Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  “I’m sorry, my battery died. I called as soon as it was charged.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I was hoping you could start watching Clara an hour earlier tonight. At my house. Tina wants to have an important meeting before dinner service tonight, and I thought it would be best if Clara stayed home.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Greyson said eagerly. “I’ll be there by five thirty.”

  “Thank you.”

  Greyson felt optimistic after that phone call, excited to be spending extra time with Clara and heartened that Olivia seemed to trust him a little more every day. He couldn’t focus on work after that. He dug the childcare book he had bought before coming to Riversend out of his briefcase and made himself a cup of tea before retreating to the sofa and finding the chapter on weaning.

  He was totally engrossed in his reading when the front door slammed open and Martine walked in. She didn’t appear to notice Greyson on the sofa, and before he could open his mouth to greet her, she stalked purposefully to Harris’s door and opened it.

  “We don’t have much time,” Greyson heard her say before she slammed the door shut behind her. Greyson’s jaw had fallen to his chest, and he was still staring at the closed door when the groaning started.

  A little horrified and a lot amused, Greyson wasn’t sure what the hell to do. This was a bit awkward, to say the least. But at the same time, considering how miserable Harris had been an hour earlier, he was happy for his brother.

  The moaning and groaning were starting up in earnest now. The walls in this place were way too thin. Greyson considered his options. He could stay and hear his brother and a woman he had known for most of his life getting it on in the other room, or he could head out to the porch in the icy cold, or . . .

  He tilted his head; the sounds were muffled and a lot quieter now. This wasn’t too bad. He didn’t feel like a voyeur any longer—it merely sounded like someone had left the television on in the other room. If he concentrated really hard, he could pretend that was what it was. Just the TV.

  He turned his attention back to the book, and after a few minutes, even the soft pretend TV sounds faded completely into the background, and he went back to reading about baby feeding habits.

  He was jarred out of his comfortable reading zone by the sound of raised voices. He lowered his book and watched the bedroom door in concern as the argument escalated. The door opened abruptly, and Harris, visibly distraught, exited. He went straight to the front door and left. The engine of his car started up seconds later; Greyson sat up in alarm, and when Martine exited the room, she appeared to be as devastated as Harris had seemed. She turned to close the bedroom door quietly behind her.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded to know.

  She jumped and turned to face him, her face paler than usual. “Oh my God. How long have you been sitting there?”

  “If you’re wondering whether I heard you and my brother having sex, the answer is . . . kind of. The argument that followed was a lot louder, hence unmissable. Then he storms out of here and drives off without a word. Like I asked before, what the hell?”

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  “I live here. If you want privacy, move your liaisons next door . . . although that’s not much better. The walls are paper thin.”

  Martine’s eyes dropped to the book on his chest. “That’s a baby book,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “I know.”

  “Why do you have it?”

  “Because I’d rather not continue being a shitty father.”

  She just stared at him mutely for a few moments before the wind seemed to leave her sails completely, and her shoulders fell.

  “I have to go. Tell Harris . . .” She paused. Greyson watched her struggle to find the words to express whatever it was she was feeling and felt a surge of tenderness toward the woman who had been so horribly wronged all those years ago.

  “Martine, for what it’s worth,” Greyson said, hoping to make things a little better for her and possibly Harris, “my brother would never intentionally do anything to hurt you. Not ten years ago and not now. That ridiculous bet was so out of character that it makes me question the circumstances surrounding it.”

  “You knew about the bet?” She sounded sad and humiliated, which hadn’t been Greyson’s intention.

  “Only after the fact. Jonah Spade spoke of it to me precisely once, and to my knowledge he has never, and will never, speak of it again. He was also ostracized from our group immediately after that.”

  “Does Smith know?” She looked absolutely terrified at the prospect of her brother—and Harris’s best friend at the time—knowing about the incident, and Greyson clenched his fists, quelling the urge to get up and give her the hug she so clearly needed. But he wasn’t a hugger and would probably freak her out if he suddenly got all affectionate on her.

  “Of course he doesn’t, Tina,” he said, imbuing his voice with the warmth, love, and tenderness he felt toward her. Using the nickname because he wanted her to know that he considered her a friend, even if she didn’t feel the same way about him. “I can guarantee Jonah Spade and his cohorts would all have been permanently injured if Smith ever got wind of it. And quite frankly, even though Harris sometimes annoys the hell out of me, he’s still my brother, and I dread to think what Smith would have done to Harris if he ever found out. It was selfish of me, but that’s one of the reasons I quashed any and all potential rumors.”

  She crossed the distance between them before he could react and then completely shocked him by bending and dropping a sweet, affectionate, and sisterly kiss on his cheek.

  His face went hot, and his eyes widened in shock, but he felt outlandishly pleased by the gesture.

  “Thank you, Greyson.” She turned and left before he could respond, but he didn’t really have a response for her. Instead he traced his cheek with a bemused finger while a foolish grin settled on his lips. He and Tina had rarely spent one-on-one time together in the past. And while he had always felt a brotherly kinship toward her, he knew that she didn’t feel any particular warmth toward him. He had always attributed that coldness as some kind of overflow of what she felt toward Harris.

