Take a Chance on Me (133 page)

« ^ »

I t took Thomas a few moments to decide why everything seemed out of whack. Then he felt Emma curled up next to him and his eyes moved to the clock and he realized that the glowing green numbers were afternoon numbers, not middle-of-the-night numbers, and that he was starving.

He also realized he needed a shower and a shave.

Then it occurred to him that he was outrageously happy. It felt weird, but it was a good kind of weird—

no, a great kind of weird—and he thought maybe he could get used to it.

Emma was dozing again, her eyelashes spread on her cheek like a Spanish dancer's black lace fan. The white sheet only half covered everything she was and everything she'd given him so generously, with so much enthusiasm.

He'd never made love to a woman like her. She was bold and rowdy and juicy and flat-out orgasmic.

When she told him it had been more than a year since she'd had sex, he nearly wept—with sadness for her and a giddy sense of victory for himself.

She was all his! Talk about a moment of unadulterated whoop-ass!

He looked down at her now, round and soft and smiling in her sleep, one delicate hand spread out over his heart, the fingers half-buried in his chest hair.

Thomas smiled at the symbolism of that—after all, the woman held his heart in her hand.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep from her hair. Emma's usual tantalizing floral scent was nearly drowned out by the rich and thick smell of excellent sex.

The best sex of his life—sex that engaged his heart and his spirit as well as his body—bonding sex, loving sex, big-time, bad-ass, let's-get-married sex.

Oh. So that's what that felt like.

Thomas sighed, aware that it was a sigh of contentment and surrender. He'd surely done it now. He'd put himself at the mercy of a woman. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to pick a reliable one. A good one. One who didn't listen to top-forty radio. One who wouldn't lie to him, steal from him, plot his demise, or betray him.

Thank God he'd put himself at the mercy of Emma Jenkins, the world's most trustworthy person.

He nearly hit the ceiling when Hairy jumped on his stomach. Great! He'd forgotten the damn dog had been roaming free through the house the whole day. He was afraid to think about what the downstairs looked like.

Yo, stud puppy. I gotta piss like a racehorse.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, pal."

Thomas removed Emma's warm hand from his chest and her sticky thigh from his hip, and rolled out of bed. He threw on his shorts and staggered down the stairs, Hairy skittering ahead of him like a rat with a hot date.

Thomas let him out the back door and watched as he barely made it to the edge of the patio before lifting his leg on the nearest shrub. When had Hairy stopped peeing like a girl?

And then it occurred to him that the dog hadn't required the urine defense system in many days.

And then he noticed that not a thing was out of place downstairs—no scratch marks on the door, no holes in the rug, no puddles of urine on the tile.

"Life is good," he mumbled to himself, turning his attention to making a pot of coffee. He decided to whip up some sandwiches and take them upstairs to eat in bed with Emma—he didn't want her getting out of his bed for a long, long time.

Maybe the rest of their lives. Unless it was to take a shower. With him.

The phone rang.

"Tobin."

"Dammit, Thomas! Where are you?"

It took a moment, but Thomas eventually understood the significance of this call. It was Rollo, obviously phoning from the sidelines of the pitch. He could hear the whistle of the rugby official in the background and the shouts and grunts of the scrum.

Thomas had forgotten he had a rugby match. It was the first match he'd missed in at least a decade. He blinked.

"Thomas?"

"Yeah. I forgot, I guess."

After a moment of listening to Rollo breathe, he heard Pam's voice in the background, running through a list of questions she wanted relayed to her brother via her husband, and they all had to do with Thomas's physical health and state of mind.

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Tell Pam I'm fine, wouldya? It's just … well … Emma's here and I'm not going to make it today. In fact, I think I might just pack it in permanently."

Rollo's laughter started low and soft and then Thomas heard it rumble and then eventually explode in his ear, only to be followed by a series of obnoxious hoots and whoops.

Thomas hung up on him.

As he pulled out the lettuce, tomato, and turkey from the fridge, it occurred to him that it was true, he'd found something he craved as much as hitting and being hit, that made him feel profoundly alive, that made everything else disappear.

His real reason for living.

And the bonus was that making love to Emma was somewhat easier on his knees and lower back and, with any luck, it was something he could keep doing until he was a very old man.

He was about to set the sandwich makings on the kitchen table when he saw her. She stood in the doorway, in the white oxford shirt he'd worn last night.

Dear God, he'd always loved the sight of a beautiful woman in a man's shirt. But this was Emma in his shirt, and the buttons were cock-eyed, and her hair was falling in a messy cascade down one side of her face, and he could see down into her lusty cleavage and up into the sweet vee of her inner thighs. It was almost more than he could handle.

A rosy flush extended from her chest to her cheeks and her eyes were sparkling and her lips were puffy and he adored her.

He absolutely adored the woman.

"Hi," she whispered, leaning up against the archway. "I think the phone woke me up."

Everything Thomas held in his hands crashed to the tabletop. "Hey, Emma."

She blinked and ran a hand through the shiny fall of hair. "Is this going to be awkward, Thomas? Because I was really hoping we could skip that part. I just want it to be … oh, hell, I don't know…"

"Perfect?" In two strides, he'd eaten up the space between them. He didn't know what he'd do once he got to her—he just knew he had to get there.