Free A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Page A

to force herself not to cover herself but just lie there while he looked at her. “My breasts are very small,” she said, in apology or maybe just acknowledgment.
    â€œYes,” he said and he put his hand flat between them. He straddled her, knees on either side of her hips, and stroked his fingers down the center of her body. “So strong,” he said. “So beautiful.”
    Then he bent and lightly swept his mouth over the top of her chest, kissing freckles, taking little sips, his mouth as delicate as the brush of a flower, his tongue a surprise tip of heat and wet every now and then. He kissed her whole chest, her shoulders, her throat, his hands trailing down her inner arms, into the cradle of her palms.
    As if he were igniting wicks all over her body, Kyra began to burn. She was still mostly dressed, and he hadn’t even touched her breasts, and she felt as if she would melt from the heat of her response to him. “Take off your shirt,” she breathed. “I want to look at you, too.”
    He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll unbutton it, how’s that? We have to be ready to move quickly.”
    She nodded. He started to unbutton the shirt, but she suddenly couldn’t stand to be so passive any longer. With a quick movement, she sat up, and suddenly she was straddling him.
    He uttered a soft curse, his hands sliding up her bare thighs beneath her skirt, all the way to the little panties she wore underneath, and his expression was smoky. Kyraunfastened his shirt and pushed it open, leaning back slightly so she could brush her fingers through his chest hair. “Beautiful,” she said, and it was exactly like the fantasy she’d been having of him, their chests pressed together, except—
    She reached behind herself and unfastened her bra, pulling the straps out of her sleeves and tossing it aside. Heavy-lidded, he slid his hands up her back, and Kyra bent in and kissed him, putting their bare chests in contact.
    Three things happened at once: Dylan’s cell phone rang; the baby woke; and a woman came over the hill, striding beneath a hat that hid most of her face.
    Kyra reached out a hand to gentle over the baby. Dylan pulled Kyra’s shirt closed while he raised a hand to the woman on the path. Only then did he tug his phone open, laughing, as he tried to hide Kyra’s bra with one foot.
    â€œThis is Dylan,” he said into the phone.
    Kyra felt the tension instantly in his body as he barked, “I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “My mother’s taken ill.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    E MMA WAS BUNDLED off to the hospital, protesting that she was fine. And she probably was, but they wanted to keep her overnight. Dylan accompanied her, of course.
    Leaving Kyra alone at the cottage with the baby.
    Her daughter.
    Who changed personalities the minute the door closed behind them. She cried fiercely, endlessly, no matter what Kyra did. Kyra tried to feed her. She changed her, checked her all over for pinpricks or spider bites or something that might be causing the trauma. She walked her, patting her on the back gently.
    Merry cried. And cried. And cried. Loud, long, lung-building bellows. Her face turned red. Her body went absolutely rigid. Kyra had no idea what to do.
    So she simply accepted the crying. She walked back and forth, holding Merry safely close to her, and patted her back and sang songs until she was hoarse. When the songs wore out, she started talking. “I know you’re mad, little one,” she said. “It’s not fair that you lost your mommy so early, but I promise I’ll do my best for you. Every single day of your life, I’ll be there for you.”
    Merry cried.
    â€œI haven’t been lucky enough to have a baby of my own,you know, so you are an incredible gift to me, sweetie.” Against her neck she felt Merry’s wet cheek nuzzling in, fists and head bobbing. “I can’t say I’ll