by Donna Alam
‘Hush, Edera. Hush, babe.’ Heedless to my hands, he crushes me against him. ‘I’m so sorry. And I really am trying to be good.’
‘I know,’ I say part laugh, part sob. ‘But I don’t have to like it, do I?’ I curl my hands in the front of his shirt as though it’ll stop him from pulling away, but as his fingers find my shoulders, our bodies separate anyway.
‘You’re so lovely. So strong and brave. I’m in awe of you—of how you’ve coped—but I want to be here for you now. I don’t want you to do this alone.’ More words of consolation I don’t want to hear from him. Sentiments I can’t appreciate right now, at any rate. ‘If, if that’s what you want.’
His tone offers no accusation, but I hear it anyway. I’ve locked him out of my life in so many ways—since the very beginning—and for what? For the sake of the opinions of others? Because I didn’t want to be that girl? A selfish daughter—the girl others talk about. So instead, I gave him up while I pretended to be someone else.
‘You’re absolutely right.’ I step back and wipe my eyes. ‘It must be the hormones.’ Horny hormones. I don’t remember reading about this in that damned book.
I straighten my spine then look him straight in the eye as I lie to him.
One.
Last.
Time.
‘I need you in my life but not like this.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dylan
‘Fuck. Fuck!’
At the bottom of the stairs and two locked doors, I rake my hands through my too-long hair.
As she’d stood on the threshold, her eyes pure and clear and her gaze full of longing, a jolt of realisation shot down my spine. I was closer to her than I’d been in such a long time. Closer to her than I might ever be again—this is what I wanted, maybe what I needed, too. And I ache to be inside her, even for just one last time.
Christ, how I want her—I wanted to reach for her, and almost did, but for the flicker of fucking conscience. A flash of concern that I might be leading her into something she might regret.
I need to think about more than my own needs. I want to deserve her, to be worthy, but right now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, gallantry can fuck right off to hell because with every fibre of my being, I want her.
I want to knock down the door and storm up the stairs.
Take her in my arms.
Make her mine for always.
But some things should never be, no matter how good they feel in the beginning. No matter how much you think you need.
The car keys weigh heavy in my palm as I turn.
Chapter Forty
Ivy
I cried a few tears after he’d left, but no more than a few self-pitying sniffles. I’m not done weeping, I know, but I’m done for now.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and down it, one hand curled and gripping the sink. I rinse my glass. Stack. Dry my hands on the dish towel then head to the bathroom to wash away this awful day. Ordinary actions, one foot after the other, are the only way to go. June, I know, would agree.
Please, God, let her be okay.
‘Things could be so much worse,’ I tell myself through the small vanity mirror. Wrapped in a towel and dripping wet from the shower, I’m holding my toothbrush in hand. June is alive and stable, my friends and family will be there for me, and Dylan seems to want to forgive me. To be a part of our lives.
‘Hear that, Vlad?’ I place one hand on my stomach and the little bugger bursts to life. ‘You like the sound of that, do you?’ And of course, he’s saved his rave until bedtime. ‘Think you could move for your daddy next time? I think he’d find it pretty special.’
It might make it more real for him. More real than a boring hospital appointment, at any rate. Tears spring again, but I’m not wallowing. Instead, I make my way to the bedroom and slip on a huge t-shirt I’ve adopted as bedwear these days.
Want, frustration, pain, and hurt.
I’m going to sleep it all away.
Start again tomorrow. Maybe try a smile on for size.
I slip between the cool covers of my three-quarter bed, switching off the small bedside lamp that once belonged to my gran. I send my love heavenwards to her, along with a silent plea that she look after June and little Vlad. Then I thump my pillow to maximum effect, turn, once, twice, and begin to drift off.
Five minutes later—or five hours, I’m not really sure—I wake to the sound of hard hail against the window pane. Muttering a curse, I pull the quilt over my head then fold the corners of my pillows over my ears, just to be sure.
Deep even breaths. Stay calm. Centred. And just for good measure, I’ll add in some Sanskrit chants . . .
