Sweetest Kisses: A Single Kiss Part 31

"A little one."

When Hannah brought a bag of frozen peas into the bathroom a few minutes later, she inspected the bruise more carefully-one big, ugly mother of a bruise.

"Grace, when you hit your head, did you tell the playground aides?"

"No. I didn't want to get Larry in trouble, and I wasn't bleeding or anything. It just hurt a lot."

"Were you dizzy at all?"

"No."

"Did you have any trouble seeing or hearing after you hit your head?"

"No, Mom. Am I going to the hospital or what?"

"Or what. It's Friday night, and we'll do a full-length video, and by the time it's over, your head should feel much better. Sound like a plan?"

From beneath her frozen peas, Grace offered a hint of a smile. "Sounds like a plan, Mom."

"Grace, why are you calling me Mom instead of Mommy?"

"Because me and Merle decided we're done with the E stage. You know: mom-my, blank-ie, horse-y. We're too old for that anymore. It's baby stuff."

"Got it, Gracey."

Hannah sat through the zillionth viewing of Mulan without seeing or hearing a single scene. Did trying to keep Grace safe mean Grace had learned not to seek help from anyone? Would Grace suffer a concussion rather than involve a cla.s.smate in any kind of public incident? Was Grace learning not discretion and safety, but isolation and poor judgment?

All through the movie, Hannah wrestled mentally, finally deciding she and Grace had both had bad days, and the only sensible course was to go to bed and hope things looked more encouraging in the morning.

And they did. Grace was back to her usual self, minus the E's, even going so far as to call Merle so they could whisper and giggle on the phone for twenty minutes about their upcoming night together.

Grace had never called a friend before-not even Henry Moser-and Hannah saw it as a positive milestone. Grace had also never helped her mother get ready for a date before, and her a.s.sistance was both sweet and exasperating.

"You should wear red lipstick. It will make Merle's dad think about kissing you."

"You think I want him kissing me?"

"Maybe not, but he can think about it."

Out of the mouths of babes...

They had big fun, with Hannah putting a little foundation, blusher, and eye shadow on Grace, and spritzing her with perfume, and Grace helping to brush out her mother's long hair.

Grace approved of Hannah's ensemble, a simple black dress that fell to below Hannah's knees in a tailored A-line. It flattered a feminine figure without clinging, and the V-neck allowed a hint of a peek of a possibility of cleavage. A necklace of coral beads provided a suitable accent, though Grace thought a reindeer pin would have been more appropriate.

Trent showed up in a d.a.m.ned tux, making Hannah's heart speed up, even as Merle went squealing up the stairs and Eliza looked on beaming.

"If Eddie showed up looking like that, bedtime would be six o'clock, and not just for the boys," Eliza observed.

Trent thanked Eliza for taking on both girls, and then they were off in his car, muted Rachmaninoff coming from the CD player.

"I need to stop by the office," Trent said. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Whatever for?" The last place, the very, very last place, Hannah wanted to be was that dratted office.

"Mac left his notes on his printer, and because he and James are handling the last-minute party details, I said I'd pick up the notes."

"Notes for what?"

"He gives a short State of the Company speech each year, welcomes the new hires, and acknowledges milestones. Mac is one for ceremony."

"A proceduralist. It goes with being in criminal practice." While Hannah was a former foster kid trying to impersonate a lawyer, with less and less success.

As Trent led her through the darkened offices, Hannah was grateful to Mac for the detour. Trent kept his hand in hers, and just that-just holding hands-had Hannah wishing they were headed for an intimate dinner for two and not to a brightly lit company party.

"In here," Trent said, unlocking Mac's office. He didn't turn on the lights. He crossed to the desk, which was illuminated from the streetlights in the parking lot.

"This office is more opulent than yours or James's," Hannah said, sinking into the sumptuous comfort of an overstuffed couch. "Almost ostentatious."

