Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  “Why do you say that?” He sounded almost indignant.

  “Look at me,” she said, anger rising at herself, at him for asking the question, making her say it out loud. “I’m overweight. I’m old, and I grieved way too long after Ned died.” And just like that the anger dissipated, leaving an empty hole in the place it had been dwelling.

  “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. You’re gorgeous. Christ, woman, it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. You are a woman in your prime, with your whole life stretching out before you. And finally, there is not an expiration date for grief. It takes as long as it takes for one to find their feet again.”

  “There is, however, an expiration date for women,” she said, dashing away the unexpected moisture from her eyes. “And I, my friend, am right up against the childbearing clock.” He started to speak, but she cut him off. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. Seriously. I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m frustrated is all.”

  She turned and started walking briskly down the sidewalk in an attempt to step away from the vulnerability she was feeling. “Anyway, I’ve got it all sorted out.” She could hear his footsteps catching up. “I don’t have the cash reserves to raise a gaggle of children by myself. However, I’ve done the math, and I’d be able to swing one rosy-cheeked, dimple-fingered baby.” He was beside her now. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his solid presence, feel the intensity of his gaze. She lifted her chin. She was not going to feel embarrassed or let him feel sorry for her. She was a woman taking control of her future instead of waiting passively for some man to make her dreams come true. “I’ve done some research. There’s actually a good sperm bank in Seattle, which isn’t that far away.” For some reason, the surprised expression on Gabe’s face, as if he’d just swallowed a live goldfish whole, cheered her up immensely. “It’s the perfect solution really. No strings attached. No man telling me what to do, how to raise my child. I checked out their site,” she said breezily, as if she did this sort of thing on a daily basis. “It’s quite amazing. You can literally plug in eye color, hair color, ethnicity, height, and bingo! Up comes a bunch of matches, along with personality descriptions that read like dating profiles that any sane woman would swipe right on. These guys are college educated, athletic, supposedly funny and charming—”

  “I’m college educated.”

  “Well, of course you are. You’re a world-famous author.”

  “Not all authors—”

  She batted his arm with the cuff on her borrowed overcoat. “This isn’t about you, you goofball. Unless you’re planning to race over to Seattle and make some money on the side.” She laughed at the ridiculousness of the image. Gabe Conaghan jacking off in a little plastic test tube. “In that case, yes. You’d make a wonderful donor. You’re highly intelligent, handsome, got a body to die for, and a sense of humor to boot. Your sperm would go flying out the door like homemade hotcakes.”

  “I’d do it,” he said.

  She turned and looked at him. Nope. He wasn’t joking. Oh dear. Way to put your foot in it, Zelia. “Not that there is anything wrong with being a sperm donor,” she added hastily. “No judgment here. I mean you had to pay for your Berkeley degree somehow, and God knows it wasn’t cheap.”

  “I haven’t donated at a sperm bank. But I would for you. No strings attached if that’s what you wanted.”

  Zelia stopped in her tracks. “Would what?” she asked carefully, grateful that they were near a streetlight now and she could see his face clearly, her heart banging like a drummer going wild in her chest.

  “Make love with the intention of impregnating you.”

  Twenty-seven

  THEY WALKED BACK to his apartment hands clasped, the feelings coursing between them too big for words. There was a sacredness to the silence surrounding them that shimmered with possibilities and hope.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it open. She hesitated for a second and then crossed the threshold. “It’s so weird,” she said, pretending to casually glance around his living room, but seeing nothing. “I suddenly feel shy. Awkward. It’s like I’m scared or something, which is ridiculous because it’s just you.”

  “Uh . . . Thanks?” he said dryly, an eyebrow cocked.

  “I didn’t mean ‘just you’ like you aren’t enough, because you are. More than enough.” She shook her head. “I should probably shut up now.”

  “No. It’s important to talk things out, to know how you’re feeling. If you’ve changed your mind—”

  “God no. I want this more than anything. I just don’t know how to go about it. Never done anything like this before. Do we just march into your bedroom, I strip naked, and you go at it?”

  He smiled like she’d said something funny, tenderness in his eyes. “Hopefully, I’ll have a little more finesse than that.” He smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear and then dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “We’ll take it slow,” he said, tilting her chin up so her eyes met his and she could see that behind the lightness he was dead serious. “If at any time you change your mind, just let me know. My body might complain, but I will honor your wishes. Okay?”

  She nodded, the knot in her stomach easing slightly.

  “Good. Now, for the record, I have a clean bill of health. No STDs. Haven’t been sexually involved with anyone since my physical last fall.”

  “Me, too. Clean bill of health. No worries on this end.”

  His hands felt so good, running gently up and down her back as if she were a skittish horse he was calming. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “Or another after-dinner drink?”

  “No. God no. If it’s okay with you, I want to do this with you before I lose my nerve.”

  * * *

  * * *

  AS THEY ENTERED his bedroom, he flicked the light switch on, both of them blinking, pupils trying to adjust. “Stay here,” he said, flipping the light off again, plunging her into darkness. “I’ll be right back.”

