Chapter Ten

Aya wrapped her legs around Nate’s waist, her arms around his neck. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and let him carry her to bed.

“We’re going to my room,” he said. “Where we don’t have to worry about stray bits of glass.”

The smell of him, the way his hips bumped against her as he moved, and the feel of his clothing under her fingers wove an erotic spell that glass—shattered or otherwise—couldn’t break. He inebriated her, drugged her. She wove her fingers into the thick strands of his hair, put her lips to the column of his neck, and savored the taste of spice and sex, seduction and promise. She felt him shudder, heard his soft groan.

He tipped her. A brief moment of weightlessness, then her back met the mattress. In the early evening light, she saw his eyes, soft yet fiery, protective and predatory. She shivered, knowing he would possess her, and care for her, all at once.

Nate bent over her, the bed sagging under his weight as he reached for the hem of her V-neck blouse. He trailed his fingers underneath, and Aya trembled at his touch, at his closeness.

Pop. Pop. Pop. The buttons of his shirt gave way to her searching hands. She pushed it aside, and reveled in the way the crisp curls of his black hair twisted around her fingers.

He nipped at her ears, nuzzled her neck, and her eyes rolled back in pleasure. Nate breathed her name, and her stomach dived at the longing in his voice. Her mouth found his, and in her kiss, she poured all her love, yearning. He met her emotion for emotion, their tongues tangled in a language that needed no words.

Nate pulled away, gazed into her eyes, and smiled. “You have no idea how much I want you, long for you.”

He straddled her, half-naked and all male, the sinews of his muscles rippling in the setting sun, the etched perfection of his form pulled desire taut, until the invisible line stretched from her brain to her groin, and back.

She rose, yanked her blouse off and said, “Show me.”

His irises darkened, his pupils enlarged. He stared at her breasts, encased in her blue lace bra. “Shouldn’t we take this slow, easy—it’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”

Aya reached behind her, unsnapped the clasp and sent the bra sailing to the floor. “Too long. Show me.”

His eyes widened as he followed their trail, and widened further when his gaze made contact with her breasts. “Right.” He grinned. “Whatever you want, Birthday Girl.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. With the smile still on his lips and painted with a sexy, heart-kicking lift of promise, he dipped his head and caught her breast in his mouth.

She gasped and arched, the silvery rasp of his tongue even more pleasurable because it was him, her Nate, the man of her fantasies, and the one she’d love forever.

His gentle sucks turned to an intense suckling, and emotion burned away at the lust he created. She moaned her pleasure, whispered his name, and pressed into him. He pressed back, hard and ready. Aya fumbled with the buttons of his jeans.

He grabbed her fingers. “Let me help.”

With a flick, he loosened the button-fly denim, and with a smooth, fluid movement sent it sailing to join its counterparts. Her gaze travelled the length of his long, muscular legs, drinking in the sight of his tanned skin, the crisp curls of hair, and to where the evidence of his desire for her stood. Hard. Ready. Wanting.

His dark chocolate gaze bore into her. “Are you sure?”

She smiled at his tenderness. Reaching up to cup his head in her hands, she kissed him, long and deep, and whispered, “Yes.”

He reached under the pillow and pulled out a box of condoms. Laughing, he shook it. “Destina gave this to me yesterday. I thought she’d lost her mind—”

Aya giggled and her kiss halted his words. When they came up for air, she said, “This really isn’t the time to talk about my grandfather’s girlfriend.”

He laughed sheepishly. “I’m nervous. I can’t believe this is going to happen—you and me.” Twilight highlighted the soft, gentle look in his eyes. “I never thought it would happen. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

She brushed her tongue against his bottom lip and felt him tremble at her touch. “Show me.”

He sheathed himself, and with infinite care and gentleness, slid into her. Slow, easy. Nate. She shuddered at their joining, trembled at the knowledge of his possession.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

Rather than answer him, she began to move, to rock her hips and slide him deeper inside her. He groaned, and words became unnecessary as their bodies began to move in perfect harmony. The music of their love-making surged and rolled, soft, easy, then rose to a crescendo as passion and pleasure overtook them and carried them to the final, mind-shattering climax.

****

Mason lay in the quiet dark of night, hating himself, and loving Aya. Of all the stupid, rash things he’d done in his life, this was conceivably the dumbest. What had he been thinking?

Aya moved against him, her warm body pressed into the hollow and grooves of his fetal position, and he remembered exactly what he’d been thinking. He pulled her close, feeling the softness of her hair against his chin, the smooth, round curves of her bottom against his groin.

