Rafe half turned to her again, and even from halfway across the room she saw the black glitter of his eyes. ‘How long?’
‘They’ve certainly been happening more often since Rosalia died,’ she said quietly.
Rafe nodded, accepting. ‘Of course. She was his mother.’ His fingers clenched around his glass. ‘Did she love him? Did she see him, hug him?’
Hug him. The question surprised Freya, and touched her too, for it seemed such a strangely specific and emotional thing for Rafe to be concerned about. Yet she understood the nature of the question, and she knew she had to answer truthfully. ‘She loved him,’ she said quietly, ‘but she didn’t see him that often.’
‘How often?’ Rafe asked in a raw voice, the question a demand.
‘Once every few weeks?’ Freya hazarded a guess. Towards the end it had been even less than that. If she was honest, at least with herself, Max had barely known his mother.
Rafe turned to her, shock and pain etched on his features. His chest rose and fell in a ragged breath, and Freya’s gaze was helplessly drawn to the movement. ‘Then you were his mother,’ he said simply, ‘in all but fact.’
Freya didn’t speak for a moment; she couldn’t. Too many emotions raced through her—hope and need and fear. She was glad Rafe could acknowledge how important she was to Max, and yet she was still dizzily afraid that he would force her to leave, that her closeness to Max would be a threat to his own relationship to his son. And she couldn’t keep need from coiling within her at the sight of Rafe, at the very scent of him—the kind of hungry desire she hadn’t felt in years. Hadn’t let herself feel because she knew where it led. The misery and despair it could cause.
‘Yes,’ she finally said, in no more than a whisper, ‘but it is a rather important fact.’
‘Is it?’ Rafe let out a bark of humourless laughter as he turned back to the window. ‘Sometimes I wonder.’
Freya could not decipher that statement, or what had motivated it, but she heard the bleakness in Rafe’s voice and knew its cause: three years of not knowing about his son, and now being faced with the seemingly insurmountable task of forging that all-important bond.
Impulsively she stepped towards him, going so far as to touch his arm. His skin was warm and the muscles jumped under her fingers. ‘He’ll get to know you,’ she said. ‘He’ll come to love you. It just takes time.’#p#分页标题#e#
Rafe turned towards her, and Freya realised she had not taken her hand from his arm. Instead her fingers had stretched out along his skin, as if seeking the heat of him. She was standing so close to him, in nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts, and her breath suddenly started coming fast—too fast. Desire overwhelmed her senses, her thoughts. She knew she should step away, yet she couldn’t because she didn’t want to. She wanted this, wanted Rafe, and even as the realisation shamed her—she was still weak—she could not keep it from overtaking her, from guiding her actions. Keeping her hand on his arm, sliding her fingers along his skin.
Rafe’s face was still half turned to her, so she could see the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. And then he turned completely, his eyes glinting blackly in the moonlight, and he stared at her with a hunger that stole the breath from Freya’s lungs. He wanted this, too. He wanted her. She didn’t move.
The moment spun on—silent, taut with tension and yearning—and then with a whispered curse, Rafe closed the space between their bodies and kissed her.
The first feel of his lips against hers set off an explosion through Freya’s body, obliterating the barriers she’d erected around her mind, her heart. She wasn’t prepared for her sudden intense reaction; she had no defence. Her mouth opened under his and her arms came up to grip his shoulders, although whether to push him away or pull him closer she did not know. Perhaps she simply needed to anchor herself.
She felt tension shudder through Rafe, and knew he’d been surprised by her response. He’d expected her to push him away. Of course he had; it was what she should have done. Yet now that he’d kissed her she could not keep herself from wanting this, wanting more, craving closeness, needing the connection. It had been so long. It had been ten years.
His mouth stilled over hers, the taste of him still on her lips, and she knew he was battling with himself. Knowing he should stop. One of them should step away. And yet even in this moment, as cold rationality seeped through her mind, she could not control the craving, and her hands tightened on his shoulders.