“Yeah,” she’d said simply, leaving it at that.
But her mom understood what a big deal it was—she knew Tessa didn’t like anyone around during these times. So she’d asked, “Is it serious?”
Good question. Since it was no longer just sex. And maybe it never really
had
been, even if that had been her original motive. All she knew was that there was much more to Lucky than met the eye, that he called her his girl, and he was here for her now. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to put a label on it, so she’d just said, “I don’t know.”
What she
hadn’t
mentioned to her mom was that Lucky was a biker with long hair and tattoos. So now, as she peered up at the man carefully lowering a tray to her lap, she asked, “What happened after you answered the door?”
Lucky’s brow knit slightly. “Not much. I told her you were asleep. She gave me the soup. She seemed less freaked out after she talked to me for a few minutes.”
Good. Maybe that meant her mom had seen past his appearance to the guy underneath.
After that, Lucky lay down beside her and they watched TV together while she ate. When she was done, he said, “How do you feel?”
“A little nauseous,” she replied, easing back into the pillows propped behind her.
It was a few minutes later that Lucky lifted the tray away and set it aside—and then, to her surprise, he bent back over her, sliding his arms beneath her. “Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he scooped her up into his grasp.
“You’re always talking about wanting to experience life,” he replied, “and now I get why. So . . . I’m not gonna let you lay in this house not experiencing life for one minute longer tonight.”
“Lucky, I’m still feeling blah,” she said in protest, taken aback by the fact that he was carrying her down the hall, apparently headed for the front door.
He wore a determined look on his face as he said, “You don’t have to do a thing, hot stuff—it’s all on me. Trust me.” And then he carried her out of the cabin into the dark of night, down the walk and to the passenger side of her Nissan, which he promptly, gently, loaded her into. “Be right back,” he told her, and she waited, bewildered, until he returned carrying her keys and her iPod in his hand, her grandma’s quilt draped over one arm.
After tossing the blanket and iPod in the backseat, he climbed behind the wheel, then proceeded to back out onto the road, all without saying a word.
“Lucky, where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
F
ifteen minutes later, they pulled into Creekside Park, but Tessa still didn’t understand why. “The park is closed after dark,” she said, pointing to a sign near the entrance.
And Lucky just slanted her a look, as if to remind her he was a bad biker dude and it would take more than a sign to keep him out of a park.
After he brought the car to a stop and opened his door, she did, too—only to have him say, “No, don’t get out—I’m coming to get you.”
Then he grabbed the quilt and iPod from the back, and a moment later he was again carrying her in his arms, this time into the quiet solitude of the unlit park. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the white gazebo, and the playground in the distance on the bank above Sugar Creek. Tall, shadowy trees lined the creek’s edge.
Soon Lucky lowered her to her feet, announcing quietly, “Here,” then he spread the quilt on the ground and whispered, “Lie down.”
It hit her only then that the night was warm, the warmest they’d had so far, and as she lay back into the quilt’s softness, she drank in the sweet, lush air and heard the faint, peaceful sound of crickets in the nearby woods. As Lucky lay down beside her, he said, “Now—look up.”
She did—and she saw the same thing as when she’d recently given him the same instruction: a dark velvety sky sprinkled with twinkling stars. Only . . . it was even more stunning tonight. Because tonight she needed it more. And maybe Lucky knew that. “Wow,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he agreed. Then added, “Isn’t this better than being stuck in the house, staring at the ceiling?”
She glanced over at him with a smile. “A
lot
better.” The truth was, it was almost enough to make everything else fade away, even illness.
Just then, Lucky pushed abruptly back to his feet, though, and she said, “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” he promised before disappearing quickly into the darkness.
What on earth . . . ?
she wondered, waiting. And she was just on the verge of feeling a little abandoned when Lucky finally arrived back beside her in the dim moonlight.
Although that faded, too, when her gaze was drawn to the bunch of daisies clutched in his fist, clearly plucked from along the creekside walk—they must have bloomed early, from the warmer-than-usual spring. She smiled up at him as he lowered himself to the quilt beside her. “I think picking flowers in the park is illegal.”
“Guess my brother’ll have to haul my ass to jail for all these bad crimes I’m committing tonight,” he said, then held one of the daisies out to her.