  She heard him leave the room. A light turned on down the hall, then soft music came on in the living room, the sound carrying to where she was. Lovely gentle music that reminded her of spring and new beginnings, and the sweetness of his thoughtfulness made her heart ache. She heard him rummaging around. Then the light down the hall switched off, but the darkness wasn’t absolute. A bobbing orb of warm amber candlelight was heading her way, illuminating the harsh angles and slashing cheekbones of Gabe’s beautiful, smiling face.

  When he got closer, she saw he had used a candle that looked like it was from an emergency preparedness kit. He’d stuck it on a saucer with a bit of melted wax. That he didn’t have a stash of make-out paraphernalia at the ready but wanted this to be nice for her somehow made that plain little candle the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.

  He placed the candle on the dresser. She could now see his bed. The gray textured fabric on the headboard and box base had slight hints of bluish-green. The colors reminded her of a stormy winter sea. Behind the bed the entire wall was covered with dark, old shiplap that had been stripped and stained. Black metal pendant lights hung from the ceiling on either side of the bed, the flickering candlelight revealing that the interior of the shell shape was brushed metal. Beneath the hanging pendants were minimalist dark wood tables, their brushed-metal legs gleaming softly.

  If she got lucky, this would be the bed in which she would conceive her child.

  She felt Gabe step toward her, which brought her focus back to him.

  “You okay?” he asked, raising his hands and cupping her face gently between them. “Still want to do this?”

  Beautiful. He’s so damned beautiful. Inside and out. “Absolutely,” she said. “Do you?” Giving him a way out, even though she wanted this more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life. Just the thought of creating a baby was making her uterus thrum. She cou
ld literally feel her vaginal walls and her labia growing slick, her clitoris swelling, pulsating, as every cell in her body seemed to be throbbing with need.

  His eyes darkened. “One hundred percent,” he murmured. She felt his fingers glide along the side of her head, close into a fist at the base of her skull, capturing the silky strands of her hair. He tugged gently, tilting her face upward as his mouth descended to stake his claim on her.

  Yes, she thought. God yes. And then his lips made contact with hers and the need thrumming inside her erupted into a raging forest fire, incinerating all conscious thought.

  * * *

  * * *

  HE WAS TRYING to keep a tight rein on his rampaging lust. Tonight wasn’t about fucking. This was too important. Could be life changing. He wanted to take it slow, make it special. He brushed his lips across hers again, memorizing the shape and the texture of her mouth, tasting the warm sweetness of her breath, which carried the faintest hint of their after-dinner brandy.

  She was moaning softly. “More. I need more.” Her body arched to meet his, her luxuriously abundant breasts pressed against his chest, soft and pillowy, begging to be touched. Her hands skimmed up his sides, leaving trails of heat marking their paths, up over his shoulders, rising to cup his face, pulling it down to make full contact.

  He smiled, causing a little growl to escape from her lips.

  She pulled back, and he could see the hunger in her eyes. “I know,” she said fiercely, the lower half of her body undulating against his erection as if she were a cat in heat, “that you’re trying to go slow, be sweet and kind.” She tipped her head forward, inhaling him in. He felt her teeth scraping against his trapezius through his shirt. Then she bit down with another growl, as if she were considering devouring him whole. He had to pull his hips back for a second, away from the friction of her body. He’d known he wanted her, but he’d had no idea that at his age he could go from zero to full throttle so fast. Less than two minutes of minimal contact and he was ready to shoot off in his pants. “But it’s been almost eight years—” She moaned.

  Eight years since what? He was still processing that one when she stepped forward, closing the gap between their bodies “Since I’ve had a stiff, hard cock buried deep inside me.” Holy shit! “And I am dying here.” Her hands had rid him of his belt and were undoing the buttons of his Levi’s, her knuckles bumping against his erection. “Can’t take slow. We’ll do slow later. I promise.” She slipped her hands inside his briefs and clasped them around his engorged cock. “Oh my God.” Zelia’s voice was husky, hungry. “You’re huge.” She pulled the elastic band of his briefs away from his abdomen and tugged down his briefs and jeans until they rested low on his hips, the stiff length of him freed and jutting upward. “Wow,” she whispered. Her thumb glided over the tip of him, gathering the droplet that had emerged, spreading it until the head of his cock was glistening. Then she wrapped her fingers around him. Her eyes flickered shut for a second as she paused, seeming to take a mental imprint of the feel of him, his shape, width, and length. Then she slid her hand down his hot shaft, her wrist doing a slow rotation on the journey down, as if not wanting to miss even a millimeter of skin.

  “Oh God.” The words coming out of his mouth were more breaths than sounds. His hips thrust forward, and his balls contracted, ready to blow.

  “I need you now,” she said, her hand swooping up his cock, over the swollen head, and then back down again.

  “You aren’t going to get any argument from me.” He yanked down her sweatpants and panties, his ass clenched tight so he wouldn’t shoot off. The scent of her skin, of her feminine arousal, had consigned his lingering intentions of taking it slow to hell.

  Her first shoe came off easily, but the second got tangled in the leg of her sweats. “I can’t get it off,” she panted.

