Smash (Trojan Book 3)

by S. M. West

  My fingers scrape along his scalp, knotting in his hair, and he releases an amused chuckle. I’m not shy about what I want.

  With my thighs clamped on either side of his head, my hands hold him to me. He sucks on me, hooking his fingers at that one spot inside me, the one that reduces me to a bundle of nerves, sparking and tingling with every stroke of his tongue and kiss of his lips.

  I writhe as the warmth of his breath sends blissful goosebumps skittering along my spine, and he wraps his hands around my thighs, holding me to him as his fingers gently press into my flesh.

  His lips never leave my sex and he’s full-on kissing me there with mouth, tongue, and teeth, and I’m a mess. Pressure mounts, churning and coiling within me, and I close my eyes, not wanting to look away but unable to keep them open.

  My body is tight, every molecule primed, and then it happens. It’s the harmless sweep of his hair and the graze of his stubble against me—both at the same time as he eats me out like this is his only reason for living.

  Pleasure gallops through me, and I come with his name a scream on my lips. Behind closed eyes, everything is bright and sparkling like a starburst, and my body trembles, breathing choppy.

  Slowly, I come down, tremors and convulsions waning, and all the while, Gray doesn’t stop until my body lets go, limbs loose, my hold on him slackened.

  He crawls up the bed, stopping at my head where he drops down beside me, planting a kiss on my damp cheek. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “God, Gray, that was…” My voice is a low, lazy rasp, and I turn to face him, blinking until he comes into focus.

  A strong hand smooths over my hip, settling there, and his warm touch is sublime. These feelings between us are undeniable, more than just physical, and I wonder at how we were able to suppress them for so long.

  I lick at my lips and glide my hand over his chest, traveling toward his belt buckle. I’m spurred on by the impressive bulge in his pants, and my appetite isn’t satiated.

  He grabs my hand, entwining our fingers, and leans in to kiss me, groaning as the tips of our tongues tangle. I taste myself on him and if possible, I’m more turned on, needier and hungrier for him than just a second ago.

  I can’t explain it but my taste on him is as much a claiming, me of him, as anything else, and I’m flying high, thrilled at the thought.

  “Soon, but not tonight.” He smiles, kissing at the lines that I’m sure wrinkle the tiny space between my eyebrows.

  “Gray.” His name is a whine, and I wince internally, not liking how impatient I sound.

  “Daisy,” he mimics me, but it’s warm and teasing.

  I watch as he quickly removes his pants, chucking them onto the floor before lying back down to face me. This time, he brings the covers up to our waists.

  Overcome with emotion, a need for him to understand my desire for him is more than lust, I mesh our fingers together again.

  “You’re my best friend, like a father to my son, and I want you to be my lover.” I hold my breath, heart pounding.

  “I want that too. All of you. Everything.” He pulls me to him, lightly kissing my forehead before he rolls me until my back is to his front and we are spooning. “And soon, Daze. Soon.” He gently kisses the back of my neck. “Sleep now.”

  I sink into him, and his hold tightens. The scent of Gray, the feel of him, warm and strong, are the last things I remember.

  When I wake in the morning, he’s gone. He had an early start at the studio and a long day ahead, and when I make it to the kitchen, there’s coffee warming and oatmeal for me. On the counter, Gray’s left a note for me in blue crayon.

  Daisy,

  Last night was everything.

  You’re everything.

  I can’t wait to see you later.

  xo, Gray

  I tuck the note into my pocket and spoon out a bowl of oatmeal and sprinkle nuts and berries on top, all the while smiling. So full, so happy, I’m not quite sure how I’ll keep grounded today. I feel like I’m floating on air.

  Work…that’s what I’ll do. It’s one sure way to keep me focused. I pull up emails on my phone and think about the day of editing ahead of me. I have a lot to get done before Pansy brings Henry home at four.

  And the day won’t be over then. Tonight is the awards dinner, and my sister will have my son for another night. Maybe tonight, Gray and I will continue what he started last night.