For some reason, the simple gesture made her heart feel so full she feared it might burst. “Thank you,” she said, taking it from his fingers into hers. Then she teased him, looking at the remaining flowers, which he’d lowered to the quilt beside him. “Keeping the rest yourself?”
He gave her a grin. “Keep it up, hot stuff, and you won’t get your present.”
“My present?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Now close your eyes so I can make it a surprise.”
Hmm. What was Lucky up to? She shut them, both touched and amused. Although when a few minutes had come and gone, she grew impatient. “When can I open my eyes?”
“Just . . . a second,” he said in a way that told her he was concentrating on something. Then finally he told her, “Okay, open ’em.”
When she did, she found big, masculine Lucky Romo dangling a chain of daisies from his fingers. And the sight took her breath away. Oh God, he’d just sat in the park making a daisy chain in the dark of night—for her.
“Sit up a little, and I’ll put it on your head,” he said.
Oh—it was a wreath. A smile stole over her as she propped herself on her elbows and let him place it in her messy hair. “Thank you, Lucky,” she said.
He looked endearingly sheepish. “When I caught sight of the daisies, I just . . . thought you’d like it.”
“I do,” she promised him.
Lucky reclined next to her again, and they silently peered back up at the sky. And though she’d already forgotten all about the iPod, Lucky then gently inserted one earbud in her ear and the other in his, so they could both hear. Then she listened as the notes from a gently plucked guitar began Jack Johnson’s “Constellations,” a song about . . . the sky. She just looked at Lucky. How could he know? How could he know, even better than she did, what she’d needed right now? It was one of the most perfect moments of her life.
“Don’t look at
me
, hot stuff—look at the stars,” Lucky said. So she did. She let the relaxing song waft over and through her as she lost herself in everything around her: the millions of stars glittering above, the soft quilt beneath her, the man whose hand slipped warmly into hers. And she began to understand something she hadn’t only a few short minutes before; she began to feel a certain, undeniable truth seeping into her skin, her muscles, her very bones.
And when the song came to its sweet, peaceful conclusion, she continued peering up at the sky even as she leaned her head over to rest it on Lucky’s shoulder. And she whispered, “You love me.”
He kept gazing upward, too, his answer coming softly. “Yeah. I do.”
And it sounded . . . like it wasn’t a surprise to him at all.
The new knowledge made Tessa’s skin tingle even as her body filled with warmth. And she pulled back just slightly to peer over at him, this man who loved her. He hadn’t put it into words, but he hadn’t needed to—because he’d shown her, in so many sweet ways.
When his beautiful eyes met hers, she reached up, pulling their earbuds away. A minute ago, soft music had been perfect, the perfect distraction from feeling unwell. But silence suddenly seemed better—right now, she wanted nothing to dilute her focus on Lucky.
Their eyes stayed locked and she experienced a familiar pull inside. It stretched all through her—from her chest to the crux of her thighs. And, leaning forward, she brought her mouth tenderly to his. The kiss was slow, warm, gentle. It was the nicest thing she’d felt in days. When it ended, she didn’t move away; she simply rested her forehead against his, felt his breath on her lips, felt the emotional connection they shared.
But when she drew back again to gaze on him, she experienced more than just an
emotional
link. And more than just a physical one, too. When those two things joined together, they created a whole greater than the sum of their parts, and it swirled through her suddenly in a bundle of need and lust and sweetness and sex. She kissed him again, and again, still slow and deep, until the sparks inside her sizzled. “Oh my God,” she breathed in soft wonder.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re amazing. You’re so hot you actually turn me on even when I don’t feel well.”
A small, sweet grin made his dark eyes sparkle. “Damn, I knew I was good, but . . .”
And she giggled lightly . . . aware that her desire was truly overriding every other feeling.
But then her smile faded as she confided in him, “You have no idea how un-sexy I feel most of the time, because of . . . you know.” Right now, she didn’t even want to say it, didn’t want to give it power over her.
And Lucky looked at her like she was crazy. “Babe,” he said, soft and low and sure. “You’re the sexiest girl I ever met.”
She kissed him again and realized she didn’t want to
stop
kissing him, ever. She never again wanted to feel anything but the way Lucky was making her feel at this moment: cherished . . . and sexy as sin, even in old jogging pants and dirty hair.
