The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride: A BWWM Romance

by Imani King

  “Where were you hiding that?” I ask.

  “I have my places,” he purrs with a smile.

  Uhhh….

  He cringes. “Alright, I just realized that could be taken really bad.”

  “Yep.” Not gonna disagree with him on that one.

  “They were in the inside pocket of my jacket,” he explains.

  “Much better.” I lean forward and shut my eyes, breathing in slowly. “God, I love the smell.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “They’re your favorite flower.”

  I look up at him over the makeshift bouquet.

  He’s watching me with an expression of absolute tenderness, and it stirs within me an effect of absolute lovey-doveyness.

  “Your father grows them for your mother in their garden,” he continues. “You used to weave lavender crowns for your hair when you were little. You called yourself the lavender princess, and claimed you’d only accept kisses from a lavender prince. Unfortunately, when I wove myself a lavender crown, you declared me an impostor and refused to accept my affections.”

  I squint at him skeptically. “I don’t think I’m getting the whole story here.”

  He grins. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?”

  “Oh God, what did you do?”

  He sighs. “I offered you a free mammogram exam.”

  “WHAT?!?!?”

  He laughs. “Hey, we’re not the only ones here. Keep it down!”

  I start laughing, too. “That’s not very princely.”

  “You’re right,” he replies. “But, the point is—”

  “That you have no game?”

  “Well, yes, but there’s another point too. Lavender has always meant love to you.”

  My heart beats faster. I may not be Cinderella, but this was really starting to feel like a fairy tale. Sure, he had been a pervy little boy, but the man before me was perfect.

  And speaking of perfect, at that moment Jean-Claude showed up with the food. The salmon melts on my tongue. The spring salad tastes like it had just been gathered from the garden. The light dressing complements its green, fresh flavor. Hazelnuts add a little bit of crunch.

  “This is amazing,” I moan.

  “Wait until you taste desert,” Jean-Claude replies. “Our creme brulee is famous.”

  “I’ll have that!” I tell him.

  “Coming right up, Cinderella,” he says with a smile before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  I purse my lips.

  “What is it?” Preston asks.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just not sure how I feel about this Cinderella title. I mean, I don’t remember Cinderella getting knocked up before the ball. And on a related note, there hasn’t even been a ball.”

  “You’re a modern Cinderella,” he tells me.

  I nod. “Yeah. A modern Cinderella in practical shoes. Who’s successful in her own right, and doesn’t need any rescuing by a handsome billionaire to make all her dreams come true.”

  I glance at Preston to see how he reacts to my little outburst, surprised to find he’s smiling.

  “You know,” he says, “I like your version better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t think she’s too abrasive?” I prompt.

  “Not at all. If a man can’t take a strong woman, then he doesn’t deserve her.” He gives me a princely smile that sends my heart fluttering. “Oh, look. Your creme brulee is here.”

  Jean-Claude presents me with a spoon and refuses to leave until I take a bite.

  I close my eyes as my mouth orgasms.

  Oh. My. God.

  Vanilla bean. A hint of lemon. And a creamy goodness so perfect it should be illegal.

  “You like?” Jean-Claude asks.

  “No shit I like,” I holler back.

  My eyes whip open. Oh no. Did I just swear in front of the waiter?

  But Jean-Claude is only smiling. “Cinderella’s got a bit of a mouth on her,” he says, and I think I catch a hint of adventurous respect in his voice.

  I glance back at Preston, who’s trying hard not to laugh. Yeah, this wasn’t your average fairy tale. But it was mine, and so I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Chapter 10

  Alright, there’s actually one thing I would change. You know how before I was expecting “lunch”? Well lunch was over, and Preston was ready to take me home.

  “What the hell?” I ask when we’re alone in the back of the limo.

  “You’ve already had dessert,” he informs me.

  No I haven’t! He can’t drop a thousand innuendos while staring at me like he can’t wait to take a bite and then take me back home! I was so freaking horny that I’d actually accept a free mammogram exam from him right about now.

  “This is the most beautiful city in the world,” he tells me while gazing out his window.

  I clasp my hands in my lap, trying to inconspicuously push up my boobs. “Really?”

  “Yes. You can go out every night and discover something new.”

  Maybe if I push up my boobs a little further he’ll notice them? “What sorts of new things do you discover?” I ask breathlessly.

  His attention is still on the passing city out the window. “A lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, many of them aren’t good. There are so many people who are hurting and trying to find their way. It can be overwhelming, and yet, whenever I’m overwhelmed I don’t feel like it’s enough. I’ve been very lucky, Tachell. And I don’t think I’ve done enough to help others who deserve it more succeed.”

  He looks at me, and I jump back, immediately embarrassed that I’d been trying to shamelessly seduce him while he contemplated important things.

  “Do you know why I like your art so much?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s honest. It cuts to the heart of everything, and forces me to look at deep, dark emotions I’ve buried. It reminds me of this city, full of lights illuminating shadows…and lights blinding you from seeing the suffering right in front of your eyes.”

