Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  This was like being taken by a stranger. If not for the familiar size and girth of his penis inching its way into her channel, Libby would have had to look around again to be sure this was the same man she had married.

  He lost patience with his slow entrance about the same time that Libby did, slamming into her while she thrust back eagerly. When he was finally fully sheathed, they both remained still for half a second before instinct took over.

  Their coupling was fast, primal, and over in just a few strokes. Libby came hard and fast, and when she clenched tightly around him, he lost it completely. His next few thrusts were quick and deep before he came . . . hard.

  He wrapped both arms around her torso and held her tightly against his fully clothed chest while he emptied himself inside her. He was making harsh, desperate sounds into her hair and shuddering almost uncontrollably.

  His hold on her gentled, and he turned her around to kiss her. The embrace was tender and completely at odds with the wild sex that had just preceded it.

  “Christ,” he groaned after lifting his mouth from hers. It was the first truly coherent thing he had said since their initial kiss.

  They were both mostly clothed—her skirt was hiked up around her waist, and her panties were now bunched around her ankles. She was still wearing her bra.

  Greyson’s jeans and boxers were shoved down around his thighs, but other than that he remained fully clothed.

  Libby felt distinctly wobbly; her knees kept buckling, and if not for Greyson’s hold on her, she would have fallen. He removed and set aside the condom before clumsily shuffling them around the sofa. He sat down and dragged her onto his lap. Libby was still quivering in the aftermath, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

  “Th-that was intense,” she stammered, resting her head in the comfortable nook beneath his jaw.

  His breathing still came in harsh gasps, and he made a strained sound in response to her words.

  “And quick,” she continued.

  “I’m sor—”

  She lifted her index finger to his lips to stop the imminent apology. “Don’t apologize again,” she commanded him, and she felt his lips quirk beneath her finger.

  “I lost control,” he admitted, and Libby’s brows rose to her hairline as she absorbed that statement. Greyson losing control was one thing, but she couldn’t quite believe that he had admitted to it.

  She lifted her heavy head from its comfortable position to stare into his troubled eyes.

  “Did you?” she asked, and he averted his gaze. His jaw tightened, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed.

  “You know I did. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I imagined us on the sofa. Making long, slow love . . .”

  “I didn’t want that,” she inserted hastily, and his eyes dropped back to hers. He looked unsettled.

  “What?”

  “I’m happy it happened the way it did. We were both satiating a need, Greyson. Taking the edge off, so to speak. I didn’t want tenderness. I wanted exactly what you gave me; a quick, satisfying orgasm.”

  “Too quick.”

  “Just right,” she corrected him. She knew the loss of control disturbed him. She was used to much longer sessions with him. Where every kiss and caress—while earth shattering—had always felt a little rehearsed. This fast and messy encounter with him had seemed so honest. Maybe because, for once, he hadn’t hidden his responses from her. It had been raw and elemental and pretty damned amazing.

  She wriggled in his lap, feeling uncomfortable and constricted in her bunched-up skirt. But he started to harden in response to her movements, and she smiled lazily at his reaction. She kicked her panties off, and before he could react, she sat up and turned to straddle his lap. Her hands settled on the back of the sofa on either side of his head, while her knees sank into the soft cushions next to his thighs.

  “Though I wouldn’t be averse to another session,” she said breathily, sliding her wet furrow over the hard, eager length of him.

  He made a helpless, harsh sound as she ground against him, and his hands reached up to grab her head and tug her down for an almost brutally hard kiss.

  Libby broke the kiss with a triumphant laugh, reaching down between their bodies to grasp his hardness in her hand. She caressed the eager, hard knot of nerves between her legs with the glans of his penis, and they both moaned in reaction to that.

  “Olivia.” His voice was loaded with gravel, and the sexy sound of it sent a shudder of pleasure down her spine.

  “Not slow and not sweet, Greyson. Hard, like before,” she asserted, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat.

  “Fuuuuck.” The word emerged from his throat as a long, low moan, and she smiled approvingly into his strained face.

  “Exactly.”

  “Great workout,” Sam Brand said between gasps two mornings later. He was grinning down at Greyson, who lay flat on his back, after Brand had felled him with a move Greyson had never seen before.

  “You’re good,” Brand went on to say as he held his hand out.

  “Not as good as you,” Greyson muttered as he took the man’s hand and levered himself up.

  It was the second morning he had sparred with Brand, and after having his ass handed to him the day before, Greyson had handled himself better this morning. The man had found it marginally harder to beat him now that Greyson had a better idea of what Brand could do.

  Greyson’s fighting skill came from years of practice in gyms, with the best instructors. Brand’s came from military training and real-life hand-to-hand combat. It was revelatory pitting himself against someone like Brand—the man fought dirty and employed moves that Greyson would love to learn.

  “Yeah, but for a civilian you’ve got some great instincts,” Brand was saying. He reached for a towel and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. “You want to help me teach a couple of my self-defense classes?”

