Damaged Goods_Ravenswood

by Talia Hibbert

  Her heart practically burst in her chest.

  Chapter Seven

  The names Laura texted over the next two weeks were so outrageous that Samir became convinced she was trying to kill him. Of course, if she did have murderous intent she could just poison him when they had lunch together—which was almost every day. Or maybe shove him into the ocean when they met on the beach—which was every single night.

  On second thought, whatever she was trying to do, it probably didn’t involve his eventual demise. But sometimes, when she smiled at him in a certain way, or said his name with that aching, unexplainable softness in her voice, Samir thought he might just die anyway.

  When she called him on a Saturday evening in May, he hadn’t seen her all day, which was a rarity. Combine that with the fact that she’d never actually called him before, and Samir almost had a heart attack when her name flashed up on his caller ID.

  He brought the phone to his ear so hard and so fast, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d bruised his own bloody face. “Laura? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  “Well, hello to you too,” she said, and that was all it took for him to relax. She was fine. He could hear it the way he heard her sadness sometimes, or her nerves, or her whirring, worrying mind.

  Samir sank back in his seat and smiled. At this point, it was an automatic response to the sound of her voice. “You called. You never call.”

  “That’s funny. Bump’s grandpa said the same thing this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” Samir didn’t need to know anything about this mysterious grandparent. Even so, he froze, every atom of his body at attention, just in case she was about to say…. something. Something that would reveal more of her secrets to him. Something that might explain the shadows he saw in her, the ones he couldn’t quite shine a light on.

  But in the end, all he got was an absent, “Mmm. Anyway, I was actually…” She trailed off for a moment, sounding almost painfully self-conscious, the way she did sometimes. She’d never been like that before. It was funny; adulthood and freedom from his parents had given Samir a confidence his teenage self had only ever faked. But something in Laura’s life had done the opposite to her, unravelling the once-tight threads of her self-esteem. He wanted to know what.

  Though he already had some ideas.

  She cleared her throat, and he could almost see her now: lifting her chin, setting those broad shoulders like a general. He liked that, liked those moments when she paused and pulled herself together; those moments when she made a conscious decision to be brave.

  He wondered what she was being brave about this time.

  Then she told him outright. “I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner.”

  He almost fell out of his chair. “Dinner?” Shit. Had his voice always been so rough?

  “Yes. I have all these prawns that need to be eaten,” she said, her tone almost defiantly casual. “Or, you know, they’ll go off. There’s a lot. I lost it in Sainsbury’s last week and bought a shit ton.”

  “Ah. So you’re recruiting the greediest eater you know for assistance?”

  “Yep!” She said promptly. As if there was absolutely no other reason why she’d ever ask.

  He wasn’t disappointed. That would be childish. His very platonic, very untouchable, highly adorable friend was inviting him to dinner, and there was absolutely nothing disappointing about that.

  So Samir made sure to sound especially cheerful when he replied. “I’m up to the challenge. When do you want me?”

  “Oh, any time. I’m hardly busy. All I do is order too much baby stuff online and reread The Secret.”

  He snorted. “In that case, I’d better come and save you from yourself.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  Laura made dinner in this long, low-slung skirt that floated when she moved. There was a little gap between the hem of her T-shirt and the waistband of that skirt, and when she reached up to get ingredients out of the cupboard, that gap widened. Then she’d lower her arms, and the gap would narrow again.

  Slowly, steadily, the skin revealed and concealed by that gap sent Samir out of his fucking mind. By the time she produced dessert, his conversation was reduced to babbled inanities like, “Oh. Jelly. Did you make this?”

  “Is it that obvious? I’ve been making tons of sweets recently. Cravings.” She winced and scooped up a spoonful. Slid the silver between her lips a little too slowly for Samir’s peace of mind, her fine mouth plumping under the pressure. Then she released the spoon with a pop that shot straight to his dick. Shit. “I think it’s quite good,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe the best batch yet.”

  He rammed a chunk of jelly into his gob to stop himself saying something reckless. Something like, It looks great, but I’d rather eat you.

  He definitely, definitely couldn’t say that.

  Bright, tropical flavour burst across his tongue as the jelly slid down his throat. Jesus. Samir took another spoonful, his inappropriate lust almost forgotten. Such was the power of a damned good dessert.

  “That’s amazing,” he spluttered.

  That familiar, raspberry flush crept up her throat. “Thanks,” she said, sounding almost shy. “Jelly’s my thing right now. I used to hate it, actually. My taste buds have gone all weird.” She rested her free hand absently on the swell of her belly, just beneath her breasts. Not that he noticed her breasts. Except for the fact that they seemed bigger every time he saw her.

  Because she was pregnant. Babies! He’d think about babies. That would help.

  He managed to hold a half-decent conversation through dessert by turning the topic to Bump, and Laura’s next scan, and some weird woman on Mumsnet who claimed that anyone using disposable nappies was cursing their child’s very existence from the start. Convincing Laura that, no, she did not have to use fabric nappies just because some stranger online said so, was surprisingly difficult.

  “I told Trevor about it,” she said, and then added, as if it were an afterthought, “That’s Bump’s grandpa. Trevor.”