"Mac says the criminal element is impressed with displays of wealth, and James and I are for any self-indulgent gesture Mac wants to make." Trent had taken the seat behind the desk, and he looked good there-he looked good almost anywhere. "Moonlight becomes you, Hannah Stark."

"It's streetlight."

"It's an old song," Trent said, rising. "Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair..." He sang softly as he crossed the room, a true, rich baritone. As he came closer in the near darkness, Hannah's heart skipped a few beats, then went into dancing-bunny mode when he straddled her lap rather than take a seat beside her.

"I cannot keep my hands off you, Stark. I've hit my limit."

Then he had his lips on her too. His kiss started out slowly, with a sweet and savoring quality, and Hannah relaxed into the cushy leather sofa. Trent was above her and around her, enveloping her in his presence and a sandalwood scent as he deepened the kiss.

"We'll be late for the party," Hannah said, leaning her head back and glorying in the feel of Trent Knightley, big and warm and at long last in her arms.

"G.o.d, yes. We'll skip the d.a.m.ned party."

"Trenton Knightley, for shame."

They were alone, no kids on the premises, and Hannah abruptly became interested in having a party of their own. Yesterday's cases had only added to the questions Hannah wrestled with-about the profession, about family law, and about her role as an attorney-but she was very sure about her regard for Trent.

"I'm going to make love to you right here and now, Hannah Stark, unless you stop me. This isn't what I had planned." His thumb brushed over her nipple. "What I had planned is a detour to my house at the end of the evening. I can't wait. I don't want to wait. For Christmas, would somebody please give me back my dignity?"

She sank her hands into his hair. "You'll wait if I ask you to?"

His hand went still over her breast. "Of course."

Dignity could hop the next toboggan out of town. "I can't wait either."

Trent had been a d.a.m.ned saint all week long, keeping his hands to himself, his lips to himself, his d.i.c.k to himself...except for the one kiss on Thursday.

One, single kiss to last a desperate man for days was a bad plan. Thursday was ages ago, and Trent was drowning in the need for more.

"I want you naked, Hannah Stark."

"In the office?"

He'd shocked her; he could see that even in the limited light, but she was also intrigued.

"Yes, in the office. It's deserted for once, and that couch is as luxurious as any bed I've slept in. We have time, privacy-privacy, Hannah, the single parent's Cave of Wonders-and G.o.d knows I'm motivated."

For the first time, Trent resented the burdens of raising a child. He should have farmed Merle out to her uncles, cleaned the d.a.m.ned house, and made love with Hannah in his own bed like a grown-up. Taken his time, set the mood, plied her with good wine and soft music...

Her brows drew down, and his heart sank.

"Lock the door, Trent."

Thank you, Santa Claus.

He locked the door, toed off his dress shoes, and started undoing his shirt studs. Just knowing she was watching him had him hard as the handle of a splitting ax, but from somewhere he found the strength to slow down.

"Help me, Stark, or I swear I'll be tearing b.u.t.tons and ripping seams."

She eyed him up and down, then rose from the sofa and slipped off her shoes. When she came toward him, Trent saw both purpose and unwitting seduction in her walk.

He wasn't the only single parent willing to make a few compromises in the interests of starting the party early.

"Let me." She brushed his hands away, reached around him, and unhooked his c.u.mmerbund. Her scent, spicy, rich, and warm, bore a hint of cinnamon and holiday memories.

Had Mac left his notes in the darkened office on purpose? Mac was that good a brother.

Hannah undid Trent's cuff links, gliding her fingertips over the backs of his hands.

She untied his tie with a single tug and gave him a look suggesting any sc.r.a.p of satin might find alternative uses as the evening progressed.

Next, she took out his remaining shirt studs and leaned in to sniff at his throat before putting the studs and cuff links in a pile of gold on Mac's desk.

Trent caught her from behind, putting her hands on the desk and leaning over her, letting her feel his arousal snug against her backside.

"I am dying here, Stark. At risk of embarra.s.sing myself." He got a handful of her dress-silk, or something equally soft and luxurious-and slid it up her leg. She went still, and he shifted the dress higher.

