Within Reach (17 page)

“It’s a nice idea, Mum, but I’ve had a crappy day. I’m more than happy to be here with you and the kids.”

“Tough luck. There’s only enough for the three of us.”

“Then I’ll have an egg on toast or something.”

He headed for the kitchen. He heard the rustle of clothing and knew his mother followed him.

“I’m not going to take no for an answer, Michael.”

“Mum, it’s a lovely gesture, but I’m fine. I don’t want to go out.”

“Which is exactly my point. When was the last time you did something on your own? Something for you?”

He sighed. She sounded like one of those women’s magazine self-help articles.

“I’m fine. I don’t need ‘me time.’”

“Everyone needs me time, Michael. Especially men who are trying to establish a new identity after the loss of a spouse.”

Her words were like a slap in the face. Dear old Mum, always the diplomat.

“My identity is fine.”

“Great. Take it out for the night, give it some exercise.”

She had a martial glint in her eye, and he could see Eva watching from the couch. Not wanting to make a bigger deal out of it than necessary, he shook his head.

“Fine. If you’re so determined. I’ll go out.”

“Good man.”

Twenty minutes later, he’d showered and changed into a pair of jeans and was driving away from the house with no idea what he would do for the next two to three hours. After a moment’s thought he aimed the car toward the nearest multiplex. He didn’t really want to see a movie, but given the options available to a single guy at seven-thirty on a Wednesday night, he figured he didn’t have much choice.

As he’d half suspected, the movies on offer weren’t really his speed, but he dutifully bought a ticket to a movie that promised lots of special effects and noises and grabbed a rear seat so he could make a quick exit if need be.

He’d never been a movie alone before. He knew people did it all the time, but he felt ridiculously self-conscious as packs of teens and couples filed into the cinema. He imagined what they would think if they knew he was only here because his mother had made him come.

Beyond pathetic, really.

He endured the movie as long as he could before boredom and growing frustration forced him to his feet. This was not how he wanted to spend his time. He emerged into the neon-lit foyer, digging for his keys in his pocket. Then he caught sight of the time. No way could he go home yet. He’d barely been gone an hour.

He looked around helplessly, utterly clueless. There was a sticky-looking coffee shop next door to the cinemas. He could sit there and nurse a coffee for another hour or so. Next to that was an arcade. He could empty his wallet into a coin slot and play pinball and shoot ’em ups with a bunch of sweaty teenagers.

He wound up in the car, driving toward the city and the hip and happening streets of Fitzroy. A parking spot appeared on his left so he took it and walked into the first likely establishment, a huge barn of a bar with a distressed industrial sign that declared it was Naked for Satan. Inside, he discovered dozens of different varieties of vodkas, too much noise and a clientele that was so young they made him feel older than God.

He ordered a straight vodka and sat at the bar and fiddled with his phone in an attempt to make it seem like he had something to do. Sound whirled around him, laughter rising and falling above the general hubbub. Girls flirted with boys. Boys flirted with boys. The bar staff handed out disdainful looks and overpriced novelty vodkas.

Michael had never felt more alone. Not simply because he
was
alone, but because he didn’t fit into any of this. He wasn’t a bar kind of guy, the same as he wasn’t a blockbuster movie kind of guy. He was a father, and he’d been a husband. He liked days at the beach with his kids and bad bistro food in the suburbs. He liked talking and laughing with Angie, watching the emotions move across her face.

He went very still, suddenly understanding why he was sitting in this bar in this suburb. Angie’s apartment was around the corner. Only a few hundred very dangerous meters away.

You freakin’ idiot.

He headed for the door, leaving his untouched vodka on the bar. He emerged onto the street to find it had started raining. He started walking in search of his car, determined to go home.

Because no way could he even contemplate the alternative: going to Angie’s place. Knocking on the door. Telling her that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

No way.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
NGIE
WAS
DOZING
ON
the couch when a sharp rap woke her. A few muzzy seconds later she realized someone was knocking at her door. At—her gaze found the clock on her DVD player—at ten at night.

She’d stripped to her panties and a tank top when she got home from dinner out with a group of her Stradbroke friends, and she diverted to her bed to grab her silk kimono-style robe before approaching the door. Hands busy tying the sash at her waist, she squinted through the spyhole.

Michael stood on the other side of the door, his head downturned, his expression unreadable.

“Michael,” she said out loud, stunned to see him there. She twisted the lock and swung the door open.

Without the distortion of the spyhole lens she saw that he was wet, his hair half plastered to his head, his T-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders. His gaze lifted to her face. He didn’t say a word, but she knew instantly why he was here.

Because, like her, he hadn’t been able to forget what had happened between them.

Even though they had both agreed it was a mistake. Even though neither of them wanted to endanger their friendship.

Common sense said she should offer him a towel and then send him on his way. If she let him into her apartment, she knew what would happen. It was a foregone conclusion.

She stepped backward, opening the door wider. Michael’s gaze held hers, questioning. She took another step. He walked in.

She shut the door, heat already building between her thighs, excitement licking along her veins.