  The question stunned Greyson, who stared at him in slack-jawed astonishment. Brand was chugging from his water bottle and fortunately didn’t see Greyson’s reaction.

  “Self-defense classes?” Greyson repeated, his features schooled into impassivity when Brand looked at him again.

  “Yes, I teach a class twice a week at the community center. And I took over a friend’s class at the youth-outreach center as well. There has been a fair amount of interest in the lessons at the community center. And I could offer two extra classes a week if I had another instructor. And I could divide my class into older and younger age groups at the youth-outreach center.”

  “Sounds like quite a commitment,” Greyson said. “I have to take care of my daughter on weeknights.”

  “We could shift the kids to Saturday afternoons. And have a midmorning class for some of the ladies during the week.”

  Greyson considered the man’s suggestion. He didn’t know how long he would be in Riversend, but it looked like Olivia was here for the long haul. He had come here with the intention of bringing Olivia and Clara “home” . . . he nearly laughed at the memory of his own arrogance. Olivia had created a home for her and Clara in this town, and Greyson knew he was going to have to start permanently restructuring his life if he wanted Olivia and Clara to be a part of it.

  And he wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything else in his entire life. He felt hopeful for the first time in months. He was loving his time with Clara, not finding the thought of being alone with the baby at all daunting anymore. And Olivia . . . God, she had always been a breath of fresh air in his otherwise stale life, and that hadn’t changed at all.

  He had been starting to lose hope. But since they had resumed intimacies two nights ago, he felt so much more optimistic. Granted, she didn’t want to spend the night with him. Last night and the night before, after several bouts of crazy, out-of-control lovemaking, she had sent him on his way. But he finally felt like things were heading in the right direction for them.

  That meant staying in Riversend for now, starting to establish
roots, and trying to figure out how to conduct business from here.

  “Sure, I’ll be happy to help out once we’ve figured out the logistics,” Greyson said, and Brand grinned.

  “Fantastic. Thanks, mate.”

  Greyson nodded and grabbed his gym bag and towel. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Looking forward to it. Hope I didn’t leave too many bruises,” Brand said tauntingly.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “That was amazing,” Libby moaned in sincere appreciation on the third night of her renewed sexual relationship with Greyson. They were both curled up on the sofa, which had seen quite a workout over the last three nights. By unspoken mutual consent, neither of them had ever attempted to move their encounters into the bedroom, where Clara lay sleeping. For Libby, it was simply because she didn’t want him in her bed again. It would complicate matters. Start to feel less casual and more meaningful. She wasn’t sure why Greyson had never suggested moving to the bed, but she figured it had something to do with waking Clara. He walked on eggshells around the baby once she was asleep, and their vigorous bouts of sex were anything but quiet lately. Greyson had become increasingly noisy, but Libby could tell that every moan, groan, and gasp were reluctantly conceded. He started off quietly, but by the time he entered her, he was always quivering with need and almost sobbing in relief. He had managed to claw back some semblance of control after that first night, but it was still very different from what they’d had before.

  And Libby loved it. More than she should. His intensity and focus added a dimension to their sex that made it incredibly difficult to resist him. Not that she was resisting anymore. But she was trying very hard to compartmentalize. It was temporary. They knew that . . . and once they divorced, it would be over.

  He was quietly stroking her hair while they both cooled down and the sweat dried on their naked bodies. She felt goose bumps rise on her flesh as her body temperature returned to normal and the cold started to seep in.

  “You’re cold,” he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her in an attempt to warm her up. Libby sighed in contentment, enjoying his heat, snuggling close to his naked chest. She closed her eyes, wanting to rest for just a few minutes before sending him home.

  When she woke up, she sensed that hours must have passed. She was still in his arms, but he had managed to drag Clara’s playtime comforter over them. She felt warm and comfortable and reluctant to move.

  He was limp beneath her, snoring slightly, and she lifted her head to stare down into his slack face. He was so damned gorgeous it sometimes hurt to look at him. She wished things had been different. Wished he had never had the mumps and never been misdiagnosed, never made those accusations . . .

  But wishing was futile. And those things had happened. He had betrayed her and hurt her, and he had abandoned her. When she had needed him most.

  And she kept losing sight of that.

  His eyes opened, and he smiled at her. A sweet, loving smile that made her stomach clench and her heart stutter.

  This was so dangerous. She had to stop gambling with their emotions, and she needed to end this.

  For all of their sakes.

  “You should leave,” she told him tightly, and his brow furrowed.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just . . . I’m tired. I should get to bed.”

  “I could . . .” He swallowed, and she could see his next words coming before he said them. “I could stay.”

  “No, Greyson. You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want you to.” Only she did want him to, and that was messing with her mind so badly.

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say and nodded curtly. She moved off him, standing up and wrapping the comforter around herself while she watched him hunt for his clothes.

  When he was finally dressed, he turned to face her again.

  “I know I’m not good at—” He stopped in midsentence, looking frustrated with himself as he shook his head impatiently. “I wish I could . . . I—”

  She waited, intrigued, as he shook his head again, a confused frown marring his brow.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finally said, and she was tempted to push him about whatever it was he’d really wanted to say. But she nodded and watched, her arms crossed over the slipping comforter, as he grabbed his leather messenger bag and left.

