Maybe Never (2 page)

Tracy smiled and hunched her shoulders, shivering at the sensation but recognizing his touch immediately.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice quiet, his breath stirring the hair at the crown of her head.

“Good,” she said. “Just taking in the New Orleans evening.”

“Sorry I haven’t had too much time with you tonight. I thought this would be one of the parties where I wouldn’t have to be . . . on as much.”

Brendan put his arms on either side of hers on the wrought iron railing, and leaned forward, looking down into the street below. Tracy instinctively pressed back against him, and he lowered his head, nuzzling the area behind her neck and causing tiny goose-bumps to rise along her arms.

If anyone had told her, just two years ago, that she would be with a man she not only loved but respected, and who could excite her with just one touch, or the simple contact of his lips to her skin, she would never have believed it. And if they told her that that man would be Brendan Cole, whom she had known for years before they got together, she would have been even more skeptical. There had always been a physical attraction there, and no man had ever made her body come alive the way he did, but even that paled in comparison to what he did to her mind, and to her heart.

“I want to take you back to the hotel,” he breathed against her neck. “And keep you there. And not let you out of that bed until . . .”

“Then
do
it,” Tracy said.

For a nanosecond, he stilled, and she could feel that her tone had given her away. It sounded like a plea. She knew Brendan could tell she was drawing closer to that fearful, almost desperate place, where she needed reassurance that he was still there and still hers. Not often, but every once in a while, she got flashes of the old insecurity that he would pull away from her the way he once had during that awful, painful time.

“Hey,” Brendan said. His voice was soothing. He turned her to face him and Tracy looked up into his face, straining to make his features out in the dark. He tipped her chin upward. “There’s just this one more guy I have to talk to. He should be here soon. I’ll talk to him for a few minutes and then it’s just me and you for the rest of the night.”

She nodded and he kissed her, Tracy rising to her toes because even in her heels he seemed just a tiny bit out of reach. Her arms came up and about his neck and Tracy felt his large hands on her hips, and their warmth even through the thin fabric of her dress. He tasted like rum and mint. After a moment, Brendan raised his head and Tracy let her arms drop, almost in defeat.

Just a month ago, Riley had had her second baby, a sister for her little boy, Cullen, Tracy’s godson who was just over two years old now. Things seemed to come so easily for everyone else. Riley had her picture-perfect family, and Tracy still had, what? A wonderful man, she kept reminding herself. But he was her boyfriend.
Boyfriend
. It meant almost nothing. It meant they were both still single albeit dating no one else except each other, that’s all it meant.

They’d been maintaining two residences for a while now. Her townhouse in Brooklyn, and his apartment in Manhattan. While it was true that they never slept in either without the other, Tracy still wondered whether they had fallen into a rut—maybe he would
never
marry her, because she’d made it all so comfortable, so easy for them to go on as they had for so long.

“Where are you?” Brendan asked her, a smile in his voice. “You’re not here with me . . . so where are you?”

He was leaning in close, as though he might kiss her again and Tracy’s lips almost tingled in anticipation, and then she was frustrated because he instead turned her around, so she was facing the street, her back to him once again. He held her by the wrists and placed her hands on the railing and then she felt his knee between her legs, nudging them apart.

Oh . . . no, he couldn’t. . .

“Brendan,” she said in a whisper.

“
Shh
. . .” he said against her ear, and Tracy relaxed against him, feeling her breath quicken as his hand fell to the small of her back and his fingers moved, gathering up the fabric of her skirt.

“We can’t,” she said.

But she wanted him to. They were almost completely obscured and alone out here in the dark. No one else was likely to want to leave the cool interior, open bar and hot delicious food to come stand with them on the terrace, and even if they did, it was unlikely that they could detect anything out of the ordinary with Brendan’s body blocking hers. Soon she felt his fingers against her skin and shivered, despite the warm evening air. Tracy was wearing only the sheerest of undergarments, and she gasped when Brendan simply pulled it aside and began stroking her with his long, nimble fingers.