  I shiver. I can’t believe he’s saying all these things about my art, especially since I don’t even feel like an artist. All the paintings I’ve done seem to have come from some other person. I don’t know her, I keep thinking, and then I realize that I don’t know myself.

  But he seems to know me—both who I was, and who I am. “You talk about my art like you’re the artist.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely not. I never could be.” He looks down. “But I appreciate it. I find new things in your art every day.”

  “You look at it every day?”

  He nods. “In my office. In my home. In my bedroom. Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I see is a part of you. And it is the last thing I see every night before I shut off the lights to go to sleep.”

  My heart speeds up. “It’s not a nude self portrait, is it?”

  He smiles devilishly. “No. I don’t have one of those…but I’d love to commission one.”

  My cheeks aren’t the only thing burning. Every part of me is on fire. “Really?”

  “You know, a few days ago you would have been furious if you knew I had one of your paintings in my bedroom.”

  “Didn’t I see it when I—we—um…”

  “You didn’t notice it. I kept you pretty occupied.”

  “Oh.” I gulp. Shut my eyes. I hated this man. He’s even warned me that I hated him. And yet…

  Boob inspections were pretty damn lame, but they didn’t inspire a lifetime of hate. There had to be something deeper. Something I was afraid to look at too closely. This fear made me pull away even as I wanted to fall deeper into this sweet, beautiful feeling.

  I scoot towards him.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Why did I hate you?” I whisper, searching for the answer in his large blue eyes.

  He looks down at our almost touching fingertips. “Because I’m not a good ma
n.”

  “You seem so good to me now.”

  “I know.”

  I take a deep breath. “Is it because you’re lying?”

  “No.” Slowly, his white fingers slide over mine. “It’s because I’m showing you things about me you didn’t see before. But the other things—the things you hated—are still there.”

  “Then why are you pulling away? I like these things.”

  “I told you, once, that I would only give you to a man you deserved. That man isn’t me.”

  I frown. “Isn’t that for me to decide?”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “You don’t make decisions for me,” I continue. “I make them for myself.”

  “Yes, you certainly do.” He gives me a private smile.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Want to know a secret?”

  “What?”

  “I love that about you. How driven and strong you were and how you didn’t take anyone’s shit—least of all mine. And, even though the thing that you wanted was never me, I loved how you were always reaching for it and never compromised. Because the things you did reach for, you did so with your entire heart and soul. It inspired and humbled me. And even still…” He laces his fingers with mine. “Even still, I tried to stop you.”

  A chill rushes through me. “What did you do?”

  “So many stupid things, because instead of becoming the kind of man you’d reach for, I tried to just take you, because I knew that you’d never reach for me on your own.” His eyes burn into me with such heat that my entire body trembles. “That’s why I’m a bad man. That is why you hate me. Because you saw through my schemes, my desires, and my pain. You saw the man within, and he wasn’t a man you could ever love.”

  “I don’t think I did,” I whisper. “There are things that we do, things that make us feel a certain way, that frame our experience. And sometimes we can’t see beyond them to what is really there.” I step closer. “I think you’re pushing me away because you’re afraid.”

  “What?” he asks, astonished.

  “I think I get it now,” I tell him. “I don’t remember, obviously, but I think I get it. You pushed me away because you didn’t think I’d accept you if you didn’t. But maybe you never really wanted me to accept you because you were afraid. It was less painful to purposefully fail than to try to make it work and then fail. You could keep your hope, that way.”

  He gulps. His beautiful, sharp Adam’s apple bobs like a knife, and the image cuts straight through my heart.

  “You always did see too much,” he whispers.

  “So why are you doing it now?” I ask. “You have your chance. You say I never saw the real you. Show me. Let me decide.”

  He shuts his eyes, sighing. “How you tempt me, Tachell.”

  My body trembles.

  He leans closer. “It wasn’t fear—or at least fear wasn’t the strongest part of it. I want you so much I can’t think clearly. I can’t stop myself. I think that is what it is—not fear of failing, but fear of what having you in my grasp will make me become. Because I can’t stop myself with you. I want, and I want, and I want…and the desire is so strong that I don’t know if I’ll ever be satisfied.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m strong enough to put you in your place, then.”

  “Yes. It is good. But it is also a challenge.” He pulls his hand away. “We’re almost to your place. When we arrive, I think you should go.”

  No! He can’t pull away just when I’m getting to something true. “Why?” I ask.

  “Because if I kiss you now I may not be able to stop, and if I kiss you now and I don’t stop, you will feel bad if you wake up tomorrow. You won’t be able to live with yourself for giving into me, even if it was just for a few moments.”

  I lean in closer. “That’s a problem, then.”

  His eyes go dark. “What?”

  “Because I don’t think I’ll forgive myself if I wake up tomorrow the way I am, without kissing you.”

  He growls, deep in his chest, before taking my face in his hands. “You don’t understand what you do to me,” he whispers.

