MICHAEL WAS ASLEEP.
After his bath, he swore he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. He jogged several laps up and down the hall, screeching and giggling, until John snagged him and hauled him off to his room with the promise that they would read a book together only if Michael got into bed.
Smart move. Two pages into Curious George, Michael was out cold.
Molly watched from the doorway as John turned off the bedside lamp, kissed his son’s forehead, and picked his way across the toy-strewn floor to her side. Without speaking, they tiptoed down the hallway. His face remained hidden in shadow, his gaze straight ahead as they arrived at the entry to the living room.
What now? she wondered. She’d done everything she could do to help John with his son and his errands today. Surely he must have run out of favors to ask of her.
Not that she felt as if he had taken advantage of her. Everything she’d done for him she’d done willingly, and she’d enjoyed it. In all honestly, she didn’t think John had needed her for anything other than her expertise in choosing appropriate Christmas gifts for his son. He could have done everything else himself.
The irony, she realized, was that she’d been the one who couldn’t have accomplished any of the afternoon’s pleasures without him. Without John, she couldn’t have decorated a tree. She couldn’t have shopped for tinsel and lights, and spent hours draping them across the boughs of a fresh, fragrant pine. She couldn’t have twisted pipe-cleaners into colorful Christmas shapes and perched them on the branches.
Standing now at the entry to the living room, she admired the tree, which occupied the corner between the window and the fireplace, its small white lights twinkling like stars and causing the garlands of tinsel to sparkle. Once she went home she wouldn’t have this. She wouldn’t have a tree, or someone who loved her enough to leave presents beneath it the way John would leave presents for Michael. She wouldn’t have a family to celebrate with her.
She’d stayed with the Russos all afternoon and evening because she’d needed this—the family, the tree, the joy of sharing the holiday with someone. But John and Michael weren’t about to include her in their family. She shouldn’t even want such a thing. She ought to leave before the wanting started to hurt.
“I’d better go,” she muttered, risking a glance at John.
The tree’s silvery lights danced along the lines and angles of his face, catching on the corner of his lip when he turned to her. His eyes were achingly dark as they searched her face. His gaze probed, questioned, pleaded—but she wasn’t sure what he was asking, what he was pleading for.
“Will you call me a cab?” she asked.
“No.”
He couldn’t drive her home himself, not without first hiring a baby-sitter to stay with Michael. And finding an available baby-sitter on such short notice on a Saturday night would be impossible. A cab was the only sensible solution. “John, I think—”
“Don’t go.” He lifted his good hand to her cheek, his fingers digging into her hair. Sliding his hand around to the nape of her neck, he pulled her toward him and touched his lips to her brow. “Stay, Molly,” he whispered. “For me.”
For me. Not for Michael. Not for running errands, not for lending her assistance to a shopping expedition or helping out with the evening routines. For John. Just for John.
The heat of his kiss seeped slowly down through her, caressing her mind, halting her breath, making her breasts tingle and her heart surge and her belly grow tight. She understood now what his gaze had been asking her. He wanted her to stay for the night, for sex.
But if she stayed, it would be for something more, something he hadn’t offered: that sense of belonging, finding her place in John’s world, in a house with a Christmas tree, a home and a family that stood firm in the face of abandonment and loss.
That wasn’t any part of his kiss. Molly shouldn’t want it. She had a fine family of her own, and perhaps someday she would have a husband and children and a nice, cozy house. Ideally, she would have a husband whose line of work was safe and didn’t launch her sister into paroxysms of rage. With luck, Molly would find a man who didn’t carry the baggage of a failed marriage and an emotionally fragile son.
But she didn’t want to think so far into the future. She wanted to think only about tonight, this minute, with John.
“Yes,” she murmured, tilting her face up to him as he leaned down to her. His mouth found hers, and her kiss answered yes as well.
He kissed her gently. Deeply. Slowly. Thoroughly. His arms enveloped her, warming her, making her want to arch against him. She no longer could think of the holiday atmosphere she’d helped to create in his home, or the special closeness between him and his son. All that mattered was John, a man so reserved in most things, but not now. When he kissed her he held nothing back.
His tongue swept her mouth, slid along her teeth, teased her lips. His fingers twined through her hair, massaged the nape of her neck, dipped beneath the collar of her shirt while his other hand, constricted by gauze and tape, came to rest at the small of her back, urging her against him. The heat he’d ignited with his first kiss grew brighter and fiercer, exerting a pressure so unbearably sweet she wanted to sigh and weep and beg for more. More kisses. More heat. More.
“Come,” he said.