Michael stood in the middle of her space, his gaze bouncing from the kitchen to the couch to her bed. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom, passing it to him. Then she walked to the bed and untied the sash on her robe. The silk slid down her arms, a whisper against her skin. She didn’t dare look at Michael as she pulled her top over her head. Her panties followed. She tugged back the corner of the quilt and climbed into bed.

She watched as Michael stripped and walked toward the bed, his erection standing proud. The bed dipped as he got in the other side. She rolled toward him, and he pulled her into his arms. His skin was cool against hers, making her nipples bead. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against him, offering him her heat.

Offering him everything.

His lips found hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth. His hand caressed her hip, tracing the curve, moving onto her thigh and then up again before curling around to cup her ass. As though he couldn’t get enough of her. As though he’d been thinking of touching her ever since he’d stopped.

She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and down his back. His mouth left hers, kissing a trail to her ear. He pressed an openmouthed kiss to the sensitive skin there, sending sensation ricocheting through her body. She pressed her hips forward, seeking the hard length of him, needing more.

His hand found her knee, encouraging it over his hip, exposing her to his touch. His hand smoothed down her ass and between her legs. She knew exactly when he discovered how wet she was because his erection surged against her belly, hard and hot. He started to stroke her, his other hand teasing her breasts. She slid a hand between their bodies, curling her fingers around his shaft, and stroked him in return, learning him, savoring the strength of him.

He slid a finger inside her and she whispered his name. He responded with a kiss that took her breath away before pushing her onto her back. She blinked at him, dazed and painfully aroused. His gaze swept her body, lingering on her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Seeing the naked desire in his eyes only excited her further. He moved on top of her and she reached for his shoulders, already anticipating the hard heat of his penetration. He surprised her by shifting farther down in the bed, his hands smoothing down her body in a leisurely caress. He kissed her breasts, pulling her nipple into his mouth and alternating between suckling it and teasing her with the tip of his tongue before switching his attention to her other breast. She shifted on the pillows, her bones turning to liquid.

After long, torturous minutes, his hand traced a path up her thigh until he was delving into her folds, stroking her. She lifted her hips, asking wordlessly for him to give her what she wanted. He smiled against her breasts and shifted farther down again, his mouth blazing a hot trail down her belly. She forgot to breathe as he kissed his way across her hip, shifting so that his shoulders were between her thighs now. He glanced at her, his gray-green eyes heavy-lidded with carnal intent. Then he lowered his head and pressed an openmouthed kiss to her, his tongue tracing and teasing, his hands stroking the sensitive, pale skin of her inner thighs. She shuddered and twisted her hands in the sheets and started to pant.

He picked up the pace, his hands sliding beneath her backside, lifting her toward him. She was helpless, lost in a world of spiraling desire and sensation. Unable to stop herself, she slid her fingers into his hair, anchoring herself.

She was on the verge, literally seconds away from an explosive climax, when he broke contact with her. Before she could protest, his weight came on top of her and she felt the hard press of him at her entrance. She lifted her hips greedily, eagerly, and he slid inside to the hilt. It was all she needed, her climax rushing over her, arching her back and stealing her breath.

Michael remained still inside her until she’d stopped shuddering, then he started to move. He kissed her, drugging, languorous kisses that only made her want more. His hands skimmed her hips and breasts and belly before he finally slid a hand between their bodies and found her with his fingers.

Stroke by stroke, caress by caress, he built the need within her again. She wrapped a leg around his hips and moved with him, reveling in the slide of his body inside hers and the slow build of sensation. She was so wet, he was so hard, it felt so good….

Her second climax lasted longer, a long, warm pulse of pleasure that went on and on. Michael lost it halfway through, burying himself inside her and grinding his hips against hers as he found his own release. He withdrew immediately this time, rolling to one side. She’d barely registered the loss when he pulled her close, encouraging her onto her side so he could tuck his body in behind hers spoon style.

His arm circled her waist, one hand cupping her breast. She could feel his heart rate normalize, the hectic heat of his body cooling. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. She reached back and rested her hand on his hip.

He didn’t say a word, and neither did she. They simply lay in the dark, their bodies warm and sated. After a few minutes, Michael’s breathing evened out and she realized he was asleep. She let her heavy lids drop closed. He felt so good snuggled up behind her, the hair on his legs deliciously rough on the backs of hers, his arm a welcome weight across her body.

In a distant part of her mind, she was aware that this had raised far more questions than it had answered, but worry would have to wait for when she was feeling less drowsy and cozy and safe….

* * *

M
ICHAEL
DRIFTED
TOWARD
wakefulness as Billie stirred in his arms. He nuzzled his face closer to her neck, inhaling the smell of oranges and flowers. He smiled to himself. She was such a restless sleeper, just as she was restless in life, too, constantly flitting from one thing to the next.

She moved again, her long legs tangling with his.

And suddenly he was wide awake, his brain telling him that it was Angie in his arms, Angie’s long legs that were tangled with his and whose perfume he was inhaling.

Angie—not Billie.

