Barefoot by the Sea

Every inch of her was hot and sticky, sweet and feminine, and irresistible. He kissed her hip, licked her taut belly, and softly blew on the pink flesh he wanted to taste.

She let out a cry, her hands digging into his hair, guiding him right there.

He twirled his tongue over her, taking her to the edge of oblivion but refusing to let her fall. He kissed and nibbled his way back up her belly, tenderly suckling her breasts, then her throat, then her ear.

“Inside,” he whispered. “Let me inside.”

She spread her legs and took another stroke of his erection, leading him there, then stopping to look at him. “Don’t we need…”

He lifted up, sweat stinging his eyes, agony and ecstasy ripping through his pulsing erection. “I’m healthy. I have the doctor’s signature to prove it.”

“I know and I am, too, but…”

He was expecting so much from her—acceptance, understanding, a new life, a new family—all for him. Couldn’t he at least reciprocate? Couldn’t he give her the one thing she desired most? “Isn’t this what you want, Tessa?”

For a long, long time, she stared at him, a million thoughts and feelings crossing in her golden brown eyes, but not one of them readable to him.

“What I want…” She smiled a little. “Is in my arms right now and just a few minutes ago admitted that he wants our fake wedding to be real.” Her voice snagged on the last word. When he didn’t answer, her brows drew together. “Did I hear right?”

One word. That was all it would take. One simple word. “Yes.”

She smiled into a kiss, pulling him against her, shifting enough that his hard-on was right between her legs.

It would take a single stroke of skin against skin, and he’d be inside her. With no barrier at all.

She closed her eyes, and became very, very still.

Long, agonizing seconds dragged by and neither one of them moved. Her eyes stayed closed and he studied each lash, each freckle, each fresh and clean pore of her skin. He memorized her face, letting it wrap around his heart.

Then he closed his eyes, fully expecting to see another woman in his mind’s eye.

But there was only Tessa. Only Tessa. Only pretty Tessa.

He entered her slowly, the move making her eyes open to hold his gaze, and they stayed locked on each other as his body joined with hers. Instinct made him want to plunge and pump, but he held back, the moment too exquisite to surrender to sex yet.

Because this wasn’t sex. This was a pure, real connection.

It was good. Perfect, sweet, slow, hot, and…

She started to rock, biting her lip, squeezing her legs around his thighs, letting him fill her up and pump all the way into her. “I like that, John,” she whispered. “I like you inside me.”

He met her stroke for stroke, finally giving up exquisite for raw satisfaction, an explosion of pleasure and pain ripping through him as their bodies slapped together loud enough that he could barely hear the incomprehensible words they both muttered and groaned.

“Now, John, now.”

He grew bigger inside her, at the point of no return, completely transported. He let go, squeezing his eyes shut and giving out a guttural groan as he spilled and shuddered and completely released himself in her.

As he stilled, she kept rocking, squeezing, panting, and sliding on his erection, letting it hit her right in the sweetest of sweet spots, making her pulse tighter and tighter, deeper and deeper.

He coaxed her with kisses and whispers until she unraveled under him with a long, sweet, sharp orgasm that left her breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed into her ear. “That’s my pretty Tessa.”

Pret-ty. Pret-ty.

Oh, had she noticed his accent? Because in the last few minutes, he’d completely forgotten who he was, who he was supposed to be, and who he might become.

He was…hers.

Holding that one identity that finally felt real and right, he kept her very still until they both could breathe steadily again. Then he tried to find the right words to explain who she’d just made love to. The words didn’t come, but sleep did.

“Tess.”

“Mmmm.” She was dreaming about her crocuses. She’d been digging and digging, so certain she’d failed to grow them, and suddenly she found the bulbs deep in the soil. A man was next to her, urging her to dig deeper, while he smoked a pipe like Sherlock Holmes with the aroma of saffron floating up in the air.

“Tess, honey, wake up.”

She opened her eyes to see another man, a gorgeous, sexy, blue-eyed god. Between her legs, she felt sore and sticky and so, so satisfied. She blinked at him. “We fell sound asleep.”

“Wore ourselves out.” He kissed her cheek. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He smiled. “You sure are.”

Laughing, she reached for him, sliding her hand over the lines of the blue dragon tattoo that covered his side and rib. “Why do you have all this ink?”

“Boredom.”

“What’s that one I saw on your hip?” She reached down there, bumping into his erection. “Wow. Again?”

He smiled. “Later. I want to talk to you first.”

Something in his voice brought her completely out of her sleepy haze, making her lift her head. “About that conversation I heard?”

“Yes…I…” He frowned for a minute, blinking like a thought had occurred to him. “Did I bring my phone over here?”

She laughed. “Unless you tucked it in a very tight towel, I don’t think so.”

He sat up, looking around the floor. “I have to have that phone.”

The edge in his voice pushed her up as well. “I think you left it at home.”

He pushed the covers back, searching, then climbed out of bed, gloriously naked and powerfully erect.

“Is it that important?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, lifting the comforter that had fallen to the floor, then some clothes they’d dropped on the way.

“Want me to call it and see if it rings?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “It won’t. The ringer’s off.”

“Are you expecting a call?”

“Always.” He spun around, frowning. “I have to find the phone.” He bounded out of the hall, head down.

“Hey, you’re naked!”

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled, scooping up the towel on the floor and wrapped it around him, pounding on the floor until she heard the kitchen door slam.

Bloody hell.

Something started to thrum in her head. A slow, steady barrage of questions, doubts, confusion, half understanding.

Who had he been talking to, and why was that phone so important?

Why did he slip into a foreign-sounding accent?

Why was he struggling with what to tell her and when?

Because in between his declaration of how he wanted this wedding to be real and how kids meant everything to him, she’d heard him in a clear battle with when and how to tell her—something.

What? And why should it be so difficult?