"Jesus save me. Woman, you are wearing a garter belt."

Silk stockings, a little lacy black garter belt, and-Trent slid his hand up to the juncture of her thighs-"And nothing else."

For long, quiet minutes he explored her with his fingers. She braced herself on the desk; he braced himself on her and traced damp folds and soft flesh-more luscious softness. With his hands on her, he could bank his desire, let himself breathe in her scent, and revel in the soft texture of her hair against his cheek.

"I need to kiss you," he said, letting her dress fall back over her legs. "The couch or the desk?"

"Couch," she said, straightening up. "Soon."

She turned between him and the desk and slid her arms around his neck; then she paused.

Hannah was right to take a deliberate moment, because this single kiss was the beginning of something special. Trent waited, his hands resting on her hips, his mind full of that delicate swatch of black lace holding up silk stockings.

She leaned closer and touched her lips to his.

"More," he said when she drew back. She came closer again, and he shifted his grip so he had one hand buried in her unbound hair, preventing her from teasing him endlessly.

Trent kept his exploration of her mouth delicate, consistent with a sense of new beginnings and holiday wonder. He teased; he stroked and petted with his tongue until she was soft and pliant in his arms.

"Couch," Hannah said, curled against his chest. "I want to feel your weight and your skin and the way you breathe, and, I want to feel you."

She slipped her hand down to his erection, shaping and caressing him through the fabric. After she'd tormented him nearly to begging, she slid his shirt off his shoulders, unzipped his formal trousers, and reached into his briefs to free his erection. When she'd pushed his skivvies and pants past his hips, she took a step back.

His turn, finally, at long, long, hard last. His socks joined the growing pile of clothing strewn about Mac's office.

Trent lifted the hem of Hannah's dress, unwrapping the best Christmas present he could ever imagine. He took his time, raising the dress slowly, to her hips, her waist, over her chest, and then up, off her shoulders, revealing a lacy black bra complementing the garter belt and stockings.

Hannah Stark was amply endowed. She dressed to not call attention to it, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were barely contained by the bra. She unhooked the front fastening and shrugged the bra down her arms, leaving her clad in silk stockings and a garter belt.

That little shrug made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently sway. Had she done that on purpose? Trent kissed her again, delighting in the feel of her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest, and while he kissed her, he walked her back until her knees. .h.i.t the sofa and she went down.

"On your back, Hannah."

She looked uncertain, and her fingers drifted to her thigh.

"Leave the stockings on, please." Then Trent realized why Hannah hesitated. He found his wallet and pa.s.sed her the condom.

"I want your hands on me," he said, standing so his erect c.o.c.k was at her eye level.

Her mouth level.

She scooted to the edge of the sofa, spreading her thighs so Trent stood between her legs. Trent had to remind himself to breathe.

Please, please, please...

But he wouldn't ask her outright, because she'd told him she lacked experience, and the purpose of this shared moment wasn't to gratify his every whim, but rather, to gratify hers. He hoped they'd have years to explore whims and fancies and adventures and fantasies. Decades- She leaned in and pressed her cheek to the underside of his erection, nuzzling the hair at the base of his shaft.

"Soft," she said, cupping his b.a.l.l.s. "I'm not sure what to do."

"Indulge your curiosity. Please yourself, and you'll please me." He caressed her hair and tried to convey a sense of trust to her simply by waiting.

Delicately, she traced a finger up the underside of his c.o.c.k, and Trent felt her touch right up his spine. She did it again, studying his face, then bent her head and used her tongue in the same motion.

He widened his stance, bracing himself against the pleasure. She was curious and careful but creative too, using her tongue all over him, and her fingers. When she began to suck gently on that spot right under the head of his c.o.c.k, Trent let out a pent-up breath.

"Did I hurt you?" She drew back, concern in her eyes, while she continued to pet him and stroke him.

"You found a sweet spot. The sweetest spot."