Josie Metcalfe - Miracles in the Village

‘You think I’m tough?’ he asked, flexing his muscles and flirting with her for the first time in years, and she laughed again, softly.

‘You look pretty tough to me.’

Her eyes strayed over him, and he felt the heat building until he thought he’d scream with frustration. But he didn’t scream, and he didn’t leap to his feet and drag her upstairs. Not that he could, unless he sat down and dragged her up backwards!

Instead they stayed in the dining room for their coffee, but he didn’t eat any of the chocolate Brazils. He was full enough—and with the workout he had in mind, he didn’t want to be over-full. Even by one mouthful.

And then, at last, it was finished.

The sun was setting, the last fingers of the day pulling back and leaving them alone in the candlelight.

He met her eyes—they were wary, a little nervous, but unflinching, her lips parted, the breath easing in and out of the top of her chest, rapid and unsteady.

It was time.

He pushed back his chair and stood, holding out a hand to her. ‘Come to bed with me,’ he said softly, and she got to her feet, taking his hand, her eyes locked with his.

‘I ought to clear the table,’ she said, giving it a guilty glance, but he cupped her chin and turned her back towards him, his fingers gentle.

‘Later,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll keep.’

Still she hesitated, killing him, and then she gave a tiny nod, as if she’d made the decision, and, letting go of his hand, she passed him his crutches and headed for the door.

‘You go on up. I’ll let the dog out,’ she said.

He paused. ‘Don’t be long.’

‘I won’t.’

He wanted to stay with her, didn’t trust her not to change her mind and run away, but by the time he was finished in the bathroom, he could hear her calling the dog in, locking the door, running up the stairs.

Running?

He opened the bathroom door and she was standing there, backlit by the landing light, looking just like the girl he’d fallen in love with, and he smiled.

‘Five minutes,’ he said, and she smiled back.

‘Five minutes,’ she agreed.

Lord, she was so nervous!

She’d never felt like this with him, not even the first time, but that had been then and this was now, and so much had happened.

She cleaned her teeth, washed her face and stared at herself in the mirror, wishing she had a gorgeous silk nightdress she could put on, or some really fabulous underwear—something to bolster her confidence and take his eyes off the fact that she was so thin.

But she didn’t. Because she hadn’t expected things to go so far tonight, she was wearing a pretty but still fairly ordinary bra and a pair of lacy knickers, not very new and not overly glamorous even at the beginning, and a sundress which with the best will in the world was very simple.

But at least it covered her.

Oh, help.

She was so scared that her whole body was shaking. What if she froze at the crucial moment? What if she just couldn’t let him?

She looked herself in the eye, took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders.

‘You can do it, Fran,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You can do it.’

He was standing by the window, watching the sun go down.

The room was tinted pink from its last rays, and he held out his hand to her.

‘Come here,’ he ordered softly, and she went to his side, standing in front of him with his arms around her and his head close to hers. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, feel the steady, solid pounding of it as the sun slipped down into the distant sea, melting away in a flare of crimson and gold.

Then he turned her in his arms, staring down at her, his eyes serious.

‘I love you, Francesca,’ he said quietly. ‘You mean everything to me. You’re the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I come to bed at night. You make the sun shine for me, put colour into everything I do. But if this—my love, our marriage, being here with me—isn’t what you want, then I’ll let you go. All I’m asking for is one last night, one last chance to put things right between us. Can you give me that? Give me this chance?’

She couldn’t believe it. This man, who never showed his feelings, certainly never spoke about them, was baring his soul to her in words that brought tears to her eyes.

And nothing— nothing —could have convinced her more that their marriage was worth saving.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find any words to match his, so instead, swallowing the tears and stepping back, she held out her hand to him.

He took it, squeezed it, then swung himself over to the bed, less awkward now on his crutches, and propped them up against the wall, then took her hand again and drew her close.

‘I love you,’ he breathed, bending his head and touching his lips lightly to hers. She parted her lips but he eased away, cradling her close, pressing soft, breathy kisses to her hair, her temple, her cheek, his lips grazing her skin like the wings of an angel.

She let her head fall over to one side, giving him access to the incredibly sensitive skin of her throat, and she felt the hot trail of his breath as his lips traced slowly down to the hollow at the bottom, the rasp of stubble unbearably erotic.

She could feel her heart beating there, his lips pressed softly to the pulse point. A little cry rose in her throat, and he must have felt it vibrate under his lips because he moved then, lifting his head, staring down into her eyes as if he was trying to read her soul.

He ought to be able to. It was there for him to read, everything she was, everything she felt for him laid out there for him to see.

And maybe he did, because he smiled then, a tiny flicker of encouragement, before his mouth lowered again and he captured her lips with his. She opened to him on a sigh, and this time he settled his mouth against hers, his arms tightening, supporting her as his kiss grew bolder, deepening until she thought her knees would go out from under her.

But he had her, held close against his heart, and finally he lifted his head and stared down at her again.

‘I want you, Fran,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I need you. Not just tonight, but every night, for the rest of our lives. I need you more than I need to breathe.’

‘Oh, Mike,’ she whispered, the tears that had threatened earlier finally spilling over. ‘I need you, too. I love you—so very, very much. I just don’t know if I can be the woman you want.’

‘You are the woman I want,’ he said, his voice vibrating with sincerity, ‘and if you can’t do this—if you really don’t want to, then you’re still the woman I want. I still love you. Whatever happens, I’ll always love you.’

‘I can do this,’ she said, her doubts dissolving like mist in the sunshine, leaving her certain. ‘Make love to me, Mike. I’ve missed you so, so much.’

He gave a ragged, broken groan, and his mouth came down on hers hard, seeking, demanding her response, and she rose up on tiptoe, threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him right back, her tongue tangling with his, stroking, suckling, pleading until he dragged his mouth away and reached for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head and throwing it aside, his eyes settling on her hungrily.

The bra was gone in a second, then he pushed her back onto the mattress, one hand capturing hers and holding them over her head, the other cupping her heat, his fingers curling hot against her, slipping under the edge of the lace and tracing the soft, aching flesh that wept for his touch.

‘Mike, please …’ she gasped, and he straightened and stripped them away, leaving her there exposed to his eyes. The bedroom light was off, but the landing light was on and she knew he could see her clearly. Knew by the way his eyes darkened, the way his lips parted and the air hissed out of them.