Holiday in Your Heart (14 page)

“It grew on her, I guess.” Maribeth leaned back slightly, tipping her head up to look at him. “How long do you see yourself staying this time, Mo? If things work out with Brooke and Evan . . .”

“That's a big
if
, given that Evan hasn't even agreed to see me.”

“If he doesn't agree in a week or so, are you going to pack up and leave?”

“No.” He stroked her shoulder, liking the silky slide of her shirt over the warm skin beneath. “That first time I talked to you, if you'd said it would be a terrible idea for me to approach Brooke and Evan, I might have listened to you and gone. Might have. I needed to figure out what was the decent, responsible thing to do. But now I've talked to Brooke, and it seems to me that turned out to be a good thing for both of us. We'll see each other again, I hope. Take it slow.”

“And Evan?”

“I'll wait for a while. See what happens.” He gave a wry smile. “He'll get curious.”

“How do you feel about having a couple of grandchildren?”

“Can't really get my head around that one,” he confessed. “The years I've been away, fixing cars, moving from place to place, it doesn't feel like enough time for me to get old enough to have a grown-up son and grandkids. It's like, I'd have to see them to believe it.” A sour pang twitched his gut. “And even if Evan does bring himself to talk to me, I can't see him allowing me to meet his kids. Not after the crap I threw his way.”

She gazed steadily into his eyes. “He had some pretty harsh feelings about Brooke, too. It took him a while to trust her, but now she's always babysitting the grandchildren.”

Having met the new Brooke, Mo could picture that.

After a moment, Maribeth leaned her head back on his shoulder. “Do you like children, Mo?”

“Oh, man.” She did ask some humdinger questions. “I haven't had much to do with them. Guess I've avoided it, since Evan.” The truth was, he'd avoided relationships, period. He'd become closer to Maribeth—and even old Hank at the garage—in the week he'd been in Caribou Crossing than he'd gotten to anyone in his five years in Regina.

“But you're not the same man,” she said. “You wouldn't hit a child now.” She paused. “Would you?”

“God, no. Never. But that doesn't mean I'd be good with kids. Or relate to them.”

She made one of those confusing female sounds that could have been “mmm” or “hmm.” After a swallow of her orange drink, she said, “But you'd like to meet your grandchildren if you could.”

“I guess,” he admitted slowly. “Like I said about Evan, I'm curious. Tempted, even. But what's the point of feeling that way when it's not likely to happen?”

“It might.”

A remote possibility, and he wasn't going to waste energy thinking about it. He had hoped that tonight would involve more kisses, maybe even sex, and this conversation sure wasn't getting them there. “How about,” he said, “we stop talking about my failings and things that aren't likely to happen.” Casting about for a change of subject, his gaze lit again on her photographs. “Why don't you tell me about one of those places you've been and what you liked about it?”

“Or,” she said.

“Or what?”

“Or I could tell you what I like about you.”

“That's going to be a short conversation,” he said wryly.

Chuckling, she pulled away and shifted position to kneel on the couch, resting her hands on his shoulders as she gazed into his face. “I like your eyes, which right now are glinting with blue and green flecks like a stream in dappled sunshine.”

Figured she'd pick a physical attribute. Women had always liked how he looked. Still, he wasn't about to complain when Maribeth was all but in his lap.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “I like your hair, so black and glossy like a raven's wings, with those silver threads for contrast, and I like how long and curly it is. It makes your face look even more masculine in comparison. And speaking of masculine”—she gripped his shoulders more tightly—“I like all the muscles. I like how tall you are—”

“I'm not that tall.” Only five feet eleven.

“To a woman who exaggerates when she says she's five-four, you're tall.” Her gaze roamed over his face. “Yes, I definitely like the way you look, Mo. But that's only part of it. I like how you are with Caruso. You're patient and you respect him. You care about him.”

“Crazy dog seems to have adopted me,” he grumbled.

