TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

  "You really thought it would matter—that I wouldn't want you?" she whispered.

  He nodded.

  "Oh, Thomas." Emma reached for his chin and tipped it up. His eyes were closed and his face was tight with emotion. She leaned down and kissed the little semicolon scar, then his eyelashes, his temples, the golden skin over his cheekbones, his dimples, his lips. "I want you, more than ever, because you trusted me enough to tell me the truth. Thank you for that."

  He nodded, his eyes still closed. "Can you forgive me for paying your fee?"

  Emma let her hands stroke his soft, short curls. She cupped her hands around the hard curve of his skull and dropped a soft kiss to his forehead. "I forgive you."

  "I want you, Emma."

  "I want you, too. I want to know everything about you. I want to experience everything with you. I want more than I've ever had."

  Thomas jerked as he felt Emma's small hand close around his erection.

  "And man, oh man, do I ever want this bad boy." She swirled her tongue along his earlobe and then bit him, feeling the shiver course through his body.

  "You're a sexy, funny, complicated man, and I've wanted you from the very first moment I saw you. I couldn't help myself."

  "Oh yeah, Emma—"

  She smiled with pleasure—the pleasure of hearing him say her name in that deep, resonant voice. In Thomas's voice, the two syllables of her ordinary name sounded like desire itself.

  She drank in the vision of the man on his knees before her, head thrown back, eyes closed, jaw clenched.

  She removed her hands from his erection and caressed his muscled ass, roamed up his back, slid her hands to his shoulders. It was a bittersweet place—a great ledge of muscle and sinew that seemed to be the home of both his strength and his sorrow.

  "If she left you, she must not have loved you."

  Thomas opened his eyes and looked right up into Emma's face. "I was closed off. Unwilling to commit." He shrugged, his body rippling under her hands. "Finding out I was a spermless wonder made it easy for her to move on, and I don't blame her."

  Emma moved her palms to cover the rounded muscles of his chest, lacy with blond wisps and dotted with silky, pink nipples.

  "Did you love Nina, Thomas?"

  "I realize now that I didn't."

  She let her hands flutter down the ridged surface of his abdomen and ran a finger along the edge of the flat, smooth navel.

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  His stomach quivered and he breathed faster. "Just this once, I think—I'm still trying to figure it out, Emma."

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  "And you? Did you ever love anyone besides Aaron?"

  She moved her hands over the sweet indentations near his hipbones and down into the darker, springy thatch of hair, then clasped him at the root.

  "Only you."

  He groaned and threw his head back. Emma stared in wonder at her woman fingers on the man flesh made red-purple and hard with blood. Without a doubt, it was the most shockingly beautiful sight the world had to offer.

  She wished she were an artist and not a scientist, someone who could capture the graceful lines of him on canvas or in clay—the aching perfection of the physical. But she wasn't an artist. She was just a woman who had the privilege to touch him, see him.

  Love him—if he'd let her.

  Thomas's erection twitched in her hands, and she smiled. She brushed her fingertips over the plump head and its swollen, velvet edge, then let her fingers slip down to the rigid flesh again. Veined. Hard. Thick.

  And it occurred to her that the man's penis was soft on the outside and steel on the inside—the exact opposite of the man himself.

  "I'm sad, Thomas. I'm so sad about the babies." She leaned down to rain kisses along his cheeks and beard stubble and under the ledge of his jaw. "But it doesn't affect how I feel about you. It's scary how much I want you. I've never felt anything like it in my life."

  She reached beneath to cup his testicles, and his eyes shot open.

  "It's all right, Rugby Boy." She smiled at him, gently exploring his heavy sac in one hand while stroking his length with the other. "I know everything now. There's nothing to hide, right?"

  Thomas shuddered, and Emma watched him flex his back and bring his hands up to hover before her—then tenderly claim her breasts. It was the first time he'd touched her there since the front porch.

  And for a long moment they simply closed their eyes and cradled each other, savored each other.

  Until it wasn't enough.

