Hearts Awakened (15 page)

“You too.” She rested a hand on his chest, the imprint of her fingers burning through the thin cotton of his undershirt.

He rubbed a hand down her arm. Sleep, with her this close to him.

Yeah. Right. That was going to happen.

Caitlin stirred, her slight murmur drawing Tick from his uneasy doze at her bedside. He leaned forward to take her hand. “Cait?”

Twin tears leaked from beneath her lashes and he brushed them away with his thumb. The last nurse who’d come in to take her vitals had warned him that female patients sometimes wept upon wakening from general anesthesia, even after they’d been out of recovery.

“Precious?” He nuzzled her temple, pressed his cheek to hers.

Her eyelids fluttered then lifted heavily, revealing green eyes clouded with pain, drugs and uncertainty. “Tick?”

“I’m right here.” He framed her jaw with fingers that shook, just a little. “Everything’s okay.”

Her lashes dipped then came up rapidly, a hint of panic invading her gaze. “The baby?”

“He’s fine.” His own eyes burned. “Four pounds, two ounces. Absolutely, perfectly healthy, other than being a little early. He’s in the NICU.”

The door whispered open behind them. Caitlin wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “I want to see him.”

“I know, but you probably need to rest—”

“Actually, the sooner we get you up and walking, the better.” The nurse gave them a wink and a smile as she placed a blood pressure cuff around Caitlin’s upper arm. “The NICU is on this floor, so taking a little walk to see your baby should be no problem at all.”

With the nurse’s help, they made the slow, shaky and, Tick figured, painful journey to the NICU. There, another nurse stepped in to assist, settling Caitlin in a rocker and easing the baby into her arms, keeping Caitlin’s IV line free of their son’s own IV and oxygen tubing and monitor wires. Once finished, she stepped back. “I’ll be just over there if you need me.”

Tick crouched by the chair, throat tightening at the awe on Caitlin’s face as she stroked trembling fingers over the baby’s wispy hair.

“My God, Tick,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her face. “He’s here. He’s
real
.”

“I know.” Joy bubbled through him, overriding the fear and anxiety. He aligned one thumb with his son’s small foot, tracing the lines on the tiny sole. Amazing how something so little could be so damn perfect. “Incredible, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely.” She outlined tiny features with one fingertip. The baby gave a slight startle and settled back into sleep. “He has your chin.”

He pressed his nose against her temple. “And your mouth.”

Her tears spilled over and she turned her head to press a kiss to his jaw. “You have to be okay, Calvert. Do you hear me? You have to be. Not just for me.”

“I know, precious.” He folded his arms about them, holding on to everything that mattered. “I will be. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

And that wasn’t his belt buckle poking her in the backside.

Her stomach twisted and her heart thudded in an irregular rhythm. She shrank away from the arm holding her, colliding with the solid chest behind her. Her heart shifted from its thudding to a frightened flutter. The hand tightened and a murmured protest sent warm breath along her bare shoulder.

Mark.
Her heartbeat slowed somewhat. She was in bed with Mark, that was his hand wrapped around her, his chest along her back. His erection against her bottom. She concentrated on breathing, slow, relaxed breaths. She was in bed with Mark, because this was where she’d wanted to be. Closing her eyes, she absorbed the sensations of being this close to him.

He smelled of clean male. Being wrapped in his loose embrace made her feel sheltered, protected. He slept on, snoring lightly, his breath a warm rhythm on her skin. The hot outline of his hand through silk enticed her. An inch or so upward and he’d be molding the underside of her breast. She pictured that hand sliding up, fingers curving around her, arms tightening, that hard ridge pushing more insistently against her.

A liquid ache pooled in the pit of her stomach and she shifted, filled with restlessness. Her breasts tingled, feeling heavier, fuller, and she laid a hand over her abdomen. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she could feel her pulse between her thighs. All this, just from being in his arms, from thinking about his touching her?

She released a long, measured exhale. What would it feel like when he did touch her? If he was to shift those strong fingers down instead of up, slipping beneath the waistband of her slacks? The pulse at the apex of her thighs throbbed and she pressed her legs together.

The movement brought her bottom into closer contact with his groin. He jerked, a sudden stillness an indication he was awake now. On her ribcage, his fingers tightened and relaxed but didn’t move. He kissed her shoulder, a soft murmur on her skin. “You awake?”

Awake? Her entire body vibrated with awareness of him. All vestiges of sleep had evaporated. “Yes.”

He traced the line of one rib with his thumb. “Feel better?”

“I guess.” She lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, his lips touching her again.

He kissed the side of her neck. “I could get used to waking up with you.”