Her lips twitched. “And vice versa. I also like how . . . earnest you are.”

“Earnest? What the hell does that mean?” No one had ever called him earnest before.

“You don't know all the answers and—”

“You can say that again.”

“But you admit it, and you're trying. You've already come so far in redeeming yourself, but you know there's more you want to do. You're trying to figure out how to do it.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Yeah, but I can't see why you'd like that. I mean, as compared to a guy who's got everything figured out and is a success.”

“I've dated that kind of man. You're more interesting.”

“Huh.” Who'd have guessed?

She shifted so that now she straddled his thighs. “Now tell me what you like about me.”

He should've known that one was coming. How was he supposed to think with her firm, warm, curvy body in such an intimate position? But he tried, and after a moment, said, “I like how you see me. How you give me the benefit of the doubt. I like how confident you are. You know what you like, you know what you want, and I respect that. I like how smart you are, and how you care about people.” He smiled a little. “And about dogs.”

He settled his hands on her waist, feeling the flare of her hips. “And yeah, I sure like how you look. I like how you smell and how feminine you are. I like that you go riding in the snow and that you make terrific lasagna.”

Gazing at her beautiful face, he said, “I like your eyes. Green like springtime. And your nose, with that uptilt at the end. And your lips. Man, I dream about those lips.” Not to mention about her breasts and hips, but maybe better not to say that. “I dream about kissing those lips.”

He made his dream come true by urging her closer until their lips touched.

He knew the shape of her mouth now, though each time he kissed her, her taste was different. That afternoon, she'd tasted of fresh air, and now her flavor was oranges combined with Italian seasonings.

Arousal, desire, need, they all pulsed through him. Beneath his fly, he hardened, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her forward that extra couple of inches to rub against him. He wanted Maribeth. Wanted sex with her. But even more than that, he wanted to give her pleasure.

He eased away from the kiss and studied her. Red waves of hair tumbled around her face and onto the shoulders of her shirt. The top two or three buttons were undone, and her skin looked so creamy against the deep purple fabric. He touched his finger to that smooth skin, knowing that his fingertip must feel rough to her. But then a little bit of rough wasn't always a bad thing.

She didn't seem to think so because she arched into him as he caressed her chest. Her full breasts thrust forward, a temptation no man in his right mind could resist. Mo slipped the next button free from its hole and spread her shirt open wider to reveal a shadowed line of cleavage.

Another button. Curves of creamy skin decorated with a band of pink lace. He traced the line where her bra touched her flesh, and she gave a murmur of approval.

“You're two buttons ahead,” she said.

He glanced from her breasts to her face and saw mischief glint in her eyes.

“Didn't think you were shy,” he teased back. “But if you need an invitation, I'm issuing one.”

She let out a throaty chuckle and then applied her pink-tipped fingers to the buttons of his shirt. When she spread the top of his shirt, she didn't run a gentle, exploring finger over him the way he'd done with her. Instead, she touched his chest with both hands, fingers spread wide and palms pressing into him like she wanted to encompass as much of him as her small hands were capable of.

* * *

Oh my, he feels good.
Maribeth didn't move her hands. She left them where she'd first spread them, and catalogued each sensation. Skin so hot it almost scorched her flesh, carrying the hint of a soapy scent. Crisp curls of hair. Solid muscle beneath. Under her right palm, the racing thud of his heart.

Her own was zipping along just as fast, and need pulsed in her feminine core. She wanted this man, the one whose solid jean-clad thighs she straddled. It almost scared her how much she wanted him. Was the “click” she felt just hormones, maybe crying out that this was her last chance at finding a non-sperm-donor father for her baby? Or just maybe, was Mo the love of her life?

Was he Mr. Right, or all wrong for her? He said he didn't want marriage and kids, the things she most desired. But she sensed that he was partway stuck in the past, still thinking of himself as the man who trod lightly, when really he was a guy who truly wanted to connect: with his ex, his son, his grandkids; with a singing dog and old Hank Hennessey. With her. After all, they were dating, and he'd admitted it was a first for him.