Stunned that he could command her response—and even more stunned that she could be so close to meeting that demand—she pulled back and blinked up at him. He slid his hand down her arm to weave his fingers through hers, and motioned with his head toward the hallway.
Oh. He meant he wanted her to come down the hall with him. Abashed by her X-rated interpretation of his statement, she accompanied him to the door across from Michael’s bedroom. He opened it, led her inside, and closed it firmly behind him.
She considered briefly the room across the hall, and the child asleep inside it. Did John expect her to spend the whole night with him? If so, what would Michael think if he found her there in the morning?
Probably not much, she decided. At two and a half years old, he wouldn’t understand what a woman might do with his father overnight. He would simply think Molly didn’t feel like going home—which was true. After the way John had just kissed her, the last thing she wanted was to go home.
Once she had assured herself that Michael wouldn’t have a problem with her staying, she surveyed her surroundings. John’s room was relatively neat, the closet shut, the bed made, the dresser devoid of clutter until John emptied the pockets of his jeans, removing his wallet, his keys and a handful of coins and tossing them onto the polished maple surface.
Watching a man empty his pockets like that seemed so domestic. So personal. So...intimate.
Turning from the dresser, he removed his sweater, easing the right sleeve past his bandages and withdrawing his arm, then whipping the sweater over his head and off his left arm. Molly’s gaze lingered for a moment on wide strip of gauze wrapped around his forearm It stirred memories of the night she’d brought Michael to the emergency room in search of John, the gut-wrenching fear she’d suffered at the thought of him hurt. But just as that fear had mingled with an awareness of the man apart from his wounds then, so she felt that awareness now, much more keenly. Beneath his T-shirt, she discerned the contours of his torso. Her gaze journeyed from his broad shoulders down his lean, sleek chest to the waistband of his jeans. Below the buckle of his belt, the denim was slightly faded along his fly.
Once again she felt embarrassed. She wasn’t in the habit of staring men’s flies, any more than she was in the habit of imagining orgasms at the mere mention of the word “come.” She might have agreed to spend the night with John for more than one reason, but right now the most important reason seemed to be that John Russo turned her on in a crazy way.
He took a step toward her, his left arm outstretched, and she approached him. Compared to his virile, beautifully proportioned height she felt short and dumpy. She had always wanted to be tall like her best friend Allison—and never more than now, facing such a tall man.
But then his hand closed around hers, pulling her into his arms for another ravenous kiss, and she forgot about her physical imperfections. John obviously didn’t think she was too short. His kiss indicated that he approved of her appearance quite heartily.
He loosened his hold on her and fingered the top button of her shirt. Fumbling with his left hand, he lifted his right to the button. But his thumb and index finger couldn’t meet over the thick bandage.
She covered her hands with his and drew them away. “I’ll do it,” she said.
He inched back from her, saying nothing, only gazing at her. His eyes glowed.
She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and for a moment she fumbled with the top button as badly as he had. But then it came undone, and when she glanced up at him his smile shook her to her soul. It was both amused and aroused, daring her to continue.
She pushed aside her nervousness. Let him dare her; she’d never been one to back away from a challenge. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened the next button and the next, and the next, until she reached the belt of her jeans. She unbuckled it and heard him sigh. Peering up again, she found his smile gone and his eyes dark with hunger.
She was not a particularly bold woman, and her experience with men couldn’t fill more than a few pages of a dime-store diary. But John made her feel reckless. She wasn’t sure why—he was a cop, for heaven’s sake, and a responsible father, two of the most un-reckless things a man could be. But the way he looked at her, the way he’d kissed her, the way he was standing before her, his hair rumpled and his head cocked slightly, and his thumbs hooked on the pockets of his jeans...
Well, damn it, if he was going to dare her, she would be daring. “I guess I’ll have to undress you, too,” she said, her voice quivering only a little bit.
He sighed again, although there was a hint of a groan in the sound. “I guess you’ll have to,” he agreed, still watching her, his chest moving in slow, deep breaths as she closed the distance between them.
She gathered the fabric of his T-shirt in her hands and tugged it free of his jeans. Her knees felt shaky, but she kept going, lifting the shirt up, baring his stomach, his rib cage, the smooth, golden-hued skin of his chest, the subtle curves of his muscles. He obediently lifted his hands over his head, but she couldn’t reach high enough to pull the shirt over his head. He bent his knees, enabling her to yank off the shirt. As soon as his hands were through the sleeves, he lowered them to her waist, shoving back the unbuttoned edges of her blouse, and pressing his lips to the skin below her collarbone.