Bang!
‘Oh, you bunch of little bawbags!’ I throw the quilt back from my legs and touch my feet to the floor. ‘If it’s those bloody kids from the estate . . .’ I yank back the curtain and push the window wide. ‘Away ‘round your own doors, or I’m callin’ the polis!’ I yell in my best angry Scots housewife voice. Bloody cider swilling delinquents. Or are drugs to blame these days?
‘Ah, hell. I’m turning into my mother already,’ I mutter. Still, I suppose I’d best get used to being the voice of authority. With a daddy like Dylan, this babe is bound to be a handful.
I can’t see the ground for the nearby glow of the streetlamp but cover my eyes anyway, breathing out another chant.
‘Fuck this day, fuck my life and just . . . fuck!’
‘Hey,’ calls a familiar voice from below. ‘Was that an invitation?’
By the time I’ve buzzed open the bottom door and cranked the lock on the second, Dylan is already on my doorstep. Hands clasped to the sides of the doorframe, he leans toward me but doesn’t step inside.
‘I thought you’d left,’ I say, tucking my wild hair into a quick twist.
‘I tried.’ He shrugs, sort of ruefully, his gaze coming up from his shoes. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘So I see.’
‘Listen, I think you’re gonna be a fantastic mom,’ he states suddenly—sincerely—knocking me off my stride.
‘Because I can yell out a window?’ He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can’t make out what he’s thinking from his expression. Not at all. ‘Or because I can yell like a fish wifey, or—ow, you wee bugger!’ I whisper-hiss, clutching my stomach as Vlad kicks my bladder . . . and stomps on my uterus.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, stepping closer and into the hallway.
‘Yeah, f-fine.’ With his momentum, my back is literally against the wall, and I hold up a hand to ward off his concern or maybe his approach. I was desperate for him earlier, but I need to learn from my mistakes. Learn some self-control. ‘It’s just disco time. Your son’s quite the mo—oover.’ Ow . . . and oh, shit. Again. ‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’
Baby brain strikes again; I didn’t tell him I’m having a boy. Fuck it. I’m not going to cry, despite getting it wrong again. Only, Dylan doesn’t look hurt but stunned. Maybe? And he hasn’t lowered his hands.
‘A boy? We’re having a boy?’
‘So I’m told. You can have it if you want—the actual birth, I mean. Take one for the team?’ Stop. Babbling.
‘May I?’ he asks, gesturing to the area currently doing the rumba under my oversized tee.
‘He’s obviously an actor’s son,’ I answer, smoothing my hands over the cotton.
Dylan’s eyes rise from my moving midsection. ‘How’s that?’
‘Little Vlad here does a mean Alien impression, though it’s a bit dramatic for my tastes.’
‘Vlad?’ he asks, trying hard to conceal his distaste.
‘Don’t ask,’ I say with a sigh, taking his hand in mine and placing it on my stomach, and giving him something else to focus on. ‘The name won’t be sticking around for his arrival into the world.’ And like a made-for-TV film, Vlad choses his moment well, kicking out against Dylan’s hand.
‘Please don’t start crying,’ I whisper as awe spreads
across his face. ‘I seriously don’t have the energy to join you.’
He blinks. Heavily. Once. Twice. Three times. Drops to his knees and feeding his hands under the hem of my t-shirt, pushes it upwards to expose more than just my blue cotton knickers. I should be protesting. I should be moving away. Instead, I’m leaning against the wall before my knees give way.
‘Dylan.’ So much meaning stuffed into one word. I place my hand on his head as he lowers it, his shoulders rolling forward like a penitent. Only he’s not sorry—not at all—if the way his hands trail the backs of my thighs then palm my arse is any indication.
His lips press softly on my stomach, and I’m done for. Both hands in his hair now, I toy with the strands and stroke the nape of his neck.
He pulls himself from his knees, sort of like someone who’s just suffered a frontal lobotomy yet is still alive. Without words, he takes my hand and leads me down the narrow hallway and into the living room. And what’s more, I just let him.
