McKettrick's Heart (20 page)

He broke off the kiss, stepped back a little way. Worked the front catch on her bra with an expertise that both galled her and vaporized her blood. He caught her breasts the instant they were free, and held them gently. Chafed the already-hard nipples—he'd noticed them in the kitchen, damn him—with the sides of his thumbs.

Molly, who had not been with a man since Thayer, well before Lucas was born, let her head fall back and groaned as Keegan caressed her. She might have told herself any man would have done, her need was that great, but she knew it wasn't true.

Like it or not, Keegan McKettrick was the only game in town.

He took one of her nipples into his mouth.

Molly gasped and plunged her fingers into his hair, not to push him away, but to hold him closer. She was going to regret this, she was sure of it, but in the dizzy meantime, she intended to give herself up to every sensation.

Keegan eased her down onto the rumpled bed, still unmade. Stretched out beside her, agile and graceful, his hard body warm and solid.

He moved on top of her, and she was relieved.

He was going to take her.

She would come to her senses soon.

Taking her wrists in a gentle grip, he raised them high above her head, pressed them into the pillows. Kissed her again, languidly, but with an intimacy that left her dazed.

Take me,
she pleaded silently, too proud to say the words aloud.

He didn't, though. He moved down her body, still holding her wrists in his hands, nibbling at her neck, the upper rounding of her breasts and, finally, a nipple.

Molly groaned aloud.

Keegan chuckled, the sound a seduction in its own right, melting things inside her. He attended thoroughly to her other breast, and then guided her hands to the brass spokes of the headboard.

“You'd better hold on, Molly Shields,” he murmured.

She would think about his arrogance later. About his audacity—

Oh, God.

He was kissing her belly, parting her legs with a motion of his knee.

He wasn't going to—he couldn't be about to—

He was.

He went down on Molly, took her clitoris into his mouth with no hesitation whatsoever.

She arched her back, strangling on a moan.

He feasted on her, tongued her, draped her knees over his shoulders and suckled, now slowly, now greedily, until Molly was pleading incoherently, her body slick with perspiration. She wanted him inside her, she wanted what he was doing to her now to go on and on, forever.

She came to the brink of climax, everything within her tensing for the eruption, but he made her wait. He teased her, brought her back to the edge, left her quivering there, withdrew again. Planted light kisses on the insides of her thighs.

“Oh, Keegan…” she whimpered.

“What?” he murmured.

“Do it.
Please
do it!”

“Do what?”

“Make—me—come…”

“Ummm,” he said, almost thoughtfully. And then she was full in his mouth again, and he was suckling in earnest.

She let go of the headboard and groped for his hair, buried her fingers in it, would not let him leave her.

The orgasm was shattering, like some enormous collision, fiery and ferocious. It would relent a little, then catch her up again, toss her helplessly about in some high, invisible place where she couldn't catch her breath. Keegan drove her into the core of it, again and again, and when he finally lowered her to the bed, she was all but insensible with the echoing force of her release.

She felt his enormous erection against her.

He'd satisfied her completely—or so she thought. This part would be for him—she would play along. Pretend a little, if she had to.

Then he moved inside her.

There would be no pretending, she realized, beginning the climb again with the first long thrust.

She had thought the initial orgasm was the pinnacle.

She'd been wrong.

She locked her legs around Keegan's thighs, tilted her hips up so she could receive everything he wanted to give her and
take
anything he might hold back, as well.

He raised himself onto his hands, hammered deeper into her, and then deeper still.

After several frenzied minutes they came together, with a ragged cry that might have come from either one of them but probably came from both, Keegan with his head thrown back, Molly sobbing and pressing into his back with her fingers, lest he somehow withdraw from her too soon.

But he didn't.

She descended slowly, through a series of softer, ever softer releases, so sweetly intense that she groaned at each one. And at each one, Keegan stayed with her, still hard, still plunging deep.

When it was finally over, he lay down beside her, on his back, gasping for breath. He moved her easily to lie on top of him, and tugged up the blankets, keeping her snug.

It was a very long time before either of them spoke—in fact, Molly wasn't entirely sure they didn't sleep at intervals. She'd lost all track of time.

He stroked her back, squeezed her buttocks lightly, lifted her head from his neck for a few kisses.

He was getting hard again beneath her belly.

“Keegan,” she whispered, “I don't think I can…”

Keegan lifted her so she sat astraddle his hips, and entered her in one powerful thrust. By the second thrust she was moaning. By the third, she was pleading.

By the fourth, she was coming again.

After that she lost count—of the thrusts
and
the orgasms.

 

K
EEGAN LAY ENTANGLED
with Molly until he was sure she was asleep. Then, smiling a little, he got out of bed, pulled on his jeans and left the room. Dawn was breaking, and he meant to get Lucas, carry him upstairs and place him in the crib so Molly wouldn't wake up worried.

But Lucas was already awake and dressed, bouncing in his playpen in the kitchen. Florence was there, too, stirring something on the stove. She gave Keegan a sidelong glance.

“Well, now,” she said. “Look at you, Mr. Keegan McKettrick. Half-decent, at this hour of the morning.”

