A Certain Kind of Hero (41 page)

“A bad mistake,” the boy agreed.

“But it's not like you were being a bad boy. The rule is that you don't go outside without asking. Right?”

“She wouldn't have let me go.”

“And now you know why.” He set the boots by the back door, then turned with his big hands outstretched. “Come on up here, partner.” They traded bear-and-cub hugs. “Oh, that feels good. A bath will warm you up just fine. I know that from experience. First you, then me.”

But it was a couple of hours before Tate got his shower, and by then it wasn't quite as much of a treat. He'd said good-night to Jody and left him to make peace with his mom, who offered to read him three stories instead of the usual one long one or two short ones. Tate had used the little shower downstairs, trying not to use up too much hot water, in case Amy still
wanted some, and he'd wrapped himself up in his brand-new bathrobe. Then he'd plunked himself down on the bed with a magazine and sat there listening to the wind whistling above the window wells.

Since he'd taken up residence with Amy and the kids, he'd made a point to limit his smoking to the great outdoors, but this was one night when he figured he'd earned a shot of whiskey and a cigarette. Trouble was, even though the whiskey felt good going down and the smoke steadied him some, it made him feel lonely.

It was Christmas, and here he was sitting on a single bed in the basement of the first place that had felt like home to him in one hell of a lot of years. It was
Christmas,
and he was indulging himself in two of his favorite vices. Big thrill. Daisy and Duke were curled up as close together as cloves on a Christmas ham, and Tate felt like a man who'd been relegated to the doghouse.

His blue mood didn't make much sense. This was the spare bedroom, after all. Hired hand or guest, this was where the Beckers had always put him up. It was comfortable enough, and he had his privacy. It didn't make sense that the four white walls made him feel so damn lonesome, not with Amy and the kids right upstairs.

But he'd spent this Christmas on an emotional roller coaster. His head was spinning with a hundred joys and fears, and there was no such thing as sense. If truth be told, he would have to say he'd started losing touch with his faculties the day he'd knocked on Amy's door and offered her a hand. Offered to
be
her hand, and for next to nothing. In lieu of flowers, just the way he'd planned, just as the obituaries always said. Hell, he'd turned himself into a living memorial. Now he was turning himself inside out, like the kid looking for one last piece of candy in his Christmas stocking.

Pathetic. He damn sure didn't need steel guitars whining in the background to put him in a melancholy mood. But, then, he was a cowboy, and all a cowboy had to do was pour himself a drink and
think
lonesome. He finished his cigarette, tossed back the last of his drink, turned the light out, took his clothes off and crawled into bed.

Damn, those sheets were cold.

Three quiet taps on his door brought him up on one elbow.

“Tate?”

Just like a woman. She could smell smoke in the middle of a blizzard, and she'd come to give him hell about it. Man, she'd sure tiptoed down the steps quieter than a feather duster. “I'm…here.”

The door opened slowly, and there she stood in her nightgown, backlit by the light in the stairwell. “The kids are in bed, and it's so quiet upstairs,” she said in a small, shy voice. “I…well, I thought…the lights look pretty on the tree, and…it
is
nice and quiet.” She paused, obviously waiting for him to jump at the chance to go up and sit with her. “I guess you're tired.”

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I'm tired.” Seeing the way her shoulders sagged slightly brought him a small surge of satisfaction. Minute, actually, compared to the surge of hot current that was suddenly running strong and lusty through his body and heading straight for his lightning rod.

Amy stepped back as though she'd felt the shock. She was about to retreat just as quietly as she'd come.

He turned over on one hip. “Amy?” She paused. He could almost hear her misgivings, but he could see they weren't strong enough to take her away. She was caught in the balance.

“Amy, you gotta know that I'm down here bunkin' in the
same room with two wet dogs who are huggin' each other up somethin' fierce, and my nerves are wound tighter than a spring, and I'm thinkin' if I could just get close to you right now…”

She went to him. Drifted across the floor like an apparition and knelt beside his bed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, pulling the sheet over his lap. “Honey, I don't wear…any kind of pajamas.”

