Damaged Goods_Ravenswood

by Talia Hibbert

  Laura’s mind blanked. “You… don’t?”

  She felt his massive shoulders shift as he shrugged. “Marriage is a promise. Yes, it’s a whole legal thing, but the important part is the promise. You make vows for a reason. He broke them. What I do care about is you.” His voice, always so confident, became slower, more careful. “You’ve been here a while now, love. But you’re… not divorced.”

  “Yet,” she said quickly. “I filed for divorce in March.”

  “March? It’s almost July.”

  “I know. He won’t cooperate. I mean, he won’t sign the petition to acknowledge he received it, so I have to go to court and convince them he’s in contempt, and it’s this whole fucked-up thing…”

  “Okay,” he said. “But you don’t still want to be with him?”

  “No.” The word was ripped from her chest with enough vehemence to alarm even herself. She cleared her throat. “Sorry. No. I… God, I fucking hate him. If you knew him, you’d—”

  “I don’t need to know him,” Samir said mildly. “Ten minutes ago I tried to touch you and you flinched so hard you almost fell off the bed. I already hate him, Laura.”

  She swallowed. “The other day… the first night you stayed. I was on the phone with my sister.”

  For the first time, Samir pulled back a little bit—enough to see her face. To look her in the eyes. “What did she say?” He asked gently.

  Laura’s reply was a whisper. “She said she didn’t believe me.”

  He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask what, exactly, Hayley didn’t believe. He didn’t press for details or explanations or emotions she was too tired to give.

  Instead, he said simply, “I believe you.” And she was flooded with a relief so intense, it was almost painful.

  Then came the impulse to speak. Finally, to speak, and never ever stop.

  She told him everything.

  About the woman this Daniel fucker had been with for years—the mysterious Ruth—without anyone in Ravenswood even knowing. About the way he’d used her, used both of them, before turning Laura and everyone else against his ‘other woman’.

  Even about the things he said and done. The poison he’d dripped into Laura’s ear during the years of their relationship. About how no-one could love her but him, about how she was nothing without him, about the way she looked and spoke and smiled until she didn’t know how to be without his approval.

  Apparently, he didn’t offer that approval often.

  Samir laid there with the woman he loved in his arms, and listened to the halting, desperate tale spilling from her lips like sour juice from the too-tight skin of rotting fruit. He didn’t flinch when she quoted her so-called-husband in a voice as flat and dead as driftwood. “You don’t need to work, Laura. You know you’re too stupid for that anyway. Whose dick did you have to suck to get that degree? If it weren’t for me watching you, you’d be a drunken whore like your mother. You’re lucky I want to fuck you at all, looking like that. You should be grateful.”

  He didn’t falter when she described the secret ways her husband had hurt her. The way he ripped out single strands of her hair, one by one. The way he held her down. The way he covered her nose and mouth until she couldn’t breathe, because he liked to watch her panic.

  He didn’t punch the fucking wall when she told him about the night she’d finally managed to leave, or the fact that she’d run to Daniel’s father rather than her own family because they refused to hear a word against the town’s sweetheart.

  He couldn’t punch a wall ever again, actually. He couldn’t even slice up onions like a madman. He could never come close to losing his temper, Samir decided, because he would rather die, boiled alive from the inside out by pent-up rage, than ever do anything to make Laura flinch, or hesitate, or remember.

  When she ran out of words, she kissed him. It was only the soft brush of her lips against his, tasting like salt, that made him realise he was crying too. She shouldn’t have been the one to brush away his tears, but she did. Then she kissed him again. They lay for a while, face to face, lips grazing lips in petal-soft whispers. She’d kiss him. He’d kiss her. She’d kiss him. And then one of her rigid joints would unlock, and she’d do something that made his chest tighten, like touch his cheek, or run her fingers through his hair, or just hold on to him for a moment, a heartbeat. And then he’d kiss her. And she’d kiss him.

  He didn’t know how long they’d been there, in their own reality, when she tried and failed to stifle a yawn against his mouth. That familiar rose flush crept over her chest as she looked away and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  He smiled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be keeping you up.”

  “You’re not keeping me up.” Then, her voice almost a whisper: “You’re the only thing that gets me to sleep.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers, shut his eyes, and breathed in the scent of her—clean hair and tear-stained skin and the ghost of the ocean, and the thing beneath it all that was pure Laura, the thing that felt like home and a holiday combined. He didn’t mention his strong suspicion that he’d no longer be able to sleep without the feel of her tucked close to his chest, or the swell of her stomach beneath his hand. Instead, he said, “How do you not need to pee right now?”

  “I do need to pee right now.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Go on, then.”

  “Don’t tell me to go! I know when to go.”

  “So why aren’t you going?”

  She sat up with a snort and a flick of her long, thick, braid, giving him the evil eye. He tried to look subdued, as opposed to amused and adoring. The jury was out on how well he did, since whatever she saw on his face made her scoff and smile all at once.

  He lay in bed while she went to the bathroom for the thousandth time that day. When she returned, they settled into position without a word, as if they’d been doing this forever: her back against his chest, his arm secure around her.