Lucky hadn’t touched her anyplace intimate since he’d first found her at home sick, but now his hand slid to her breast. She sucked in her breath at the shocking pleasure. And then he began to squeeze and mold, and she tipped her head back to look at the stars once more and saw them in a whole new way: as a lovely backdrop for what was happening down here, on earth, where things really mattered.
“Lucky,” she whispered.
But he misunderstood. “Sorry, babe.” He drew his palm back down to her waist. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just happened.”
“No. I
want
that,” she immediately corrected him. Reaching for his hand, she placed it right back where it had been, on her breast. Then she gazed back into his eyes. “I want
you
.”
Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was—what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light—
I felt the might and strength of God.
Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre
E
ven now?” he asked.
“Especially now. I told you—you turn me on, Lucky. You make it all better. You make me forget the bad stuff.”
Aw, hell. The truth was, she had the same effect on him, too. Completely. And . . . Jesus, had he just told her he loved her? He was pretty sure he had. He wasn’t sure how it had happened—but it had just been . . . obvious. In that moment, it had been so clear that he hadn’t even thought of denying it, even if, up until then, he hadn’t quite known it himself. He loved her. He loved Tessa. Now, the very thought made him kiss her a little more firmly as he resumed caressing her small, pert breast, the nipple jutting into his palm through her top. A tingling sensation rippled down his spine and his breath grew labored, just from this—from the touching and kissing.
In a way, he suddenly felt big—clumsy with her—and afraid, in her current condition, he might hurt her somehow. But battling with that fear was how badly he wanted her, how driven he felt to bond his body with hers. He was suddenly so hard for her he ached.
“Are you okay?” he whispered a moment later.
“Yes—yes, I promise,” she said. And the urgency in her voice, the desperation, made him finally believe her. And long to pleasure her deeply.
When he kissed her neck, she let out a pretty sigh that tightened his chest. And part of him wanted to stop going slow and being careful, but a bigger part of him longed to . . . make love to her. He’d never even used those words together: make love. Yet that was what he burned to do right now—make slow, deep love to Tessa Sheridan.
Gently, he lifted the hem of her top over her soft, slender stomach and bestowed kisses there, as well, while easing his hand tenderly between her legs. A low, feminine moan echoed up into the warm night, filling him with heat, satisfaction, and he began to stroke his fingertips through the sweatpants she wore. Her breath grew thready as she moved against his touch, and he heard himself whispering against her skin, “You’re so beautiful, babe. So damn beautiful.”
Then he shifted, sliding his hand down inside her pants, her panties. At the same exact moment, he gently closed his teeth around her nipple, through her top, and the little sob that left her set him on fire.
Stretching out fully alongside her again, he kissed her some more while exploring her wetness with his fingers, somehow feeling that intimacy in a whole new way. How many women had he touched there, or had sex with? He didn’t know, but it was plenty. And yet this felt completely new. He was sure Tessa had been touched this way before, too, and he suffered the sting of jealousy over it, wanting to be the only one she’d ever shared herself with.
This must be what comes with the love part.
Suddenly he understood why people said sex was so much better when you were in love, because right now, every touch echoed deeper, and in every place their skin connected, he felt truly joined to her. He wanted to belong to her. He wanted her to belong to him. He wanted to give her every joy, every comfort. He wanted to take away everything that hurt her.
And he was powerless to take away her illness, a knowledge that now tortured him—but tonight anyway, he could at least make her forget about it. Make it go away for a little while. And her every moan and sigh, and every lift of her pelvis against his hand, told him how much she was feeling it, how much he
was
taking away the bad stuff in that moment. “I want to make you feel so, so good,” he whispered against her lips, then kissed her yet again.
That’s when her breath grew short, choppy, and it was almost as if Lucky could feel the pleasure he delivered vibrating through her, growing, mounting. “Come for me, babe,” he rasped. “I wanna see you come so bad.”
And that’s when her body stretched, lifted, held, and then she was moving again, but crying out now, climaxing, and Lucky’s face turned warm, his whole body shuddering in response. He’d given his fair share of women orgasms before, but this was the first time it had made him feel so . . . powerful. Powerful in a way that mattered, in a way that went beyond masculinity—because suddenly it
did
give him some real control, at least a little, over how she felt tonight.