  Thomas was the first to move. He dipped his mouth to one of Emma's nipples and swore he heard a sizzle on contact with his wet tongue. Her flesh hardened and elongated in his mouth, begging him to suckle and tease and nip, first one, then the other, until both nipples were rock hard, glistening, and ruby red, and Emma was groaning.

  Thomas widened his mouth to feed on as much of each glorious breast as he could. She was heavy with arousal and the flesh seemed to melt in his mouth.

  Her breasts were perfect. Perfect for his mouth to suck and lick and bite. Perfect under his hands. Perfect for him. And he never wanted to stop making love to them.

  Emma let go of him and leaned back on her hands to support herself. She threw back her head and cried, "I'm so sorry I yelled at you and called you names!"

  It was difficult to keep the suction going while laughing, so Thomas moved his kiss to the hot and tender skin of her throat. While he did this, his hands came down on her inner thighs.

  Emma rose up to look at him.

  "Spread your legs for me, baby," he said.

  She whimpered, and let her legs fall open.

  "Wider. All the way." He looked from the tender juncture of her thighs back to her eyes, and saw the sweet female vulnerability in both places. "I need to touch everywhere, Emma. I need to see everything. Do everything."

  He lowered his head. When his fingers spread her open, Emma sucked hard on her bottom lip to stop from screaming. Then his tongue lapped, slicked around, probed, while he slid the tip of his middle finger inside her. Right about then, she gave up trying to be quiet.

  "And you don't have to apologize, sweet-cheeks—you're awful cute when you're calling me names." Thomas laughed deep, pushing two fingers in to the last knuckle as he smiled up at her. "But you're even cuter when you're all wet and swollen and ready to be fucked."

  "Thomas—"

  "You sure you still want me?"

  She laughed, then gasped as he whirled his thumb over her exposed clitoris. "Oh, yeah."

  "Do you want this, Emma?"

  "More," she breathed.

  He pushed in a third finger, stretching her impossibly wide, and decided maybe this was the approximate thickness of his cock, although right at that moment it felt as big around as a grain silo.

  He pistoned his fingers in and out of her, pressing against her swollen little cit. He felt it pulse with each rock of his hand.

  "Now!" Emma yelled out, meeting his invasion with her own greed. "Please! Oh, my God, Thomas! Now!"

  Just as she began to spasm against his fingers, Thomas pulled his hand away, pushed her on her back and replaced his fingers with all of his cock—one long, slick slide home.

  She rippled against him and the sound of her hungry little moans made it nearly impossible to keep from mindlessly ramming into her. But he stayed focused, stayed with her as she shuddered, took her pleasure, and then took more.

  Emma came hard and steady while the exquisite cycle went on and on. He entered her, slid all the way out, then pushed slowly way back in—bigger and thicker than anything she'd ever had inside her before. She gasped for breath.

  When she could, she opened her eyes to see that exceptional face gazing at her, the skin around his eyes pulled in concentration and pleasure.

  "My beautiful Emma." His hands cupped her cheeks and his mouth came down on hers, and his hot, sleek tongue licked into her opened lips, pierced her mouth as he pierced her body.
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  Good Lord, he was blistering and huge and heavy and all over her and inside her, and she let herself go, let herself feel for the first time in her life the unbearable pleasure of physical domination.

  But it was domination wrapped up in the safety of love—and oh, daddy, it was everything. It was the secret of life.

  When he reached for her wrists and pinned them over her head, she screamed with surprise and pleasure.

  Then he moved slightly higher on her belly and started a deeper and faster grind, and in a flash of wonder, Emma knew that there was even more acute physical joy to be had. And as all of his tough, solid weight gnashed directly against her and thrust deep inside her, she started to lose it again.

  "Come for me, Emma."

  Thomas let go of her wrists and reached under to grab her butt—he seemed to do that a lot—and plunged even deeper inside her. "I knew the minute I saw you. It's you, Emma. Damn, it's you."

  In that instant, Emma surrendered her heart to him, along with her body, and the world caught fire.