  But today, it felt like she was finally starting to see him as someone separate from his relationships with Harris and Olivia. And that felt satisfying. It felt like Greyson was getting at least one relationship right while he was here.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Any trouble tonight?” Olivia asked when she returned home that night. Greyson, who had been dozing on the couch before she walked in, felt disoriented and confused by her question.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, then cleared his sleep-roughened throat. He massaged the stiff nape of his neck and stared down at his wife, who looked as tired as he felt.

  “With Clara?” she prompted him.

  “Oh. No. She protested a little when it came to the bottle, but she took it with less fuss than last night. We played a bit, and I washed and changed her. After that we settled down to watch some TV together . . . nothing bad,” he hastened to add. “Some reality show about baking. I thought she’d want to learn some skills so that she could be a fantastic baker like her mum someday. She fell asleep during the program, but I learned some fascinating things about the history of lamingtons.”

  Olivia rewarded him with a smile and toed off her shoes with a relieved groan before padding into the bedroom. Greyson didn’t follow her but heard her softly talking to Clara through the baby monitor, which he had placed on the coffee/bedside table. He moved to gather up his laptop, phone, and baby book. He knew he could google some of the stuff in that book, but there were things in there that would never even have occurred to him to look up or think about.

  Olivia stood with her shoulder braced against the bedroom doorframe and watched him pack.

  “I started her on solids today. She loved the mashed banana. Her face was a revelation,” she said with a laugh, and Greyson felt his stomach tighten. He would
have loved to see that.

  “Wish I’d seen it,” he said, his voice wistful.

  “Me too,” she said unconsciously and then grimaced when she realized what she had said. “You’re going to miss some things, Greyson. I am too. You’ll witness things that I won’t and vice versa. That’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid.”

  “I wish it were different.”

  “It’s not.”

  “So what was your meeting about?” he asked curiously, thinking it prudent to change the subject.

  “Tina has hired a marketing-and-PR person. She wanted me to know about the marketing strategy they’ve come up with for MJ’s.”

  “That’s a good move. The place needs help. It’s been close to empty every time I’ve been there.”

  “Yes, like I said before, Tina’s been half assing it . . .” She paused for a moment before shaking her head slowly. “That’s not entirely fair. This business is new to her, but she is trying to make it work. And Daff, the PR consultant, has lit a fire under her butt, and Tina looks a lot more motivated now.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How’s your hand?” she asked. The question was unexpected, as was the action that followed it. She reached for his injured hand to inspect the dressing that he had meant—but forgotten—to remove that morning after the gym.

  “Better,” he said, unable to properly breathe while she had his hand so tenderly grasped in both of hers. Her thumbs gently probed at the fleshy part of his palm through the dressing, but he barely felt a twinge. He swallowed when one of her thumbs swept up to his wedding ring and traced the smooth surface of the gold.

  “Why do you still wear this?” she asked. Her voice was husky with some undefined emotion, and Greyson couldn’t get an accurate read on her mood.

  “Because we’re still married. Why don’t you wear yours?” He shouldn’t have asked. It was a foolish question, and he knew exactly what her answer would be.

  “Because I don’t feel married,” she responded, saying what he had known she would. Thankfully she didn’t elaborate on his flaws and his stupidity again but left it at that.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she stepped even closer and placed a quelling index finger over his lips, silencing anything else he might want to add.

  “Again. Wrong.”

  Greyson knew he was apologizing for the wrong things. He knew what she wanted, but how the hell did Greyson apologize for something so damned disgraceful he couldn’t even forgive himself for it? I’m sorry wouldn’t even begin to cover it. And when he found the right words, or when the people in charge of such things created new ones to adequately describe his remorse and shame, that was when he would apologize.

  The front of her body was pressed against his, so damned warm and tempting. Her beautiful eyes were entangled with his, and her lips, moist and juicy and enticing, were right there, within kissing distance . . . and fuck, he wanted to kiss her so damned badly. He wanted to do that . . . and more. But he couldn’t. He no longer had that right, and he wished he had the strength to step away from her, but he couldn’t do that either. So he remained standing there, close enough for her to feel his arousal, for him to inhale the wonderful scent of her, to feel her heat and her every breath.

  “Please,” he heard himself begging. Wanting her to do what he could not. “Step back, Olivia.”

  “Do you want me to?” she asked, remaining exactly where she was.

  He groaned. “You know the answer to that.”

  He thrust against her helplessly, and she let go of his hand and reached up to palm his nape instead.

  “If we do this, we do it on the understanding that it’s just sex. Simple, uncomplicated sex.”

  He swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. But she seemed to take his silence as enough of a response and went onto her toes to kiss him. Her other hand joined the first on his nape, the fingers of both hands burrowing into his hair and drawing him closer.

  Greyson’s arms swept around her slender waist, and his hands flattened against her back as he dragged her even nearer, wanting her as close as he could get her. She pulled her head back, and he protested the separation. Her pupils were fully dilated, only the tiniest sliver of amber remaining around them. Her lips were swollen from their hard kiss.