  Greyson spotted Olivia the following morning as he was leaving the gym. It was a clear morning—no rain for a change—and she was across the road, pushing Clara’s stroller.

  Greyson was confused by their appearance. It was nearly ten on a Friday morning, and Olivia was usually at MJ’s by now and Clara in day care.

  “Olivia,” he called, dashing across the road to intercept them. She seemed surprised to see him, and her pretty amber eyes were wide with curiosity as she watched him approach.

  “Greyson? What are you doing here?”

  “I was at the gym,” he said. He eyed Clara, who was crying as if her heart were breaking. “Oh no, what’s this, angel? Why are you crying?”

  He leaned over the stroller, and her adorable face screwed up further as she cried even harder.

  “She’s been crying since we left Dr. Ngozi’s office,” Olivia said.

  “Dr. Ngozi?” Greyson’s blood turned to ice at her words, and he felt genuine fear as his gaze flew up to meet hers. But Olivia didn’t look frightened, merely a little impatient. “Why were you at the doctor’s? Is Clara sick? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “No, she’s not sick. She had her vaccination. But she didn’t take it very well this time.”

  “Her vaccination,” Greyson repeated, his voice flat. She had mentioned that Clara would be going for her second dose this week, and he had meant to ask her if he could join them. But with everything that had happened between them this week, he had hoped that she would at least mention it to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It never occurred to me,” she said, sounding distracted. Her eyes were on the crying baby as she moved the stroller back and forth in an attempt to soothe Clara.

  “It never occurred to you that I might be interested? That I might have wanted to come as well?” The cold fury in his voice finally snagged her attention, and she gaped at him incredulously.

  “It wasn’t necessary for you to be there,” she said, her voice going as cold as his.

  “It would have been nice to be given a choice.”

  “You’re her babysitter, Greyson. Not her dad, not yet.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” he yelled. He couldn’t help himself, and he sensed more than saw several heads turning in their direction. Greyson wasn’t one to make scenes; he hated drawing attention to himself with vulgar public displays, and raising one’s voice was the absolute worst way of drawing attention to oneself. But for fuck’s sake, how the hell was it okay for Olivia to state that he wasn’t Clara’s dad?

  “It means exactly what it sounds like,” Olivia replied, the level of her voice rising to match his. “You’ve changed a few nappies, bathed her once, looked after her a few times—you haven’t earned the right to be her father yet. Just because you’ve graciously decided to acknowledge your biological contribution to her conception doesn’t inherently give you more rights. Not after what you did to us.”

  “This again? How many fucking times are we going to come back to this? Why can’t we move on from it?”

  “Move on? Are you being serious right now? You waltz into town with your smug, superior attitude, thinking you can fix everything in my life, when my relationship with you—our marriage—is what’s broken. Fixing a tap or a door, changing a nappy . . . none of that will repair what you destroyed.”

  “I thought . . . you and I . . .” His words failed him again. Greyson hated how he always seemed to turn into an ineloquent, bumbling, stuttering mess around her. Because he had no defense against anything she had just said. She was right
. . . but at the same time, she was so damned wrong. How the hell couldn’t she see how much he was changing? Every day, every minute he spent with her and Clara, he was changing. He was adapting, he was trying to be a better man. For her. For them. But she was blind to that.

  Clara was screeching by now, and Greyson felt like howling along with her.

  “I have to get Clara to day care,” Olivia said, the heat gone from her voice. “And I’m late for work.”

  “I . . .” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I can take her. Why don’t you get to MJ’s? Do you have all her things with you?”

  She stared at him for a long, speculative moment, her head tilted and her eyes shining with unshed tears.

  “Are you sure?” she finally asked, and he nodded, reaching for Clara and lifting her from the stroller to rock her comfortingly.

  “Thank you,” she said, all animosity set aside for their daughter’s sake. He nodded curtly. She took Clara from him and gave her a little squeeze and a kiss.

  “I’m sorry, my darling. I know the mean man hurt you. But you’ll be all better soon.” She kissed Clara’s wet cheek, and a tear slipped down her own as her emotions finally got the better of her. Greyson couldn’t tell if she was crying because Clara was upset and she would have to leave her or because of their argument.

  “I’ll see you later?” he asked hesitantly. He wasn’t taking care of Clara tonight; Spencer’s sister watched her on the weekends. But Greyson wasn’t sure if he should still go around to Olivia’s house for the other thing.

  His heart sank when she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Greyson. Not tonight.”

  “Olivia,” he began, his voice miserable. She shook her head, still refusing to meet his eyes as she handed Clara back to him.

  “Her bag is stowed beneath the stroller.”

  She left without saying goodbye.

  Libby strode straight into Tina’s office after the morning meeting. Her friend had looked increasingly miserable this past week. She had told Libby that she and Harris had had a huge argument, and while she was pissed off with him, she also missed him.