“Lucky,” she breathed upon finally going still. “Lucky?”
He was busy raining kisses across her forehead, cheek, mouth. “What is it, babe?”
“Please. Inside me. Now.”
Aw, God. It wasn’t the first time she’d issued such a demand, but this time it came so gentle, so sweet. He said nothing in reply, just extracted his hand from where it had been and pulled on the drawstring at her hips. A second later, she was lifting, helping him push her pants down. As she kicked them off, he undid his belt, his jeans, and she began reaching, trying to shove the denim away, impatient. It made his heart beat even faster. “Please,” she said again.
“I’m on my way, hot stuff,” he promised, and without bothering to undress either of them further, he moved between her parted legs and pressed his erection inward, listening as she sucked in her breath at the contact.
The entry was slow, wet, deep. Immersed in her as far as their bodies would allow, Lucky gazed into her eyes and said, “God, you’re warm. Tight. This is . . . so good.”
She only nodded, and her eyes told him she was experiencing the same sense of connection as him. And as they began to move, their rhythm
remained
slow, lingering—it was more about feeling the union of their flesh than about sensation and friction.
Lucky didn’t know how long it stayed that way, but he got lost in it—lost in her eyes, in the warm night air, in the enveloping moisture between her thighs. At some point, her legs wrapped around his hips. Their foreheads touched. He could hear them both breathing.
“Jesus,” he whispered eventually, because after a while, he wanted to move deeper, harder. He began to sweat.
His strokes increased gradually, but she met each one, and finally he knew the time for going slow was over. Thank God. Because he had loved that—in a way he hadn’t known he could—but now he needed to let himself go, to drive into her over and over, hard and fast.
And before long they were both moaning, crying out with each powerful stroke, and finally Lucky just closed his eyes and allowed the pleasure to own him. He plunged into her waiting warmth, faster, faster; he smelled fresh green grass and spring flowers mingling with the scent of her skin; he braced himself, planting his palms at either side of her head, making her sob with the hard pleasure he delivered now—and then he let go. He let go and erupted inside her, his climax explosive and swallowing and . . . so draining that when it was done, he simply lowered his weight on top of her, resting his head next to hers on the quilt.
“I meant it,” he whispered, low, in her ear. “I love you.”
B
y Tuesday, Tessa felt much better. Enough that she’d gotten up, showered, dressed, and surprised Amy by coming in to work. And it was such a relief to hear that Amy had handled the rush of the May Day festival without her!
Now, she sat on a stool, shelving new mystery novels, soaking in the lovely scents of books, old wood, and coffee, and let out a happy sigh—it was good to be out and about again. Even the sun shining in through the front windows of Under the Covers felt brighter than the last time she’d been here.
Maybe it was silly, but she could have sworn sex with Lucky had cured her flare-up. Or maybe it had been his words. When he’d agreed with what she’d said. About loving her. Her heart felt as if it swelled in her chest just remembering. Lucky loved her. And maybe that was a little scary in a sense—they were so different in ways, and there was still so much she didn’t know about him. But it felt amazing, too.
They’d slept in the park all night, waking with the sun—then looking frantically around to make sure no early birds were out and about to see them wrapped, half naked, in her grandmother’s quilt. Then they’d scurried back to her car and headed home, having shared so much: the sky, the night, the sex, the sleeping together beneath the stars.
She hadn’t told him she loved him back—because, in truth, she hadn’t allowed herself to think that far ahead. Even as close as they’d become, it had never occurred to her that Lucky would say those words, that this would turn into
that
. And now . . . well, maybe she loved him, too, but just hadn’t let herself admit it. Maybe she was afraid of the things Lucky hadn’t told her about himself. There were questions to be answered, for them both, but for now, today, she just wanted to enjoy the sensation of purpose and productivity delivered by being back in the land of the living. Funny—sometimes she felt that to truly grab life, she had to seek out all sorts of radical things like skydiving or tattoos. And then, other times, it was as simple as putting books on a shelf on a sunny day.
“Hey, look who wants to see you.”
Tessa glanced up to find Amy standing beside her, little Brontë in her arms. She let out a soft gasp at the sight. “She even lets
you
hold her now, too?”