  “And we don’t do this without a condom.”

  He had condoms; he always had condoms. He used to carry them before his marriage and had never removed them from his wallet. They were pretty old by now, but he was sure they were good. They had to be good because he had nothing else. He used to keep the condoms as precaution against disease. Now there was the added risk of pregnancy.

  He nearly laughed at that thought. Idiot. There had always been the risk of pregnancy. But he had never trusted a partner enough to have condom-free sex before Olivia. He was so fucking lucky he was health conscious, or who knew how many other kids he’d have scattered around the world by now.

  “I have condoms,” he confirmed out loud, and she smiled.

  “Good,” she said before lifting her mouth for another kiss.

  Libby didn’t know why she was doing this, why she wanted this. She just knew that when she had come home tonight, she’d been tired and tense and bracing herself for an exhausting night trying to soothe Clara to sleep. But she had come home to peace and silence. And Greyson . . . looking so damned disheveled and approachable and dependable. The latter was an illusion, she knew. Reinforced by the fact that he’d fed and clothed their baby and managed to get her to sleep.

  Her concerns about the tiring night ahead had evaporated, but the tension remained. And there he stood, a six-foot-one, gorgeous, tried-and-tested remedy to stress. And Libby wanted what he could give her. She wanted the sweet oblivion and the powerful release. She craved it.

  And she didn’t see why she couldn’t have it. Not if they were clear about the boundaries. This could be uncomplicated, and it was just a one-off thing. Almost exes with benefits, so to speak.

  That was a thing, right?

  Well, if it wasn’t, it should be.

  Greyson’s shock seemed to be wearing off, and he was beginning to assert himself a bit. His tongue was finally joining the party, and his hands were starting to do more than just hold her close. They were on the move, reacquainting themselves with all his favorite spots on her body before moving on to Libby’s erogenous zones. His mouth began to roam, nip, suck, bite . . . and she opened herself up to him.

  His hands tugged at her clothing, and she happily helped him drag her long-sleeved lacy top up and over her head. The top fell to the floor at their feet, but neither paid any attention. Greyson was too busy staring at the flesh he’d revealed, and Libby was too busy staring at his face. He looked hungry.

  No . . . ravenous.

  And it made her so much hotter.

  His hands went to her bare shoulders, and they both inhaled sharply when his flesh met hers. Libby arched into his touch, wanting his hands to do so much more. He growled, the sound shockingly primal. It was like nothing she had ever heard from her usually civilized husband before. And it was a huge turn-on.

  His hands curled around her shoulders, and he turned her so that her back was to his front. He yanked her against him, one arm wrapped around her waist while his uninjured hand lifted her skirt. Before she knew it, that hand had found her panties, had burrowed beneath them. And while he ground his hard crotch up against her behind and panted heavily into her neck, his fingers found her sopping core.

  Libby cried out, and her thighs instinctively clamped around his audacious hand, but that didn’t stop him. He maneuvered her toward the sofa, and before she knew it, he had her bent over the back of it. Her hair tumbled around her face, and she felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation and mystery because she couldn’t see what he was doing.

  He removed his fingers from her painfully distended clit, ignoring her protest. But he had bigger plans. He knelt behind her and used both hands to tug her panties down over her thigh
s to her knees. His palms went to her naked behind, one on each cheek, and she braced her hands on the annoyingly soft sofa cushions, trying to lever herself up so that she could have a little more control over the situation, but she couldn’t. She soon forgot all about her discomfort at being sprawled ass up over the back of the sofa when his tongue found her.

  “Oh my God,” she keened. This was an entirely new situation for her. Her senses were heightened because she could only feel what he was doing, and he was doing it incredibly well. She parted her legs, as far as the panties at her knees would allow, but it was enough to allow him greater access. The ravenous man had finally found his banquet, and he was feasting.

  She came twice in quick succession and was still trembling after the second orgasm when his mouth left her and she felt him stand up behind her. She heard him fumbling around for something and once again tried to push herself upright to see what he was doing. But she had absolutely no strength left and could do nothing but wait. Anticipation building with every sound he made.

  The sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, his low, desperate moan, the crinkle of foil . . . his fingers found her, dipping into her molten core as if checking her readiness. And she was so ready for him despite how fast and crazy and confusing this was.

  He hooked an arm around her torso and helped her upright. Libby turned her head to finally look at him. His face was a study in fierce concentration, beads of sweat popping up on his forehead. She dropped her hands to the back of the sofa, thrusting her behind toward his straining erection.

  It was animalistic, and the sound he made was unlike anything she had heard from him before. He dropped his palms to her hips and crouched slightly, adjusting his stance to allow for easier entry . . . and then he was there. The broad tip of him cautiously pushing into her.

  He was breathing heavily, huge gasps of air sawing in and out of his lungs as he fought for control. In between the gasps, he was uttering low, desperate words of profanity. Words she rarely heard from him.

  It was so different from their past sexual encounters, when he had been mostly silent, just the occasional hitched breath and soft exhalation of air.