His Nine Month Seduction

by Clare Connelly

  “Yeah, about as real as Tonka Truck.” She bit down on her lip, eyeing off the uneaten half of the pizza.

  “Tonka. I like it. Tonka Trevalyen.”

  Imogen pushed a hand against his chest. “Nooo.”

  “So what do you want then?”

  “Not Tonka.” She leaned forward, grabbing a slice of pizza and looping some of the runny cheese over her finger thoughtfully.

  “Where does your name come from?”

  “My parents?” She joked, willfully misunderstanding.

  He rolled his eyes. “I mean, what’s the history? Is it a family name?”

  “It’s Shakesepearean,” she said. “My mum loves Shakespeare so I guess I should be grateful I’m not Volumnia or Gonerol.”

  His laugh made her heart turn over in her chest. “Or Gertrude?”

  “Gertrude? Now, there’s an idea,” she said, ticking her finger on the side of her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corner showing that she was joking.

  “Gertrude Tonka Trevalyen. We’re done.”

  “We sure are,” Imogen shook her head. “Name the baby that and we’ll have Child Protective Services coming to ‘congratulate’ us.”

  “Maybe not then.”

  Imogen bit down into the pointed end of the pizza, chewing it slowly.

  “So your mum’s a Shakespeare buff, huh?”

  “Yeah. She’s a total word nerd.”

  “Word nerd? And you’re not?” He nodded around the lounge room, which was liberally dotted with the library books she’d borrowed the week earlier.

  “Yeah, so, I like to read.” She nudged him with her shoulder again, and a swelling of warmth flooded her system. Desire kicked hard in her gut.

  A dangerous desire, because they had somehow found themselves right in the very muddy water she’d intended to avoid. They weren’t a couple, but they were having a baby together, living together, sleeping together. It was a recipe for disaster, wasn’t it?

  “I’m jealous. I never really saw the point of books.”

  She made a gasp of indignation. “You’re kidding?”

  “I never joke about books.”

  “Now I really don’t know if you’re being serious.” She shook her head, her eyes sliding to his. Her stomach jerked. “Books are … books are … books are these incredible, rectangle shaped portals to all these amazing other worlds. You can go anywhere you want with the right book. Surely you read when you were growing up.”

  “Of course I did. Text books.”

  “Text books are not books,” she gasped with shocked indignation. “Listen to this.” She put her plate down and stood, moving across the room with unconscious grace and lifting one of the books at random. She turned to the bookmark and read as she walked back towards him. It was Harry Potter, and the characters were in a particularly tricky spot, so the excerpt was full of drama and tension. She finished reading as she sat, a sigh expressed by her features.

  “Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Absolutely. Now if you can just find time to read me all the books, I’ll convert myself into a true fan.”

  “That’s listening,” she teased. “But sure.”

  “Isn’t that a kids’ book?”

  She shook her head. “You’re impossible. Harry Potter is transcendental. It’s got universal appeal. You should read it, then you’d see what I’m talking about.”

  He put his own plate aside and pushed his hands back behind him, crossing his legs at the ankle.

  “This was a much better idea than going out.”

  “Carpet picnics always are. Bad day at work? Carpet picnic. Fight with a friend? Carpet picnic. Huge Visa bill? Carpet picnic. When in doubt? Carpet picnic.”

  “Carpet picnic. Got it.” He smiled at her, and she pushed her hands back to recline with him, letting the sense of satisfaction and fullness settle around her.

  “Is it wrong that I want to get that picture framed?” He nodded across the floor to where the black and white image of their baby sat.

  “It would be wrong if we didn’t, right?”

  His laugh made her blood bubble. A happy silence settled between them, and Imogen felt it massaging her body, relaxing her, relieving her, whispering to her that everything was going to be fine. Everything would work out.

  “So she was pissed?”

  “She?”

  “Your ex.”

  “Marie,” he said on an exhalation. “She was … upset,” he agreed finally.