  But this time, he was beneath the blankets with her, instead of lying on top of them. This time, their feet tangled together, and his knee slid between her thighs. She sighed and wiggled her hips as if that was just right, and then she found his hand on her belly and laced her fingers through his. He counted about thirty seconds before her breathing fell into the familiar, soothing rhythm of sleep.

  It took Samir a hell of a lot longer, but he got there in the end.

  He dreamt of her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Laura sat on the toilet, bleary-eyed and more than a little annoyed, as the rising sun spilled its pale glow into the en-suite. Somehow, she had woken up with a desperately full bladder and a mouth drier than stale bread, probably because of last night’s crying. Plus, her back somehow ached even though she’d spent the last six hours lying down.

  Ah, the joys of pregnancy.

  But she wouldn’t be pregnant much longer, would she? The thought gripped her and refused to let go, impatience and excitement intertwining. She looked down at her belly and whispered, “Hurry up, okay? I want to see you.”

  Bump didn’t reply, but she flattered herself that they wanted to see her, too.

  Laura washed her hands, downed the bottle of water on the counter, and wandered—or waddled, really—back into the bedroom with a smile on her face. Then stopped in her tracks as she saw Samir.

  He hadn’t stirred when she’d eased out of his arms five minutes ago, but he was awake now. He sat up in bed, his thick hair pointing in ten different directions, the white sheets bright against his bare, brown chest. He had a bottle of water in his hand and a sleepy smile on his face. “Thirsty?”

  Oh, she loved that smile. His happiness made her happy. His grins left her content. His laughter lifted her. Every time. “I drank the one you left in the bathroom. Good move, by the way.”

  “Hydration is very important as you approach the third trimester,” he said gravely, before downing half the bottle in one go.

  “Is it, now?” Her midwife had said that at their last appoi
ntment, but Samir hadn’t been there.

  He’d been waiting in the car.

  “Yeah. It’s in my book.”

  She came over to the bed, sinking down with a wince. Her joints always ached in the mornings. “Your book?”

  “My baby book.” He lay down and drew her back into his chest, just as they’d slept last night, legs tangled together. “Bump and Beyond. I bought it online.”

  “Um… what?” It was an odd sensation, being caught between laughter and tears. Good tears, but still tears. “You bought Bump and Beyond?”

  “Uh, yeah. Did you think I just knew all that baby stuff? I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

  Ah. So that was how he’d magically known, over the past few weeks, all those things he’d mentioned in passing about blood pressure, and iron levels, and vitamin K. It had never occurred to her that he might actually go out of his way to learn.

  For her.

  She turned as best she could, considering one of his legs was wedged between hers and the weight of his arm was wrapped firmly around her body. He moved back a little to accommodate her shift, and she was able to meet his eyes without dislodging their position. She would hate to do that, after all.

  She really, really liked their position.

  “You got a book,” she said. As if they hadn’t already established that fact.

  “Of course. How else was I supposed to know what’s going on with you? You never let me come to your appointments.”

  “I… I thought it would be weird,” she mumbled. “Like, pushy, or—”

  “Nope.” He kissed her cheek. “I told you I was going to look after you. I told you that right from the start.”

  She frowned. “Wait—when did you get the book?”

  “I don’t know…” His brow furrowed as he thought back. “April, I suppose.”

  “April?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed her cheek again, lower this time—her jaw, really. Soft and slow, and careful. Something about how deliberate it was shot through her like lightning through the clouds. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  Upset that he cared enough, even then, to buy himself a pregnancy guide? Upset that he hadn’t mentioned it for months, as if it didn’t even matter, as if it didn’t mean the world? Upset that he was there, that he was with her, that he loved her?

  “No,” she breathed. “I’m not upset. I just remembered something, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You… last night, you said you loved me.”

  “I did,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to her throat, just below her ear, gentle but lingering. “I do,” he said, his lips brushing her skin as he formed the words, still so close. “I love you. I love everything about you. I love the way you smile at me like I’m the only person in the room. I love the way you just do things—even when you’re afraid, so afraid I can see it around you like a shadow. I love how you laugh with the old ladies at the cafe even when their jokes aren’t funny. I love the way your face lights up when you talk about your friends. I love it when you come out with these blunt, bitchy comments sometimes, then look at me like you hope I didn’t notice.”

  “Oh my God,” she groaned, the soaring delight in her chest sagging a little. “You noticed? You noticed that I’m evil?”

  “I noticed that you’re funny,” he said wryly. “And, yeah, a little bit evil. All the best people are.”

  Laura huffed out a laugh. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.” He kissed her throat, and she didn’t mean to, but fuck—she released a sigh that was mostly a moan, low and broken and lustful enough to make her blush. He tensed for a second—she felt it—and then his hand trailed down to the narrow strip of skin her T-shirt couldn’t quite cover, right above her waistband. His fingertips barely glided over her abdomen, tracing slow, lazy circles that made her shiver. “You okay?” He asked.

  “Yes,” she gasped, completely unconvincing.

  “You sure?” His mouth moved to her ear, and she could feel the slow curve of his smile. “Whatever you need, angel. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I…” She wanted to say she loved him. Because she did, suddenly and undeniably, so much that she had to tell him.