  There are so many unread emails, but one subject line grabs my attention. It reads: We need to talk. Today. I click on the bolded text and almost choke on my breath.

  It’s Costa, Henry’s father. The email was sent late last night. He’s in LA and doesn’t say much more than that he wants to see me today, concerning Henry. No…correction, he will see me today at my house in two hours.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as the oatmeal makes its way back up my throat. This day was always a possibility when we parted ways. Yet I can hardly believe it’s here.

  At the time that I became pregnant, I was one of the most sought-after fashion models on the runway. In fact, the ink hadn’t even dried on a deal I’d just signed to be the face of a well-known luxury fashion house.

  Costa was also a model, successful in his own right, and my boyfriend, if that’s even accurate. We weren’t a couple in every sense of the word, but we were together when possible.

  Whenever our schedules synced, meaning we were in the same city, we were a couple. I can’t speak for his fidelity, but I had been faithful. Costa was the only man I’d slept with for nearly two years.

  The last time I saw him was a five-day stretch in Paris, where we spent nearly all of the time together. One night we’d argued, and he’d stormed out. Then we went back to work and separate lives.

  Everything changed once the nausea started. I found out I was pregnant, and I was a mess. But even scared, not once did I consider any other option than having the baby. I loved modeling, but I also felt adrift and lonely. A baby felt right.

  Of course, with a child on the way, my future career was questionable. If I were to model once more, it would mean jet-setting all over the world, and how would I do that as a single parent?

  And I had to tell Costa. I had no illusions we’d get married and be a family. If he wanted to be part of the baby’s life, then maybe we could make it work and I could continue to model.

  But that wasn’t meant to be.

  When I told him about the baby, I might as well have told him I had the common cold—no big deal and nothing to do with him.

  And to add insult to injury, he had the audacity to claim the baby wasn’t his. Bastard.

  We haven’t spoken since that phone call, and while a paternity test did cross my mind, what was the point? Costa wanted nothing to do with the child, and I knew without a doubt he was Henry’s father.

  All the while, in the back of my mind, a small part of me held my breath, wondering if one day he might regret his decision. Come claim his son. Is that what this is about in some roundabout, twisted way?

  13

  Daisy

  Spouting lies

  I stare at my phone, wanting to talk to someone about this but not sure who I can call. Gray isn’t available. He’s recording, and while I could interrupt him if really necessary, this isn’t an emergency.

  Pansy is also out of the question. She has Henry, and if I call her, she’ll want to come over, and I don’t want Costa and Henry in the same room. At least, not yet—not until I’ve heard what Costa wants.

  Then there’s Sasha, but she’s somewhere over the Atlantic or the eastern seaboard on a flight to LA. Her last text to me was at four this morning when she boarded the plane.

  I’m on my own. That’s okay. I can do this.

  While I wait, I attempt to edit my last shoot and accept the delivery of my evening gown for tonight’s award dinner.

  Until the delivery guy showed up at my door, the awards ceremony had slipped my mind. Not in the frame of
mind to think about tonight, I hang the garment bag in my closet and send a quick text to Gray. I doubt he’s forgotten about tonight, but I send it figuring it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  When all is said and done, I barely make a dent in my workload. My head isn’t in the game, and I will have to start from scratch when I’m in a better headspace.

  The doorbell rings and with it, my stomach plummets to my toes. Several deep breaths later and on shaky legs, I open the door to Henry’s father.

  Despite our differences and my lackluster feelings for him, which are likely mutual, Costa beams at me. His white teeth are blinding and yet his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s forced.

  He may be nervous—I sure am—but he hasn’t changed a bit. Jet black hair, olive complexion, dark eyes, chiseled jaw, full lips and muscles. Yes, definitely a model.

  “Daisy.” He holds out his arms, stepping closer to me, and his familiar, Davidoff cologne hits me like a speeding train, ripping down memory lane.

