The Midwife's One-Night Fling: The Midwife's One-Night Fling / Baby Miracle in the ER

‘I don’t usually notice what women wear—well, not to the extent that I do with you.’

This morning Freya had regretted her sensible decision last night not to invite him in. Now she wanted to be reckless.

Richard felt as if he could see the barriers between them tumbling down before his eyes. And, yes, desire did reside behind her green gaze.

‘What else was this woman in a pale robe wearing?’ Freya asked. ‘Slippers?’

‘No,’ Richard said, his eyes never leaving hers. For he had already seen her painted toes. ‘Her feet were bare and her hair was damp...’ His hand came up and he picked up a heavy coil of black hair, as he had ached to do from day one. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I’m quite sure she didn’t have any underwear on...’

He watched her mouth part in a smile and lust punched like a fist as they teased and flirted and turned each other on.

‘I wish you hadn’t shaved,’ she whispered as his mouth came to hers.

And then she changed her mind, because instead of rough kisses she got the tang of cologne and Richard’s clean-shaven cheek against hers.

‘Smooth can be good,’ he told her as his hand slid behind her neck.

Her skin flared beneath his fingers and the feel of his cheek had her mouth searching for his.

But then he spoke. ‘Freya...’

She frowned at the slight hesitation in his voice, for it was unfamiliar. He was always, always so confident and direct.

Freya pulled back her head and those gorgeous eyes of his awaited her.

Richard was not one to spoil the moment, but his conscience niggled and he wanted to make things absolutely clear to Freya. People could trust him with their lives, but not with their hearts, and he wanted to be sure she understood that before things went further.

‘Don’t rely on me.’

It was the oddest thing to say, perhaps, and yet the kindest.

‘I get it, Richard.’

He wasn’t going to be the cure for her loneliness. Richard Lewis wasn’t going to be the love of her life.

Yesterday it might have mattered. But now she knew it didn’t have to last for ever, or even for more than this night, because her time in London was finite. And she wanted this night with him.

It was Freya who moved to close the gap between their mouths. But it was definitely Richard who kissed her, softly at first, but warmly and thoroughly. Freya’s mouth felt so exquisitely tender that even the gentlest of his kisses felt bruising.

The moan as his tongue slipped inside came from her. And then, for the first time since she’d arrived, London fell silent. Save for the sound of them.

His breathing was ragged and their mouths were frenzied. And surely he’d kissed the oxygen from her because he made her dizzy, and his tongue was so expert and thorough that it made her crave more of him.

His hands undid the belt of her robe. He freed one arm, then the other, and as it slid to the floor she felt cool air on the back of her body—a contrast to the warm rough fabric of his suit and the press of metal and buttons on her naked front.

Freya had never known such raw passion. Their tongues jostled and then she was pressing herself into him, her hands clutching his hair as his hands spanned her waist.

He guided them so that they moved to the wall as if as one. His kisses were certainly not smooth now—they were indecent and delicious and Freya was lost in them. Their chins bumped, their teeth clashed. She wanted to climb him and wrap her body around him.

Freya was tackling his belt, to free him, and then she felt his hard warmth leap towards her hand.

Richard reached into his jacket pocket for a condom, and it was an impatient pause for them both as he sheathed himself. She ached to have him inside her, and he ached to be there too.

And so he rectified things, thrusting in and taking her against the wall.

Freya had never been so thoroughly taken, and it felt sublime. He lifted her so that her legs could wrap around him and she knew she had never moved so seductively. He exposed a side to her that she did not recognise, because she had always been a touch reticent in bed.

Not now.

His fingers dug into her buttocks as she ground against him, and instead of feeling herself holding back, she was more herself with him.

She was so light that he could put one hand against the wall and hold her round her waist with the other. And then he changed the pace...

There was a scream building in her throat, which was clamped closed, so it waited there, trying to burst free. And then there came a breathless shout from him, followed by a rush of energy along her spine as he came deep within her. Finally her scream found its release, but it came out in staccato sobs as she throbbed to his beat.

His hands soothed now, rather than inflamed, and he seemed to know that this wasn’t a Freya she knew.

And it wasn’t.

Her head came to his shoulder and she felt the fabric of his jacket. He was completely dressed, and she was utterly naked. And now there was a smidgen of shame creeping in for Freya—just a curl of guilt as he lowered her down to the floor, yet still held her tightly.

He buried his head in her damp hair and then she felt his lips near her ear. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’

Richard made her laugh. He just did.

Having sorted out his clothes, he picked up her robe and helped her into it, then did up the very same belt she had so readily allowed him to open.

They were both still a touch breathless, still trying to find their balance again—but, God, they felt better.

She went and sat on the sofa, where she’d been lying earlier. Richard looked utterly normal—not even particularly dishevelled. His hair fell into perfect shape, whereas Freya was quite sure hers was in knots.

But she didn’t care.

He came and joined her on the sofa, and though they didn’t speak it wasn’t awkward. It was nice to lie down with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he played with her hair. It was relaxing not to speak.

He looked around at her flat and saw for the first time the mustard carpet and odd curtains. Even odder, though, was the fact that there was nothing that spoke of her.

Well, there were some books and magazines on a shelf, but there was a large picture on the wall of a horse and carriage, and he was certain it hadn’t been wrapped in a blanket and lovingly moved down from Scotland.

‘Do you like horses, Freya?’ he asked.

‘Not particularly. Why?’

‘There’s a picture of one on your wall.’

She looked over to where his gaze fell. ‘I know. I can’t get it down.’

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Freya had a little step ladder, which she’d used when she’d re-hung the curtains, but she simply hadn’t got around to taking the horse and cart picture down. It wasn’t as if she had anything to replace it with. It would do for now.