A Midnight Clear (13 page)

It was now then
.

The nerves came rushing back. Because what if he didn’t fit and what if it hurt and what if she was terrible at it?
 

But she shifted her hips, eased herself into the place that felt right. He helped with a hand at her waist, the other gripping himself as he found her center. She felt his touch between her legs.
 

He waited, for half a heartbeat. “If it hurts—”

She pressed herself down on him, ready for what might come. There was burning and stretching… but…
but there was nothing to fear
.

He pushed forward, slowly, gently. “Frances. Frances.” Wondering. Reverently. And she knew he was feeling what she had before.

She moved with his thrusts, meeting him there. His hands clasped her hips, ran over her back, brushed her breasts, until her skin was simmering with anticipation. She kissed him hard on the mouth and savored the sweetness of this moment. They had been made one flesh.

She sensed that this was only the first step. She hadn’t sat down at the piano that very first time and played a passionate recitation of Beethoven—but with time and care and practice, the full flowing passion could be expressed.

And with time and care and practice, their full flowing passion would come together.

Tonight, as intimate and surprising as it was, was only the start.

He shuddered beneath her, a groan tearing from his throat. She felt it deep within her, which struck her as unspeakably wondrous.

Afterward, they nestled together. Joe kept her pulled tight against him, and he dropped kisses over every bit of her he could reach.

“I thought,” he whispered as he paused over her forehead, “I was going to stare at that bathroom door all night and you’d never come out.”

“I was considering it.”

“Are you glad you opened the door?”

She giggled against his chest. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you glad we…” he trailed out.

Oh, dear, adorable, solicitous Joe. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Ensign Reynolds?”

He nipped at her ear. “Yes, Mrs. Reynolds.”

Frances’s entire body flushed with pleasure at her new name. “You make me feel more than I knew was possible. I’m glad I’m sharing your bed.” It was both true and the best she could do, at least tonight. She’d run entirely through her store of bravery; she had none left for naughty words. But naughty deeds were another matter. “In fact”—she kissed his chest and tightened her hands around him—“I hope we don’t see much of the falls.”

“Is that so?” She could hear his smile.

“We have a few things to practice.”

“Only a few?”

In a heartbeat, he’d rolled her beneath him. But rather than kissing her senseless, as she’d expected, he nuzzled his nose against hers.

“I love you.” His tone was full of awe, and the words were a promise. He said what had long been true and he spoke of the future. Nothing had ever made her feel so free and so cherished at once.

So she put as much into the three words when she gave them back to him: “I love you.”

Thank You!

Thank you for reading
A Midnight Clear
—we hope you enjoyed it!

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A Midnight Clear
is a prequel novella to
Star Dust
;
turn the page for a sneak peek!

Houston, 1962

Anne-Marie Smith wanted normal: a loving husband, two beautiful kids, and a well-kept house. But when she catches her husband cheating, she decides that normal isn’t worth it. Now in a new city with a new job, she’s trying to find her new normal—but she knows it doesn’t include the sexy playboy astronaut next door.

Commander Kit Campbell has a taste for fast: fast cars, fast planes, and even faster women. But no ride he’s ever taken will be as fast as the one he’s taking into orbit. He’s willing to put up with the prying adoration of an entire country if it will get him into space.

But Anne-Marie and Kit’s inconvenient attraction threatens both
normal
and
fast
. As the space race heats up, his ambitions and their connection collide and combustion threatens their plans… and their hearts.

Available Now!

Houston, Texas

January 1962

It took some shifting, but at last she found the box labeled linens. Enough tape to plug a leak in the Hoover Dam helpfully slathered it. She pulled on a corner, managing to get a tab free, but when she leaned back, the little piece ripped clean off.

Why had she sent the movers away? They hadn’t been too bad… Okay, yes, they had been, but she should have made them open more things first. She didn’t have a knife—silly, practical men and their tools—but she did have a nail file. Maybe it would do?

Anne-Marie levered the blade into the corner of the box and began sawing through the tape. One inch. Two. Jeez, she’d made an error not starting with a box with knives in it because this was going to take forever.

As she progressed, the box began to rock. She slapped her left hand onto the top to steady it.

“Hold still, almost done,” she ordered it between grunts. But before she could get too excited, the nail file shot forward. It sliced through the last few inches of tape and lodged itself into her hand.

For a long second, she blinked at the gash shining garnet on her finger. Then she pulled the blade out and wrapped her finger in her blouse to staunch the bleeding.

“Damn,” she whispered, permitting herself a rare obscenity. She blew the hair that had fallen into her eyes off her face. She truly was a wreck.

She stumbled back to the kitchen and nudged her pocketbook open with her elbow. She didn’t have so much as a tissue. What kind of a mother didn’t have an adhesive bandage or two?

She didn’t want to answer that. She also didn’t want to meet her neighbors bleeding and disheveled. She’d intended to make something for them, to wear a dress, anything that might negate her marital status.
See: I’m not threatening! I brought a quiche
.

Divorce might be a problem beyond quiche. But so was the cut on her finger.

