by Monica James
“I love you,” he pants.
With his hand cupped around the back of my neck, he seals his mouth over mine, bouncing me and hitting my center perfectly. He uses his arm to shelter me from grazing my back against the tree, displaying his sheer strength by holding me up as I allow him to manipulate me like a puppeteer.
My sex grips him tight, and I rock against him, whimpering when he locks us so deeply, I don’t know where my body starts and his ends. I thrash about; my release is so close, I can taste it on my tongue. I bang my head against the tree and scrape my ass cheeks raw, but I meet him thrust for thrust as he sinks into my heat without mercy.
“Oh, god.” I milk his cock, cherishing every hard inch.
“Princess, you keep doing that, and I’m going to come.” It’s impossible to think that his voice has the ability to tip me over the edge, but I’ve longed to hear that voice for so long.
“So come,” I challenge, smiling in satisfaction when he growls at my disobedience.
He punishes me in ways unfathomable, lifting me only to slam me back onto his shaft. I scream, and it’s his turn to grin.
Locking my legs around the small of his back, I buck against him, the familiar tingling burning at my core. This place is forever changed because once again, it’s made an impact on my future. But this time, this future looks bright.
“I…love you,” I whimper, my body growing lax when London reaches down and circles over my clit.
A gratified hum escapes London, his eyes locked with mine. “When we were last here”—he pants, his breath hot, heavy—“I knew you’d ruin me, but coming back here now, being this way with you, it was so worth it. You are worth it. I love you too.”
Those words rip me apart. “Thank you for what you did for me. I never thanked you,” I pant, twisting and molding my body to his. “You saved me.”
“No, Princess, you saved me.” He rolls his hips, and that action, combined with his sweet words, have me coming like I’ve never done so before.
I thrash about wildly, bucking and bouncing, and only when the last tremor rocks my body does London follow suit. He attempts to pull out, but I lock my legs around him. I want all of him.
He detonates with a guttural growl, arching his head back, lips parted in ecstasy.
We both fold around the other, but London keeps me pinned to him, ensuring I don’t fall—the perfect analogy to what makes us, us.
This time around, we are safe from the LAPD, but the same can’t be said for my heart. I am hopelessly in love with London Sinclair.
Once I untangled from London, we dressed and made our way back to his truck. When he asked where I wanted to go, rattling off the address to Lincoln’s parents’ house ruined our high.
I can’t run away from reality anymore. This needs to be figured out now.
London parks the truck down the road at my request even though he argued to come with me. We both knew how that would end, so he finally agreed.
London leaves the engine running, making it clear that I’d only have to say the word and he’d tear down the street, never looking back. His hands grip the steering wheel tight as he peers out the windshield. His clenched jaw alludes to the war raging within.
“I’ll call you later.”
He nods once, still not meeting my eyes.
I understand how hard this is for him. The man he despises is only a few hundred yards away. He could finally put an end to this grudge. But that’s the problem; to do that, London would put an end to Lincoln. There are no apologies in this story. It’s too late for that.
Shuffling over, I gently envelop his fingers with mine, breaking his trance. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
His heavy breath blows the hair from his brow. “I know you will be, I just”—he pauses, squeezing the wheel—“I hate that you have to see him. I want to kill him, Princess.” His threat isn’t empty.
“I know, and you have every right to, but I need to do this. There is so much I need to figure out. I mean, we live together.”
“I don’t need reminding,” he barks, turning slowly to look at me.
His reaction stirs the sleeping giant. “What about you and…Belle?” A lump lodges in my throat.
“What about me and Belle?” He appears confused, which has me sighing in relief.
“Do you guys live together?”
“No,” he replies, curling his lip in disgust. “She came over to drop Emily off. We have an agreement that suits us both.”
That’s great, but there is still an underlying issue. “Have you ever lived together?”
His frown is all the answer I need.
Thoughts crash into me like whether they’ve slept with one another. Or did he ever feel anything for her? For a little while, he believed she was the mother of his child. Surely, feelings were involved. I know they were, are for Belle, because her possessiveness over London was clear as day.
But I’ll focus on one dilemma at a time.
“I’m working tonight, but call me when you’re done,” he says, putting an end to a conversation we can have another time.
“Okay.” I attempt to leave, but he grips my wrist, pulling me in close.
He leans over and kisses my cheek. “Be careful.”
“I will.” He doesn’t seem convinced as he studies my face.
With the tip of his pointer finger, he traces from my hairline across my cheek and down to my mouth. He outlines the curves, before thumbing my bottom lip. It appears he’s committing me to memory. Doesn’t he believe me when I tell him I love him?
I decide to put any reservations to bed.
Climbing over the middle console, I straddle his lap and bury my face in the crook of his neck. His heart beats steadily against mine as we sit unmoving, both needing the silence to settle our nerves. He wraps his hands around my middle, hugging me tight.
We stay this way for minutes, both clinging onto the other as the unspoken lingers. I know this is hard for him, but it’s hard for me too. I untangle myself from London and kiss his lips gently.
“I’ll see you soon.”