  He slammed into her so hard she nearly fell off the edge of the bed—the edge of consciousness—and she wrapped her legs around his hips in an act of self-preservation. Then she was coming again, gripped by the pulse, riding the wave, relentless, never-ending—and there was nothing but Thomas. Thomas in her, under her, on her, with her. And it was more than she'd ever dreamed.

  He cried out her name in rhythm with each frenzied spasm of his climax, and once he'd emptied himself into her he collapsed, panting into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her, kissing her, murmuring unintelligible things in her ear.

  Emma lay in awe, her legs still hooked around his narrow hips, dazed by the feel of his hot breath on her throat and his heartbeat slamming against her breasts. How she loved having him this close to her—closer than she'd ever felt to another human being in her life. How right this was.

  "Emma…"

  She brushed her fingers down his spine, and Thomas arched into her touch like a friendly domestic shorthair. He made a primitive noise into the side of her neck that sounded—and felt—just like a purr.

  She couldn't stop smiling at the wonder of it all.

  This man wasn't a moody robot—he was a battle-scarred tomcat who needed a loving home. And though she'd always been more of a dog person, she had a feeling that was about to change.

  She had a feeling a lot of things were about to change. "How are you, baby?" Thomas's moist kisses below her ear made her tingle all over.

  "I'm alive. I think."

  He laughed, and the press of his cheek against her throat told her the dimples had returned. She wished she could see them. After a long moment, he pushed up and looked down on her, his face impossibly open, full of humor and warmth—the most endearing face she'd ever seen.

  "Do you mind if I call you that—'baby,' I mean?"

  She let loose with what she feared was a completely goofy grin. Nobody had ever called her that before. It made her feel small, delicate, and so very feminine. It made her feel treasured.

  "I like it, actually. Don't tell Velvet."

  Thomas dropped his head and showered her with sweet kisses. "Thank you for making love with me, Emma."

  He was thanking her? "Anytime, Rugby Boy."

  "Oh, yeah?" He raised one hand to brush the hair from her forehead and let his fingers trace over the arch of her brow.

  "Mmm…" Emma closed her eyes in pleasure.

  "Am I squishing you?"

  "No! You feel really good right where you are. Do you think you could stay awhile?"

  His smile spread slow and he continued to stroke her cheek, her chin, her ear, her bottom lip. "I warned you I'd like to come inside you for years on end, but I'm afraid you're going to suffocate if I don't move."

  He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, and she snuggled up against his solid body, lulled into sweet, warm peace with the beat of his heart, the stroke of his hand on her hair, the rhythm of his breathing.

  Emma didn't know how long she slept, but she woke with something hard prodding her hip. She opened her eyes to find herself sprawled half on top of Thomas. He smiled down at her.

  "Hey, Emma."

  She laughed—the guy may be shooting blanks, but his trigger worked fine.

  "Hey, big guy."

  Thomas folded his arms around her and kissed her gently. "I wasn't exactly prepared for this—for you. I know I didn't do such a smooth job with all of it. Sometimes I just assume the worst, you know?" He kissed her chin, her throat. "But I won't hurt you again. I won't ever let anything hurt you."

  Emma smiled against his neck. "Don't make promises, okay? Just hold me, Thomas. Make me forget everything but you."

  "I can do that." He nuzzled under her jaw. "But you've got to let me make just one little promise to you."

  "Thomas—"

  In one movement, he pulled her up on top of him, spread her thighs and pushed inside her. After the initial surprise, Emma felt her body melt around him, pull him in. She wantonly wriggled on him, allowing herself to sink all the way down, skewered. His.

  He put his big hands on her hips and lifted her, just a bit.

  "I promise not to hurt you."

  Then he brought her back down.

  "I promise to take care of you."

  Back up.

  Emma fell forward, her hands on either side of his head, her breasts dangling in front of his mouth.

  Back down.

  He mouthed a nipple, then the next, tonguing, biting, rubbing his cheeks over them until they were once again raging red, swollen and hard.

  Up.

  "And I promise to ravage you until you can't take any more."

  Down. Hard.

