned it,” she said softly as he moved back up the stairs. “The basement, that is.”
He strode up the steps as she backed up into the kitchen, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps I should.”
“It’s a basement. Doesn’t look like you use it much.”
“No,” she answered. “I don’t use it much.” She shook her head before turning away from him. “I need to shower.”
Sabella moved upstairs quickly, her hand pressed to her stomach as she fought back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
She could do this, she told herself. She could handle this, and she could live through whatever happened if he left her. If. She was holding on to the prayer that he wouldn’t. It was the only thing keeping her sane at this point.
The pizza was good, the half bottle of wine they consumed with it was ambrosia. Despite the fact it was the middle of summer, Sabella lowered the air conditioner, and lit a small fire in the fireplace.
They ate the pizza in front of the fire, the chill of the AC whispering around them while the warmth of the fire heated them.
After eating, they dragged the heavy pillows from the back of the couch and stretched out on the floor. It was quiet, easy. And she wasn’t surprised that Noah’s head ended up in her lap. It was normal. This was how they had always ended up on cold winter nights. His head in her lap, her fingers playing through his hair.
Did he remember? she wondered. As he stared into the fire, his hands folded on his stomach, did he remember the nights they had shared, doing just this?
And other things.
She grinned at that thought. The fires they had built in that fireplace had seen a lot of loveplay. Nights they had spent just touching, just holding. Nights they had spent consuming each other, devouring sighs, kisses, and passion.
She stared down at him, watching his eyes, the flames reflecting in the wild blue, his lashes lowered slumberously. Her gaze drifted down his body and felt the familiar flexing of her womb at the sight of the heavy bulge beneath his jeans.
“Do you stay aroused?” Her voice was quiet, almost amused as she asked the question.
His head turned, his eyes staring into hers. “If you’re around, I’m hard,” he admitted ruefully. “I think you’re a bad influence on me, Sabella. You encourage wild, wicked thoughts.”
“Really? What kind of wild, wicked thoughts?”