She felt faint, as if all the blood rushed from her head downward to where his mouth touched her. Her hips grew heavy, her body trembled, and she choked back a gasp as he traced a line downward with his tongue, refusing to stop when he reached the edge of her bra. He kissed her through the lace, gliding over the curve of one breast until he could close his mouth over the swollen nipple. In her heart she heard the echo of his husky voice, speaking the one word he’d uttered in the living room: Come.
They were both still half-dressed. And he was a Daddy School student with only one fully functioning hand. How could he have aroused her so intensely, so quickly?
“John...” His name emerged on a broken sigh.
He straightened up, capturing her gaze with his. “Take it off,” he whispered.
Oh, God. She really wasn’t that daring, was she? She really wasn’t prepared to continue stripping for him.
Except that she wanted him. Her passion was greater than her panic.
Biting her lip, she slid her shirt from her shoulders, then reached behind her and unhooked her bra. It slid down her arms and joined her shirt on the floor. Anxious, she glanced at him.
He must have realized how much courage this act had required of her. A faint smile crossed his lips, grateful and frankly carnal, before he brought his mouth back to her. She felt the scratch of his bandages against her side, the seductive massage of his fingers against her other side as he took one nipple and then the other into his mouth. She clung to his shoulders, trying not to dissolve into a seething puddle of sensation.
Sinking to his knees, he kissed a path to her navel, flicked his tongue over it, and rubbed his chin against the button at the waistband of her slacks. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, making a desultory attempt to open the button with his left hand.
She gazed down at him, and he peered up at her, looking uncannily like Michael when he was trying to get away with something. John’s expression was a bit naughty, a bit hopeful, and completely irresistible.
Unlike Michael, though, he also looked unbearably manly, his hair as dark as night, his jaw shaded with a day’s growth of beard, his lips damp from kissing her. His eyes were as sharp and piercing as darts, cutting straight through her, as if he could see her secrets, her deepest desires.
She couldn’t deny those eyes.
She didn’t want to.
Swallowing hard, she popped open the button and inched down the zipper. John did the rest, shoving her slacks and panties down her legs and then trailing his hands back up to her bottom. He kissed the curve of her belly and then lower, a light, tantalizing brush of his tongue between her legs.
A small cry escaped her, partly from shock and partly from the jolt of sensation that flared through her. He rose to his feet and gathered her to himself, taking her mouth in a long, dizzying kiss.
Somehow, despite his bad hand, he managed to remove his own jeans without any difficulty. He pulled her body to his, and she experienced another jolt of heat as he pressed himself to her. After a swift, hard kiss, he drew her toward the bed and down onto the thick burgundy quilt.
She needed to catch her breath—and so, apparently, did he. For a long, lovely moment they just lay side by side, facing each other, their heads settling into the pillows. He had the most beautiful face Molly had ever seen. It wasn’t pretty or polished, but every feature was eloquent, conveying a blend of trust, affection and yearning. The combination was so potent, so poignant, she wanted to reassure him, open herself to him and promise him things he would never ask for.
Instead, she leaned forward and kissed his nose, the edge of his cheek, the point of his chin. He skimmed his hand along her side and forward, exploring the roundness of her breasts. She ran her hands up and down his back, and his muscles flexed beneath her palms. She kissed his throat and he sighed. She touched his nipples and he gasped. Her hands journeyed across his ribs and he gasped again, this time recoiling slightly.
“What?” she asked, worried that she’d done something wrong.
“Nothing,” he murmured, nudging her hand away from his chest.
She realized that she’d touched his bruises, still livid so many days after his encounter with the thug. “I’m sorry, John. I forgot—”
“It’s all right.”
It wasn’t all right. She slid down until she could kiss the discolored skin, wishing her kisses could heal him.
He pulled her back up to the pillow, rolling with her until she lay under him. His thigh nestled between her legs and he moved it against her, sending shimmering heat up into her.
She tried to concentrate on the mere feel of him, his weight and power and size, but she couldn’t. There was too much else in this bed right now—his pride and stoicism, her profound longing, the ugliness and danger of his work, the pensiveness she felt about the holiday this year.. The son he loved, and his determination to do right by that son. Her own affection for his son, and her concern for John’s safety.
She loved him. She knew it and it frightened her, because John had never offered a hint that he returned her love. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She knew the truth when it punched her in the gut. The truth was, she loved John Russo.
As if he sensed the change in her mood, he rose, propping himself up on his arms. His right arm buckled, and he collapsed against her and cursed.
“Are you okay?” she asked, horrified.
Groaning again, he slid off her and sprawled out on his back. “I’m fine. Just...”
“Just what?”