“Me too.” The rigid line of his arousal still lay between them and curiosity got the better of her. She covered his wrist with her fingers. “Do you always wake up like this?”

“Hard? Not always, no.” His quiet words sent heat rushing over her skin. “I was dreaming about you.”

Her breath caught. His drowsy voice had dropped with the admission. Could men purr? No, not a purr. More of a throaty, husky growl. He’d dreamed of her. The achy pulsing spread.

“Tell me about your dream,” she whispered.

“We were together, like this.” He shifted closer, mouth near her ear. “Only without so many clothes. You let me touch you.”

She burned, fire licking through her veins. “How?” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. “I mean, how did you touch me?”

With his lips, he traced the curve of her ear. “We were lying together like this and I slid my hands up. Your breasts filled my palms. Your skin was so hot, honey. Hot and smooth, except around your nipples. They were hard and you wanted my mouth on them. You let me taste you.”

The pictures he painted flickered in her mind. She wanted to take his wrists, pull his hands up, let him do the things he described. Only the fact she wasn’t the woman in his dream, not really, stopped her. That woman was his fantasy. The reality would be her freezing in fear somewhere along the way.

The first step in conquering the fear was facing it. She stroked his arm. Under her touch, his skin was warm, sprinkled with dark, coarse hair. She swallowed. “Is that all?”

He nuzzled her neck. “Not by a long shot. You touched me, your nails on my back, my shoulders. I slid my hands down, over that flat stomach of yours. I could feel the muscles trembling. I was still kissing your breasts, licking and sucking, and you were holding my head there, your nails scratching me a little. I couldn’t get enough of you.”

Even with the fear, the beat of attraction between her legs grew stronger. She resisted the urge to squirm. The edge of his hand brushed the underside of her breast.

“You opened your thighs to me.” His dark voice wrapped around her, doing wicked things to her senses. “I stroked you and slipped a finger inside, then another.” He tilted his pelvis, the solid ridge of his erection nudging her. His groan shivered over her ear. “Honey, you were so
hot
. Wet. Tight. You moaned. My name, over and over. I loved that, loved knowing I could make you feel like that.”

She wanted to roll over, to beg him to make the fantasy come true. She wanted to believe it could. His nose brushed her cheek and he feathered his palm across her stomach.

“I wanted to be inside you so bad, Tor, and you wanted it too. I wanted us moving together, until you came all over me. Until I was coming inside you.”

“Is that what it would be like?” Her voice emerged shaky and broken. “If we made love?”

He rubbed his face against her shoulder. “Oh honey, I think we’d be better.”

She turned her head to look at him. His eyes had gone a burning, smoky gray. “I want to,” she whispered. “But I’m frightened. I don’t know—”

“Shh.” Leaning in, he kissed her, his mouth firm and warm on hers. He framed her face. “We’re not going to do anything until you’re ready.”

He kissed her again, nibbling and teasing at her lips. Tori shifted to her back, holding his jaw with trembling fingers. Levering up on an elbow, he massaged a hand down her bare arm and she shivered.

His tongue probed at her mouth in a teasing flickering before he brushed a more sedate caress across her bottom lip. “Open your mouth, Tori.”

The rough whisper set her nerves on fire. Gripping his shoulders, she opened to him. He slanted his lips over hers, tongue meeting hers in short, easy thrusts. She moaned, the restless wanting alive once more.

Her stomach growled, its rumbling loud in the silence broken only by their breathing. Mark pulled back, laughter glinting in his eyes a second before a deep chuckle escaped him. He levered to a sitting position and ran a hand over his hair. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

The loss of him sank in immediately. Sitting up, Tori pushed back her tangled hair. The mirror reflected them and she stared at herself—passion-dark eyes, swollen lips, hardened nipples pushing at her camisole. She looked wanton. Well kissed. The thought brought a smile to her face. What would she look like if she let him make love to her?

“Sexy as hell.” Startled, Tori glanced at him. He knelt behind her, his hands at her shoulders. Surely she hadn’t spoken aloud. He rubbed her arms. “You are, you know that, don’t you? Look at you. No wonder you drive me crazy just by walking in the room.”

Pleasure tipped the corners of her lips higher. He nudged her toward the edge of the bed. “Get moving. You haven’t eaten since last night. You’ve got to be starving.”

Feeling languid and inordinately pleased with herself, she padded before him to the kitchen, the hem of her slacks swishing across the tops of her feet. She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. A quart of milk, a pack of cheese slices, a wilted head of lettuce, assorted condiments. Maybe the freezer. A couple of chicken potpies rested beside a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

“You have to be kidding me.” Mark stood at her pantry and she peeked over his shoulder. A box of Cheerios, a couple of cans of soup, two envelopes of microwave popcorn and a packet of cookie mix. He glanced back at her. “What do you eat?”