  “Fuck the shoe,” he growled, hoisting her up. She wrapped her long legs around him as her wet cunt undulated against the hard length of him. “Give it to me,” she demanded, beating her fists on his shoulder.

  He gripped his thick cock in his fist, shifted her a little bit higher so he could rub the swollen, sensitive head along the slippery wet petals of her labia.

  “Oh God, Gabe, please! I need it now. Can’t wait any longer,” she cried.

  He plunged inside her tight, wet channel, her back slamming against the wall.

  “Yes. Just like that. Hard and fast. You’re fucking me so goddamned deep. Oh, Gabe, you feel so good . . .” She was glorious in her passion, her head thrown back, hair tumbling down, teeth bared, her beautiful breasts bouncing from the intensity of his thrusts. So damn sexy.

  You slay me, he thought. Or maybe he whispered. Didn’t know for sure. Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was in his arms, her warm, wet pussy gripping him tight. She moaned, dropped her head forward. Her mouth latched onto his shoulder, marking him as hers, the ache from her sucking sending him higher. His heart pounded like a locomotive, vision blurring as her nails dragged down his back. Her mouth released his shoulder and traveled up his neck. He could feel her teeth closing around his earlobe, tugging.

  “Oh God. Please don’t make me come yet.”

  She added more pressure to her teeth. “Give it to me . . . Give it to me . . .” A growling chant through her clenched teeth as he thrust into her, deep and hard, over and over, the dark picture frame of the sailor’s wooly clattering against the wall.

  He could feel her pussy gripping around his cock, tighter and tighter. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She moaned. Suddenly she released his ear, her face thrust skyward, the cords in her arched neck strained further, body undulating as her pussy started pulsating around him, sucking him even deeper. “Oh God, Gabe. I’m coming,” she cried, decimating the last vestiges of his control. A powerful climax surged through him as he flung himself, like a drunken Bacchus reveler, over the precipice. Her name burst from his lips as he thrust into her for a final time, buried to the hilt as he shot hot streams of come into her welcoming womb.

  * * *

  * * *

  ZELIA AWOKE IN an unfamiliar bed, the clatter and thrum of New York City waking up audible from the streets below. She could hear the beep of a large truck backing up, cars heading out to work or coming home from a night shift, a man’s voice calling out, the words indistinguishable. Perhaps he was helping the truck back up.

  There was a thump and a flutter outside the window. She turned her head slightly, still nestled comfortably on Gabe’s warm chest. A pigeon was trying to find purchase on the windowsill, wings flapping against the glass, until finally it gave up and flew away.

  She inhaled, long and slow, loving the smell of him. Storing up memories for the long, cold winter. Savoring the weight of his arm over her shoulder and the tactile feeling of her smooth legs entangled with his hair-roughened ones. If only there were a way to hit the pause button. She’d wanted time to absorb the miracle that she was lying in a bed with this man, possibly the sexiest man alive. And they had made hot, passionate, monkey love up against the wall and then indulged in another round of lovemaking that was slow and sweet before drifting off to sleep.

  I’m the luckiest woman in the world, she thought, her hand making slow, hope-filled circles on the swell of her belly.

  Twenty-eight

  THE NEXT TIME Zelia woke there was bright sunshine streaming across the bed and she could hear the sounds of the city in full throttle. She found herself alone in the bedroom. She slid her hand over the indentation on the pillow beside her. The linen pillowcase was cold.

  “Gabe?” she called. She couldn’t hear any noise from him moving around in the apartment, but perhaps he was reading in the living room. She turned to get out of bed and that’s when she saw the note, propped against the saucer with the stubby, melted remains of the candle from the night before.

  Am meeting with Rick. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you. Hel
p yourself to food in the kitchen. Will be back soon. xo

  A beautiful long-stemmed Belle Epoque rose lay on the bedside table in front of the note. My favorite, she thought, gently running her fingertips along the dark nectarine outer petals. The Belle Epoque had been her mom’s favorite as well. How did he know? Of course, he didn’t know. She knew it was foolishness to think it was a sign from her mom, a blessing of good luck, and yet she couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread across her face. She lifted the rose to her nose, the outer petals falling open to reveal the gorgeous golden bronze color on the inner side. She inhaled deeply. It was a stunningly beautiful flower, but the thing about the Belle Epoque that she loved most was its rich fragrance. It spoke to her of summer, of iced cocktails in the garden and love. She inhaled again, shutting her eyes so she could smell more deeply. She slid the silky petals across her lips, making them tingle as she thought of Gabe and his kisses. And just the act of thinking about him had her body humming, readying itself for entry.

  “Up you get,” she told herself, pushing back the covers and swinging her legs to the side of the bed. She looked at her cell phone. It’s 11:28? Good Lord. Talk about sleeping the day away. She took the phone off do not disturb and called Mary.

  It rang a few times. Zelia could hear a lot of static in the connection. She was just about to hang up when there was a clatter, a faint “damn,” and then Mary’s breathless voice came across louder. “Hello? Hello? You still there?”