“You can take it into the living room, if you like,” he suggested. “I got dessert, but maybe we should wait a bit?”
“Definitely,” Mari agreed.
He stood and began to clear their dishes. When Mari started to help him, he shooed her off, insisting she take her wine and relax in the living room. Mari obligingly took her full glass of wine, but felt a little awkward since she had no intention of drinking it. She kicked off the sandals she was wearing, perched in the corner of the L-shaped couch and drew up her feet. When Marc joined her a few minutes later, he carried a mug and handed it to her.
“Figured you’d probably prefer tea. It’s herbal,” he said as he handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, scooting her feet back a few inches to make room for him to sit.
“I was just thinking while I was cleaning up in the kitchen—I’m not used to being around you as an adult. I shouldn’t have assumed you drink alcohol.” He continued when she stared at him in blankly, “I’ve never seen you drink since I met up with you at the Palmer House. It wouldn’t surprise me if you abstained.”
“I have a glass of wine once in a while,” she said as understanding dawned. He’d assumed she hadn’t drank her glass of wine for reasons related to their past. In truth, she hadn’t drank it because of her pregnancy. “What I said was true. It just didn’t appeal tonight.”
Marc nodded, but his expression was somber. “I mentioned it the other night, but I’ll say it again. I’m not much of a drinker, either. I just thought some wine with the food—”
“Marc,” she interrupted. “I didn’t think twice about you having a glass of wine. You didn’t even finish it. Do you really think I’m worried that you’re some kind of alcoholic because your father had a drinking problem?”
He shrugged and glanced away. “It’s not as if I haven’t heard something similar before. My brother and sisters have, at one time or another. All of us were stained by my dad’s actions.”
Mari opened her mouth to demand the details—who had dared to insinuate something so ridiculous? How could they possibly justify their allegations, when the Kavanaugh children were practically paragons of virtue, dedication and hard work?—but she closed her mouth when she noticed Marc’s rigid profile.
“It’s so unfair. I’m sorry,” she murmured.
His gaze returned to her face. “It meant a lot, to discover you weren’t one of those people judging me for someone else’s actions,” he said quietly.
She shook her head, her throat suddenly tight with emotion. She cradled his jaw with her hand and moved her fingers, absorbing the sensation of his warm skin, both overwhelmed by his vibrant presence and hungry to experience more of him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her as he studied her through narrowed eyelids.
“Life is so uncertain. I wish…I wish I could always have you like this.”
“Like this?” His mouth quirked, and Mari brushed her thumb against his lips. He went still at her touch.
“Just us,” she whispered as she moved her finger, studying his texture like her thumb was her only source of sensation. “No one else.”
“It is just us. And the future,” he said.
“There’s the past.”
His hand came up and cradled her shoulder. “There’s the present, Mari.”
The present.
Staring into Marc’s eyes, she felt the present moment stretching out to eternity. He didn’t move or speak when she leaned over and placed her mug of tea on the coffee table, but she sensed the tension that had leaped into his muscles. She lifted her knee and straddled his thighs, her head lowered. The need she felt couldn’t be denied any longer.
She unfastened the first three buttons of his shirt and pressed her face into the opening.
She did what she’d been holding back from doing for weeks now…for years.
She drowned herself in him.
Chapter Twelve
The skin on his chest felt thick and warm pressed against her seeking lips. He didn’t have an abundant amount of hair there, but what she encountered delighted her as she rubbed her cheek and lips against it, experiencing the springy, soft sensation. His scent filled her, intoxicated her. She moved her hands, cradling his waist and then sliding up the taper to his ribs, caressing him with gentle, molding palms and eager fingers.
It took her a few seconds to realize he was holding his breath. That changed when she gently pulled aside the fabric of his shirt and kissed a dark copper-colored nipple.
He gasped her name raggedly and tangled his fingers in her loose hair.