Page 61 of Welker

Moira’s lips parted. “Say it, Welk.”

Was now a good time? Hell, if he knew. He’d been tamping down his script, waiting until he thought Moira was ready, but, dammit, maybe it was just him being chicken.

He sucked up his courage. “I want you to stay, Moira. I want you to make this your home…our home.”

“Why?” It came out of her mouth the merest whisper, and Welker knew she was waiting for him to come clean.

“Because…I love you, Moira. I have for a while now, but I didn’t want to scare you away.”

Moira slowly and deliberately laid the box aside, lifted her ass from the stair and turned to straddle him. She took his face in both her hands and cradled it.

Welker couldn’t catch a full breath. Was she about to shoot him down, or make him the happiest man alive?

“You silly man,” she began. “Haven’t you figured out yet that not much scares me? And you, declaring your love… It’s something every woman wants to hear from the person they’ve already decided they love, too.”

“You…? You…?” Welker needed clarification or he feared his head was going to explode.

“Yes Welker. I love you.” Tears welled up in her large, expressive brown eyes. “And I can assure you I’ve never said that to anyone other than my grandfather.”

Welker couldn’t hold back. He wrapped his arms around Moira—probably tighter than he should have—closed the few inches between them, and devoured her mouth.

She gave back as good as she got, which had Welker rising to his feet with Moira clutched to his body as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“You’ll move in? Permanently?” he asked.

“If that’s the plan, then yes,” she agreed elatedly.

“Hot damn! We need to…” Welker paused and shifted her in his grip. “Uh, I hope there’s nothing on the stove that will burn,” he rasped, his cock rock-hard and raring to go.

“Mmm,” she responded, attacking his mouth and not freeing him up until she’d practically made him come. It was a damned good thing she hadn’t threaded her hand down between them, because one touch, and he would have made a mess.

When she finally separated with a groan and a smack of her lips, she assured him that things—food-wise—were fine. “I planned on grilling tonight,” she apprised, huskily. “There’s a new porkchop marinade recipe I’m trying out.”

He sent a series of love-bites across her jaw. “How long does the meat have to infuse?”

“Which meat?” she asked provocatively, grinding against him.

Welker growled. “Food, Moira. Food.”

“Oh, I’d say another half hour or so.”

“Perfect,” Welker hissed.

He spun on his feet, carried Moira through the front door, and pausing only to set the alarm and lock up behind them, conveyed her up the stairs and into his…

No, their bedroom.

Luckily, the meat-marinating timetable wasn’t science, because it took them a bit over that hour to exhaust their need for each other.

Moira finally rolled off him after their third go-round to run her finger down the side of Welker’s face, where the scar that had destroyed his boyish good looks cut a swath from his eyebrow to his chin.

“You’ve never told me about this.” Her voice was tentative. “But if it’s not something you want to talk about, you don’t have to.”

Welker chuckled wryly. “Not a problem,” he assured her. He’d come to grips with it. Sort of.

Not that it hadn’t screwed with his life for a while. He knew the insecurity of having his face scarred was what had led him to bed a parade of nameless women. He’d needed their anonymous validation that he was still desirable. If only he’d met Moira then, all his doubts would have been negated. She saw past the scar to the man who lay beneath, and he’d never been more thankful.

But still…

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