She took a deep breath. Since when was Maribeth Scott scared of anything?

Her philosophy on relationships was to never look too far ahead, to never guess the ending because that could not only ruin the fun but also turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. She shouldn't act any differently with Mo.

And so she took what she wanted and ripped into the rest of his buttons, then tugged his shirt out of his jeans—sucking in a heated breath when she took in the size of the erection that pressed against the denim—and then she tried to pull his shirt off his shoulders. His arms were trapped in the sleeves, but she succeeded in baring his shoulders, chest, and rippled abs. Murmuring approval, she saw that his body was beautiful in a purely masculine way that attested to not only great genes but hard physical labor. So much more appealing than the gym rats she'd dated on occasion, the ones who were more concerned about their own physical appearance than hers.

Mo, on the other hand, seemed very interested in her body. While she ran her hands over him, marveling at the strength of his shoulders and the firmness of his pecs, he undid the rest of her buttons, spread her shirt, and gazed at the plump mounds of her breasts as they strained against her pink satin-and-lace bra.

“My God, woman,” he said roughly. “You're one fine sight.”

“You could try touching them, too,” she said, aiming for saucy but finding that her breath caught when she imagined his deft, rough-skinned hands teasing her nipples.

“Oh, I plan to. And tasting them as well. All in good time.”

She wanted that time to come
soon
, please.

As if he'd heard her silent plea, he cupped one of her breasts, squeezing it gently through her bra, molding it until the nipple peaked and pressed painfully against the satin. He did the same with the other breast. Voice scraping, he said, “I need to see you.”

He reached under the back of her shirt, found the clasp of her bra, and unfastened it. Her breasts were large enough, firm enough, to hold the sagging fabric in place.

Maribeth took her hands off his chest long enough to free herself from her shirt and then her bra, tossing them aside to land wherever they might. When she straightened, Mo's eyes were huge, staring at her naked breasts.

“Wow,” he said reverently. “You are so damned beautiful.” He reached out, but to her surprise he didn't clasp her breast. Instead, he fingered the wavy hair that tumbled across the top of her chest. He stroked the red curls aside, his fingertips sensually abrasive, like a cat's tongue but far sexier. His fingers drifted down, across the upper curve of her breast, into the cleavage, down around the bottom curve where she knew he'd find a dew of sweat. And then those provocative fingers came up to circle her areola and brush her budded nipple.

She gasped at the pleasure and arched, offering more, asking for more.

He took his time with one breast, and the tingly ache in her nipple was echoed between her legs. When he moved to her other breast, she couldn't stop herself from squirming needily against him.

“I want you,” she said, as if her movements didn't make it entirely obvious. She wanted everything. Wanted his erotic touch, everywhere. Wanted to explore every inch of his naked body. Wanted him inside her, driving the ache even higher and then taking her over the top all the way to release. She was full of hunger, of greed. She wanted it now, all at once. But that was impossible, and so she groaned in frustration.

His hands caught her waist, holding her firmly. He urged her to her feet, and her legs were almost too wobbly to hold her upright. But it didn't matter. He shrugged his shirt all the way off and then hooked one arm around her back and the other under her knees and lifted her. Was he going to carry her all the way upstairs to the bedroom?

But no, he walked only a few steps, to the abstract-patterned area rug in front of the fire. He bent, lay her down, and kneeled beside her. Hooking his hands in the hip-hugging waistband of her leggings, he asked, “Okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she said gratefully, knowing that what she was really saying yes to was sex.

He peeled the leggings down, leaving her clad only in a pink thong.

He was staring at her body, which left her free to study his face. His expression was intent, all hard lines except for his sensual lips, which were parted. A flush burned on his dark cheekbones, and his eyes glittered fiercely.