by Chase, Emma
We don’t have sex. Because Abby doesn’t need me to fuck her.
Tonight, she just needs me.
* * *
In the weeks after Abby cried in my arms for little Maisy Adams, things change. Slow and steady and undeniable—the way winter drifts each day into spring. Abby and I still fuck like beastly bunnies every chance we can, but after that night—it’s not all we do.
There’s talk in between the moaning. Actual conversations about everything and nothing, small things and big, embarrassing moments and silly memories. It brings a closeness to our time together—something more intimate than fucking.
And a tenderness.
I’ve always felt protective of Abby, but this is something different—something sweet that feels like cherishing.
We don’t just enjoy each other’s bodies—we enjoy each other.
Like right now, we’re lounging in Abby’s gigantic porcelain tub—it’s late, sometime around two in the morning—a few hours after she finished an eighteen-hour shift at the hospital. I’m not typically a bubble-bath man, but the heated chest-deep water—and the slick, slippery company—might turn me into one. The tub is big enough for us both to stretch out our legs, facing each other, with Abby’s foot clasped in my hands as I massage her poor, aching arch.
I’m preoccupied by the glistening bubbles clinging to her peaked pink nipples. It’s like a tantalizing peep show—as each bubble pops, a little more flesh is revealed. I want to pop them all, clean them off the tight-tipped buds with my tongue, and suck until she begs for mercy.
Later, when I think back about it, I won’t be able to recall how it came up or who posed the question—but we’re talking about our first times.
“Mrs. Sassafras,” I tell Abby, “my mother’s best friend.”
“Your mother’s friend?” Her face scrunches. “That’s wrong, Tommy.”
“Yeah, sort of—but the wrongness only made it better.” I wink.
She covers her face, laughing.
“How old were you?”
“Just shy of sixteen. She was a young widow and my mum would send me over to help her in the garden. She was beautiful, outspoken—an excellent teacher.”
I can tell by her expression that Abby’s still not convinced of Mrs. Sassafras’s redeeming qualities.
“Did your mother every find out?” she asks.
“Christ, no. My mum would’ve ripped her head off her shoulders, and last I heard Mrs. Sassafras was still in fine health.”
“Mrs. Sassafras . . .” Abby shakes her head, chuckling.
I switch to Abby’s other foot, pressing my thumbs into the soft tissue in deep, slow, penetrating circles. Abby’s eyes slide closed and her head tilts, exposing the pretty hollow of her throat. I’ve yet to find a single part of her that’s not scrumptiously pretty.
“Ooooh, that’s nice,” she moans.
And my cock does a spot-on impression of an up-periscope on a submarine.
“Keep moaning like that and I’ll be rubbing a whole lot more than your foot.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes stay gently closed.
“Later. Right now this is everything.” A long, breathy sigh slips from her lips.
We lay quietly for a few moments just like that—cut off from the world, with the fragrant, still steam enclosed around us and warm water droplets sliding on our skin. Abby’s loveliness is one I don’t imagine I’ll ever get tired of looking at—it just grows more intense, more enrapturing, the longer I’m near her.
“What about you?” I wonder softly. “Who had the honor of popping your cherry?”
Some men have issues with a woman’s past—with jealousy—but I’m not one of them. Whoever came before had their moment in the sun—and between her legs—but now they’re gone. History. A memory. No more a threat to me or my place there than a ghost.
What interests me more is Abby—the pieces and parts that make her who she is.
She’s fascinating in her contradictions. A brilliant surgeon with a kind heart for tiny things. A beautiful girl who’s deeply suspicious of anything remotely fun. A confident woman who doesn’t give herself nearly enough credit. A lass who rides a bike with a bell and a basket . . . but only on the very same path each time.
“I bet it was your first serious boyfriend, wasn’t it? Candles and flowers and satin sheets?”
Abby’s grin slowly fades away.
“Not exactly.”
She sits up straighter, slipping her foot from my hand and drawing her knees towards her chest—wrapping her arms around her legs. “Do you know the Liptons? You must’ve heard Nicholas railing about Sir Aloysius in Parliament. He’s frequently on the opposite side of the Queen’s agenda.”
I shake my head. “I make it a point to ignore aristocrats’ conversations—breach of privacy and painfully boring.”
Abby snorts. “Well, Sir Aloysius Lipton is a member of the House of Lords and my father’s law partner. They’re old friends of the family. Their eldest son, Alistair—I had the biggest crush on him forever. He was a few years older than me, all handsome and charming. And I was decidedly . . . not. I was fifteen and awkward and convinced I was incapable of doing anything well.”
She laughs at herself a little, shaking her head—but there’s something off about it. Something sad.
“They were at our estate for a dinner party. Alistair asked me to go for a walk around the property, and you could’ve knocked me over with a feather I was so shocked. And delighted. It was the very first time I didn’t feel painfully ordinary.”
I don’t know if it’s her tone or the look in her eyes—but I find myself bracing. Like just before taking a punch to the gut.