“Mortified.”
“Mortified?” She pushed onto her side and peered down at him. A trace of a smile curved his lips, and she felt some of her concern ebb away. “Why?”
“Look at me.” He shook his head, his smile failing to disguise his annoyance. “I’m operating at half strength.” He raised his bandaged arm, then pointed to his discolored ribs.
Just hearing him admit his insecurity made her love him more. “If this is what you’re like at half strength,” she said, skimming her hand gently over his chest, “I don’t think I could survive you at full strength.”
“Molly.” He gazed up at her, ran his thumb over the curve of her lip and smiled bleakly. “I’m really a lot better with two working hands.”
That might be, but Molly was absurdly aroused by what he’d accomplished with just one hand—and two legs, and two lips, and a naughty tongue, and a magnificent chest, and his own arousal, which was definitely not at half strength.
Mustering what little courage she had left, she slid her hand down his body through the dark, wiry hair below his abdomen to his hard length. She skimmed him with her palms. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked with feigned innocence.
He closed his eyes and groaned at her touch. “No.”
“Then you’re just going to have to stay where you are and let me do the rest.”
His eyes flew open and he stared at her, a daring, searing gaze that almost made her lose her courage right then. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said, his voice a dark rumble.
“Why? You like to be in charge?”
“Yes.”
That was blunt. “Well, tough luck, Detective Russo of the Arlington Police Force,” she retorted, feeling a fresh burst of audacity. If he’d challenged her at all this evening with his steamy gazes and his orders for her to undress, nothing challenged her more than this.
Her sudden bossiness seemed to intrigue him. That hint of a wicked smile returned. “Tough luck?”
She tried to suppress a grin. “Oh, yes, John. Very tough.”
“I think I’m worried.” But he didn’t look worried. He looked downright pleased—and if possible, more aroused than before.
“Trust me,” she said, wishing she could trust herself. She had no idea how to be in charge in bed. The only thing she knew how to be in charge of was a preschool.
Even though she felt way out of her depth, he seemed to be responding quite intensely to her gentle caresses. She tightened her hand and he responded even more intensely. A broken groan escaped him, and he eased her hand away.
“I thought I was in charge,” she protested.
“It feels too good.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, then placed it on his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, feeling as if she’d failed, somehow.
“Come on top of me,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”
There were advantages and disadvantages to loving a man of few words. The main disadvantage was that he always left her wanting to know more. The main advantage was that he stated his wishes quite clearly.
She did as he asked, easing herself down onto him. He massaged her shoulders, her sides, the outer curves of her breasts, her waist. Then he drew her toward him, arranging her legs so she was straddling his hips. She braced herself on her arms and he touched her breasts. What he could do to her with one hand was astonishing.
His fingers glided down her body and she shuddered, her hips moving of their own volition, her fingertips digging into his shoulders. “Look at me, Molly,” he whispered when she closed her eyes.
She obeyed, forcing her lids open and peering down into his face. His gaze reached into her like his hand, stroking her soul as his fingers stroked her flesh. Her muscles tensed, her body needing more, needing him.
She whimpered, deep in her throat, and arched her back. “Are you still in charge?” he asked.
Through a haze of passion she saw his smile. She opened her mouth to answer, but he flicked his thumb against her in such a way she could only moan. She might have been imagining it, but she thought she heard him moan too, as if seeing her so aroused aroused him, as well.
“There are condoms in the drawer,” he told her, gesturing with his idle right hand toward the night table beside the bed. He let go of her, and the loss of his touch chilled her. She groped frantically through the drawer, her hands trembling as she pulled out the box. She searched John’s face, hoping that he would take over from there. But he only lifted his bandaged hand and smiled again.
Anyone who could awaken such heavenly sensations inside a woman could certainly tear open a foil wrapper, with or without two working hands. But now, when she was on the verge of burning up, John was going to feign helplessness.
She did what she had to do, her fingers still shaking, her breath shallow. When she had him ready, she turned back to him and found his smile gone, his eyes luminous. He clamped his hands over her hips and pulled her down onto him, thrusting deep.
For a moment she refused to move. She wanted to savor the perfection, the glorious possession of his body. Soon she would want more, but this one moment, this first taste... It was heaven.
Her fingers curled against his shoulders and her breasts skimmed his chest as he rocked her body with his, helping her find her rhythm, angling her to take even more of him. She understood what he’d meant when he said it felt too good. What he was doing to her felt much too good, immeasurably too good.
Her body absorbed him, welcomed him, let him lead her onward. The boundaries between them blurred and vanished. John was a part of her, his body locked inside her, carrying her with him until they were both on fire, exploding with pleasure, closer than two people could possibly be.