  “No. I do,” I reply. “Kiss me.”

  I can feel the moment the last of his restraint leaves his body. His breath hitches. His eyes lose focus. And his grip tightens, just barely, before he crashes his lips into mine.

  His kiss isn’t soft, beautiful and sweet, like he’s trying to paint a picture of an honorable man with his lips. No, this is full of something raw and primal and undeniably him—so recklessly strong that it almost feels like I’m being swept away.

  But I’m strong, too.

  I make my own story. I don’t let others make one for me.

  So instead of breaking, meet his fire with my own flames. I grab his shirt, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The heat from his body spreads out over my skin. I feel his ripped body tightening against my torso, his muscular arms flexing as he cradles me against him. And lower, I feel that other part of him already so hot and hard that it’s burning through the fabric of his pants.

  Yes, I think, pulling him closer.

  I kiss away his hesitancy. He thinks all those memories are best forgotten. All those feelings best left buried. That he should never allow all those desires to surface. He says he loves my art because it reveals things, and yet he wants to still hide himself.

  I won’t let him. I need to show him he’s wrong about one important thing.

  He’s perfect for me.

  He gets out of his seat, takes hold of my hips, and pushes me up against the back of the limo. Plush leather cushions my back as hands slide up my thighs, pushing up the hem of my dress. When he reaches my neon pink thong, he lets out a low growl.

  He looks up at me, eyes dark, realizing that I planned this—that I wanted this—him and me, limbs tangled, unbridled passion that’s been brewing beneath the surface to finally come to an edge.

  He pulls away. “I can’t do this.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I want to. I’ve dreamed about fucking you for ten years, and after it happened, I walked around with a hardon for weeks. Right now there’s nothing I want more than to sink into that tight, hot pussy and claim it as my own, but it’s not right. Not until you remember.”

  The car stops.

  “We’re here, Tachell,” he says, opening the door.

  I’m tempted to not get out. If I strap myself in and start flailing, he’ll have to risk more headlines to send me on my way. But that wouldn’t be right…at least not yet.

  I accept his hand as I get out. Together, we walk to my front door as the bodyguards hold back the paparazzi.

  “Thank you, Tachell,” he whispers, kissing me on the head.

  I raise my eyebrows and step back. He shouldn’t thank me yet, because I’m not letting this go. I will discover whatever it is he’s hiding, and then I will show him it doesn’t matter. I’ll show him that he does deserve me. And, even more than that, I’ll show him that he deserves to be happy.

  I walk into my apartment with slumped shoulders.

  Sondra frowns from the couch. “You’re home early.”

  “Yeah, well, all we did was eat lunch,” I inform her.

  Her shoulders slump. “Really?”

  I nod. “He wants to wait until I remember everything.”

  She pouts as my mom walks in. “Hey sweetie! How was your lunch date with Preston.”

  “It went alright. He was a gentleman.” Too much of a gentleman if you ask me.

  “Well, that isn’t surprising. He always has been.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh yes! And before I forget, you had a call while you were out.”

  “Is that so?” I ask, not surprised.

  “It wasn’t Reggie,” my mother says. “Well, alright, Reggie did call and ask if you needed anything. He was a little upset you saw Preston without telling him. He thought you guys might need a chaperone.”

  “And let me guess, he graciously offered t
o take-up the position?”

  My mother smiles. “You know your brother.”

  “It isn’t hard to know him,” Sondra mutters under her breath.

  My mother tries to frown at Sondra, but can’t. It really isn’t hard to figure out Reggie. It was simultaneously one of his best and most annoying qualities.

  “So who else called?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s right! Priscilla Easterbrook. Preston’s mother.”

  Chapter 11

  Priscilla Easterbrook wanted to meet in the Easterbrook Garden Club. She considered the quaint (by modern mansion standards, at least) miniature gothic castle in the middle of town a second home. This was probably because it had been her grandmother’s second home—or at least one of them. Yes, Priscilla Easterbrook (Preston’s mother was named after her grandmother, as it turned out) loved to “summer” (whatever the hell that means) here. It had apparently been bought for her by her doting husband after she’d heard that he had an affair with another woman.

  Nevermind that the two hadn’t even met yet at the time of the affair.

  He’d apologized profusely for his errant ways. How he’d given into his baser passions at the age of 15.

  I thought it would make me a man, he explained. I didn’t realize that I was still acting like a boy.

  Priscilla said the only thing that would make her feel better was gardening. They were in the middle of New York City at the time, but Preston Easterbrook (yes, Preston was apparently named after his great grandfather, which made listening to this really weird if you ask me) would not be dissuaded. He bought his princess a garden.

  Did I mention all of this glorious green space was in the middle of New York City? It was practically another Central Park, except it had all belonged to one person.

  This sordid history was engraved on a big ass brass plaque in the entrance, right beneath a fountain and a statue of Priscilla Easterbrook. It was then repeated to me by the secretary of the Easterbrook Garden Club on our way to the Rose Court, where I was to meet with Priscilla.