it, just wasn't sure she could bear the heartbreaking reminder of other passionate trips in his arms that ended oh so differently than this one would. "Would you pass me the crutches from the back, please? I can make it up there on my own."
"Damn it, Rena." His eyes snapped along with his voice. "Is it really that distasteful to have me touch you?"
His arms dropped, hands hooked on his hips, narrow hips, his fingers pointing a direct arrow to—
Her eyes jerked up. Heat delivered a double whammy to her cheeks, then pooled lower. Hotter.
"What?"
"I know you can maneuver around on crutches. And I realize the doctor said everything looks okay with the pregnancy. But you know as well as I do that I can carry you inside. The strain will be less than your trying to maneuver with crutches. Why exert yourself? Unless my touching you is so damned awful."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He hooked a hand on the open doorway, just over her head. "I'm sorry if my touching you is a problem."
"It's not a problem." Not how he meant, anyway.
"Good. We've always put the kids first. This baby shouldn't be any different."
Rena swung her legs to the side and out, waiting. Bracing herself for the feel of his hands on her body, the unyielding wall of his muscled chest against the give of her own softer flesh.
Broad palms slid under her, one arm around her back, the other under her knees. By instinct, her arm glided up and around his neck. Her fingers found the bristly shortness of the hair along the nape of his neck. Only a soft grunt from him indicated any reaction.
And the reaction wasn't from exertion.
Even with the few extra pregnancy pounds she'd packed on, carrying her posed no hardship for her honed husband. He kept in tip-top shape for the physical aspects of his job that even more mechanized cargo holds couldn't completely eradicate.
So many times she'd stood in the doorway leading to the garage and watched him lift weights, his muscles straining and shifting under sweat-sheened skin. Determination and focus. Strength.
She drew in a shaky breath and found the scent of him, fuller, stronger. How could she have forgotten the familiar potency of his smell—pine soap and musky man? Clean. Arousing.
Pure J.T.
What the hell was with the immutable, near-insane physical attraction she felt for this man? Would she spend the rest of her life starving for his touch?
A daunting thought.
His gym shoes thudded along the flagstone path and up the wooden porch steps. Already voices drifted through the door along with someone playing show tunes on the piano. The lace curtains rippled with the movement of bodies inside.
Only a few seconds more in J.T.'s arms. A few seconds more for the memories to tempt her.
Unstoppable images so she didn't have to waste energy trying to tamp them down.
Yes, she and J.T. had hurt each other, done so many things wrong, but some things right. And at the moment, all those beautiful, special, right things about her marriage blossomed through her mind. Did he remember them, too? She couldn't change the past, but she had control over the present, and she intended to make sure J.T. carried something positive with him from their years together.
Her hand fell to stop his on the doorknob. "J.T.?"
He peered down at her. "Problem?"
She squeezed his hand, let her fingers linger in spite of his stunned eyes widening. "No doubt we're wrong for each other in a hundred different ways. But never, never have I found your touch distasteful. Far from it."
His fingers twitched against her, tightened, the only sign he'd heard her as his face stayed stoic.
Unemotional. Handsome ruggedness carved in granite.
Still, he'd heard her, and her words meant something to him. Her defenses slipped, and she didn't have the heart to recall them, instead allowed the need building during their ride home to bloom.
She brought her hand up to rest on his neck again. "I thought you already knew that, except now I'm realizing maybe with everything
"Damn it, Rena." His eyes snapped along with his voice. "Is it really that distasteful to have me touch you?"
His arms dropped, hands hooked on his hips, narrow hips, his fingers pointing a direct arrow to—
Her eyes jerked up. Heat delivered a double whammy to her cheeks, then pooled lower. Hotter.
"What?"
"I know you can maneuver around on crutches. And I realize the doctor said everything looks okay with the pregnancy. But you know as well as I do that I can carry you inside. The strain will be less than your trying to maneuver with crutches. Why exert yourself? Unless my touching you is so damned awful."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He hooked a hand on the open doorway, just over her head. "I'm sorry if my touching you is a problem."
"It's not a problem." Not how he meant, anyway.
"Good. We've always put the kids first. This baby shouldn't be any different."
Rena swung her legs to the side and out, waiting. Bracing herself for the feel of his hands on her body, the unyielding wall of his muscled chest against the give of her own softer flesh.
Broad palms slid under her, one arm around her back, the other under her knees. By instinct, her arm glided up and around his neck. Her fingers found the bristly shortness of the hair along the nape of his neck. Only a soft grunt from him indicated any reaction.
And the reaction wasn't from exertion.
Even with the few extra pregnancy pounds she'd packed on, carrying her posed no hardship for her honed husband. He kept in tip-top shape for the physical aspects of his job that even more mechanized cargo holds couldn't completely eradicate.
So many times she'd stood in the doorway leading to the garage and watched him lift weights, his muscles straining and shifting under sweat-sheened skin. Determination and focus. Strength.
She drew in a shaky breath and found the scent of him, fuller, stronger. How could she have forgotten the familiar potency of his smell—pine soap and musky man? Clean. Arousing.
Pure J.T.
What the hell was with the immutable, near-insane physical attraction she felt for this man? Would she spend the rest of her life starving for his touch?
A daunting thought.
His gym shoes thudded along the flagstone path and up the wooden porch steps. Already voices drifted through the door along with someone playing show tunes on the piano. The lace curtains rippled with the movement of bodies inside.
Only a few seconds more in J.T.'s arms. A few seconds more for the memories to tempt her.
Unstoppable images so she didn't have to waste energy trying to tamp them down.
Yes, she and J.T. had hurt each other, done so many things wrong, but some things right. And at the moment, all those beautiful, special, right things about her marriage blossomed through her mind. Did he remember them, too? She couldn't change the past, but she had control over the present, and she intended to make sure J.T. carried something positive with him from their years together.
Her hand fell to stop his on the doorknob. "J.T.?"
He peered down at her. "Problem?"
She squeezed his hand, let her fingers linger in spite of his stunned eyes widening. "No doubt we're wrong for each other in a hundred different ways. But never, never have I found your touch distasteful. Far from it."
His fingers twitched against her, tightened, the only sign he'd heard her as his face stayed stoic.
Unemotional. Handsome ruggedness carved in granite.
Still, he'd heard her, and her words meant something to him. Her defenses slipped, and she didn't have the heart to recall them, instead allowed the need building during their ride home to bloom.
She brought her hand up to rest on his neck again. "I thought you already knew that, except now I'm realizing maybe with everything
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