He slid his arm free and rolled away from her, sick with himself for having confused the two women. It had only been for a few seconds, but it had been enough. Angie wasn’t Billie. She was her own person. And Billie… Billie was gone.

He threw off the quilt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His clothes were scattered on the floor, a sodden mess. He dressed with urgent hands. All he could think about was getting out of here, getting some air and some space to sort through his feelings.

Angie stirred. He was aware of her pushing her hair out of her eyes and blinking as he did up the fly on his jeans.

“What time is it?” she asked as he sat to pull on his shoes.

“Just past twelve. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Your clothes are probably still wet.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can put them in the dryer. They’ll only take twenty minutes—”

“Thanks, but it’s not a problem.” He stood, focused on the door.

“Okay.”

Angie’s face was a pale oval in the dark. He couldn’t see her eyes very well but he didn’t need to to know that she was trying to work out what was going on. Trying to understand why he was scrambling to leave her bed when only a couple of hours ago he’d been panting to get into it.

“I have to go.”

She turned on the bedside lamp. Golden light spilled across the sheets, gilding her bare breasts. He looked away, but not before a lick of need raced through him.

It only made him want to escape more because he couldn’t handle it, couldn’t reconcile his feelings for her with his feelings for Billie. He felt as though he was at war with himself—and the really great thing was that the person who was copping the worst of it was Angie. First he’d abandoned her in the study, now he was about to bolt for the door. All because he hadn’t been able to walk away when he’d found himself on her doorstep this evening.

She rose and reached for her robe. He clenched his fist around the keys in his pocket and forced himself to wait for her to tie the sash and pull her hair out of the collar. His throat tightened as he watched her. She was upset but trying not to show it. Trying to let him go without making a fuss.

“There’s a red button beside the street exit in the foyer,” she said as she led him to the door. “Hit it and it will let you out.”

“Thanks.” He hovered, even though she hadn’t said a word to stop him from leaving.

“It’s okay, Michael, I get it. I know you need to go,” she said, her eyes understanding.

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You’re the best.”

It was a trite, impersonal thing to say, utterly unequal to who she was, to her generosity of spirit and big heart and the experience they had shared, and he regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth.

“Drive carefully,” she said, then the door was swinging shut between them and he was on one side and she the other.

He didn’t move for a long moment, trying to understand himself. No answers came, and it was getting late. He needed to get home to his children.

He could deal with the fallout from tonight tomorrow.

* * *

A
NGIE
RETURNED
TO
SHEETS
that smelled of sex and Michael. She pulled the quilt around her shoulders and lay in the darkness, aware of the traffic noises outside and the plumbing noises from within the building and the heaviness of her own feelings.

Right now Michael was making his way to his car in his damp clothes. No doubt he was giving himself a hard time for what had happened, for the fact that he’d come to her. No doubt he regretted giving in to his desire for her.

She should probably be regretting her part in it, too, but she’d made her decision when she invited Michael into her apartment. She’d known then the sequence of events, and she didn’t regret it, not for a second, even though all the usual recriminations were circling her mind.

That Michael was Billie’s. That Angie was selfish and a hypocrite, proclaiming her great love for her friend while welcoming Billie’s husband into her bed. That there was no excuse for her betrayal.

But tonight hadn’t been about Billie. It had been about Michael and Angie. Nothing else. The first time, it had been so fiery and impulsive and urgent, she hadn’t been able to sort out what she’d wanted from what he’d needed. She’d told herself it was about comfort and loneliness and grief, that they had been acting on the spur of the moment.

This second time hadn’t been about any of those things. Michael had come to her door because he couldn’t stay away, and she’d let him in because she hadn’t stopped thinking about him, one way or another, since Saturday night.

And the sex… A rush of warmth washed through her as she remembered the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d smoothed his hands over her breasts and belly, the way he’d driven her crazy with his mouth. When he’d entered her, his serious gray-green gaze had been fixed on her face, taking in every nuance of her response.

None of that had been about Billie.

Angie could see that now, was starting to understand that what was happening between the two of them was more than propinquity and convenience. They liked each other. They got each other. They cared for each other. And their bodies were ridiculously compatible. All he had to do was look at her and hers fired up, ready for anything he was offering.

None of that matters, because he was Billie’s first. He’ll always be Billie’s, in your mind and his. So don’t go getting any ideas. Don’t even think about it.

More good advice. Angie did her best to follow it, closing her eyes and willing herself to sleep. She pushed away the memories that threatened to swamp her—the roughness of Michael’s stubble against the tender flesh of her inner thighs; the feel of his skin beneath her hands, warm and firm; the passion of his kisses, so intense and demanding—and instead concentrated on the work she needed to achieve tomorrow in order to make the delivery date on her current commissions.

It was no good, though—she couldn’t stop her brain from thinking. Worrying about how Michael was feeling, if he was again lashing himself for having slept with her. Wondering what was going to happen tomorrow, how they were going to get past tonight. They had already affirmed to each other that their friendship was special and important, that neither of them wanted to endanger that. Yet it hadn’t stopped them from sleeping with each other again.