His Defiant Desert Queen(52)

“It’s back,” she whispered breathlessly.

“That’s because it never went away.” He dipped his head and kissed the side of her neck.

She sighed and arched against him. His hips ground against hers. She pressed her hips up, rubbing against the tip of his thick shaft, wanting it, wanting him.

“You want me,” he said, his voice a rasp in her ear.

She nodded as his mouth covered hers, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. She did want him. All of him. And not just the things he did to her, but the things he made her feel. “Yes,” she said, because she needed this, needed to feel. It had been a year of so much sadness and confusion that she needed to feel something warm and good again.

Mikael was making her feel very warm and good.

“What shall I do to you?” he murmured, kissing her jaw, and then her chin, before brushing her mouth with his.

She reached up, and wound her arms around his neck, drawing his head down. “Everything.”

They kissed for hours, kissing until they were both panting and damp and tangled in sheets. Jemma wanted more, but she also loved this, the intense need, the desire, the fierce pleasure of just wanting and being wanted.

Her body ached and throbbed, even as her heart ached and throbbed. And as Mikael kissed her, touched her, his hands lighting her on fire and keeping the flames burning, glowing, she began to think that this might not just be lust anymore.

This wasn’t about sex, either. It was more than sex. More than desire. Something else was stirring to life but what it was, she didn’t know, and wasn’t ready to face. Wasn’t sure she could.

“I have news for you,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair. He kissed her once more. “We should talk.”

Jemma went still. “What is it?”

“Your mother.” He shifted his weight and moved away from her, rolling onto his back. He grabbed a pillow and placed it under his head. “And she’s not sick, so you don’t need to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Jemma demanded, sitting up, and tugging her sheer nightgown down, hoping she was adequately covered.

“Like something terrible has happened to her. Nothing terrible has happened. What’s happened is good.”

“What’s happened?”

“It isn’t good for your mother to have so much stress. A woman of her age needs to have her own home. I think she will do better if she has her own place again.”

“Of course she would. We would all like that for her. But it’s a dream at this point.”

“There’s a turn of the century shore colonial in Keofferam in Old Greenwich that I think would suit her. It has a big wraparound porch, and a small caretaker’s apartment over a detached garage for a housekeeper or nurse, should your mother one day require one. It’s recently been renovated so your mother wouldn’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, that all sounds very lovely, but you can’t buy property in that area for less than two million, and a home such as the one you describe would easily be upward of three million—”

“Almost four,” he agreed, “but it’s in pristine condition and has the high ceilings and elegant formal rooms she would enjoy.”

Jemma reached for a pillow and drew it to her chest. “You sound as if you know her.”

“I did meet her at your sister’s wedding, but you forget, your mother and mine were very similar in background. It’s not difficult to imagine the kind of home she would be comfortable in, so I can tell you now that the house is in escrow, and I’ve been assured it will close at the end of today, as the wired funds have already reached the bank. I had my Realtor purchase the house in your mother’s maiden name, which apparently is her legal name again. No one can take it from her.”

Jemma stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I think she’s suffered enough, don’t you?”

Jemma struggled to speak around the lump filling her throat. “But you hate the Copelands.”

“I hate your father, but your mother shouldn’t be punished for his crimes.” He hesitated. “Nor should you. So I did what I thought was best. It is my gift to you—”

“It’s too much. I can’t accept—”

“You don’t have to. The gift is in your mother’s name. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“She won’t accept it.”

“She has.”

“What?”

“I have been communicating with your brother, Branson. He has assisted me with a few financial details.”

“He would never do that!”