‘Which is your bedroom?’ His eyes scan the white doors leading off the small room.
‘It’s that one.’ I point at the first door on the right. I mean I could protest. Ask him what this means, what he’s all about, but what would be the point? If he said he wanted to say thank you for allowing him to kiss his child, or that it was comfort he was offering me, a one-time deal or a pity fuck, would I say no?
How about you don’t ask yourself.
Dylan pushes the door open, and before I can speak or think, he’s on me. I don’t even have a chance to inhale. His arms around me, he holds me up, which is just as well; I’m afraid my body might turn to vapour, bypassing both the liquid and solid stages.
‘Tell me you don’t want this,’ he whispers, his words barely puffs of breath against my jaw. ‘Tell me, and I’ll stop.’
‘If you do, I won’t ever speak to you again.’ I sense his smile against my cheek; the bristles on his jawline rough against my skin. ‘I want you. Right here and right now.’ I’ll want you forever, I don’t say.
‘I want you all the fucking time,’ he growls against my neck, unravelling the loose twist of my hair. ‘It won’t go away.’
I tilt my head, smiling in satisfaction and not wanting him to see. Long may he want, and long may he receive.
His hands feed under my nightshirt, pulling it over my head, and at that moment, our bodies are separated, and his eyes widen—like, massively. I back away, unsure, the bed bumping the back of my legs. But I needn’t have worried as he falls to his knees in front of me again.
Dylan Duffy. On his knees. For me.
‘Christ, you’re so beautiful,’ he murmurs huskily, the words sounding dragged from the deep.
I don’t feel it, but the look in his eyes is almost enough to make a believer of me. His hands drift up my thighs, my hips, his mouth covering one hard nipple, the other caressed and pinched between his fingertips. I cry out; the sensation is too much. The way his green eyes watch from under his lashes, the satisfaction glowing there—it’s pure sensation overload.
His mouth comes away with a soft pop, the full flat of his tongue swapping attentions while his big hands now frame my breasts.
‘What the fuck did you do to these?’ he asks, almost awestruck.
My head rolls back almost at a right angle to my neck because yes, more of that, please. The touching, the kissing, the confidence boost.
‘Plastic surgery’s all the rage these daysss. Oh! Yes!’
He laughs, the brush of air cooling my hard, wet nipples. I resist taking his head between my hands and directing him to lavish them again. To suck, lick, devour. Then start all over again. I think I’m whimpering.
‘Your nipples are so big . . . so sensitive.’ Let’s stop with the running commentary and do something about it instead. His mouth covers me again, and I cry out from relief. ‘How’s that feel, baby?’
‘If you have to ask . . .’ His fingers hook into the sides of my blue cotton knickers. ‘If you . . . ’ He slides them down my legs until they pool at my feet. ‘If you h-have to ask, you’re doing it—’
‘I’m doin’ it all right,’ he replies in a low growl. ‘Get your ass on the bed and spread those legs wide.’
I don’t so much comply as almost faint from desire, my bum falling to the bed. I have nothing left to say; nothing I could articulate as his palm centres on my chest, pressing my body flat across the bed.
His fingers tight on my thighs, I’m cleaved—split in two—as his tongue, honed to an arrow, to a sharp point, parts me. I cry out. I fist the covers. Melt against the bed.
‘That’s it, baby.’ His words vibrate deliciously. ‘Let me hear you.’
Oh. God. Oh, fuck. It’s been so long.
‘I know, baby. For me, too.’
I realise the words weren’t spoken solely in my head, and his reply? I don’t have time to process what that could mean as he kisses my clit. Kisses it. Makes out with it until I’m writhing beneath him and he’s feeding his hands under me, drawing my hips from the bed. He envelops my clit with his mouth, sucking and swirling, releasing and repeating until no more words and no more thoughts exist. Just blinding light and sensation from where his tongue meets my body.
The hum of his pleasure between my legs—it’s so much. Too much. I want him to stop, to never stop, but I can’t articulate any of that as I reach the sharp knife of climax, my body rising to meet it.