She shrugged. “Whatever I can nuke.”

One dark eyebrow quirked. “You don’t cook?”

“Why would I?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just thought…your mom is the best cook I know.”

“Which would explain why I don’t cook. Why should I, if I can go to her house?”

“And what do you do the nights you don’t eat there?”

“Takeout.”

He turned his wrist to check his watch. “Too late for that. Think your toes could handle a walk through Winn Dixie?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Because if I’m going to cook in this kitchen, it’s got to be stocked. Do you even own a set of cookware?”

Only if her soup pan and skillet counted. She grinned. “No. Plan on cooking here often?”

“I might.” He turned her toward the hallway and popped her lightly on the butt. “Get ready.”

In her bedroom, she tugged her sweater back on and slipped into a pair of flexible ballet flats. Mark shrugged into his dress shirt and stepped into his shoes. She watched him button the shirt and tuck it in, and a giddy warmth settled in her chest. She wanted this, wanted the everyday ordinariness of being with him this way. And one day, she wanted to be back in her bed with him, making love, doing all of the things he’d described earlier.

And more.

The Winn Dixie parking lot sat nearly deserted in the cool night air. Mark jockeyed the Blazer, resurrected thanks to a new engine, into a parking slot near the doors. Tori slid from the passenger seat, loose pieces of asphalt shifting under her shoes. The automatic door at the entrance whispered open for them and Mark grabbed a shopping cart at the front of the store and steered them toward the produce section.

Quiet lay over the store, broken only by piped-in classical music and two teenage clerks giggling at the front service desk. Mark picked up a couple of bell peppers and an onion. Tori watched him, giddiness bubbling in her again. They could be any couple out for a little late-night grocery shopping, avoiding the crowds. She peeked at the mirrored wall backing the produce shelves. That’s what they looked like to others. She dared to tuck her arm through his.

He glanced down at her hand on his forearm. “What kind of fruit do you like?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Bananas.”

His left eyebrow quirked. “Apples? Pineapple? Oranges?”

“I can take them or leave them.”

“You know you’re supposed to eat two to three servings of fruit a day, right?” He reached for a group of bananas and added a couple of oranges to the basket. A pair of kiwi followed.

“Who are you, the nutrition police?”

“You have a smart mouth.”

The happiness made her brave. “Oh, you like it and you know it.”

“That mouth?” He passed his thumb over her bottom lip and the pulse stirred low in her again. “I like it a lot.”

He tossed a packet of baby spinach in the cart, followed by a small bag of baking potatoes. Tori stroked her fingers along his wrist. “Did you cook with Jenny?”

His hand hesitated over a display of broccoli and cauliflower. “Yeah. All the time.” A crooked grin quirked at his mouth. “We didn’t have a lot of money, so we learned how to stretch things. She was really good at that.”

Tori tucked her hair behind her ear. “She sounds very special.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “She was.”

“Does it bother you to talk about her with me?” She fingered a line of high-priced salad dressings. He reached around her and selected a bunch of vine-ripened tomatoes.

“I don’t know. I’m not used to talking about her with anyone.” He shrugged and steered them out of the produce area. “I guess it’s kind of like pulling off a bandage. It stings like hell, but feels better after, you know?”

She smiled at his succinct summarization of the values of discussing a trauma. “Do you know how many years of therapy it took for me to figure that out? I fought it.”

“You were a psych major. Figured you would have jumped in with both feet.”

Her gaze on the variety of breads in the bakery area, she shook her head. “Talking about it hurt too badly. I spent the first year telling Rachel about my relationship with Tick.”

“I could see that taking a year. Or two. Maybe three.”

She threw a light punch at his arm. “Stop.”

He rubbed at his biceps. “Hey, you brought it up.”

Forcing a nonchalance she was far from feeling, she picked up a loaf of artisan bread. “Has there been anyone since Jenny?”

Clear and sharp, his gray gaze locked on hers. “No. Not until now.”

She was
someone
. With those three little words,
not until now
, he’d set her apart from the Angels and other near-anonymous women in his life. The realization took her breath, sent happiness fizzing along her veins to every inch of her body.

The light glowing in the dark depths of her eyes tightened Mark’s chest. Simply being with her this way made him feel good, and when she looked at him like that…the level of contentment was scary. She settled the loaf of bread on top of the bananas. With the movement, her other arm tightened around his, her breast pressed against his biceps. A flash of energy zapped through him with the contact and images from his dream filled his head. He sucked in a breath and she looked at him, the same electricity reflected in her gaze. Time slowed around them.