  “I’ll bet. I’d be furious if my husband got some random woman pregnant three seconds after we split up.”

  He arched a brow, stifling a laugh. “It wasn’t like that, believe me. Our relationship had really run its course ages ago. I’ve told you that.”

  “So why is she so mad then? Sounds like it’s a fresh wound.”

  His smile was self-condemnatory. “Our divorce wasn’t … clean.”

  “You mean you left her but kept sleeping with her? That’s nice.”

  “No. Just once or twice.” He cringed. “It was a mistake.”

  “The break up must have screwed you up pretty bad,” she murmured.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Her cheeks flushed pink and she dropped her gaze to the carpet.

  “What?”

  “Just… the night we met. I kind of got the feeling you’d had something happen. Something worse than you’re making this sound.”

  The horrifying truth was at the back of his mind, but strangely, it was still too raw. He still couldn’t process all the factors that had led to the breakdown of his marriage.

  “It wasn’t a good time,” he said with a shake of his head. “But that’s old news.” He angled his body so he could see more of her and his eyes roved her face, slowly, thoughtfully, and in a way that turned her insides to mush. “I’d rather talk about you.”

  “Me? What about me?”

  “Why do I feel like I know you but I hardly know anything about you?”

  The compliment caused her pulse to skip for it so perfectly imitated how she felt. “I don’t know.” Such a calm, prim response when her nerve endings were leaping about in her body.

  “I want to know about you,” he said, the words a deep growl. And then, he surprised her, by leaning over and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

  A kiss that was an inhalation.

  A taste.

  A promise.

  “Like what?” The words were juddery as she sucked in a breath, stifling a moan.

  He lifted a hand to her shirt and curled his fingers in the fabric at the waist, pushing it up just enough to allow him to stroke her naked stomach.

  “Like what’s your history? You know I’ve been married to Cruella De Ville…”

  “Cruella,” she interrupted thoughtfully, angling her lips towards his, leaning forward a little. “There’s a name idea.”

  He kissed a laugh into her mouth and she reached up, tangling her fingers in his clothes, arching her back and pulling him down on top of her. She fell back onto the carpet, her whole body energized by the perfection of the moment. And it was perfection.

  He straddled her, both hands pushing under her shirt now. His fingers were cold against her warm skin and tiny little goose bumps lifted across her body, though from the temperature difference or desire, Imogen couldn’t have said.

  He pushed the shirt up higher, sitting so that he could see her as he freed it over her arms. His fingers dragged across her flesh and she bit down on her lip, letting the deluge of awareness crash through her. He dropped his lips to hers, gently, and for the briefest moment, and then he kissed lower, moving his mouth to her jaw, her chin, lower still to the fine flesh of her décolletage.

  “You told me you’d been with two men before me…”

  “Did I?” She frowned, not remembering that conversation at all.

  “Yeah. When I thought maybe the baby might not be mine.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” She pushed up on her elbows, chasing his
lips. “Such a jerk thing to say.”

  “Yes, yes, it was.” He pulled her lower lip between his teeth and she groaned, need spiking through her. What were they doing? “Were they serious?”

  Imogen shook her head. In that moment, even with a gun to her head, she wasn’t sure she could have recalled their names. There was only Theo.

  “Why does that make me glad?”

  He kissed her properly then, his tongue lashing hers as he guided her back to the floor, his hands insistent on her breasts.

  Imogen had never known anything like it, but Theo was a master of stirring her body. She ground her hips, lifting them off the ground and he nodded, not moving his lips away from hers. “I know. I want that too.”

  He dragged his mouth down her body, finding a breast and teasing it with his mouth while his fingers pushed her pants lower even as she kicked out of them. “You are so beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she groaned, tilting her head back as her legs were finally freed and she was naked before him, on the floor of his beautiful lounge room, her breath loud, her blood boiling.

  “I love watching you come.”

  “Jesus,” she laughed, but it was a husky sound of uncertainty. “I have never known anyone like you.”