She closed her eyes nd she let her head fall back against his chest. He kissed the side of her neck and she moaned. Down below them in the street, she thought she heard the briefest of twitters, as some passersby must have overheard. Tracy didn’t care. When Brendan was touching her, she didn’t care about much of anything, anything but him and how he made her feel. Then she heard the vaguest of sounds, the sound of a zipper.

Oh god, was he really going to . . ?

Tracy couldn’t recall ever being this turned on in her life. And that was saying something because her man was a
very
talented lover. Brendan’s hand, between her legs from the rear, the perspiration—and other things—making slow, wet trails along her inner thighs, her elevated body temperature . . . made her feel almost wanton.

Who would have ever thought Tracy Emerson, always so proper, would consider anything like this? But she was not that staid woman anymore. And that had only been a mask to begin with—she’d always been somewhat wanton, but now, with a man she actually loved, her wantonness had a wilder, but also safer feeling. She could do
anything
now; she would not fall too far because Brendan was there to catch her.

“I have to sit,” he said, directly against her ear.

Of course he did. He was too tall.

Even at home, to make love standing he had to lift her. He couldn’t do so here, so instead he pulled her back to one corner of the terrace where there were two wooden rocking chairs, backing into one and sitting with his legs slightly apart. Tracy glanced desperately toward the French doors, and saw that inside the party went on, no one any wiser, or even interested in what might be transpiring outside, just beneath their noses.

“Are we really going to do this?” she said, her voice ragged.

Brendan hesitated. “Only if you want to . . .”

She wanted to. No, she
needed
to. She needed
him
. In her past she had used sex in unhealthy ways, in unhealthy relationships—if they could be called that. But with Brendan it was different. Sex with him . . . it moved her. It calmed her. It felt almost as essential as taking her next breath.

She nodded so Brendan pulled her back into his lap, moving her skirts, lifting layers, arranging them so that anyone who happened by might believe she was simply sitting on her man’s lap. Then he lifted her a little and surged forward, at the same time pulling her back down. Tracy felt herself filled by him and exhaled sharply. He was very still but slid a hand under her skirt and around between her thighs. Tracy let out a startled cry because he had scarcely moved a muscle and she was coming. Not hard, but soft waves, one over the next and the next . . . She shut her eyes tightly and pressed back into him, leaning into the feeling, her mouth a surprised, silent ‘o’.

“Brendan. Sam Peroutka’s here.”

The sound of another voice, not one of theirs, startled her and Tracy instinctively moved as though to get off Brendan’s lap but he held her in place with an arm about her waist.

“You talk to him for a few minutes. I’ll be right there.”

Brendan sounded completely self-possessed but inside her, Tracy could feel him throbbing erratically, energetically, and knew from experience that he had neared his climax too. Tracy braved a look in the direction of the intruder. She knew that if he could see her clearly, she would look like what she was—a woman who had just been fucked. But it was dark, and no one would be able to make out her features. When they were alone again, Brendan began subtle movements back and forth and Tracy felt herself ascending the crest again.

“Is that . . . Is Sam Peroutka the person you need to talk to?”

“Yes,” Brendan breathed.

“So . . . go talk to him,” she said.

“No.”

“
Brendan
.”

“
No
,” he said again. And then he was grunting, clearly holding back a much louder exclamation, and Tracy felt herself flooded with him as he gritted out a garbled curse word between his teeth. He leaned against her back for a moment, recovering.

Tracy marveled at how differently she felt already. Centered. Complete.

“Maybe now you can go take care of your business,” she said with a quiet laugh, after a moment.

“Just did,” Brendan returned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which disappeared under her skirts. Tracy raised herself off him, feeling the wet slickness of her thighs.

“I’ve gotta go to the Men’s room,” Brendan said, laughing himself now, “before shaking hands with anyone.” He hoisted up a little and Tracy stood, smoothing her skirts and taking a deep breath. She turned to face Brendan who was still seated and had already pulled up his zipper.

