Downtown, they strolled around the crowd’s perimeter to find somewhere to sit, watch and listen. But within minutes of settling on a stone bench Emma stood up to sway in time to the music. When she tipped her head back to stare up at the sky her hair swung from side to side. A glance at Nixon showed his eyes fixed on her hair and a thrill of excitement caught her. Say what he liked, he was keen on her. ‘Hey.’ She held out her hand. ‘Get your butt up here and show me your moves.’
His eyes widened but he was on his feet in an instant. ‘You’re on.’
Bleeding heck. The man had all the right moves. Those long legs were whippet-strong, his body bending and rolling, and his eyes—locked on her all the time. Blasting her with heat, drying her mouth, softening her limbs and forming warm knots in her stomach and places beyond. Winding her arms around his neck, she continued dancing. When his hands spread across the small of her back she felt secure and safe and happy and—yes, damn it, totally ready for a whole lot more than kisses.
‘We’ve got all night,’ he breathed beside her ear.
Her answer was to move her hips against him, to sway in time to the music up against his chest, teasing her nipples tight. All night. The words repeated in her head. A promise? Oh, yes. That was her interpretation and she was sticking to it.
They danced until the band took a break. Nixon asked, ‘You want to find somewhere for a meal?’
The air was warm, the sky sparkling with stars. ‘How about street food from one of the carts and we take it down on the foreshore?’
‘Sounds good to me. We can come back to dance some more afterwards.’
She slipped her hand into his, and they queued for kebabs, just like any regular couple. Except nothing was regular for her. ‘Dating could become my favourite pastime.’
‘Mine too.’ Nixon ran a finger down her cheek, across her lips. ‘Think we can do this without falling out at the end of the night?’
‘I’m over that. We get on so well I don’t like it when we have a spat. So, yes, we can, we will, go home happy with each other.’ Her fingers on her left hand, the one out of his sight, crossed ever so slightly. No harm in adding a dollop of good luck to the mix.
Tasty food sitting on the foreshore amidst the crowd, a buzzing atmosphere, and Nixon dancing with her. What more could a girl want? She had it all. The hours flew past in a blur of heat, yearning, sore feet from those heels, and Nixon. Nixon’s smiles, his kisses, his hands on her back and her waist and her shoulders; laughter that made her forget everything but him.
Then the band was packing up and the crowd spilling deeper into the town centre where the bars were waiting. Nixon draped an arm over her shoulders and tucked her close to him. ‘Want another drink?’
‘I hate admitting this but I’m ready to quit.’ Nine-thirty bedtimes were her norm these days.
‘I’m relieved,’ he whispered. ‘And I don’t have Rosie to blame.’ His chin grazed her cheek before his mouth covered hers.
‘A couple of geriatrics, aren’t we?’ she said when they pulled apart.
‘I didn’t say the night was over. I’m just not interested in hanging around with half of Queenstown and a gazillion tourists any longer.’
The night wasn’t over. Anticipation pushed aside her growing weariness. Her feet found a second life, all but skipping back to Nixon’s vehicle. Then cold reality struck. He probably meant he’d have a coffee with her before heading back to his place. This was Nixon, the avoidance expert.
‘Where’s Rosie tonight?’ he asked when he parked outside her front gate.
‘At Mum’s.’ As in, not coming home until after breakfast. She held her breath. Should she make a move? Ask him in? But the words weren’t there. She didn’t know how to invite a man into her home for some loving, and was afraid of being turned down when she wanted it so badly.
Nixon got out of the four-wheel drive and came around to open her door, held her hand as she climbed down, kept hold of it all the way up the path, through the door, and along the hall to her bedroom. Not a word, not a questioning look. Confident and certain was this Nixon.
The insecurities fell away as he turned to her, took her in his arms and said, ‘May I?’ and kissed her thoroughly. A kiss deeper than any she’d experienced. A kiss that sparked to life all the desire and need she’d been trying to keep a lid on from the moment she’d opened her door to him earlier.
