Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir(27)
“There’s the understatement of the century,” she grumbled, rolling to the side of the bed and carefully sliding her bare legs out from under the top sheet.
She sat there for a minute, not moving, and Marc took the opportunity to admire the short fall of her copper hair around her shoulders, the supple line of her spine, and the gentle curves of her torso from the back. She’d put on a bit of weight with the pregnancy, but it didn’t take away from her attractiveness one damn bit.
If anything, it made her even more beautiful, filling her out with sensual, womanly curves in all the right places. He had certainly enjoyed exploring those curves with his hands and lips, feeling them so soft and gentle against his much harder naked length.
One corner of his mouth lifted in amusement, not only from the delectable view, but from the snarky tone of her voice. She’d always had such a way with words, and a way of delivering them that often delighted him.
It had annoyed the hell out of her when she’d been in a snit, telling him off, and would catch him grinning. Not because he wasn’t listening or taking her seriously, but because he’d always loved watching her and listening to her—even when she was chewing him out.
The way she moved, pacing back and forth and waving her arms. The way her brea**sts rose and fell in agitation, following the cadence of her rant. What could he say…it turned him on. And nine times out of ten, their arguments had led to phenomenal make-up sex, so there was really no downside to riling her up a little more by letting her think he was laughing off her anger or upset.
In hindsight, he could see how that might have led to some of the problems that had prompted them to split. He’d never meant to deride her feelings or opinions on anything, he’d simply believed their relationship was secure enough that any differences or misunderstandings they had would blow over just as they had in the past.
How wrong he’d been. And he hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late. Too damn late.
“It can’t happen again,” she said, still facing the other direction.
For a moment, he remained trapped in his head and thought she was talking about their divorce. That definitely couldn’t happen again, and if he had it to do over, it might not have happened in the first place.
Then he realized she meant the sex. Tonight’s unplanned, unexpected, but definitely not unsatisfying, indiscretion.
“Marc,” she said when he didn’t respond. Twisting slightly, she tilted her head until she could see him from the corner of her eye, then repeated more firmly, “This can’t happen again.”
Rolling to his side, he propped himself up on one elbow, letting silence fill the room while he studied her. After a minute or two, he murmured, “What do you want me to say, Vanessa? That I’m sorry we made love? That I don’t hope we get the chance to do it again…frequently and with great enthusiasm?” He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t holding him up. “Sorry, but I’m not going to do that.”
“What is wrong with you?” she charged, all but leaping from the bed, dragging the sheet along with her. It caught on the corners of the mattress, of course, but not before sliding from his hips and leaving him in the buff down to his ankles.
She turned, yanking at the cheap, industrial grade white cotton until it came free, pointedly ignoring his total nudity. With a huff, she yanked the quilted coverlet from the foot of the bed and tossed it over him, head and all. He chuckled, lowering it just in time to watch her wrap the sheet like a toga around her own naked form.
“We’re divorced, Marcus,” she pointed out, as though he weren’t painfully aware of their current marital status. Or lack thereof.
She stormed around the room gathering her clothing, piece by discarded piece. “Divorced couples aren’t supposed to sleep together.”
“Maybe not, but we both know it happens all the time.” He waved a hand to encompass the rumpled bed and their current states of postcoital undress.
“Well, it shouldn’t,” she argued back, doing her best to hold up the sheet while she struggled into her underwear. “Besides, you hate me.”
A beat passed while the air in the room sizzled with growing tension. “Says who?”
At the softly spoken question, Vanessa jerked to a halt and lifted her head to meet his gaze. The lower half of the sheet, which had been hiked up around her thighs while she fought with her panties, fell to the ground.
“Don’t you?” she asked just as softly. “I mean, you do. I know you do. Or at least, you should. I didn’t tell you I was pregnant. I didn’t tell you about Danny.”
His brows crossed and his mouth dipped down in a scowl at the reminder. He’d been working hard to forget that part of his reason for being in town. Or more to the point, had been willing to suspend his anger and feelings of betrayal long enough to partake of Vanessa’s lovely body and enjoy the tactile sensations of having her in his arms and bed again after so long.
He took in her still half-naked form, wrapped like a Greek goddess in pristine white cotton. Sure, all of the reasons he should hate her were still there. And no doubt they had many issues to work out. But for some reason, at that moment, he just couldn’t get his temper to flare.
“Here’s a bit of advice,” he told her, cocking a brow and trying not to let his frown slip up into a grin. “When someone has temporarily forgotten that they have a reason to be mad at you, it’s probably better not to remind them.”