‘Oh, Dylan.’ I feed my hands into his hair; once I remember that I have hands, that is.
‘I need you inside me. I need you now.’ But he just licks me slowly in response, working me with the full flat of his tongue. ‘Stop, please. It’s too much.’
‘No, baby,’ his voice rumbles back. ‘You’re just out of practise.’
‘No, please. I need you.’ I push at his shoulders and grasp the collar of his shirt until, with one last kiss between my legs, he stands and begins to strip.
Shirt. Boots. Jeans. Thumbs hooked into the waist of his black boxer briefs.
‘Quit looking at me like that,’ he demands, though smiling, a flash of white teeth peeking through kiss-plumped lips.
I swallow, and my tongue flicks out to touch my own kiss-swollen mouth.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Aye, sure.’ But then his smile falls. ‘When this happens, there’s no going back. Not for me.’
The boxers come off, and while the sight of him naked in my darkened bedroom is distracting, I can’t move on from his words. He lays the length of his body along mine, his eyes shining in the darkness.
‘We’ve fucked this up big time.’ His fingers trail my cheek, my neck, his thumb dragging over my mouth before his lips cover mine. ‘Give me another chance, Ivy. Let me love you again.’
Chapter Forty-One
Dylan
My heart beats wildly as I wait for her answer, my cock screaming for release. But the silence between us—it’s deafening. Frightening.
‘I hurt you; I know that. In so many ways. But if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please, let me do that.’
‘You can’t—want—just because of the baby.’ Her words are jerky, and she looks to be trying to sit straight. To escape. ‘I promise I won’t push you out—’
‘No, Edera.’ I push up on one elbow and stare her down. ‘I know we’re both to blame for fucking up our marriage. But this isn’t about the baby.’ Shit. It sort of is. ‘Look, the idea of being a father—being responsible for someone else—has given me a sudden sense of perspective. It makes me want to stop fucking about . . . dithering, you know?’ Her expression is as empty as a crappy script. ‘This—being the father to our child—has given me the balls to ask. Please, Ivy, say we can try again.’
I take her wrist between my fingers and bring her hand to my chest. ‘Feel that? If I had any more love in my heart, I think it’d burst.’
I’ll never be a writer. I only speak others’ words, but those things I just said? They’re ori
ginal. And the truth. And got me her stunned expression. Got me her shy smile and the dip of her mouth to mine. Her kisses are bottomless. Endless. Warm, sweet, and wet. I’d let her kiss me forever without coming up for breath.
As she leans over me, I wrap her in my arms and pull her to straddle my waist. I put her there, but I don’t push. But maybe just tease as I slide my fingers between her legs. Coax. Pet. Slide. Tease inside. But I don’t do anything else. She has to take the next step.
Ivy’s all about the connection. The build-up. Come fuck me glances and sighs. And right now, her eyes are closed, and she’s strung tight . . . even as she rocks against my hand.
So I change tack.
‘You want me.’ My words hit the air in a demand. A growl.
She bites her lip and offers me a libidinous sigh that sounds like, ‘Yesss.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’
‘The bubble to burst,’ she whispers. ‘To wake.’
‘Ivy,’ I grate out, aiming for a warning tone. ‘Look at me. Do I not look real?’
‘You look like a wet dream.’ She sighs, her body collapsing, and her wet pussy grinding against my happy trail.
This girl. I hiss out a laugh.
‘You can do better than that.’ My thighs are shaking with restraint; my hands clasp her hips so tight, I’m afraid she might bruise.
‘I can’t,’ she whispers, tears dripping from her lids. ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Then tell me you’ll be mine.’
‘Yes, please.’ Her answer is instant; her tone weak with need.
I lift her, lift her onto my cock, because every square inch of my skin is hot, tight, and tingling with need. We both cry out from the intensity and from relief. Our hands seeking the others’, our fingers entwining as she rocks into me, her thighs spread wide.
‘Is this okay?’ I rasp, my eyes and fingers not able to touch enough of her. She is seriously the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.