Passionate Kisses

by Various

  He slams the glass on a nearby table. I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

  “I’m not talking about this weekend. I’m talking about the last three weeks.” He curls one of his magnificent hands around my jaw, plucks my lower lip with his thumb. “Did you allow him to taste you?”

  I push away his hand. “I’m damned tired of this inquisition, Storm. My life’s my business. I’m leaving.”

  Before I can turn, he clamps his hand around my nape. Although the gesture doesn’t hurt, it’s enough to hold me immobile.

  “You don’t get to fuck another man. You belong to me.”

  “No man owns me, much less a possessive, jealous jerk like you.” I spit out at him. “And for the record, Brian makes me laugh. I enjoy being with him.” Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Lord of the Manor.

  “Does he?” His voice’s silky smooth. I’m sober enough to know he’s at his most dangerous right now.

  “Yes, now let me go.”

  “Not until you answer me.” His eyes have a glossy look to them, and his breath’s so thick with alcohol, I can hardly breathe.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “From that piss poor excuse of whiskey? I think not.”

  He’s lying. Nobody downs three mini bottles of booze in less than ten minutes and remains sober.

  “Answer me.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth.” He fishes an ice cube from the tumbler, spins it between his fingers before he skims it down the side of my throat, slides it over my halter top, circles my breasts. “Tell me.”

  My nipples, traitors that they are, perk up from the chill. God! I’m in big, big trouble. I have to leave before I totally humiliate myself. Unfortunately, the only way out is to tell him the truth. “I didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He strokes my ear lobe with the cube, and a shot of heat streaks down to my core.

  “How can I prove a negative?” I ask, breathless.

  “Get down on your knees. I’ll take your proof from there,” he whispers against my lips.

  My breath hitches. “You’re disgusting.”

  “No. I’m not. You want me so badly your body’s practically begging me for it.” He steps into me, presses his erection into my belly. His fingers play with the ice before he slips it under my halter top and skims it over my skin, the swell of my breast, my nipples.

  I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. “Please let me go. I have to get some work done tonight.”

  “You should have thought of that before you went out with your boyfriend.”

  His mouth nuzzles the swell of my breasts, that heat combined with the cold stroking my nipple is more than I can stand.

  “He’s not my boyfriend! How can I make you understand?”

  “I told you what you needed to do.”

  “I’m not doing it.” I don’t care if my body’s aching for him. I’m not dropping to my knees and servicing him. I turn around and face the door. Maybe if I can’t see him, it’ll lessen his power over me.

  His hands go to my denim shorts, stroke the flesh underneath. “Such a beautiful arse you have, Elizabeth.” He squeezes both cheeks, and I grow wet in an instant. “You like this, don’t you? Like my hands on you. Does Brian make you tremble, or am I the only one who makes you feel this way?”

  I could come from just the sound of his voice. My pussy weeps with raw, feral need, hungry for what he can give me. I want this man more than my next breath.

  “I can smell how much you want me. It makes me want to rip off your clothes, fuck you right here, right now.” He murmurs in my ear. “May I?” His hand flirts with the waistband to my shorts.

  I’ll be damned if I give him proof of my burning need for him. I lean my elbows against the white wood, drop my head.

  “Well?”

  The scent of his expensive cologne ensnares my senses. Why does he have to smell so damn good? “I’m thinking.”

  His sensual lips, busy sizzling a path across my skin, form a smile across my bare shoulder. “Take your time. We have all night.”

  Damn him. I don’t want him to take all night. I want him to rip down my shorts and drive into me. Just like he promised. “Fine.”

  The bastard unsnaps my halter top, at the neck, my waist. It drops to pool at my feet. His hands, those big, masculine hands I love, circle around to knead me. “Such beautiful breasts.”

  “Now. Gabriel.”

  “In time, Elizabeth.”

  I moan with frustration. Should have known he wouldn’t take me hard and fast. That’s not his style. He likes to tease me to death until I’m one huge puddle.