She was free, able to do what she’d wanted to do with Nixon for ages. He was giving her the opportunity and wouldn’t back off.
Then that hot, tantalising mouth tugged away. ‘This isn’t too soon for you? It’s only been a few weeks since the birth.’
It might hurt a bit, but somehow she believed that’d be lost in the heat and need and desire. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
That was a bucket of cold water being tipped over her feverish skin. She kissed him to show she had no intention of going carefully. It must’ve worked because his fingers were at the buttons of her blouse, clumsily undoing them, his skin skimming hers. As soon as the buttons were dealt with she tugged the blouse off and tried to squeeze out of the tight skirt. Nixon’s hands covered hers, pushed the skirt down over her butt, her thighs, to her knees, where it dropped around her feet. And then…one touch and she was quivering and tight and hot and cold. And crying for him to hurry.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Em.’ His fingers did some serious touching, whipping up a storm along her veins.
‘You’re not. You’re—’ She gasped around a shudder of need. ‘You’re—Let me touch you.’
‘Wait. We’ve got all night.’
Yes, but there are two of us here. ‘I won’t last five seconds if you keep doing that.’
‘Then I’ll have to do it again.’
You’re welcome.
As she gave into the shudders wracking her body her world spiralled out of control. She was sprawled across Nixon, his naked torso an aphrodisiac under her palms. Not that she needed one. Everything about Nixon turned her on. When had they got onto the bed? His erection pressed against her belly, his tongue now teasing her tender nipple, a tenderness she forgot as waves of need rolled through her when she’d barely recovered from the first onslaught.
Pushing up, tugging free of that exquisite mouth, she reached for him, held him, moved slowly, up and down.
‘Condom,’ Nixon gasped.
‘Let’s keep doing it this way.’ It felt right, and eased her worry of being too close too soon after the birth.
‘Emma,’ Nixon groaned. Then he was back to arousing her, and they were together, moving as one, the pressure building. He brought her to the peak, restraining himself until she exploded, then quickly joined her.
Emma’s breathing took for ever to return to normal. If that was making love then she hadn’t lived.
How soon could they do it again? Hell. She hadn’t even got her breath back. Neither had Nixon. Her hand reached for his, her fingers interlaced with his. Hot, sweaty, strong, gentle. Now she knew what those hands had been made for. And she wanted to get to know them even more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NIXON WATCHED EMMA scooping Rosie up into her arms and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Anyone would think you’d been apart for a week, not one night.’ He chuckled, acknowledging the warmth and tenderness in his gut, and his heart, for both these adorable females.
Making love with Emma last night, he’d felt as if his world had finally come together for the first time since his family had left him. It had been a revelation. Emma was so generous with her loving he’d been lost for a while. Then she’d grounded him, made unspoken promises of more to come if he was prepared to reach out and take a chance. He’d gone into this thinking he’d be able to knock the monkey off his back for good, return to being friends once the mystery of Emma was exposed. He had not expected to feel smitten, to want more, to hate the idea of closing the door on what they had. Friends they might’ve been, but now they were so much more. They were lovers.
For now.
For longer?
For ever?
That meant accepting he’d never again be abandoned by someone he loved, or at least making the most of every day between now and when—if—that happened. Might mean accepting he had been loved all along as he grew up.
‘Nixon, pick me up,’ demanded Rosie. ‘I want a hug.’
‘What madam wants, madam shall have.’ He swung the bouncing girl up against his chest, savouring the closeness, absorbing the smell of soap and cornflakes and…? ‘You had chocolate for breakfast?’
‘Don’t tell Mummy I ate a Santa off the tree.’
‘It’s our secret.’
Rosie wriggled and wriggled, her small hands batting at his shoulders. ‘Can we take my kite to the park?’
Nixon looked over her head to Emma, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Later. Wave goodbye to Grandma, Rosie.’
‘It’ll have to be the waterfront. I’m on call,’ Nixon said.