Underfoot

“Yeah,” she said, and got distracted by his thigh pressed against hers. She studied his eyes. “Did you know that your eyes change colors?”

He shook his head. “No. I haven’t looked at them much lately.”

“They look very dark green right now, but they don’t always look green,” she said.

He leaned closer. “Yours are brown. Like cocoa. Or hot chocolate. I always liked hot chocolate.”

Her heart tripped at the husky sound of his voice. “Oh.” His mouth was inches away, she thought, and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She’d wondered more than once before, but had always pushed aside her thoughts.

As she should push them aside right now. “I should get a blanket and pillow for you,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said and she felt his green gaze drop to her mouth. “Why do you think Brooke dumped me?”

Trina’s heart squeezed tight. Her chest hurt. “I have no idea.”

He met her gaze. “Really? How was I not enough? Not smart enough? Not good-looking enough? Not exciting enough?”

“I’d have to say no to all the above,” she said.

“Really?” he asked and she knew the combination of liquor, his wounded ego and heart were talking. He would croak when he realized he’d discussed this with her.

“Really,” she said, because she believed it and she felt sorry for him. “You’re smart, entirely too good-looking, and plenty exciting.”

One side of his mouth tilted upward and he pulled her against him in an embrace. “You’re really nice, Trina.”

“I’m not just being nice,” she told him. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re nice. You feel really nice, too,” he murmured against her hair.

She heard a change in his voice and felt her sense of gravity shift. A muted sense of warning pushed through her muddled mind. She should back away. She did, looking up at him. “I should get your blanket,” she whispered again.

He nodded, but lifted his hand and slowly rubbed his finger over her lips.

Trina was surprised but mesmerized by the soft touch.

“For such a nice girl, I’ve always thought you had a bad-girl mouth.”

Surprise bumped at her again. “Why?”

“Your lips are puffy,” he said, still rubbing her mouth. “And pink. Except when you wear red lipstick. Makes a guy wonder all sorts of things about your mouth.”

He was saying things he shouldn’t, but his voice was low and sexy and the darkness surrounded them like a cocoon.

“Would you mind if I kiss you just once?” he asked.

It was just a kiss, her liquored-up brain told her. One little kiss, and heaven knew she’d been curious about him. What could one little kiss hurt?

“Just one,” she said and he immediately lowered his mouth to hers. He surprised her by taking his time. He rolled his lips against hers as if he wanted to feel every bit of her. Every bit of her lips, she reminded herself.

When he increased the pressure, she automatically opened her mouth and he slid his tongue just inside, just for a second. Then he flicked his tongue over her lower lip and back again.

She felt heat rise. Alcohol flush, she told herself, but everything he did made her want a little more. Make it last longer, she thought. Taste me more. Do that again.

He kept the kiss going in one form or another for minutes, until she was leaning into him, sliding her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His chest felt so good and hard against her breasts and, oh, he felt better than she’d thought he would.

He took a quick breath and his mouth slid over hers again. “You feel so good,” he muttered against her mouth and lowered his hands to the small of her back, pulling her lower body against his.

More than his chest was hard. His obvious arousal made her heart speed up and her mind slow down. It was so easy to let her senses take over. He smelled so good, his mouth was like a drug, and the slight gentle rhythm as he moved her against him felt too sexy for words.

Some vestige of something pushed from deep inside her brain and she pulled back. The man had been scheduled to get married tonight. His heart was hurting. His ego was hurting. “Maybe we should stop,” she said.

“Yeah. Just one more,” he said, kissing her again.

This one went on longer than the other and Trina felt so hot she could have been in the Caribbean on a summer afternoon. He moved one of his hands over her waist, up her rib cage to the side of her breast. He slid his thumb inside the halter tux top and just glanced her nipple.

She inhaled sharply.

He stopped and swore. “What the hell am I doing? This is crazy. I shouldn’t be—” He broke off and swore. “But hell, I want you.”

He lowered his hands to her hips and Trina tried to make her mind work. She felt his heart beating against her chest. She could almost taste the knot of rejection he felt in his throat, the misery, and the desire to forget it until he had more strength to deal with it. She didn’t know which she felt more, turned on or sorry for him.

She lifted one of her hands to his jaw and saw the mixture of pain and arousal in his eyes.

He pressed his mouth against her palm.

“What you really want is a night of hot, mindless sex,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “With you.”

Because she was the woman who was there. Trina sighed. He was so hot, she thought, and she really didn’t want to bludgeon the poor guy’s ego again tonight. In this situation, there was really only one thing a nice girl could do.

CHAPTER TWO

Nine months, ten days, twenty-two hours and thirty-six minutes later…

“WHERE ARE MY DRUGS?” Trina screamed through the pain ripping her in half.

The nurse gently squeezed her arm. “I told you. The anesthesiologist is on his way.”

“You said that hours ago,” Trina accused, feeling her contracted muscles relax slightly. She wiped her sweat-dampened forehead with the back of her hand. She was in hell. The cheerful yellow chintz curtains and Yanni music playing in the background couldn’t fool her. She was in pain, her mother was spouting platitudes and Nurse Beamer, aka Nurse Hatchett was her guide through labor hell.

“No, you’re confused,” Nurse Hatchett said. “I told you that twenty minutes ago. The anesthesiologist is with another patient right now”

“You’re lying.” Trina felt the beginning of another contraction and desperation stabbed at her. Her muscles tightened around her abdomen like a vise, making it impossible to breathe. “I’m never going to have this baby, am I?”

“Of course you are,” the nurse said, and placed a cool washcloth on Trina’s head. “As soon as the doctor checks you, I’m sure he’ll tell you to start pushing.”

Trina moaned. “When is he coming? Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”