  His hand skims the front of my shorts, unbuttons the top, I tremble with anticipation while he lowers the zipper in one long, sensuous slide. With the shorts loosened, he sweeps one long finger down my mons to stroke my intimate curls.

  “I love your little strip of hair.”

  I gulp. “Do you?” I widen my legs to give him better access.

  “Yes, like a landing strip, it welcomes me home.” He slips the finger inside my sheath and I almost convulse on the spot. “So responsive. It’s one of the things I love best about you.” With his free hand, he tugs on the shorts. I lift one leg, then the other and kick them somewhere in the room. I’m buck naked while he’s still dressed to the nines.

  He snags another ice cube from the glass, slides it through the valley between my breasts, to my midriff, down to my dripping pussy. When the cold hits my clit, I groan and drop back my head against his shoulder. And then the devil pushes it into my sheath, deep inside of me.

  I scream. “Oh, please, please, please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for.

  He pinches close the lips of my folds, and the cold heat burns inside of me. “Tell me, Elizabeth. Did you fuck Brian?”

  My legs are trembling so badly I can barely stand, and his sweet torture is driving me insane. But suddenly everything becomes clear.

  “No. You’re the only one I want inside of me.” That truth hurts more than he’ll ever know, because it can only mean one thing. I’m in love with him. Not lust. Love.

  “That, my sweet girl, is the right answer.” He frees the lips of my folds. What remains of the ice cube slides out. He brings it to his lips and pops it in his mouth. “Umm, ambrosia.”

  I curl into his body, not caring that I’m sweaty and sticky and probably staining his suit. All I care about is holding him inside of me. “Make love to me, Gabriel.”

  “It will be my pleasure, darling girl,” he says and smiles that crooked smile I love so much.

  Without warning, his mouth twists in a rictus of agony. Clutching his head, he crashes to his knees. “Aarghh.”

  Oh, my God! What’s happening to him? I drop next to him. “Gabriel. What’s wrong?”

  He grinds the back of his head against the rug, his body arches in agony. “Pain. So much pain.”

  My gut knots. My hands shake. “What can I do? Should I call 911?” Does England even have such a code?

  “No. Medicine. Right trousers pocket.” He pants in between words, as if producing each syllable is more than he can stand.

  I scramble over him and retrieve the same medicine container I saw yesterday. I pop out one of the pills and slip it into his mouth before I rush to the refrigerator to grab a small water bottle from the mini-bar. With shaking hands, I prop him up enough to tip the water into his mouth.

  “Lights.” His voice’s agonized timbre twists my insides.

  I race around and kill every one of them, leaving only the ribbon of light from the full moon streaming across the soft carpet.

  “What else can I do?” If I could take his pain away, I would.

  He clutches my hand as if I’m his only hope of salvation. “Stay. Just stay, love. It will go away soon.”

  He’s experienced this before? Why hasn’t he done something about it? I want to argue that he needs emergency medical care, but I can’t, not when he’s hurting so much.
Trying not to jostle him, I slip my arm around his chest and watch over him until his body relaxes and he falls asleep.

  I wake up on the cavernous bed. Gabriel’s awake and cuddled around me. How I got here I have no idea.

  “I’m sorry, love. So sorry.” He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “Forgive me.”

  “What?” I rub the sleep from eyes, turn to him. “Are you okay?”

  His brows scrunch. “Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You suffered a migraine attack, a really bad one.”

  “Did I?” He brushes a hand across his forehead.

  “You don’t remember?” My stomach plummets. I can’t fathom not recalling that level of pain.

  “No. Sometimes”—he drops his head back on the pillow—“sometimes I forget things.”

  “That’s not right. You have to go to the doctor and get it checked out.”

  He smiles that beautiful smile of his as he sweeps hair off my face. “I will, as soon as this phase of the deal concludes. Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Why would you think so?”

  “You were naked on the floor. And there’s a bruise on your arm. Did I do that?”