She took her hand out of her shirt. Blood immediately welled and began to drip. She wrapped her finger up again and, muttering all the way, she pushed the front door open and went in search of help.

Lake Glade wasn’t a neighborhood yet—it was mostly open lots. Her and her neighbor’s houses sat at the end of a cul-de-sac called Harbor View. They did not in fact have a harbor view; there wasn’t a harbor at all, only a big pond. The developer was an awfully good salesman.

A bright white Thunderbird sat in the neighbor’s driveway. At least someone was there. She knocked as best she could with her elbow. After several long beats, she knocked again. Inside the house, something thumped and then someone cursed.

A male someone.

Before she could figure out what a man might be doing home on a Monday morning, the door opened and a chest confronted her. A muscular, hair-dusted chest. She swallowed and blinked at the flat, pink nipple inches from her nose.

Anne-Marie tried to process it, the pink nipple and the tawny skin and the golden hair, but before she could, she looked up into the face that went with the chest. The same face stared out from the cover of the
Life Magazine
currently sitting on the coffee table in her mother’s house across town.

“Commander Christopher Campbell?” Her voice came out high and breathless.

She’d learned a lot about herself in the past eighteen months: she couldn’t abide unfaithfulness; the comforts of her marriage didn’t make the rest of it worth it; she could take care of her children on her own; and in fact, she liked being alone.

Most of these facts had been good. But that she got flustered and star-struck when confronted with a shirtless, albeit famous, man? Not welcome.

She focused on his eyes, which were big and blue. Then she dug around for the last bit of her poise. Finding it, she did not allow herself to react as he smiled. Slowly. As if he knew all the things she’d just thought about. Which was, thank goodness, quite impossible.

He spoke. “Usually the women who show up on my doorstep call me Kit.”

Oh, that helped. She was less flustered already. Nothing snapped her back to reality faster than the arrogance of a highly sexed man.

From the way he’d said the line, she suspected there were a lot more of them. He may have—he did have—an impressive physique, but that was why she didn’t believe in that sort of thing. Doug may not have been so… earthy, but he was plenty good-looking. And that had gotten her nowhere.

If she ever did settle down again, it would be with an absolutely regular-looking man, and preferably not one who answered the door only partially dressed in order to flirt with strange women.

At least Commander Campbell—that was,
Kit
—could probably give her a bandage and a knife. So what if his trousers did cling to his… No, she was not going to think about his hips.

Utterly composed, she said, “I’m your new neighbor. Next door. Anne-Marie Smith.”

His smile broadened. “I saw the truck. Welcome.”

“I, well…” She looked down. The blood on her blouse resembled a gruesome poppy.

Kit inhaled sharply, evidently noticing her injury for the first time. “Come in.”

He slid a hand around her elbow, and with all the skin on display and the blood loss, she felt a bit of a jolt at the contact.
This type of man infuriates you
, she reminded herself.

“We’ll get that cleaned up,” he was saying, “but my house is, uh, a bit of a mess.”

She gasped as she stepped over the threshold. Saying his house was a mess was ridiculous—a horde of toddlers may as well have rioted there.

A chair had been overturned and pillows streamed across the floor. A lamp rested on its side, the shade gone. Food and debris littered the carpeting. Overarching the room was the strong scent of stale alcohol.

Kit gently but firmly led her around the scene of destruction. “The kitchen’s through here.”

She tried to ignore the crunching every step generated. It sounded as if someone had sprinkled crackers over the floor and then danced on them. Maybe it was some sort of astronaut game.

Luckily, the kitchen was cleaner. Evidently most of the party had been focused elsewhere. Kit propped her against the cabinets and released her. Her arm suddenly felt colder, and she shivered.

“Do you get squeamish at the sight of blood?” he asked as he produced a first aid kit from a drawer and popped it open.

“No.” Nearly a decade of motherhood had cured her of that—but she omitted the detail. For some completely silly reason, she was uncomfortable with the idea of him thinking of her as a mother, but of course he’d know soon enough.

“What’d you cut yourself on?” he asked.

“Nail file.”

He grimaced appreciatively and poured rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball.
 

“This is going to hurt.”

She was tempted to say something saucy, but more than she wanted to snap at him, she wanted him to wrap her wound so she could unpack. Sniping at him would have to wait.

With a deep breath, she pulled her hand from her shirt and set it in his. His palm was warm and surprisingly soft. He immediately pressed the cotton ball down on the cut, and her eyes watered. She bit the inside of her lip to avoid crying out.

“Shh,” he whispered, rubbing her wrist with slightly callused fingers. “It’ll be better in a second.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. He kept running his fingers over her. She could feel it in her toes—which must have been her body’s way of distracting her from the stinging.

His fingertips caught on the bones of her wrist, grazed over the side of her hand, and then back again. She inhaled, hoping sense might enter her lungs with the air. He was a man: a pretty, vain playboy of a man. This wasn’t the time to become attracted.

He lifted the cotton and then reapplied it, pressing harder. “You really cut yourself.”

“Yup.” She sure had.