“He kissed me behind the gazebo in the garden. And it was nice. And then he kept kissing me . . . but it became not nice. When I told him to stop, I remember thinking he must not have heard me, because he just kept right on like I hadn’t said a thing.”
I taste sour in the back of my throat and my stomach twists.
Abby’s voice drifts away, going airy and thin. Not her lovely voice at all—but the memory of it. A ghost voice.
“So I said it louder. I looked him right in the face. But he . . .”
“He what?” I bite out, harsher than I should.
Abby lifts her shoulder, shrugging in a way that breaks my heart into pieces. As if her next words aren’t going to cost her.
“Well . . . he insisted.”
The meaning of what she’s saying stabs deep. Touching a lethal, primal part of me that’s capable of terrible things—that wants retribution.
Because emotion doesn’t give a shit about reason. And caring about someone has nothing to do with logic. And I want to slash and burn and destroy, because once upon a time someone hurt her . . . and I wasn’t there to protect her from it.
Abby sniffs, staring at the bubbles floating on the bathwater.
“Afterwards, he stood me up and straightened my clothes and plucked the twigs from my hair. And we went back into the house.”
“What happened then?” I ask, softer now.
She looks at me from big, dark, bottomless eyes. Her face is pale as marble and her voice is flat as stone.
“We had dinner.”
And I want to kill someone. I want to kill everyone—and lay their corpses at Abby’s feet like an ancient offering. Alistair Lipton and his father and her parents and every cunt who was at that dinner party and didn’t see. Couldn’t tell. How the fuck did they not see her?
I swallow down the gravel in my throat.
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“Yes . . .” She nods. “I just told you.”
It’s like my lungs have been hit with a sledgehammer, forcing out all the air, making it impossible to breathe.
“Abby—”
“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Devastated.” She tucks her knees under her, moving to me. “Don’t look de
vastated. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.”
Now.
She’s fine now.
My hands clench into fists beneath the water and I yearn to make the Red Wedding look like a fucking garden party. Because Abby should’ve been more than fine—she should’ve been safe and happy and sublime—for always.
But I force my features to relax and my muscles to release, and I nod for her, just for her—giving her what she wants.
Because there isn’t anything I wouldn’t give her.
“All right, love.”
The water sloshes over the side as she shifts, curling onto my lap. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close—but not too tight. Just enough that she feels me, that she knows I’m here, that she knows she’s safe.
Abby’s cheek rests against my chest.
“I’ve had relationships, Tommy,” she insists.
“I’m aware,” I answer softly.
“I’ve been with men—I’ve been with you.”
“Very, very aware.”
“It doesn’t change anything. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
My head snaps to look at her.
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect, Abby.” I cup her cheek in my palm, stroking. “Extraordinary.”
Something about the word tugs at her, captures her, makes her eyes go liquid and shiny. I don’t know why . . . but I know I want to find out.
Because this is more than an arrangement. More than convenience or fun or stress relief. More than fantastic, filthy fucking. It’s all of that—but it’s not just that. Not anymore.
I don’t think it was ever just that for me. I think that’s what I told myself, what I agreed to, so I could have her.
This brilliant, beautiful girl.
But now . . . I want to keep her. And fuck me sideways, I hope she wants that too.
“Do you really think so?” she asks.
I press a light kiss to her forehead, to the apple of each cheek, and to the very tip of her nose.
“Absolutely.”
My hands stroke up and down her spine.
“I knew it the first time I saw you.”
“When you had a concussion?” she reminds me cheekily.
“Yeah, when I had a concussion.”
“I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is.”
I chuckle, squeezing her waist and pulling her just a bit closer
“Was this when you thought you were in heaven?” Abby asks.
“Just after that part. I looked at you and said to my myself . . . Self, that girl there is something special. Something extraordinary. You’re going to want to hold on to her.”
She snorts against me, giggling, and I press my lips to her damp hair.
And I do want to hold on to Abby. Any which way I can.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abby
TIC-TOC
It’s not just the sex.
It’s not just the plethora of pleasure-wracking orgasms Tommy can conjure like a magician with a flick of his hand. It’s not just the fanny fun-times, the randy rides on the John Thomas Express, or any other ridiculous euphemism Etta would use.
It’s more than that. God help me.
That realization didn’t seep in gradually, the way you sink into sleep and slowly submerge into dreaming. It slammed in—like the steel grate of a lorry that unexpectedly rams into you from behind.
And it happened the night Maisy Adams died.
When I stepped out of the operating room broken and bleeding from the sharp shards of defeat and sorrow. And I stood there beside Dr. Dickmaster, cemented to the floor as he told Maisy’s parents she was gone. That they had lost their daughter.
That we had lost her.
As I watched those poor people fall apart in front of me, the ache in my chest was so crushing I couldn’t breathe—I didn’t know if I would ever be able to breathe again.
And in that moment . . . all I wanted was him.
Tic-toc
That wonderful, infuriating rascal of a man.