  “No.” The bruise must be from where Brian pulled me back, but I’m not about to share that with Gabriel. “You need to go to the doctor tomorrow. Not in two weeks.”

  “I can’t. They’ll want to perform tests, and I can’t afford the time.”

  I breathe a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’m not happy about it, but fine.”

  He drops a kiss on my lips and rolls. Before I know it, he slips into me. Our lovemaking is sweet, unhurried, and just as satisfying as our frenzied couplings. But all the while, I can’t help but think, by waiting to get checked out, he’s making a huge mistake.

  Chapter 24

  NAKED AND BEAUTIFUL, Gabriel lies on the king-sized bed, sleeping so soundly, he doesn’t wake when I roll away at the ass crack of dawn. Hard abs, ropy arms, that angel-kissed face. His mussed-up hair tempts me to run a finger through his curls, but if I do, he’ll wake and I won’t get a chance to escape. So without so much as a kiss on his lips, I leave, taking with me my aching heart.

  How could I have fallen in love with him when nothing but pain awaits me? I never wanted an involvement, a relationship, busy with school and work as I am. I don’t want to be like my mother, who abandoned everything she knew to follow her lover to a strange city. A man who, according to my foster care records, pimped her out and got her hooked on drugs.

  I’m my own woman, the captain of my soul. I refuse to revolve my life around a man like Gabriel Storm whose possessive bent and jealous nature barely allow me out of his sight, much less the freedom to plot my own course.

  And yet, I can’t stay away from him.

  Wish I could chalk it up to the heart-pounding sex, but it’s more than that. He knows me, knows my fears. And yet, with all my baggage, he can’t get enough of me. And I can’t get enough of him. When we’re together, everything ceases to exist, except for him, and this madness he calls from deep within me.

  After I shower and dress in my own room, I head down to the meeting. Worried sick about him, I anxiously await his arrival. I have a bad feeling about his refusal to see a doctor and beat myself up for not calling to make sure he’s all right. During the morning break, I’ll insist he go get himself checked out.

  I grab a cup of coffee, and, even though I’m not hungry, an apple strudel as well. I’m just taking my seat when Gabriel strolls in, looking more scrumptious than ever in the gray suit I chose for him. When drool pools in my mouth, I bite down on the pastry to disguise the effect he has on me, and an ooey gooey mess drips out. I catch most of it before I embarrass myself, but not before I spot his playful grin. I wish he’d cut that shit out. He knows what that devastating smile does to me. Still, his carefree demeanor lifts a load off my shoulders. Maybe I worried about nothing after all.

  We spend the morning catching up. The Smith-Cannon contingent is only six deep. Mr. Carrey, Terry, Brian and Mark—the three senior associates working on this deal—CeCe and me. CeCe acts as AA for the group. She knows the administrative side of the negotiations almost as well as I do.

  During this phase of the negotiations, we’re discussing the valuation of the company. Never an easy process, made even more complicated by the acquiring company being British, the selling one being American, and the actual project located in Brazil. Still, both Mr. Carrey and Gabriel are experienced at international financial transactions so nobody anticipates a major hitch.

  Excited about the challenging negotiation, I note ways to improve the deal for our client, some small, some more substantial, which I plan to discuss with my boss. But after lunch, something happens in the ladies’ room that drives all the other crap from my head.

  I throw up.

  I emerge from the stall shaking like a leaf to discover CeCe standing by the row of sinks staring bug-eyed at me. “Tell me you’re not pregnant.”

  “Me? Heck, no. I’m on birth control.” A patch I apply every month. Because I suffer irregular menses, my doctor determined this would work out best for me.

  “When was your last period?”

  I count back. “Five weeks ago.” My stomach churns.

  “Are you regular?”

  “You can set a watch by me.” My hands twist of their own accord.

  “Well, then, either your watch is broken or you have a baby on the way.”

  I gulp down air, trying hard to breathe. “I can’t be pregnant. I can’t.”