He nods, but the gesture is the complete opposite of acquiescence. I want to assure him, but I know this demon will forever lurk between us.
Not wanting to drag this out any longer, I open the door and don’t look back as I walk down the street. Only when I walk up the long driveway do I hear London’s truck tear down the road.
Sighing, I continue my march because it’s now or never.
Memories of being here when I was a teenager turn my stomach, especially when the towering mansion comes into view. This place is obnoxious and positively an eyesore. But I know just past those hills grows a soaring sycamore tree that slashes through the bitterness. Beneath this tree, I shared my first kiss with London.
I was so young and naïve. I didn’t think that simple action would impact my life the way it did, but everything led to that moment—the moment I wish I could take back because I fought my attraction instead of embracing it, embracing him with both hands.
London and I have wasted so much time. I refuse to waste anymore.
With that mindset, I quicken my steps and am at the front door before I can prepare what to say. You can’t prepare for something like this anyhow.
Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell and wait for someone to answer the door. The clicking of heels alerts me to the fact that unless the O’Tooles have insisted their hired help wear stilettos, I’m about to be greeted by the devil.
The door swings open and before me stands Sylvia—Lincoln’s mom.
I’m tempted to sniff the air when her face twists in horror as if she’s smelled something rotten. But when she casts an eye over me, I know the only thing rotten here is me.
“Is Lincoln here?” I ask bluntly, not bothering with pretenses.
She looks over her shoulder, before stepping out and closing the door behind her. I’m clearly not welcome inside. “No, he isn’t,” she replies, pursing her lips. “Please
leave.”
Oh, shit is about to go down. “I will leave after I speak to your son. I know he’s here,” I press, not at all intimidated by her.
She is either livid or happy, but I can’t tell because all her facial expressions look the same. “He left early this morning. Went back to New York to rid you from his life for good.”
Okay, that prissy look is clearly elation.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he has finally come to his senses. I have no idea what he was thinking. You can’t tame a bitch.”
I blink once.
She sneers at me as though she has the upper hand, as if her comment wounded me and I’m going to crumple into an inconsolable mess of tears. On the contrary. Her remark has me smirking as a menacing chuckle slips from my lips.
“Oh, Sylvia,” I chide, shaking my head. “Was that supposed to hurt my feelings?” My statement knocks her from her throne. She so knows I’m about to rip her in two.
She reaches for the door handle, but I’m faster. I launch forward and slam my hand against the door. “Ho-how dare you? Remove your hand this instant.”
“Nope, I don’t think that I will. Now tell me, what exactly do you mean?”
She is clearly nervous. Her eyes dart from left to right. If she’s seeking a lifeline, she’ll be waiting a while. “You are trash; that’s what it means!” she snarls, lunging forward while I smirk, highly entertained.
“Again, I’m not sure what you’re trying to achieve with all this name-calling.” My insolence irks her, which just spurs me on. “Do you really think I care what people like you think of me? I stopped caring a long time ago. So do us both a favor and stop with the trash talk. It’s unbecoming.”
When she purses her red painted lips, I add, “So is that outfit, but that’s beside the point.”
Low blow but rewarding nonetheless when she gasps, horrified, tugging at the collar of a dress that looks like an oversized burlap sack.
It’s clear Sylvia won’t budge and I’m wasting my time. She’s given me all the answers I need anyhow. Lincoln isn’t here, so there is no point for me to be either. He’s in New York, and knowing Lincoln, he’ll be packing up our apartment, ready to flee.
The moment I push off the doorway, it’s beyond comical how Sylvia dives for the handle, desperate to escape. Looks like she and her son have more in common than I thought. “Let’s never do this again.” Just as I’m about to turn on my heel, I remember the dead weight in my back pocket.
I could pawn it, or as a complete fuck you, I could toss it into the deepest depths for it never to be found. But by doing that, I’m proving Sylvia right. I’ll rise above that because I’m better than that. “Here.” I pull the engagement ring out of my pocket and slap it into her palm.
She recoils as though I’ve just handed her a live grenade. In a way, I suppose it is.
“Goodbye, Sylvia.” There is so much more I want to say, but what would be the point. I won’t waste my breath.
As I turn, she baits me, always needing the last word. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it? Maybe you could pawn it. God knows your family could use the money. I mean, they had no issue accepting a house my son bought for them.”
I take a deep breath, challenging my inner yoga goddess, but the urge to maim her doesn’t lessen. How dare she. She wants to play dirty, then bring it on.
Spinning slowly, I cock my head to the side, folding my arms. “Is that the best you can do?”
She was expecting me to explode, but for that to happen, I’d have to care what she thinks of me and my family. So she’s shit out of luck because I don’t.
“You’re pathetic. And weak. You’re also shallow.” I amble toward her. She blindly searches for the door handle with fumbling fingers. “If you actually loved someone other than yourself, you’d understand that doing nice things for the people you love is what most people do. But you’re not most people, are you, Sylvia?
“You’d rather belittle others to feel better about yourself. But guess what? You’re ugly.”