  But she couldn’t.

  Something lodged itself in her throat, something bigger than fear, greater than terror, and her heart fell. Surely she was brave enough. Surely nothing, no-one, could stop her from telling Samir exactly what he meant to her.

  But it seemed that something could. She wasn’t brave at all.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice gentler now. “You’re thinking again.”

  She laughed, in spite of everything. “Thinking is generally considered a good thing.”

  “Nah. Not if it makes you look like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Lost. Can I kiss you, angel?”

  Just like that, the tension between them, cotton-thick and satin-soft, returned. It was delicious. It was divine. It was easy, all of a sudden, to forget her disappointment in herself. “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his, the moon and the night sky coming together. Where they belonged.

  “Would you say no?” He asked. His fingers traced that barely-there pattern against her taut skin, pushing her heart rate up with each lazy swirl. “If you didn’t want me to? Would you tell me?”

  “I would. I’m not afraid of you.”

  She saw a flare of satisfaction in his eyes. “Good. Don’t ever be afraid of me, Laura. I’m yours.”

  The press of his lips against hers was achingly tender, painfully sweet. His tongue feathered over her own as if he was testing the waters. As if he was learning her.

  So she kissed him back, hot and hard enough to make her feelings clear. Her reward was the deep, heady groan that rumbled through his chest—and the thick curve of his erection against her side. She’d felt that hardness before, when he forgot to keep his hips canted away from hers. Now, with their bodies intertwined and nothing between them, there was no hiding it. And when she arched into the sweet pressure of his cock, Samir deepened the kiss, his hand snaking up her body, under her T-shirt.

  He found her tits, heavy and unconfined, giving one a barely-there squeeze. She moaned in frustration as his mouth left hers. “Perfect,” he murmured. “So perfect.” His thumb circled her nipple until her breaths came fast and laboured. “Does it hurt, love?” He asked. But his heavy-lidded gaze was dark and knowing, a smile teasing his full lips. “You’re so sensitive. Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” she gasped, squirming against him. She needed to arch into his touch, needed to thrust herself back so his cock would rub against her just right—and fuck, she couldn’t do both, and she felt so hot and wet between her legs—

  He dragged up her T-shirt completely, without warning, shocking a gasp out of her. “Maybe if I kiss it better,” he said, as he exposed her bare breasts to the air. “Would you like that? Oh, fuck, Laura, you’re so lovely.”

  She held her breath as his face slackened, as the teasing glint left his eye and his lips parted. He stared down at her swollen, stretch-marked belly as if it were dessert. His gaze settled on her tender, reddened breasts, the stretch-marks even brighter than they were on her stomach—and his cheeks flushed darker, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

  “Jesus,” he groaned. “God. You are so fucking sexy.”

  She’d expected him to say something sweet and complimentary because he was that kind of man. She’d expected to thank him with a blush while believing not a single word of it.

  He was destroying her expectations.

  His words sent heat tearing through her, less a flush of embarrassment and more a raging forest fire of answering desire. Because he most definitely desired her. She believed it beyond the feel of his hardness or the words on his lips. She believed it because his hands were shaking, and because he bent his head over her chest with a noise that sounded like a growl, and because he sucked her nipple into his mouth almost hungrily, his hi
ps grinding against her in time with every tight pull.

  “Oh my God Samir no wait yes keep—” Laura’s words spilled out without permission or restraint or sense, and she couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried. Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, running over his bare skin, tracing the coarse path of his chest hair all the way down, and over his abs, and then to his waistband.

  And she didn’t stop there. She felt distantly scandalised but achingly, desperately thirsty as she shoved his pyjama bottoms down. Not all the way down—that required sensible, conscious thought about how clothes were supposed to be treated. No; Laura shoved them down to mid-thigh before fisting his cock.

  He grunted, his face buried against her breasts as his hips jerked, that thick, hot dick thrusting into her palm. He felt so unbelievable, hard and way too real, and when she ran her thumb over the silken head it came away slick with pre-come. Her pulse pounded between her legs, right through her clit, and her thighs were slippery with her own wetness, and she had this unbelievably strong urge, a need, to spread her legs wide and guide him inside her.

  She hadn’t felt that need in years. Fucking years.

  “Samir,” she gasped. Her breath hitched as his hand found her arse, kneading greedily, almost as if he wanted just as much as she did.

  He looked up, his mouth lush and swollen, leaving her breast cool and tingling. “Tell me. What do you need?”

  “I…” She blushed, suddenly realising that she hadn’t said anything like this in forever. She didn’t know how to say it anymore. But then she remembered a night on the beach fifteen years ago, and she found her courage as she borrowed the words of her younger self. “I think we should do that thing.”

  She knew he remembered because a grin cut through the arousal on his face, and he said, just like he had back then: “That thing?”

  “You know,” she murmured, her lips twitching.

  “Yeah,” he said dryly. “I know.” But then his expression sobered. “I’m sorry, love, but I don’t think I… Wait.” Just as her heart began to fall, his smile returned. “Hold on a sec.”