  “Yeah, I said the same thing with my third.” Her eyes shine with concern as she squeezes my arm. “Better find out for sure, Liz. There’s a drugstore round the corner from the hotel. They probably sell pregnancy tests.”

  I nod, even though I’m dying inside.

  Somehow I manage to get through the rest of the day by chalking my stomach upset to the different cuisine, to too much fruit, to fucking Gabriel non stop. But as soon as the afternoon session’s done, I make a beeline for the pharmacy down the street and buy two pregnancy tests. I hurry back to my room and pee into them. They both confirm what I already know. I’m freakin’ pregnant. God, what am I going to do?

  I can’t afford a baby, neither time nor money wise. With my job at Smith Cannon and law school at night, I barely have time for myself and every cent’s budgeted before I even get paid. Aside from that, my life goal hasn’t changed. I want to work as a corporate attorney for Smith Cannon or a similar firm, and a child would get in the way. Women on the ‘mommy track’ at my law firm take longer to rise through the ranks. Most never make partner. And I certainly don’t want that.

  Tuesday morning, I ignore Gabriel who’s doing everything but stand on his head to have me notice him. He brings me coffee, slides a pastry toward me, texts me naughty suggestions which I delete without answering him. I can’t deal with him right now.

  During the break, I suffer another bout of morning sickness, one which Gabriel’s assistant, Amita, a beautiful woman of Indian heritage witnesses. “You’re not feeling well.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. I know exactly what’s wrong.

  “If you need a doctor, dear, I can recommend one.” She’s in her early forties and a model of efficiency as I have cause to know from having dealt with her before. “And I can promise you, I won’t tell anyone, not even Mr. Storm.”

  Oh, shit. She can’t possibly know. Can she? “That would be good. Thank you.”

  Back at the meeting, she slips me a piece of paper with the name and phone number of a doctor and an appointment time of one o’clock today. Leaning into me, she whispers, “I’ll cover if you’re late.”

  I’m late, all right. One week late.

  At the doctor’s office, the nurse takes some blood. After a thorough examination, the physician tells me I’m showing all the signs of pregnancy. Her office promises to call me the next day with the test results, but I’m not holding out much hope. On the way out, the n
urse hands me a “Mommy-to-Be” care package that contains vitamins, and a bunch of pamphlets. I bury them deep in my purse.

  When I arrive at the meeting, Mr. Carrey and Gabriel frown at me. I apologize for my tardiness without providing any further explanation. Although CeCe and Amita shoot me concerned gazes, I avoid both during the rest of this session and focus on the discussion.

  By common agreement, once we adjourn for the day each member of the Smith Cannon team is on his, or her, own for the night. Even so, I’m aware of their comings and goings. Terry and Brian hole up in their rooms. Mark prowls the bars. Mr. Carrey loves theater and heads off to a West End show. CeCe goes off on a nighttime double-decker bus tour of London. I stay to myself. Less they see me, less chance they will discover I’m pregnant.

  As luck will have it, Casey calls that night.

  Telling him is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “That son of a bitch rode you bareback?”

  “No, he didn’t. A condom tore.”

  “But weren’t you on the patch?” We had the birth control discussion when I turned fifteen.

  I share with him what the gyn said. “The antibiotic I took for that sinus infection in May probably interfered with the birth control.”

  “Damn it, Lizzie. Have you told Storm?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You have to tell him.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Even so, I do not get together with Gabriel that night. He calls and texts, and when I ignore both, he comes pounding on my door. I put on the chain, open it an inch and tell him I’m not feeling well.

  In a nano second, he morphs from frustrated to worried. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Nothing.” He’s done enough.

  “Feel better then.” That hurt look in his eyes surfaces, but he takes it like a gentleman and walks away.

  Wednesday morning, the negotiating team receives a formal invitation to attend a weekend party at Winterleagh Castle, his family’s ancestral seat. I take the coward’s way out and decide to wait until then to talk to him. It’s only a couple of days after all.