Her hands fly up to her surgically enhanced face, skimming over the surface to feel for blemishes, but I’m not talking about her looks.
I pin her to the spot, curling my lip in repulsion. “You may be able to change your looks with the latest diet, beauty treatments, or surgeries, but the one thing you can’t alter is the ugliness festering within.”
“I’d rather be happy than be someone like you.” She narrows her eyes, or maybe it’s her filler dispersing. Either way, I am done.
“And by the way, your son didn’t buy anyone anything. It was all my doing because it’s the twenty-first century, and us women don’t need to depend on men to survive. I’m the main breadwinner. The money is all mine.” I hook my thumb toward me in complete satisfaction. I couldn’t care less about money because even though this is true, I never saw it as my money—it was ours.
Her mouth gapes open, and it appears out of all the truths I’ve just hurled her way, she finds this fact most offensive. Looks like I’m not white trash after all.
“Go-good riddance,” she falters as I turn my back and walk down the stairs. “He will find someone who deserves him. Someone who is his equal!” Now she is just being pathetic.
Waving high in the air, I chuckle. “I’ll send her a condolence card in the mail. Tootles.”
I tune her out when she begins launching abuse because I have other pressing matters to deal with. Reaching for my cell, I dial my elderly neighbor, Martha. Let’s see if Sylvia is telling the truth.
“Holland? Are you back already?” she asks in her sweet voice.
“No, Martha, I’m still in LA,” I explain, continuing my trek down the driveway. “But Lincoln had to come home. Some emergency at work.” I hate lying to her, but the less she knows, the better.
Martha is eighty-one years old. Never married. Back in her day, she was a famous pianist who toured the world. But now, her arthritic hands are all she has to show for living life on the road. She dotes on me as though I’m her granddaughter, and I would rather cut out my tongue than worry her.
“Have you seen him? Or anyone else in the apartment?” Like movers, I silently add.
“No, I haven’t seen him. Or anyone else for that matter,” she replies. Regardless of her age, Martha is as sharp as a whip.
I don’t think much of it yet as it’s still early. He may not have landed. “Can you do me a favor and keep an eye out? If you see him or anyone else, can you let me know?”
“Of course.”
I sigh in relief. “And one more thing.” I hit the pavement, deciding to walk until I stumble across a cab or bus stop. “Can we keep this between us?”
“Keep what between us?” she quips. I can’t help but smile.
“Thank you, Martha. I’ll be home soon.” When I hang up, I realize that statement is not entirely true. I don’t know when I’ll be home because the longer I stay here, a town I was once so desperate to escape, the more I begin to feel like I belong.
The summer sun blares down around me, but I continue walking as the fresh air clears my head. The O’Tooles are despicable people, and I’m thankful they, especially Sylvia, have no part in Emily’s life. But the farther I hike, the more unsettled I become.
Lincoln is not who I believed him to be, that much is true, and once upon a time, I’d never believe he’d use anyone as his own personal pawn, but he’s proven that he would. He has. What happens now that I know the truth? Would he stoop so low as to hurt London, Belle, and me by stirring up issues over being Emily’s biological father?
The thought sounds farfetched, but the more I think about it, the more believable it becomes.
Lincoln doesn’t like to lose, and he also doesn’t like being made a fool of. I’ve just done all that, and now I’m worried about the repercussions. Not worried for me, but worried for London. It’s clear his love for Emily is that of any father, regardless of their circumstances. If Lincoln ever found out about that lo
ve…
I gulp.
Before all this happened, I would have just played off this gut feeling as my suspicious nature going on a tangent, but now, I’m not so sure. The need to see Lincoln suddenly changes. I need to ensure he leaves London’s family alone.
By some miracle, a cab drives by, and I wave it down frantically. The driver stops, most likely used to the peculiar folk who reside in Hollyweird.
I give him my parents’ address, intent on using my smarts to ensure Lincoln’s game ends here.
I spend the afternoon looking up cases similar to that of London’s. This is my forte, this is what I specialize in—keeping scumbags away from their kids. But this is personal.
Court hearings involving non-biological parents can be tricky as a biological parent will almost always have superior rights to child custody. Even though I’m assuming London is listed as Emily’s father on her birth certificate, Lincoln would simply have to provide the bloodwork to prove that wrong.
Lincoln would only be refused custody if the courts saw him as an unfit parent or if it wasn’t in the child’s best interests to live with him. Seeing as he has a good paying job, a roof over his head, and is an “upstanding” citizen, the courts would rule in his favor.
Groaning, I slump back onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling as I fold my hands over my stomach.
I text London a brief message, letting him know the basics. I know he’s at work, so I’m not expecting him to call until later. Much to my disgust, I also contacted Lincoln. Again, his cell was switched off, but I decided to leave another message.
The tone of this message is subdued, seeing as I don’t want to piss him off too much. Until I see him face to face, I’m dealing with a loose cannon. I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore.
My cell rings, and I almost give myself whiplash as I sit up and frantically search for it under the pillow.
“Hello?” I breathlessly say without looking at the screen.