It’s just a name, he wanted to tell her, a mindless arrangement of letters and syllables. I’m the man you love. I’m a good person—ignore the previous weeks of deception.

Self-hate, raging and sudden, drenched him in a hot-cold sweat. He pushed away from Aya, pushed away from the fantasy she’d forgive him, and recoiled from the memories they’d created together. But it was too late. The psychic images stole upon his synapses, etched themselves in his neurons, and thus embedded, began to torment with the reality of what he was going to lose.

He rolled out of bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. Not tonight. Not ever again.

****

Aya awoke the next morning to find Nate’s side of the bed empty. She reached across, laid her hand on the pillow. Cold to the touch. The fragile, delicate hope that Nate stayed through the night broke under the evidence of his absence. Nevertheless, she pulled the pillow close, held it tight, and breathed in the faint scent of him.

After a few moments, she set it aside, pushed away fruitless dreams and “if only” fantasies, shoved the blanket aside, and rose to meet the day...and the aftermath of her actions.

The early morning air hit her naked body with an icy slap. Hurriedly, she went to her bedroom where she stepped into a pair of pajamas, a top, and yanked on her bathrobe. In the hallway, the scent of coffee and toast rose to her. She went into the kitchen and found Nate at the table, a cup in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He glanced over and her stomach dived with nervous tension.

“Good morning.” He said it with an easy nonchalance, as though the night before had never happened. “Coffee’s on the pot, and I made some eggs to go with the toast.”

“Thanks.” She crossed the floor and helped herself.

“I started on the chores. Pops said they’d be home by eleven. He and I plan to take a ride around the property and take care of the fences.”

She looked back and saw him watching her.

“Unless there was something else you wanted us to do?”

There was no innuendo in his words. There was nothing—no humor, happiness or emotion—at all. He sat there, effortless, easy...and completely distanced from her.

“No, your plan’s fine.” She sat down at the table. The toast tasted like dust, the coffee like acid-burning sludge. Aya forced the bite down. “Nate...shouldn’t we talk?”

His gaze looked through her. “Talk about what?”

“Last night.”

He snapped the newspapers in front of his face; the air cracked with the finality of the gesture, the symbolism of the barrier between them. “And what should we say—thanks for the memories?”

She flinched at the deadness in his voice. “No—” Her fingers curled around the top of the newspaper and pulled it down. She caught the fleeting look of despair in his eyes, before resignation quickly masked it.

“It was one night,” he said. “Not one night and a conversation the next morning.”

“I wanted to...” Now the moment was on her, she hadn’t a clue what to say. To discuss the setting of boundaries seem redundant, given his aloofness, and to say anything sentimental, in bad taste. She gave him a wobbly smile. “Thanks for the memories.”

The newspapers snapped into the barrier position. “Time will tell.”

Tears threatened. Of all the scenarios that had crossed her mind, this ruthless, emotionally devoid man sitting beside her, had never been one. She swallowed and blinked, unwilling to have him see her cry or race from the room.

“How do you do that?” she asked, her voice husky with unshed tears.

“Do what?” He sounded tired now, defeated.

“Pull yourself away, act like last night didn’t happen?”

The pages rustled. “I do what I have to do.” He flipped the newspapers down, the smile on his face half-mocking, half-despair. “It’s one of the many things about me you don’t know, and you insisted didn’t matter in the grand scheme of your feelings.” He gave her a predatory smile. “Still feel the same way?”

Slivers of ice pierced her heart. “Do you have to be so cruel?”

He erected the paper barrier once more. “Life is cruel. We all have to deal with it.”

She had no response, but the swiftness of his overnight personality change left her confused and groping for answers. Aya bit into the toast, and though it still tasted of sawdust and cardboard, she chewed and swallowed.

They settled into a brittle, tight silence, and when the ring of the phone shattered, she released the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Aya reached for the phone at the same time he did, and the contact of Nate’s skin against her set her heart stumbling after the memories of the night before. She snatched her hand away and let him answer the call.

“Hello?”

His deep voice vibrated in her bones, in the tiniest corners of her soul, and she closed her eyes against the wave of pain rushing through her.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” Nate glanced at her, the flesh on his face tightened as he listened to her son’s response.

Aya’s heart contracted, tight, painful, squeezed shut, and wouldn’t relax.

“We’ll be right there,” he said, his voice terse.

Her heart squeezed tighter. “Nate?”

“Get dressed. Pops is in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”