  All the time we were together, how we met, the way things ended—it all comes at me way too fast to digest or appreciate yet definitely bound to make me feel sick.

  His hands cup my elbows, and he kisses my cheeks three times, stepping back to draw his gaze over my face. “As beautiful as ever. I always said you were like sunshine.”

  There was a time when I would bask in such a compliment, and now, I strain to muster a smile, stepping back from his grasp.

  “Costa, come in.” I lead the way into my house, nerves battling it out in the pit of my stomach. “To say I was shocked to get your email is an understatement, and you hardly gave me any notice nor did you let me know how to reach you. What if I’d been out of town? Or working on location?”

  I’m not starting our conversation off on the best foot, but I’m also pissed. He’s a selfish prick and wanted nothing to do with our son. And suddenly, when he deems the time is right, he thinks he can waltz into Henry’s life and play daddy?

  “I know. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. My trip was very last minute. I came in late last night and I’m not staying long.”

  “What do you want?” My arms fold over my chest, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his crisp, white linen pants.

  “I’m not really sure how to say this.” His uncertainty softens a bit of my ire, and I smile despite myself.

  Something about the tension in his tone and ridge lines of his frame remind me of how my conversation with Gray started the other night. At first, we were both anxious and that turned out okay. Maybe this conversation will too?

  “I’m not sure how much you know about my life now.” He motions to the couch as if seeking permission to sit, and I nod.

  “Costa, contrary to what you might think, I haven’t kept up with your life. We broke up and went our separate ways.”

  He pauses in crossing one leg over the other at the sharp edge of my tone. It isn’t intentional, but I don’t like the implication that I’m waiting for him or stalking him for crying out loud.

  “Sorry, I’m not doing this right. Look, Daisy, there’s no easy way to say this. I got married a year ago.”

  I’m not sure if he’s expecting me to be upset or shocked or indifferent. The timing is curious considering that when I got pregnant, he swore he’d never settle down.

  Not that we should have gotten married. We weren’t a good match in the long run and how things turned out is proof of that. He made a point of letting me know a baby would hamper or more likely ruin his lifestyle.

  “Congratulations.” My tone is neutral.

  “I married my long-time girlfriend.” Now this gets a reaction out of me as I open my mouth and he holds up a hand. “And before you say anything. Yes. She’s from Athens and we’ve been together since high school.”

  “High school…but you were with Zelda when I first met you and then…me.”

  “I wasn’t exactly faithful to her, but I was honest.” He raises his chin as if proud.

  I scoff, rolling my eyes. He wants a medal for telling his girlfriend when he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Oh, please. What did I ever see in this man?

  “Costa, I don’t care about your marriage, but you weren’t honest with me. And that’s in the past, so what’s your point?”

  He nods, looking somewhat sheepish. “We’ve been trying for a year to get pregnant.”

  My stomach churns with remorse. He now wants a child but rejected the news of Henry not even three years ago. I’m hurt, not for me, but for my son. He’s a wonderful little boy and it truly is Costa’s loss.

  “Okay.” I shrug, not understanding why he’s telling me this unless he wants to make sure I’m not pining for him or have any plans to dump Henry on him.

  I am seriously stumped as to why he’s here, and I’m losing my patience. To think my stomach was in knots all morning and for what? This garbage.

  “We recently found out that I am the problem.” He avoids my gaze.

  “Problem?” I run my fingers through my hair, from the top of my head to the base of my skull, grabbing at the back of my neck, frustrated and confused.

  “Yes. I’m sterile.” He looks over my shoulder, still unable to look at me.

  “Okay. And what does this have to do with me?” Bile rushes up my throat, preventing the suggestion that he might want Henry now that he’ll never father another child.

  “You’re not understanding.”

  “No, I’m not. Tell me why you’re here?”

  Did he have some kind of accident and now that his sperm count is low or nonexistent, he wants my son? He can have time with Henry—after all, he is his father—but my heart spasms. He won’t get sole custody.