“I noticed you were uncomfortable in them before.”

“Amy, what I'm trying to tell you is I can't—” With her back to the dim light, he couldn't see her face. He could smell that strawberry soap she always used, and he forgot all about wet dogs. He took her face in his hands, touching the soft contours of her cheeks with his thumbs. “I want you so bad, I can hardly…”

“Hardly what?” She slid her hands over his upper arms, caressing hard muscle. “What would you be doing if you could get close to me tonight?”

“I'd be lovin' you up so good, you'd stop—” He drew her into his arms, lifting her into his lap. “You'd stop thinkin', stop worryin', stop—”

“I should warn you, Tate, I'm not very good at this.”

“Good at what?” He knew damn well what, but he was going to make her say it. Here she was, cuddled against him like a kitten, and she was taking that instructive tone with him again, the one she used to protect herself. He'd always been a threat to her somehow, and, as always, she was trying to keep one foot on the floor, just in case she decided to run. Well, he wasn't about to
let
her run. Not tonight.

“I'm not the best lover.” She drew a shaky breath. Tate wondered when and how she'd arrived at that conclusion. “I want to be good at it, but I know I'm not.”

She just knew, and that was that. The rest he would have to figure out for himself.

“I am.” He lifted her hair and traced the delicate arch of her ear with the tip of his tongue. “You want me to show you how?”

“I don't know.” She shivered when he blazed a damp trail down her neck. “You probably think this is a funny conversation to be having with a woman who's somehow managed to produce two children.”

“You hear me laughin'?”

“No. I appreciate that.” She slipped her arms around him, shifting in his lap. “Is there room for me here? With you?”

“If we stick close together.” He slid his hands up and down her back, teasing himself with the feel of soft flannel and the knowledge that there was nothing beneath it but Amy. “Is it still too soon? I know how to make love to you, Amy, but there are some things about a woman's body that are still a mystery to me.”

“You've seen me at my…well, my least appealing.”

She couldn't stand the idea of coming apart in front of anyone.

Oh, Amy. Her struggle with words and images touched him almost as deeply as her struggle with pain. “Why do you think of it that way? Because I was there?”

“No. I guess I shouldn't think of it at all.” She pressed her face against his neck and kissed him there. “I guess I'm afraid it might bother you, and I'm afraid I'm not pretty enough or sexy enough or—”

“You trusted me then because you had to.” He slid back, cradling her, entreating her as he took her into bed with him. “Trust me now because you want to. Let me decide how beautiful you are.”

He peppered her face with kisses while he unbuttoned her
nightgown. “I want to kiss your breasts,” he whispered, sliding down into position. “I'll be gentle.”

He laved each one carefully, nuzzling, kissing, making them tighten. He could feel the passion rising in her, but he knew from the tension he felt in her body that she struggled still. Her instinct was to hold back. “I taste milk,” he said.

“I'm sorry. I can't—”

“Don't keep it from me.” He swirled his tongue over her peak, relishing it like an ice-cream cone. “Amy's milk. It's the only kind I like.”

“Oh, Tate, you'll make me…”

“Does it feel good?”

“It makes me want…”

“Good.” He kissed the valley between her breasts. She buried her fingers in his hair and held him while she gulped deep breaths, struggling to regain control.

He wasn't going to give it to her. He knew damn well it was the last thing she needed right now. She needed to
lose
control, and by damn, he was just the man. He was
just
the man. He whisked her nightgown over her head and slid down more, licking a stray drop of milk as he kissed the underside of one breast. “Do they hurt?” he asked. “Are they too full?”

“No, I just fed…but all you have to do is…”

“Shh, don't worry about that.” He kissed her, sharing the sticky sweetness that clung to his lips. “Just tell me if anything hurts you. I'd cut off my arm before I'd hurt you, sweetheart, so just tell me.”

“Your arm?”