  “I’m glad.” His smile was hotter than the sun and Imogen dragged her lip between her teeth. She was reaching for him, but he shook his head, bringing his hand to her womanhood, pressing his palm over her most sensitive flesh until she groaned and pushed herself against him, seeking more.

  He slid a finger inside of her, rolling it around her warm core until she bucked her hips forward on a grunt. But he wasn’t finished. He moved his thumb over her clit and she bucked, hard, putty in his hands even as she began to cry out louder, harder, faster, her voice just a keening sound in the empty apartment.

  “Please, please,” she moaned and he laughed. Even as his finger pulled out and she was alone and desolate, he replaced it with himself, and the satisfaction was intense.

  “That’s what I needed,” she said, but the words sort of melted out of her on a wave of relief. He was so big and he filled her so completely. “God, yes.”

  She hadn’t even realized he’d pulled his pants off – and it was only his pants. His shirt was still on. She bunched it in her hands and lifted it, moving it over his head and tossing it somewhere across the room, needing to feel his full nakedness. She dug her fingers into his chest – all muscle and sinew, there was not an ounce of spare flesh on the man.

  He laughed gruffly. “You’re going to draw blood.”

  “Like a vampire.” She laughed but he thrust deeper, lifting his hands and running them over her arms, holding them above her head so that she couldn’t touch. She could only feel. The way he moved inside of her, the way his chest felt as it rubbed against her over-sensitized nipples and the way his kiss stirred butterflies deep within her soul.

  “You can be my vampire,” he murmured, and she cried out as her pleasure rode wave after wave, ascending into the heavens, threatening to crash at any moment.

  “And you can be my everything,” she moaned, pulling at her arms as the wave began to fall.

  But his hand held her so that she was powerless to control the pleasure; she could only let it ride over her, wave after wave after glorious, breath-taking wave.

  “Aren’t I already?”

  She didn’t know what he was asking but she nodded anyway and he kissed her temple as he thrust into her again, his own pleasure catching hers and falling around her, his guttural groan adding to her own.

  They lay there, entwined and breathing almost as one, for a long time.

  “Well,” Imogen exhaled, feeling him move inside of her and smiling. “That was nice.”

  “Nice?” He arched a brow, his expression teasing. “Careful, agape. I’m trying to repair the damage my drunken performance did to your opinion of me. Nice tells me I’ve got a long way to go.”

  “Mmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Then you might just have to keep practicing.”

  He laughed. “My pleasure.”

  “My pleasure,” she corrected.

  He smiled, but there was a hint of something like distraction in his face. “And this is okay with you?”

  She shifted a bit beneath him, repositioning herself so she could see his face more clearly. “Is what okay with me?”

  “This. Us.” He cleared his throat. “I know we’re going around things in an unorthodox way but … what I’m trying to say, very badly, is that I want to get to know you. To date you. To see you. And yeah. To sleep with you.”

  Imogen smiled up at him; the words were hardly a Shakespearean proposal of love and marriage, but somehow they were exactly what she needed to hear. All the more so because she didn’t doubt, for one moment, the truth they held. His awkwardness was as sweet as it was uncharacteristic. “Are you asking me out, Theo Trevalyen?”

  He laughed, but the laugh carried a hint of anxiety and that softened Imogen’s heart further. He was nervous? “I guess I am.”

  “Then my answer is yes. I want that too. I know it’s crazy, I guess we just have to know that whatever happens with us, we’ll put the baby first. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  *

  Imogen was still smiling the next afternoon as they perused cots in a large baby boutique on Oxford street. “See? Didn’t I say you could spend a fortune in one of these places.”

  She poked her tongue out, wondering if she should put at least one of the outfits back before deciding it really was practical. Besides, they were so adorable.

  “Not twenty thousand pounds.”

  He grinned, holding the basket out to her so she could free her hands up. As she dropped the plastic packets into the bottom she saw he had at least twice the amount of items gathered. “And you’re saying I’m bad?”