  “I’m not the father of your son.”

  “Not this again.” I throw my arms up in the air and let them fall heavily to my sides. “You may have slept around and had a girlfriend back in Greece, but I wasn’t unfaithful. Costa, you are the only man I slept with when we were together.”

  He’s shaking his head vehemently, and his long, dark waves fall around his face. “I’m not suggesting you slept with other men. But I can’t be his father.”

  “Fine. Don’t be his father,” I yell, stomping around my small living room. “I don’t want you to be his father. Let’s call you an unwilling sperm donor and leave it at that.”

  “No, Daisy.” He steps in front of me, firmly grasping my arms to hold me in place, and stares intently into my eyes. “Listen to me. It is not scientifically possible for me to be his father. I am not newly sterile. I have been since I was a child.”

  It takes me several beats to fully comprehend what he’s saying, and even at that, I feel like I’m missing something. “What?”

  “I had the mumps as a boy, and while the odds are relatively low, it can cause infertility in men. That’s why I cannot father children.”

  His words come at me in slow motion, not necessarily lessening their overall weight but the cadence at which they sink in. And when that happens, my knees buckle, and fortunately, Costa is there to catch me.

  Carefully, he moves me to the couch and sits next to me, taking my hand. The heat of his stare burns, and he doesn’t say a word until I meet his eyes. His countenance is solemn, and I quiver.

  “It was a shock to me too. I was an asshole when you told me about the baby. What’s his name, Henry?” He waits for me to say something, but I can only nod, pressing my lips together to hold back my scream.

  This is a sick joke. Why is he doing this?

  “And then when Sousanna and I couldn’t conceive, I had to tell you. Even when I’d denied the baby, I’d known you believed it was mine.” He laughs nervously. “I believed he was mine even though I said otherwise.”

  We sit in silence, and my head is in a fog. Nothing makes sense, and all the while, there’s a push and a pull, like a tug-of-war, going on inside my head.

  “I won’t push you into telling me who you might think the father is—it’s none of my busine
ss.” He holds a hand to where his heart is, all benevolent as he insinuates I’m a liar.

  I slap at his chest, filled with so much anger I could level Los Angeles. “Shut up. Shut up.”

  On my feet, I hustle away from him, my need for distance intense. “Are you insane? You came here and thought I’d believe you? This is crap. Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not.” He rubs at where I hit his chest, and I should feel bad for doing so, but I can’t bring myself to care one iota about this man.

  I thought I knew him. Even if we never had a future together, nothing more than what we had, I’d never thought him capable of something like this. Something so cruel. And why? Why is he fucking with my head?

  “There was no one else, Costa. You don’t get to come into my house and call me a liar. That’s more than insulting. Why are you doing this?”

  “Daisy, we should get a DNA test.” His smile is faint and sympathetic.

  He makes me want to scrub it off his face with a steel wool pad. Asshole. I never thought he could be so cruel.

  “Yes. I want a DNA test.” I square my jaw and narrow my gaze on him. “I didn’t sleep around. I was a lot of things, selfish most of all, but I slept with only you.”

  Why do I have this intense need to defend myself? Profess my fidelity? The urge irks me. He’s the one out of line, coming in here and spouting lies.

  Costa shakes his head, wavy dark hair bobbing with him. “I thought maybe…” He looks me in the eye, dark eyes imploring. “You can tell me the truth.”

  “What truth?” I grit out between clenched teeth, rage bubbling deep inside me at what I think he’s implying.

  “I thought once I explained things…that this would make sense. You’d tell me there had been someone else but you figured given we were together more, it was me. I was the father.”

  He infuriates me, and I grab for the nearest thing to me, a vase. I clutch it in my hand, ready to toss it, but I get control of myself. I’m not trashing my things because of this jerk.

  “I want a DNA test.” My tone is unforgiving and cold, and he snaps his head to me as if surprised I might be angry and insulted by this conversation.