  Samir filed the information away in his sadly slim folder of Things I Know About Laura’s Life.

  “I told him,” she continued, “and he said, That sounds very sensible.”

  “Fabric nappies?” Samir said, incredulous. “He thinks that sounds sensible? I’m guessing he’s not the one who’ll be washing them.”

  She laughed. “No. He’s lovely, but sometimes he’s so… old and rich and, you know.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Pretentious?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call Trevor pretentious. Now, Daniel, God, he’s—” She broke off all at once, as if someone had snipped her words short with a pair of scissors. Her eyes widened, and her lips pressed together so hard they turned white.

  In the next second, she was standing, snatching up both their plates.

  “Are you done?” She asked brightly, even though she’d already whipped away his food.

  “Uh, actually—”

  “Great! If you liked the jelly, there’s more. I can put it in a tub for you to take home.”

  Samir didn’t typically respond well to food theft, but he decided to contain his instinctual outrage. And not just because she was sending him home with a box—though that certainly helped. He leant back in his seat and studied the stiff column of her spine as she moved to the sink. “Daniel, hm?”

  “Sorry?” She looked over her shoulder, dark hair hanging rather conveniently across her face.

  “Is that his name?”

  There was a moment, a heartbeat, of tension before she said softly, “Yes.”

  Then she turned back to the sink and twisted on the taps, and Samir stood up, his attention quite thoroughly diverted. If she was trying to distract him, she’d chosen the right tactic.

  “What on earth are you doing?” He demanded. “Sit down, woman.”

  She snorted out a laugh. �
��Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Fine. I strongly suggest that you sit down. Let me wash up.” He nudged her out of the way, his shoulders butting against hers. “You cooked.”

  “You’re a guest,” she said, in that stiff little voice he remembered her mother using. Or at least, the one she’d used early in the mornings, when she wasn’t piss-herself-drunk yet.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He tugged the washing up liquid from her hands. “I’m just me. Anyway, I know your back hurts.”

  “How could you possibly know that my back hurts?”

  How could he not, when he watched her constantly, when he noticed the pattern of her fucking breaths, when sometimes he felt like he could hear her heart beating?

  But all he said was, “You’re pregnant. Therefore, your back hurts.”

  “Amazing,” she said dryly. “You’re like my own personal midwife. So sage. So wise.” But she still went to sit down, her lips curving into a reluctant smile.

  And then the smile disappeared as she gasped, one hand braced against the table, the other flying to her belly.

  “Laura?” Concern gripped him. He dropped the dishes, crossed the tiled floor in seconds and took her face in his hands. “What? What’s—?”

  She was smiling. Why was she smiling?

  Without a word, she caught one of his hands and dragged it down to her stomach. His brain was still stuck in panic mode, so he didn’t even realise what it meant when she pressed his palm flat against her bump.

  Then he felt what she’d felt, and the flood of understanding almost dragged him under.

  Samir held his breath as he felt an insistent push beneath his hand—beneath Laura’s skin. His heart stuttered in his chest, fluttering like the wings of a caged bird. Common sense flew out the window; he was all giddy excitement now. He didn’t even hesitate to slide his other arm around Laura’s back, to hold her in place as he spread his hand wide over her belly and felt every kick.

  “Oh my God,” he breathed. When he looked up, he found her grin impossibly wide and her eyes shimmering like silver ocean. “Oh my God,” he said again. “That’s so fucking…”

  “It’s weird, right?” She laughed, but it was kind of wobbly. “The weirdest thing ever!”

  “It’s the best, weirdest thing I’ve ever felt,” he admitted. “Oh, angel, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  “No, no, I’m fine!” Tears streamed down her cheeks, splotches of pink blooming across her face like roses. “I don’t know why I’m crying! It’s just so…” Samir resisted the urge to wince as her voice soared to dolphin pitch. He could hear the sounds and everything, but it kind of came out like “SoohmagahaBABYbumpallkickinrealinsideohgahisohappy!”

  “That’s great love,” he murmured. He was rubbing her belly in circles now, which she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wiped roughly at her face with both hands and gave him a smile brighter than the sun.

  “Sorry,” she sniffed. “That’s just the first time I felt any kicks or anything, and I was starting to think it would never happen! And now, you know… it’s happening! Oh, I got carried away. Sorry. Sorry!”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, and hoped he sounded calm. Cool. Not at all like he was exploding inside over the fact that he’d just felt the baby’s first kicks—that she’d wanted him to.

  He was the only person around, after all. Of course she’d wanted to share it with someone.

  But now the baby seemed to have abruptly settled down, and Laura wasn’t stepping away. She wasn’t pulling back, even though his fingers brushed against that slice of bare skin with every slow circle he made.

  Maybe he should pull back. Maybe she was feeling awkward or uncomfortable and didn’t know how to say ‘Please get the fuck off me’ politely. That was probably it.

  Samir was about to let go when she looked up at him, and just like that, he felt it. That electrical charge, like the air before a storm, that coalesced between them when he least expected it. Her fingers brushed his wrist, hesitant and barely there. Then the touch came again, firmer now, until her hand was pressed over his. As if she were keeping him in place. As if she didn’t want him to stop.