  “No.” He shook his head and dropped a kiss against her forehead. “When did I say that?”

  “That I’m spending a fortune?”

  “I’m just saying, hypothetically, that between the two of us, I think we could rack up a pretty big shopping bill here.”

  “Well, we are going to need a lot of this.” She said, spinning around on the spot, a sense of overwhelm besieging her as she took in the rows and rows of highchairs, pushers, cribs. “But maybe I should have done my research before we came.”

  “Our research,” he chided gently, reaching down and brushing his fingers against hers. Sparks of electricity spread over her body, making her tingle from head to toe. It was ridiculous that, after spending the night in his bed, and making love long and slow in the morning, such a small, innocent touch could still fill her with stomach-churning butterflies.

  She looked up at him and her stomach dipped like she’d gone over the top of a roller coaster. “Yeah. Maybe we should do some research. I mean, I don’t know. What’s the difference between this cot and that cot?”

  “Other than the fact one’s white and one’s … brown?”

  “Beige, I think,” Imogen corrected with a smile, moving towards it, glad when he laced his fingers through hers rather than relinquishing contact. “But seriously, does it matter that these bars are closer together? I think they need to be a certain width for some reason…”

  “All our cots meet the required safety standards,” a woman’s voice emerged from behind them.

  Imogen startled and turned her head to see a pretty brunette hovering just a couple of feet away.

  “But you’re right,” the brunette said as she took a step closer. She wore an apron with the store’s branding on its front. “Cribs from a generation ago had the bars too wide so babies were constantly getting their little heads squeezed through them.” She smiled, apparently pleased with her own joke, then lifted her gaze upwards.

  She hadn’t recognized Theo before, obviously, because when her eyes landed on his face she visibly started. “You’re Lord Trevalyen.”

  He sent Imogen a look of amusement and shook his head. “Theo,
please.”

  “Right.” She nodded, but her pithy sales spiel had evaporated in the face of total adoration. Imogen lifted her face to Theo, squinting, trying to see him as she had the first time they’d met. Though even then, she hadn’t really seen him as a celebrity – he’d just been Theo. Why she’d wanted him, that had been them, not him.

  “And this is Imogen,” he nodded, drawing the sales clerk’s attention back to the present. “My girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend, right,” the woman nodded. “You’re looking for a gift?”

  Imogen smothered a smile but Theo spoke quickly. “We’re looking to furnish our nursery,” he corrected. “We have a mobile and that’s it.”

  “Oh! I see!” The brunette blinked, apparently recollecting herself. “I didn’t realize. I mean, I hadn’t heard…”

  “No,” Theo murmured, and surprisingly, it was true. The media, who had dogged him since his divorce and emergence back on the society scene, had apparently not caught wind of this development.

  Yet.

  Somehow he suspected that was all about to change.

  “How wonderful,” she was back in sales mode now, even if she was mentally phrasing the tweet she’d send out later. “Let’s have a talk about your preferences in my office and then I can help you style your nursery.”

  Two very long, exhausting hours later and Imogen was dead on her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she shook her head as another yawn escaped. “I’m just tired all the time lately.”

  “What, are you growing a baby or something?” he grinned and she nodded.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Carpet picnic?” He prompted, his eyes smiling as he stopped walking and linked his arms behind her back. Oxford street was, as always, a teaming mass of shoppers, and yet they stood like an island.

  “Carpet picnic,” she nodded. “There’s a Pret just around the corner.”

  “Sandwiches?” He moaned.

  Imogen pulled a face. “What would you prefer?”

  “Food.”

  “Sandwiches are food.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re the pregnant one. If it’s sandwiches you want…”

  “It is,” she winked up at him.

  “Lead the way,” he sighed exaggeratedly, the perfect impersonation of ‘hard-done-by’ ruined by the wink he gave her as they turned and began to walk, cutting through the crowds.