I wanted to run to Tommy, throw myself against him, because he would make it better. I wanted to feel his arms around me and know through and through that he would keep all the bad away—he wouldn’t even let it get close. I yearned for the soothing rumble of his voice, the warm sandalwood of his skin, the solace of that irresistible smile.
After I told him and we got absolutely sozzled and he held me all through the night, I awoke in the morning still feeling dreadful and yet . . . comforted. More in control, slightly less shattered by it all.
That’s when I knew Tommy had become my refuge. Not just the impressive appendage between his legs—but him, the man.
Tic-toc
At first, I was not pleased.
I didn’t have time for an attachment. For complications. To be mooning over him like some silly schoolgirl. I didn’t have time to need him—to need anyone.
But the horror lasted only a moment.
Because I’m a surgeon.
And if I’m deep inside a patient’s heart and the unforeseen happens—an unexpected bleed or complication—I can’t run away or throw up my hands and say, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t part of the deal.” I have to address it, reevaluate and adapt to it.
I’ve decided to treat my own heart the same way.
By all accounts, the prognosis is good. I’ve been sharper, more sure of myself, more balanced and capable in the past few months than I can ever remember being in all the years before.
I’ve been . . . happy.
Tic-toc
I picture Tommy’s smirk if he heard me make that admission.
Of course you’re happy, lass—that’s how my cock works. It makes everywhere it goes a very happy place.
Tic-toc
Telling him about Alistair Lipton was unplanned.
It’s not something I think about anymore. It happened—the way Luke’s heart condition happened—I don’t dwell on how it might have altered me or changed the outcome of my life. I’ve moved past it.
But there was a comfort in telling Tommy, a sense of relief. Not because of the ravaged, murderous look that sprung up in his eyes—though that was nice to see—but because for so long I was all alone with it. Holding it close and tight, all by myself.
It felt freeing to share it with him, to know that I could. That I had truly put it behind me—like removing a scar from an already closed wound.
Tic-toc
And Tommy may be cocksure and teasing, but he’s wanted me from the moment we met—he couldn’t have been more upfront about that. And more than any part of who he is, Tommy Sullivan is a protector. A shield. A guarder of bodies and minds. I’ve seen that—I’ve felt it.
So I have to believe that whatever these feelings are and wherever they may lead . . . he’ll be careful with me.
And for now, that’s enough.
Tic-toc
“Did you hear me, Abigail?” My grandmother’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts.
Glancing up from my brunch plate at the Bumblebridge dining table, I find her looking at me expectantly. The rest of the collective is also here—my parents, Sterling and his wife and their wonder twins, and Athena and Jasper. Luke left for South America several weeks ago, but we text almost every day.
“No, I’m sorry, Grandmother. What were you saying?”
“I asked about your residency.”
“It’s going exceptionally well.” I nod. “My confidence and skills are growing every day and I’m developing a very solid reputation with the supervising surgeons.”
My mother’s face softens behind her teacup. “That’s wonderful to hear, darling.”
Grandmother frowns. “Does that mean you’ll be completing the program ahead of schedule?”
“No, but I’ve come to realize that’s not really the most important thing. It’s the experience that matters. Getting the most out of the program so I can beco
me the best surgeon I know how to be.”
I catch Father smiling as he reads the paper. “Well said, Abby.”
Grandmother opens her mouth to reply, but my phone vibrates on the table and I hold up my finger. “Excuse me, this may be the hospital.”
When I glance at the incoming message, I have to smother an immediate, giddy smile. I shield the screen with my palm to protect it from any prying eyes that may try to sneak a peek—and would end up thoroughly scandalized. Tommy is delightfully talented with dirty texts.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Are you still at your Granny’s?
Me: Yes, we’re just finishing up.
Then Tommy’s next message comes through—and my smile dissolves.
Like a severed limb immersed in a vat of battery acid.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Good. I’ll be there soon.
Panic punches into my veins in a frenzied rush, making my pulse sprint and my palms sweat.
Me: What do you mean?? You can’t come here!
I’ve accepted the fact that I have an attachment to Tommy Sullivan that goes beyond the boisterous boffing. I’m even enjoying it. Telling my family, on the other hand?
That’s a whole other kettle of stinky fish.
To be dealt with later—much, much later.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Are you ashamed of me?
Tommy’s a man—every delicious inch of him. Rough and rugged, charming and demanding—and proud.
It’s the pride part that I get stuck on. That makes my mouth go parched as I think of a way to reply that won’t wound him.
But then he beats me to it.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I’m just messing with you. You can be ashamed all you like—I’m not offended.
Wanker.
Me: You can’t pick me up here.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I’m nearly there already. Meet me out front. There’s something I want to show you—you’re going to like it.
Like one of Pavlov’s randy dogs, sensual heat curls and coils low in my stomach. Because there has yet to be a single thing that Tommy has shown me that I don’t like very much.
In the biblical sense.
But then a completely different thought occurs to me. And that heated desire immediately shifts to simmering frustration.