Okay, so the protrusion straining against her thigh wasn't an arm, but he wasn't going to hurt her with it, either. Damn, she was teasing him. She touched her lips to his forehead, and in the dark he could feel the curve of her smile. “You don't get to laugh, either, woman.” He slid his hand over her belly
and kneaded gently, the way he had weeks ago. “Is it back to its normal size?” he wondered.

“I think it's—” She caught her breath as he caressed her, his hand nearly bridging the span of her pelvic cradle. “I'm flabby there,” she said, but her soft groan told him that she was also aroused there. And lower. He sensed that the tension inside her was drifting lower, and he chased it with a slow hand. He didn't have to hurry. He knew where it was going, and he knew he would catch up.

He kissed her tenderly and hungrily, supplicating and demanding, and gaining wondrous kisses in return. He was gaining on her. “Relax for me, sweetheart.”

Ah, her thighs were strong and stubborn, but her need was growing stronger. His tongue stroked hers, while down below he explored her springing hair, her damp folds, her soft, warm secrets. Deep in his loins he throbbed like a swollen thumb, but he knew what Amy's body had endured, and self-restraint was within his power. “Tell me when we have to stop.”

With a delicate touch he stroked her until she responded urgently, pressing herself against his hand, inviting a deeper touch. “Don't stop,” she pleaded. “Oh, Tate, don't stop.”

He hovered over her, brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her. He was fully prepared to make the magic just for her, but he wasn't prepared for her quick gasp when he tried to slide his finger deeper. “Oh, sweetheart, I'm hurting you.” He withdrew, stroking her thighs in the hope of comforting her.

“No, it's okay. I'm okay, Tate. My checkup…I'm—”

“Shh, you're not ready.” He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he kissed away the dampness on her cheeks.

She groaned, running her hands up his back, digging her blunt nails in when she reached his shoulders. “That's for me to decide,” she said huskily. “It might have to hurt a little.”

“I can go as slow as you want.”

“How about as fast as I want?”

“That, too. But if I hurt you inside, you tell me, okay?” As he spoke, he reached into the drawer in the nightstand and withdrew a foil packet. “You don't have to be strong for me, Amy. If I can't give you pleasure now, I won't—”

“I can't get pregnant now, Tate. At least, I
probably
—”

He smiled, palming the packet as he smoothed his thumb over her forehead, hoping to banish all probably-nots. “This doesn't sound like my cautious little Black-Eyed Susan.”

“I told you I wasn't very good at this.” She slid one tentative hand over his hard buttock. “But I want to be. I want to be…memorable for you.”

He would never forget her shy, gentle hand on his hip. “Keep touching me, and I'll remember.”

She did, and he returned the favor. He caressed her until she lost the last vestige of tight control and quivered in his hand, entrusting him with a rare moment of complete vulnerability. She was eager for him now, open to him with no reservations, no limitations, save the one he willingly placed on himself for her protection. She greeted his penetration with a soft, welcoming sound.

He groaned with the pleasure of immersing himself fully in her warm passage. “Put your hands on my chest,” he implored. “Feel my heart beating and touch my…” His own nipples were sensitive, as she discovered with her fingertips. “Mmm, that's good. You can talk to me, Amy.”

“I don't want to sound—oooooh, Tate.”

“I want you to sound ‘oh, Tate.' I'll remember every soft, sweet word.”

“I'm afraid to talk,” she whispered as she rolled her hips to meet the thrust of his. “This feels too good.”

“Ain't that the…” The truth, which was ecstasy, which
was bearing down upon him faster and without regard for… “Come with me, Amy.”

She drew a quick breath, coming apart, shattering deliciously in his arms. “Stay with me, Tate.”

“Like this, yes,” he crooned close to her ear as he drew her knees up to his waist. “Let me take you with me.”

She clamped her legs around him as she arched and lifted, unfurled and set sail.

Neither could move at first, and when they stirred, it was like a dance in slow motion. They nestled together, eyes closed, hands languidly touching damp skin, ears hearing the soft whistle of cold winds and hearts content in the shelter of a loving embrace.

“You okay?” he asked finally.