The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(98)
“A wanker. An idiot. An idiot wanker.”
She gave a small smile. “Oh. Gotcha. I appreciate that.”
“You were the most beautiful woman there tonight.” Bloody great. Next he’d be quoting Nicholas Sparks.
She gave him a dubious look. “Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“Look, you don’t have to—”
He was kissing her then, the cool night air wrapping around them, her dog thudding against the door from the inside. Her mouth was sweet and soft, and he pressed against her, because if he had to stop, it might ruin him. His mouth moved to her throat, his teeth scraping, crushing her against him, and he couldn’t get enough; he’d do her on the porch if she—
“Tom?”
He pulled back, his breath uneven. Waited.
Her eyes were soft and huge. “I just...I don’t want to do anything stupid.”
He smoothed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Does that rule me out, then?”
She gave a shaky laugh.
He was throbbing for her, every beat of his heart telling him to get her inside and na**d and fast. “Come to bed with me, Honor.”
Her breath shuddered, and her hands fisted in his shirt. She still didn’t answer.
“Please,” he added in a whisper.
That did it. She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around him, and then her mouth was on his, thank you, God. Without breaking the kiss, Tom fumbled with the door, and when they managed to get inside and Spike bit him on the ankle, he found that he didn’t even care.
Up in the bedroom, they fell onto the bed, and Tom kissed her like his life depended on it, because that’s how it felt. Then he unzipped her dress and pulled the silky fabric off her, following its path with his mouth.
He left the light on.
And her shoes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED.
Okay, actually nothing had changed, except that she and Tom were sleeping together. As in doing it. Every. Night. And sometimes first thing in the morning, too.
Life was good. Life was meltingly, sweetly, achingly wonderful, in fact. She wasn’t faking it anymore. This was the real thing.
For fifteen years (fine! seventeen years), Honor had been in love with Brogan Cain. There was no denying that fact. But with Brogan, she always had to work so hard, always putting forth her best face, never impatient or irritable or even just quiet. She turned herself inside out trying to match him, to be the most fascinating, smartest, funniest person she could possibly be, somewhat terrified that Brogan, who flew all over the world and photographed some of the most famous people on the planet, would realize she was not nearly as interesting as he was.
But Tom seemed to like her just as she was.
The other night, tired from a happy lack of sleep, she’d fallen asleep on the couch, waking up to find him looking at her from the other end, her feet in his lap, Spike curled on her shoulder. And his face, while not smiling, had been decidedly...interested. Then he’d crawled on top of her, setting her dog on the floor with only minimal hostility from Spike, unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hand under her skirt, like they were naughty teenagers necking on the couch.
And over coffee the other morning, when she told him about the new sales incentive program and the contest to name the latest vintage, he’d asked some questions, remembered what she said last week on the same subject and hadn’t seemed bored at all. Seemed rather charmed, in fact. Then he kissed her and wished her luck and grinned as he left, taking her heart with him.
So yes, things were different.
As for his feelings, well, maybe it would take a little time for him to fall in love with her, for that locked-away part of him to hand over the key.
For now, she was happy. Happier than she’d ever been.
* * *
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, SHE stopped by the gym to see Tom’s boxing club, which had morphed from a self-defense class into a boxing class for high schoolers who seemed to enjoy all sorts of medieval torture like push-ups and running stairs. Tom was sparring in the ring with a giant boy, both of them wearing helmets and gloves, but when he saw her, he came over, all testosterone-riddled, muscular, sweaty delicious alpha male.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Rocky Balboa,” she said, hoping like hell he’d disobey, and he did. Grabbed her and pulled her against him and kissed her full on the mouth, a hot, soft, killer kiss, until the kids had groaned and complained. A cheeky grin and he headed back into the ring, leaving her feeling like she’d gone a few rounds herself, rather dizzy and weak, Down Under clenching with lust.
“You’re Tom’s fiancée, aren’t you?” a stocky woman asked. “I’m Dr. Didier, the principal at the high school.”
“Oh, hi,” Honor said. “I’m Abby Vanderbeek’s aunt. We’ve met before.”
“We have? Cool. So Charlie’s doing great, isn’t he? He’s come a long way.”
“Yes,” Honor said. It seemed to be true. At dinner on Tuesday, he’d answered a few questions, hardly chatty but not quite so furious anymore. And he had quite a few good moves, Honor thought, watching him demonstrate a combination of hits and pivots on the heavy bag.
“All right,” Tom called. “So for this tournament, which is in three short weeks, mates, I’ve got Abby, Charlie, Bethany, Michael and Jesse all signed up. Anyone else? Don’t worry about your experience level, they take beginners far worse than you lot. Anyone else? Yes, Devin, good girl! Brilliant! I’ll see you all on Friday, then, yeah? Now get out, your parents are waiting.”