Amy lifted the kitty’s white mitten paw to wave it at Tessa, saying in a silly cat voice, “
Hi
,
Tessa. I’ve missed you and I’m glad you’re back.
”
Tessa couldn’t help smiling.
“She’s still antsy around customers,” Amy explained, “but yeah, with me, she’s calming down a lot.” And with that, she slowly handed Brontë down to Tessa, and taking the lanky kitty into her arms, provided yet another sense of comfort.
“Hi there,” she whispered. “It’s good to see you.” She hugged the cat to her chest, running her fingertips over her fur.
“I still think you’d like having a cat at home,” Amy said.
Tessa lifted her gaze back to her friend and replied honestly. “I kind of do, too—but after the week I’ve just had . . . well, I definitely think she’s better off here where we can share kitty duties.”
“I bet she gets lonely and scared at night when she’s alone,” Amy offered up.
But in response, Tessa just rolled her eyes. “She’d be alone at my place a lot, too.”
“Not in the dark,” Amy persisted.
“Knock it off,” Tessa said. “I like her, but I just don’t think it’s in the cards.” Even if she suddenly
didn’t
enjoy envisioning Brontë alone here at night. Maybe they could rig her up a night light or something. “Don’t you have some books to sell or plants to water or something?”
Shrugging, Amy said, “Suit yourself,” before she walked away.
Tessa then lowered Brontë to her lap, fully expecting the cat to jump down and go trotting away—so when she didn’t, instead curling up and lying among the folds of Tessa’s skirt, Tessa smiled gently down at her, then reached over her to discover she could shelve books with a cat on her lap just as easily as without one.
A
couple of nights later, Tessa cooked Lucky dinner using a simple baked chicken recipe and breaking out a bottle of wine—all to thank him for being there during her tough days. “And,” she admitted over the table as they ate, “for making me
let
you be there. I’m not very good at sharing that part of my life with people.”
“I wasn’t
about
to take no for an answer,” he told her just before forking a bite of baked potato into his mouth.
“Despite myself, I’m glad you didn’t,” she confessed.
“Have you talked to your mom? Did I freak her out very bad?”
In fact, Tessa
had
talked to her mom, who’d admitted it had scared the wits out of her when Lucky came to the door, but that she’d quickly seen in his eyes how much he cared about Tessa and how worried he was. To Tessa’s surprise, that seemed to be enough—her mother had no qualms about Tessa seeing a guy with flames and a grim reaper on his arms. “Actually, she thought you were very sweet.”
He scowled. “
Sweet?
”
And Tessa just grinned at her big, tough biker. “In fact, I think I know what kind of tattoo you should get next. A big yellow smiley face—right above Mr. Reaper there.”
He arched one eyebrow. “That’s not funny, hot stuff.”
“Yes it is,” she said on a giggle. “Just picture it.”
Lucky was clearly holding back a smile now. “Well, then I think the next tattoo
you
should get is a great big skull, right in the center of your chest.”
Her jaw dropped in horror at the image he’d just put in her mind. “
That’s
not funny.”
“See what I mean?”
The days were lengthening, the sun setting a bit later each night—and by the time they’d cleaned up the dishes, dusk fell over the cabin. It came earlier here along Whisper Falls Road for the pair of little houses nestled down among the trees. Lucky poured two more glasses of Chardonnay from the bottle Tessa had opened for dinner, confiding, “I’ve always been more of a beer or whiskey man, but this stuff isn’t bad.”
They stepped out onto Tessa’s deck to enjoy the night, sitting at her patio table. When she mindlessly lifted her feet onto Lucky’s thigh, using it as a stool, he began giving her a light foot massage and she wondered what she’d done right to get such a man. To
find
such a man behind that rough-and-tumble exterior.
What parts of Lucky
hadn’t
she found yet, though? What parts of him didn’t she know? She’d been basking in the pleasure of their affair, telling herself that part could wait—but how long?
If you don’t find out the rest
,
then this isn’t real
,
and it won’t last.
God, the thought of that wrenched her soul. She didn’t
want
this to end. And she longed for it to be as real as it felt in her heart. So as she sat watching him, she realized she had to ask him. Even if it scared her. Even if she wasn’t really sure she wanted the answers.