Keegan didn't bolt, though he wouldn't have set foot in that kitchen, wearing only a pair of misbuttoned jeans, if he'd known Florence was going to be there. “How's Psyche?” he asked.

“Still sleeping,” Florence said.

Lucas stood on tiptoe in the playpen, his arms upraised.

Something happened in Keegan's heart as he hoisted the boy into his arms. Without saying anything to Florence, he turned and set out for the third floor again, as originally intended.

Molly was sitting up in bed, pink cheeked and sleep rumpled, when he arrived. Lucas strained in Keegan's grasp, wanting to go to her.

Keegan handed the child over, suddenly self-conscious.

He gathered up his shirt, boots and socks.

“The shower is that way,” Molly told him, pointing to a door. Her expression revealed little or nothing of what she was thinking, but the soft sparkle in her eyes told the story.

The trial run had been a success.

The question was, where did they go from there?

Twenty minutes later Keegan came out of Molly's bathroom, feeling uncomfortable in yesterday's clothes. He was both relieved and disappointed to see that she was gone, and so, of course, was the boy.

He padded to the nursery door, having glimpsed a crib there earlier, but that room was empty, too. Paused to tug on his boots.

Molly was downstairs in the kitchen, chatting with Florence and sipping coffee while she spooned some kind of cereal goop into Lucas's mouth.

Keegan hesitated in the doorway, watching her.

She wore white linen shorts and a green tank top, and her honey-colored hair was caught up in some kind of clip at the back of her head. Keegan wondered if he should have warned her that Florence knew they'd slept together—she'd have had to be an idiot not to figure that out the moment he first walked into the kitchen.

Molly looked bright, rested—and she glowed with satisfaction.

As if sensing his presence, she turned and saw him standing there.

The cereal spoon froze in midair.

Damn,
he thought.
She regrets it already.

He was stuck, though, with no graceful way to retreat. “How's Psyche?” he asked Florence for the second time that morning.

Molly frowned slightly, and went back to feeding Lucas.

“Go on in there and see for yourself,” Florence said.

“Shall I tell her?” Keegan asked, addressing Molly.

She turned to him again, color flaring in her cheeks.

“About the marriage thing,” he clarified, annoyed.
As if
he'd been going to walk out there onto the sunporch and tell Psyche he'd spent the night in Molly's bed doing what came naturally.

Molly frowned, nodded. Left off feeding Lucas, who had lost interest anyway, and set the spoon and the bowl of cereal aside with a thump.

Keegan wondered, apropos of nothing, when she'd showered. If she'd shared a stall with him, he would have noticed. In fact, they'd probably still be there.

She followed him out after running her palms once down the front of her shorts, an anxious gesture that spoke volumes.

Sorely tempted to bait her a little, Keegan took the high road and assumed a dignified manner. No, sirree, he was not going to mention to Molly, the next time they were alone, that he could still feel her inner thighs squashing his ears.

Psyche looked as though there had been a miraculous healing—her eyes were bright and focused, there was color in her cheeks and she was sitting up, with a book lying open on her lap.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling.

Molly murmured a response. Keegan said nothing.

Psyche raised her eyebrows. “You've decided,” she concluded.

“Yes,” Keegan said.

Molly elbowed him. “Tell her
what
we decided.”

Keegan couldn't resist nettling her a little. “Last night, you mean?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He figured she could be dangerous, under the right circumstances.

“Molly and I are getting married,” he said.

Florence must have been eavesdropping. Something, probably a skillet, clattered loudly to the floor.

Lucas gave a chortling belly laugh and clapped his hands, delighted by any sort of ruckus.

“When?” Psyche asked.

“As soon as you promise to let us raise Lucas if we do,” Molly answered.

Psyche smiled, triumphant. “You have to live together, of course,” she said.

“Of course,” Keegan agreed solemnly. If last night was any indication, all he and Molly had to do was stay in bed 24/7, practicing body slams, and they were good to go.

“It's all settled, then,” Psyche said. “We'll have the wedding ceremony right here in the house. Three days from now. That's how long it takes to get a marriage license, isn't it?”

Keegan closed his eyes in a bid for patience. Reminded himself that the woman was terminally ill, and only trying to assure the best possible life for the child she would soon have to leave behind. “Psyche…”

“Well, of course I need to know for certain that you're actually married,” Psyche said. “I can't just take your word for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because too many things could go wrong. It's not as if I'm impugning your integrity—”

“The hell you aren't,” Keegan growled.

Psyche merely smiled.

“We're going to live on the Triple M,” he said. “Not here.”

“Fine,” Psyche said. “We're all agreed, then. Aren't we, Molly?”

Molly was the color of the underwear she'd been wearing the night before, and her green eyes looked feverish with hope and temper. “Yes,” she said.

“If there are people you want to invite to the wedding,” Psyche went breezily on, “you'd better get in touch with them. And don't forget to apply for the license.”

“Maybe you'd like to choose my dress,” Molly said.

Another beatific smile. “As long as it's not white, dear,” Psyche replied. Then she picked up the book lying on her lap, found her place and began to read again.

Molly turned on one heel and stomped out.

Keegan lingered.

“Was there something else?” Psyche asked innocently.

Keegan approached the bed, gripped the side rail, leaned in and said, “Yeah. There's something else.”