She sank onto him, too weak to move. He stroked his hand languidly up and down her back. She cuddled against him, cushioning her head with his shoulder. His skin was warm, satiny against her cheek. She could hear the rapid pounding of his heart.
A long while passed, neither of them moving, nothing said as their bodies slowly cooled off, their pulses slowed and they separated. John kept his arms snugly around her, giving her a sense of safety. She shouldn’t feel safe. She’d just admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with him.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. He sounded weary.
Her emotions were raw, but other than that she was splendid. “‘Okay’ would be an understatement,” she told him.
She couldn’t see his smile, but she could picture it. “It’s been a while for me,” he said. “I hope I wasn’t too rough.”
She took a minute to digest his comment. She’d never before known a man who could say so much in so few words. In his statement she heard strains of his obsessive responsibility, worrying over how she was and whether he’d caused any problems for her. She also heard it’s been a while. For some reason, that surprised her.
“I’m sure it’s been longer for me,” she said. “I’m three steps short of being a nun.”
“Three steps?” He chuckled, sliding his hand up into her hair and letting it spill through his fingers. “You don’t seem like a nun to me. A nun would never take charge the way you did.”
She laughed out loud, her lips bumping against his chest as she did. “You’re the biggest con artist in the world—telling me to take charge. You were in charge the whole time.”
“Like hell.” He edged out from under her and rolled onto his side so he could view her. A lock of hair fell across her eyes, and he lifted it back into place. “You made me crazy, Molly. I could scarcely think, let alone control myself. You were running the show.”
“Not quite.” His face was so close to hers, it took vast amounts of willpower not to lean forward and kiss him. “I told you, I’m practically a nun. I wouldn’t know how to run this particular show, even if I wanted to.”
“You’re the sexiest nun I’ve ever known.” He kissed her tenderly and leaned back. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it was enough to make Molly feel like the exact opposite of a nun.
She studied his face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He looked solemn in spite of his smile. It’s been a while, he’d said. Was she the first woman he’d been with since his wife had left?
And how in heaven’s name could a woman leave a man who made love the way John did?
“Why did she leave you?” she blurted out, then clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”
“It’s all right.” He stroked her hair again, tucking it behind her ear. “She left me because she didn’t love me.”
“That’s the part I’m having trouble with,” Molly said, figuring that since he hadn’t kicked her out of his bed for being too nosy, or at the very least changed the subject, he must not mind talking about it. “She married you. She had a child with you. She must have loved you at some point.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think so.” He ran his hand through her hair again while he collected his thoughts. “We were dating, and we were careless, and she got pregnant. She wanted an abortion, but I begged her not to do that. I told her I’d marry her and we’d raise the baby together. I was persuasive.” He paused for a minute, lost in thought. “It was never what she wanted.”
Molly appreciated that he’d told her so much. But there was something missing, some flaw in his logic. Perhaps he’d been persuasive, perhaps his wife hadn’t wanted marriage or a baby. But he was such a good man. If he could persuade her to marry him and become a mother, why couldn’t he have persuaded her to stay with him?
He must have guessed her thoughts. “It wasn’t what I wanted, either. We didn’t marry out of love. I wasn’t a good husband.”
“You’re the most responsible person I’ve ever met. How could you not be a good husband?”
The soothing pattern of his fingers through her hair would have lulled her into a trance if the conversation hadn’t been so important to her. He sifted his words as his hand sifted her hair. “I was wrapped up in my work,” he finally said. “I lived for it. I took the hardest cases, put in the longest hours. I was single-minded and aggressive. I was going to be the best damned cop in Arlington. In the world.” He sighed. “I wasn’t what she needed. I didn’t do my share with Mike. She got stuck doing the hard stuff—the diapers, the feedings—while I was putting in the time and earning my shield. When I was home, my mind wasn’t with her. It was on whatever case I was working.” His hand went still and he stared directly into her eyes. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she argued, but she sounded less than certain. For ten years she’d listened to Gail rant about cops, their hunger for power, their arrogance, their disregard for justice, their lack of compassion. Maybe cops made bad husbands because their work was so demanding and so violent, but... No. She simply didn’t want to believe John’s assertion was true.
She didn’t want to believe it because she was in love with him.
She didn’t want to let him believe it, either. She was going to prove to this fine, honest, brave man that he was capable of anything: being a good father, being a wonderful lover—being the best cop in the world, if that was what he wanted. John could do it all.
If only she could convince him of it.
If only she could absolutely, without a doubt, convince herself.