Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(95)
Lucas had cleaned up the pudding and was sitting back in front of the couch. “Come sit over here,” he said, patting the floor next to him.
“Yeah, one sec,” she said, sitting on the floor on her side of the room. Because the truth was, she was starving, and she, at least, had some pudding left. She shoveled a few bites into her mouth (sustenance for the exertion to come, please God) and watched him.
He hadn’t shaved today, and a faint smile played in his eyes. His hands—his big, beautiful hands—rested in his lap, and his shirt glowed in the flickering light of the candles.
It was time. Adrenaline flooded through her arms and legs—and special places.
And yes, Colleen O’Rourke knew what she was doing in the old boudoir (or living room, whatever). Granted, most of what she knew she’d learned with this man in front of her, but maybe she could show him a thing or two.
She maneuvered to her hands and knees and started to crawl toward him, like in that hot movie whose title was eluding her right now. Her knee cracked (he probably didn’t notice) and her hair fell into her face (sexy? Or just blinding?). She pushed it back with what she hoped was a come-hither smile (but her knee kind of hurt, actually), lost her balance and sort of tilted (just a little, maybe not noticeable?) jostling the coffee table.
And because this night had been against her from the start, two of her lemon-scented candles (which cost seventeen dollars apiece), fell, and there was a small flare of light (because she’d just started a fire).
“Oh, come on!” she yelped. “This is so unfair!”
Lucas grabbed a throw pillow and smothered the flames. The pretty blue throw pillow that Rufus liked best, the one with the ruffles on it. Ruffles which were now melting, adding to that dee-licious burnt smell her apartment seemed to be sporting. She dumped her wine on top of the pillow, and there was a hiss, some foul-smelling smoke, that was that.
Lucas checked under the pillow. “Fire’s out.”
“Oh, good. At least we won’t be dying tonight. Something to celebrate.”
He checked the melted pillow, then looked at her.
Time to admit defeat. She sighed, sitting back on her heels. “I usually do better than this,” she said.
“I don’t want to hear what you usually do,” he answered. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, and oh, his mouth, and the sound of the rain, and the memory of them together, the way they fit, the softness of his mouth and the scrape of five-o’clock shadow, the good clean smell of him.
He pulled her closer, his hands going into her hair, tugging gently so her neck was exposed for his kiss, the soft scrape of his teeth in the sweet spot just above her collarbone, and she shuddered with the feeling. Her hands were under his shirt, clever hands, and his skin was hot and smooth and velvet. Colleen seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, because shallow little gasps were coming out of her, and she kissed him, hard, urgently, wrapping her arms around him and pressing against him until he lowered her to the floor, shoving the melted pillow aside.
And my God, how it felt to have him on top of her, at last, again, finally. He was so hard and solid and incredible that her whole body was just one aching, throbbing pulse, and finally, finally, they were together again, Lucas and Colleen, the way it was meant to be.
He stood up and pulled her to her feet and led her to the bedroom. Thunder rumbled and shook the house, and Rufus snored gently from his bed.
And then, all of a sudden, Colleen was nervous.
Even though she’d been with him so many times in the past, even though she was far from inexperienced with men, even so. This wasn’t men. This wasn’t some guy.
This was the only man who’d ever meant anything to her.
He sat on her bed and looked at her, his Spanish eyes black and unfathomable in the dim light of the fading day. Turned her hand over and kissed the soft side of her wrist, and looked at her again, his thumb sliding over the spot he’d just kissed, and suddenly, Colleen realized her eyes were full of tears.
“I missed you,” she whispered, and he stood again and kissed her softly, softly, then wiped her tears away and kissed her again.
“Oh, mía,” he whispered. “I missed you, too.”
Then he unzipped her dress and pushed it off her shoulders, the fabric skimming against her skin to the floor. His hands were callused and warm and thorough, skimming her skin, unhooking her bra and sliding it off. His mouth lingered on her neck, her shoulders, and her blood felt slow and heavy and sweet.
This was love. This was what had been missing all the other times, when she tried to find what she and Lucas had.
No wonder nothing had worked. No one else was him.
She opened her eyes, realizing that he was waiting. Then he smiled, just a little, and that smile blossomed in her heart in a warm, heavy wave. She sank down on the mattress and pulled him down with her, her hands going to his belt.
“Vanquish me, Spaniard,” she whispered, then bit his earlobe, and the sound of his laugh was like the sound of thunder, reverberating in her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AROUND MIDNIGHT, LUCAS woke up. The rain had stopped, and a cool breeze fluttered the curtains. From the dim glow of the streetlight, he saw that Colleen was sound asleep on her stomach, mouth slightly open, possibly drooling, her lashes smudged on her cheeks, hair matted and tangled. Utterly beautiful, in other words.
Ten years ago, he’d married another woman. Shattered Colleen’s heart and walked away, leaving the shards scattered behind him.