Underfoot. Leanne Banks
told her. One little kiss, and heaven knew she’d been curious about him. What could one little kiss hurt?
“Just one,” she said and he immediately lowered his mouth to hers. He surprised her by taking his time. He rolled his lips against hers as if he wanted to feel every bit of her. Every bit of her lips, she reminded herself.
When he increased the pressure, she automatically opened her mouth and he slid his tongue just inside, just for a second. Then he flicked his tongue over her lower lip and back again.
She felt heat rise. Alcohol flush, she told herself, but everything he did made her want a little more. Make it last longer, she thought. Taste me more. Do that again.
He kept the kiss going in one form or another for minutes, until she was leaning into him, sliding her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His chest felt so good and hard against her breasts and, oh, he felt better than she’d thought he would.
He took a quick breath and his mouth slid over hers again. “You feel so good,” he muttered against her mouth and lowered his hands to the small of her back, pulling her lower body against his.
More than his chest was hard. His obvious arousal made her heart speed up and her mind slow down. It was so easy to let her senses take over. He smelled so good, his mouth was like a drug, and the slight gentle rhythm as he moved her against him felt too sexy for words.
Some vestige of something pushed from deep inside her brain and she pulled back. The man had been scheduled to get married tonight. His heart was hurting. His ego was hurting. “Maybe we should stop,” she said.
“Yeah. Just one more,” he said, kissing her again.
This one went on longer than the other and Trina felt so hot she could have been in the Caribbean on a summer afternoon. He moved one of his hands over her waist, up her rib cage to the side of her breast. He slid his thumb inside the halter tux top and just glanced her nipple.
She inhaled sharply.
He stopped and swore. “What the hell am I doing? This is crazy. I shouldn’t be—” He broke off and swore. “But hell, I want you.”
He lowered his hands to her hips and Trina tried to make her mind work. She felt his heart beating against her chest. She could almost taste the knot of rejection he felt in his throat, the misery, and the desire to forget it until he had more strength to deal with it. She didn’t know which she felt more, turned on or sorry for him.
She lifted one of her hands to his jaw and saw the mixture of pain and arousal in his eyes.
He pressed his mouth against her palm.
“What you really want is a night of hot, mindless sex,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “With you.”
Because she was the woman who was there. Trina sighed. He was so hot, she thought, and she really didn’t want to bludgeon the poor guy’s ego again tonight. In this situation, there was really only one thing a nice girl could do.
CHAPTER TWO
Nine months, ten days, twenty-two hours and thirty-six minutes later…
“WHERE ARE MY DRUGS?” Trina screamed through the pain ripping her in half.
The nurse gently squeezed her arm. “I told you. The anesthesiologist is on his way.”
“You said that hours ago,” Trina accused, feeling her contracted muscles relax slightly. She wiped her sweat-dampened forehead with the back of her hand. She was in hell. The cheerful yellow chintz curtains and Yanni music playing in the background couldn’t fool her. She was in pain, her mother was spouting platitudes and Nurse Beamer, aka Nurse Hatchett was her guide through labor hell.
“No, you’re confused,” Nurse Hatchett said. “I told you that twenty minutes ago. The anesthesiologist is with another patient right now”
“You’re lying.” Trina felt the beginning of another contraction and desperation stabbed at her. Her muscles tightened around her abdomen like a vise, making it impossible to breathe. “I’m never going to have this baby, am I?”
“Of course you are,” the nurse said, and placed a cool washcloth on Trina’s head. “As soon as the doctor checks you, I’m sure he’ll tell you to start pushing.”
Trina moaned. “When is he coming? Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“Darling, the nurse already told you,” her mother said. “He’s delivering another baby. He’ll be here any minute.”
“That’s what she said about the anesthesiologist,” Trina said, shaking her head.
“I really don’t know why you can’t just knock her out,” her mother said to the nurse.
“Please knock me out,” Trina pleaded. “Please.”
“We don’t do that anymore except for emergency C-sections,” the nurse said.
“Cut me,” Trina said, her contraction easing. “Please just get it over with. Where’s the doctor?”
“He’s coming,” the nurse said.
“I don’t believe it,” Trina said. “He’s eating donuts. Or banging someone in the closet,” she added. “Men are pigs,” she muttered, imagining what Walker Gordon was doing right now—drinking wine in some French bistro with a thin French woman or eating a croissant and delicious coffee for breakfast with a thin French woman. Depending on the time zone. Trina didn’t even know what time zone she was in right now.
“Miss Roberts,” a man said cheerfully as he swept into the room. “I’m Dr. Hanson. We met during one of your monthly office visits. Let me check your progress.”
Trina vaguely remembered the man. After two shift changes, they were all starting to look the same. He was happy, she noticed as every muscle in her body began to tighten in another contraction. For a fleeting second before the pain gripped her, she wondered if he’d been eating donuts or getting laid. The pain took her breath again and she grasped at his arm. “I need an epidural,” she begged. “Knock me out. Shoot me. Something,” she said.
“Really, darling,” her mother said in a chastising voice. “Where is your dignity?”
“Get her out of here,” Trina told the nurse in a voice that sounded as if she was possessed. Where had that voice come from? She felt her fingers pried loose from the doctor’s arm.
The doctor moved to check her. “You’re ready to push,” he said.
“What about my epidural?”
“It’s time for you to push. You don’t need an epidural.”
“Says who?” Trina asked, panic cutting through her. “I want an epidural. She promised me an epidural,” Trina said, pointing to the nurse.
“I promised that the doctor would be here soon,” she said.
The doctor flipped through her chart. “Did this patient take prepared childbirth classes?”
“Yes, but I didn’t practice the breathing because I knew I would get an epidural,” she said, her abdomen tightening again.
“Lean forward and push,” the nurse said, supporting Trina’s shoulders.
Trina did as she was instructed. She would do anything to get out of pain. It wasn’t labor. It was hell.
She continued to push for what had to be days. At some point, her mother was thrown out. Trina vaguely recalled a derogatory comment about how her hair looked.
Nurse Hatchett coached, “Just one more push.”
Big fat lie. One more meant a million more.
“I can’t do this much longer,” Trina said, out of breath and nearly out of energy.
“Sure