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“Whose are you?” he murmured, tugging her hands back an inch so her back arched and her neck was exposed. His lips brushed her skin, light kisses that made her head spin.
She felt wild for him. Desperate for relief. She dragged in air but couldn’t speak.
His mouth was at her collarbone, and then kissing his way down the slope of a breast before covering the pebbled nipple. He worked the nipple through the silky fabric, a rhythmic sucking that made her womb contract. He was making her so hot and wet. Too hot and wet.
“Touch me,” she begged.
“Only if you tell me who you are.”
“Ava.”
“And what are you?”
She groaned as his hand found her between her thighs, cupping her damp heat. “Yours.”
“Yes, mine. My woman. My lover. My pleasure.”
She nearly swooned as his palm pressed up against her, the heat of his hand scalding. She might as well have been naked. Her bikini bottoms provided no protection.
He palmed her mound, finding her nub. She shuddered against him.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She couldn’t. She felt too exposed, too wanton.
“Look at me,” he repeated, his teeth catching at the curve of her ear, biting lightly and then harder on the lobe.
She shuddered at the twin rivulets of sensation—pleasure and pain—but the lasting sensation was pleasure. It felt good. Too good. He knew her so well.
She opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his. His eyes were dark with desire, the color of the sea, but bright and fierce. He wanted her. It was a heady thought, and so very dangerous because a little bit with him was never enough. She always wanted more.
“We can’t do this here, Colm,” she said huskily.
“Why not?” he challenged, finding her through the bottoms, lightly tracing the lines of her, the curves, the softness, the seams.
She shivered as he skimmed from her lips to the ridge of her clit, his fingertip lingering on the sensitive bud, circling, teasing.
He kissed her to silence her groan, then murmured against her mouth, “I am going to make you come here.”
“Not here,” she begged, even as she bucked helplessly against his hand.
“Then where?” His hand eased beneath the edge of the bottoms, slipping under fabric to find hot, slick skin.
“Don’t know, don’t care.” She gasped, as he caressed her folds and then slipped a finger between.
And all she wanted was more.
More pressure, more friction, more satisfaction.
He pressed deeper and she groaned as he touched a sensitive spot inside of her. Her knees shook and she arched.
“Take me to your room,” she begged. “You can have me, all of me, just take me somewhere private. Please?”
Chapter Ten
‡
With virtually nothing on, it took no time to strip bare, and with all the touching and kissing outside on the sundeck, Ava didn’t want any more foreplay. She wanted Colm, buried deep inside of her. He might be gifted with talented fingers and lips and a tongue but nothing in the world felt as good as him filling her, his body covering hers, his skin warming her from the inside out.
With hands linked and bodies as one, she felt beautiful and powerful.
She felt hope and possibility. Safety and security.
She felt love. Oh, she loved him. She’d always loved him. And when they were together like this, she knew she’d always love him. It was impossible not to. She was his, and he was hers and she didn’t know why she’d spent the past thirteen months trying to forget him. She’d never be over him. She’d never not want him.
They made love once, and then again, and it wasn’t until much later when they were lying in bed, sleepy and sated, that Ava, curled against Colm, her cheek on his chest, found the courage to ask the thing that troubled her most.
“Jack,” she whispered. “Is he…okay? Is he healthy? Happy?”
Colm stroked her long hair, smoothing it down her back. “Yes. He’s perfect.”
Ave felt a prick of pain and she blinked, holding back tears as she pictured the dark-eyed toddler she’d last seen thirteen months ago. She didn’t remember much from that visit, just the sense that he’d been active, busy, and into absolutely everything. “He really is normal?”
“He’s a very smart little boy. Off the charts, actually. Our son is apparently gifted.”
She looked up at Colm, trying to see his face in the deepening shadows filling the room. “How do you know?”
“He has an ear for music. He doesn’t yet read sheet music, but if he hears a piece, he can pick it out, find the keys. I’ve just started him with a piano teacher and he loves it. His teacher said he’s never met another child with so much passion.” Colm dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m not surprised, though. He’s your son. Of course he’s gifted. He has your fire and passion.”
Her eyes welled up quickly. She couldn’t stop a tear from falling onto Colm’s chest. She missed him. Her baby.
Another tear fell.
And then another.
She couldn’t stop them anymore.
“So I didn’t hurt him?” She choked. “He really is okay.”
“He’s better than okay. He’s sweet and kind and smart and lovely in every way. I look at him and see you. He is truly your son—”
“Our son,” she interrupted.
“Our son,” he agreed quietly. “And he is blessed. Except for missing you. He does miss you, Ava. Terribly.”
She flinched. “He doesn’t know me.”
“He keeps your picture by his bed.”
“I would think he hates me—”
“He doesn’t remember anything bad. He doesn’t remember you leaving him. He only knows that you love him, and have been ill, and he prays every night that you will soon be well so that you can come be his mommy again.”
“Stop.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
Her heart fell even as her stomach cramped. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep fresh tears from falling. The anguish was real, and intense. Jack, her baby, who was never breastfed. Her baby that was never rocked by her, held by her, never walked by her as he wailed in the middle of the night, hungry. Lonely. Inconsolable.
She was almost sobbing and she couldn’t catch her breath.
For the last year and a half she’d tried to tell herself Jack would be fine. She tried to tell herself that he wouldn’t miss her, he wouldn’t need her, that Colm would find a beautiful, young wife and Jack would finally have the mother he needed. The mother he needed. The mother she couldn’t be.
Colm’s arms circled her and she cried against him, grieving for all she’d lost, and the years she couldn’t get back.
Was it too late to be his mother?
Was it too late to try again?
As her tears subsided, Colm kissed the top of her head. “If you had your notebook here, what would you write in it, right now?” he asked her quietly.
She drew a shuddering breath. “That I love him. I love Jack. And I’d give anything to be his mom again.”
He kissed her again. “He needs you, Ava.”
“And I need him.”
*
Ava woke to the gentle rocking of the boat. It took her several long moments to sort out where she was, and it was only because Colm reached for her, drawing her back to him that she remembered.
His yacht.
His bed.
His arms.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his deep voice a rumble in the dark bedroom.
“Yes.” But why was her throat raw? Why did everything feel broken inside of her? “No.” She pressed herself to Colm, her legs between his, her face against his chest. “I am sad. Why am I sad?”
“We talked about Jack tonight. You cried because you miss him.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “He doesn’t know me. I am a stranger to him.”
“He is so young. He has
an entire life ahead of him. You can be part of that life. It’s not too late. You’ve never been stronger, or healthier—”
“I still forget things though. My short term memory is terrible.” She pushed up on her elbow. “And I want Jack, but I don’t just want Jack. I want you. I need you.”
He caught her face and kissed her lips. “I know, baby. I need you, too. It’s time to come home. Time for us to be together again, a family again. You know you want to. And you know it’s the right thing to do.”
*