“How do I look?” she asked, smoothing her skirt.

“Incredible,” he said.

And something in his voice made her look at him; sitting there, his eyes were about all she could see but she saw them perfectly and more than that, she saw the depth of feeling in them.

Tracy smiled.

________

“You okay in there?”

Brendan’s voice came to her now from the next room where he was in bed, watching a game on television. For him to be home so early was unusual but he’d come in coughing and with a low-grade fever, so had gone straight to bed. Tracy jumped in with him, because it was a novelty for them to be in bed together these days just to lay about the way they used to. Still, her plan had been to take this pregnancy test in private before he got in, and having to do it with him in the next room was not optimal, but she just hadn’t been able to stand the wait.

Tracy stuffed the test into the trash can near the bottom and washed her hands, going back out into the bedroom and crawling into bed next to Brendan. He smoothed a hand over her rear as she crawled over and finally settled in next to him, reaching for the novel she’d been trying to get through for the past week.

“Maybe soup?” Brendan said.

“What?” Tracy looked at him.

“Before you went into the bathroom, you asked if I knew what I wanted to eat,” he reminded her.

“Oh . . . yes,” she reached out and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. His forehead wasn’t just warm now, it was getting hot. And he was sounding a little more nasal. Tracy set aside her book to get out of bed.

“Where you goin’?”

“To make you that soup.”

“No, just order some,” Brendan said. He pulled her back toward him and wrapped himself about her.

Wow, he was blazing hot . . .

“Okay, I just need to go get the menu then. I’ll order something else as well in case you get hungry later.” She tried to get up but once again, Brendan held her back.

Tracy smiled.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t want you to be sick, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “But . . .”

“But . . ?” Brendan rested his head on her abdomen.

“I like it when you need me for a change, and let me take care of you.”

“You always take care of me,” Brendan said sounding surprised. He lifted his head to look at her. “Even when I’m not sick.”

That wasn’t how it felt to her. Brendan was her rock-solid-sure-thing, the person in her life who she knew would always be there to take care of it; whatever ‘it’ was. Riley was too, but in a different way. She had a husband now, young kids. Even their time on the phone was shorter than Tracy would have liked, but she understood. But Brendan, no matter what he was doing, no matter where he was, would come to her if she said she needed him to. Just knowing that made her feel taken care of.

“No,” she shook her head.

“Tracy, sweetheart, look at me.”

She looked. His eyes were bleary. This was going to be a full-blown flu, for sure.

“I never have to think about a meal, or a clean shirt, or a clean house, or a dental appointment . . .”

“Have to do my part to take care of that million-dollar smile,” she joked. But Brendan’s face remained serious.

“I never think about getting toothpaste or toilet paper or orange juice; or bringing gifts for our god-kids. I don’t worry about paying the bills on time, or missing a flight, or even charging my damn phone.”

“Doing those things . . . that’s nothing, Brendan,” Tracy said shaking her head.

“It’s not nothing, baby. I get to wake up and go out into the world and do whatever I have to do out there, because I know that whatever needs to happen in here, you got me.”

Tracy smiled, looking directly into his eyes.

“That’s not nothing. Especially when you have to go out into the world too and do what you gotta do. And you do it, and you kick
ass
.”

Tracy leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips. Even they were hot.

“I better go order you that soup,” she said, gently extricating herself from him.

Heading out of the bedroom suite, through the ultra-modern apartment and up to the kitchen, which was in the loft, Tracy noticed as though for the first time that the steps were steep, winding and had wide spaces between them. A toddler could break their neck trying to navigate these stairs.

She froze. A toddler.

She was already thinking about toddlers and she’d only known she was pregnant for fifteen minutes. And she hadn’t even told Brendan yet. But that wasn’t the kind of thing you told a man when he was sick in bed with the flu.