  Emma shuddered, overwhelmed by the sensation of his mouth and teeth on her, his flesh hard inside her, his words seducing her.

  Up and down.

  She didn't want to cry again, but she couldn't help it—it was simply too much, too wonderful.

  Up and down. Faster. Harder. Rougher. She detonated, the heat searing through her, Thomas's quicksilver eyes burning right through to her soul.

  When she caught her breath she said, "It really is you, isn't it?" Her voice broke as the tears stung her eyes. "You're the man who's going to sweep me off my feet."

  Thomas stilled. He let the nipple pop from his mouth, and grinned up at her.

  "Consider yourself swept, babe."

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Heaven Must Have Sent You

  « ^ »

  It took Thomas a few moments to decide why everything seemed out of whack. Then he felt Emma curled up next to him and his eyes moved to the clock and he realized that the glowing green numbers were afternoon numbers, not middle-of-the-night numbers, and that he was starving.

  He also realized he needed a shower and a shave.

  Then it occurred to him that he was outrageously happy. It felt weird, but it was a good kind of weird—no, a great kind of weird—and he thought maybe he could get used to it.

  Emma was dozing again, her eyelashes spread on her cheek like a Spanish dancer's black lace fan. The white sheet only half covered everything she was and everything she'd given him so generously, with so much enthusiasm.

  He'd never made love to a woman like her. She was bold and rowdy and juicy and flat-out orgasmic.

  When she told him it had been more than a year since she'd had sex, he nearly wept—with sadness for her and a giddy sense of victory for himself.

  She was all his! Talk about a moment of unadulterated whoop-ass!

  He looked down at her now, round and soft and smiling in her sleep, one delicate hand spread out over his heart, the fingers half-buried in his chest hair.

  Thomas smiled at the symbolism of that—after all, the woman held his heart in her hand.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deep from her hair. Emma's usual tantalizing floral scent was nearly drowned out by the rich and thick smell of excellent sex.

  The best
sex of his life—sex that engaged his heart and his spirit as well as his body—bonding sex, loving sex, big-time, bad-ass, let's-get-married sex.

  Oh. So that's what that felt like.

  Thomas sighed, aware that it was a sigh of contentment and surrender. He'd surely done it now. He'd put himself at the mercy of a woman. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to pick a reliable one. A good one. One who didn't listen to top-forty radio. One who wouldn't lie to him, steal from him, plot his demise, or betray him.

  Thank God he'd put himself at the mercy of Emma Jenkins, the world's most trustworthy person.

  He nearly hit the ceiling when Hairy jumped on his stomach. Great! He'd forgotten the damn dog had been roaming free through the house the whole day. He was afraid to think about what the downstairs looked like.

  Yo, stud puppy. I gotta piss like a racehorse.

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, pal."

  Thomas removed Emma's warm hand from his chest and her sticky thigh from his hip, and rolled out of bed. He threw on his shorts and staggered down the stairs, Hairy skittering ahead of him like a rat with a hot date.

  Thomas let him out the back door and watched as he barely made it to the edge of the patio before lifting his leg on the nearest shrub. When had Hairy stopped peeing like a girl?

  And then it occurred to him that the dog hadn't required the urine defense system in many days.

  And then he noticed that not a thing was out of place downstairs—no scratch marks on the door, no holes in the rug, no puddles of urine on the tile.

  "Life is good," he mumbled to himself, turning his attention to making a pot of coffee. He decided to whip up some sandwiches and take them upstairs to eat in bed with Emma—he didn't want her getting out of his bed for a long, long time.

  Maybe the rest of their lives. Unless it was to take a shower. With him.

  The phone rang.

  "Tobin."

  "Dammit, Thomas! Where are you?"

  It took a moment, but Thomas eventually understood the significance of this call. It was Rollo, obviously phoning from the sidelines of the pitch. He could hear the whistle of the rugby official in the background and the shouts and grunts of the scrum.

  Thomas had forgotten he had a rugby match. It was the first match he'd missed in at least a decade. He blinked.