  She definitely didn’t want him to stop.

  “Laura,” he murmured. “Tell me… tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Her smile fading, she ran her tongue over her lower lip. It was a nervous gesture, he told himself. That was all. Just because her eyes were starlight and her cheeks were flushed and he could see the rise and fall of her chest getting faster and heavier, didn’t mean he should assume anything.

  Then she said, “I’m wondering why I… why you still make me feel like this.”

  “Like what?”

  She spoke so softly, he barely heard her. “Perfect.”

  Samir’s eyes slid shut as if blocking out the sight of her could block out everything else. As if he could ignore his inconvenient adoration, or the surge of anticipation flooding his veins. He had to be careful. This could all go dangerously wrong. He could be dangerously wrong, to hear that word and think it meant she wanted him. Perfect could mean anything. The low, husky tone of her voice could mean anything.

  Her hand sliding up his arm, his shoulder, sinking into his hair—that could mean anything.

  Couldn’t it?

  He opened his eyes and found her, still real, still standing there in his arms, but unimaginably changed. That ever-cool gaze was heated mercury, burning into him the way it used to. The way he shouldn’t even remember. When he thought of her, on the nights when he was too tired or too reckless or too fucking besotted to stop himself, she looked at him just like this.

  “Say something,” he gritted out.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t. Stop. No—”

  She pressed her hand over his mouth, cutting off his words, his thoughts, his good sense. Then her palm slid away until only the tips of her fingers grazed his lips. She leaned close, so fucking close, and suddenly he could feel her against him, from the lush jut of her breasts to the firm press of her belly. So close that her lips hovered over her fingers, which hovered over his lips…

  Oh, Christ. He was so fucking gone. Cock hard as hammer and mind utterly scrambled and willpower crumbled to dust. Why would he ever want to resist her anyway? Why would he ever want to do anything other than sink into all that perfection?

  He felt her breath ghost over his lips, whispering through her fingers as she murmured, “What I want to say is yes.”

  He gulped down air as if he were in danger of drowning. “But you’re afraid. I know you’re afraid.”

  Something in her gaze faltered, which wasn’t what he’d wanted. He just wanted her to be sure. Because he’d watched her—he always watched her—and he knew that she flinched when people came too close or moved too fast. He knew that she was nervous all the time—not a lot, but enough; that she had this low thrum of constant anxiety that kept her on edge. He knew that she was always waiting, even when she seemed happiest, for the other shoe to drop.

  And still, despite all that, she whispered, “I am. But I don’t want to be.”

  Chapter Eight

  Laura knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she shouldn’t be doing this. And yet, she couldn’t stop. It was so deliciously alien to feel this way—so decadent, and so intense, and such a fucking relief.

  Yes; it was a relief when he pressed soft kisses to the tips of her fingers until her eyes slid shut. It was a relief when he pushed her hand away so gently, and let his lips glide over hers, light as his very breath had been. It was a relief when he combed his fingers into her hair, just to hold her, and grasped her hips, just to touch her. Not dragging her down like an anchor, but helping her stay afloat.

  He was so tentative as he tasted her. So careful as his lips, all full and hot and him, caressed hers with a quiet, patient intensity that warmed her from the inside out. And she remembered, all of a sudden—through faded impressions, snatches of teenage awkwardn
ess and the frantic, reckless hearts thudding at the centre of it all—that this was how it used to be. This was the first time all over again, and it was more than just a dream.

  But beyond the sweet delicacy that was so right, and so Samir, she felt something else, too. Something she wanted. Something humming just beneath his surface, tightly coiled and ravenous, burning through the tense column of his body, spurring on her growing desperation.

  Until, finally, his tongue eased into her mouth with a sureness that fizzed through her veins, lighting her up like a sparkler tracing shapes in the dark. And something in Laura snapped.

  She opened for him with a moan that revealed every filthy thought she’d ever been quietly ashamed of—only, now that he was kissing her, she couldn’t be ashamed anymore. The knowledge that he wouldn’t stop her, or hate her for wanting like this, let Laura lust recklessly. It let her catch his T-shirt in frantic, grasping fingers, and slide her eager hands over every inch of his skin she could reach.

  He stiffened against her for a moment before everything about him went hot and liquid and hard all at once, his arms tightening around her body as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he couldn’t feel enough of her. He pinned her to him like they were in some black-and-white film, and she understood the appeal of those things now, because this felt good. This felt like pure passion, like pinpricks of light and heat darting through her body until she was nothing but a constellation of pleasure. And all he’d done was kiss her desperately, hold her as if he couldn’t let go, hear the silent pleas of her hungry mouth against his and reply in kind.

  He moved, dragging her with him, and she didn’t understand but let it happen anyway. Samir caught her legs, lifted them up either side of his waist, and then she felt cool wood against her knees and realised that they were sprawled over the kitchen table. She was straddling his lap. Good Lord. This was not the sort of thing people did on kitchen tables!

  But apparently, it was the sort of thing Samir Bianchi did. And it was the sort of thing she did when she was with him.