“Go deep,” I tell her, loving the way her lids get all heavy and her lips part like she’s about to moan.  I know the instant she does it.  I know when she pushes her finger inside.  Her breath brushes my cheek in a quick puff.  I figure she’s about as close to coming as I can stand her being without doing something I’ll regret.  “Now let me taste.”

“Ohmygod,” she groans quietly, gently taking her hand from her pants and hesitantly raising it between us.  When she stops, I reach for her wrist.  Without taking my eyes off hers, I bring it to my mouth and slide her moist finger across my tongue, licking it from base to tip.

“You taste better than ice cream, Eden Taylor,” I tell her. And then I give in to the urge to kiss her. It’s quick and violent and full of all the insane things that she makes me feel.  And then I let her go. Because that’s the responsible thing to do.  Her kid’s in the house, for chrissake.

Reluctantly, I release her mouth and rest my forehead against hers.  “Damn you, woman!  Damn you for making me feel this way.”

“I’m pretty sure this is all your fault, Mr. Danzer.”

When I raise my head, she’s smiling up at me. I’ve never wanted something, anything, anyone, so much in all my life as I want this woman right now.

I push away from the wall and take her hand again.  “Come on. If we don’t get this over with, your daughter’s liable to get an education that she’s too young for.”

Her smile tells me she knows I’m kidding.

Mostly.

The last stop on the tour is the master suite. It takes up the majority of the west side of the house.  I stop at the double doors and gesture for her to go first. I just stand back and observe.

It’s as I watch her walk through the room, touching the ice blue comforter, dragging her fingers along the edge of the dresser, that the reality of having her here, of feeling the crazy way I do about her, hits me.  She belongs here. With me. In this room. In this house. In my life.

“This is amazing,” she whispers in awe when she reaches the floor-to-ceiling windows across from the bed.  They’re framed by nothing and filled with the snowy beach beyond.

Most people find the beach soothing–the waves, the horizon, the endless stretch of sand.  But I don’t care about most people. I care about this woman. And for some reason, it pleases me that she’s reacting this way.

I don’t approach her. For some reason, this moment has taken on a different feel. It’s not sexual, despite the things we’ve done and talked about doing.  This moment is real.  The jarring kind of real.  The earth-quaking kind of real.  And I feel it in numb places that I never thought would be able to feel again.

She turns abruptly and pins me with those incredible eyes of hers.  “What are you thinking?  Right now?”

I start toward her, loving the way she looks both nervous and excited the closer I get.  Her face is so expressive. I doubt she could hide what she was feeling if she tried. I’ve known from day one that she was attracted to me. I love that I can read her so easily.

Even though I can see how she feels, written right there on her face, I still don’t tell her what I was really thinking.

“I love that, even though you’re a good mother and a lady right down to the way that you fold your napkin in your lap, you took a naughty tour of my house and said ‘cock’ in the guest bath. You realize that officially makes you every man’s dream woman, right?”

“Are you saying you dream about me?”

“More often than you know.”

“Care to tell me about some of those dreams?”

“I think I just did, but I’d be happy to show you later if you’re that interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested alright.”

I’m so close I’m practically pressing her back to the cold glass of the window.  It would take so little for me to get her out of her pants and wrap those luscious legs around my waist.  Just a flick here and a zip there.

“You’re dangerous. Did you know that?” I tell her.

“Funny, I was just thinking that same thing about you a few minutes ago.”

“Stay with me, Eden,” I say impulsively. I’m not even sure what I mean, what I’m asking of her.

Again, her transparent eyes tell me what she’s going to say before she says it.  “I can’t. Emmy…”

“She can stay, too, of course.  I meant both of you.”

“She needs her room, her things. She needs that stability.  We move so much, it’s the only thing I can give her on a consistent basis. Other than me.  I, uh, I guess you’ll just have to come to me,” she adds with a sexy twist of her lips.

I smile down into her face.  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

TWENTY-THREE

Eden

THE LITTLE COTTAGE we’ve called home for almost three months feels empty tonight.  Cole got a call from Jason about a renter who lost hot water, so Emmy and I came on home while he went to fix it. He didn’t know how long he’d be, so we didn’t make any set plans to see each other or talk to each other later. Maybe that’s the reason I feel off.

Emmy seemed to notice the quiet when we first got here, but she’s lying on the living room floor, coloring happily now.  We played a game and read a story, so determined was I that she not notice his absence.  Or my reaction to it.  Whatever else happens in my life, it’s imperative that Emmy not be affected by it. And the melancholy I’m fighting has me wondering if having Cole in our lives was such a good idea.

It’s too late now, though, and the thought of giving him up is becoming increasingly distasteful.

I’m sitting quietly in the chair, watching my daughter draw and listening to her hum, when she throws down her crayon and climbs to her feet. She races the short distance to me and throws herself into my arms.  She puts her little hands on either of my cheeks and squeezes, giving me “fish face” as she loves to do.

She’s smiling at me when she observes, “You laughed a lot today, Momma.”

“I did?”

“Uh-huh.”  The expression on her face is that of someone who has uncovered a wonderful secret.  “You like him, don’t you?”

Hmmm. How to answer that carefully…

“I think he’s very nice. Don’t you?”

She nods enthusiastically.  “He makes good French toast.  And he dances funny.”

She wrinkles her nose and I do the same, nodding in agreement.  “He does, doesn’t he?”

Emmy giggles.  “But I like it.”

“I do, too.”

“He makes you happy, right?”

“You make me happy,” I skirt.

“But he could make you happy if I’m not here, right?”

“Nothing could make me happy if you weren’t here. I love you too much, doodle bug.”

Her smile melts into a disappointed face.  “But you’d try, right?”

I try not to make a big deal of her odd questions and her concern with my happiness. I figure it has to have something to do with her emotional scars from what happened. I don’t even pretend to know the way a child’s mind works, but it worries me when she starts this stuff.

“Emmy, why do you worry about me being happy without you?”

“Because I might not always be here.”

“What makes you think that?”

She shrugs, letting her hands fall away from my face to rest on my chest.  “Sometimes angels go to heaven.  And you said I’m an angel.”

“You’re my angel, but that doesn’t mean you’ll go to heaven anytime soon.  Most of the time, God lets mommas and daddys keep their angels for a long, long time.”

As she ponders this, she pooches her lips out over and over, like she’s kissing.   “But Mr. Danzer didn’t get to keep his angel.”

“No.  But you shouldn’t let that worry you, sweetie.  I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”

I know I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep, but as long as I’m alive and able, I will keep her safe. And I’m hoping my promise will ease her mind. Emmy has enough to deal with in her life without worrying about death and what will happen to her mother if she were to die.