Love Happens

by Claudia Burgoa

  Watched as she lowered herself onto the hard length of his cock. Slow, inch by delectable inch until his cock was buried deep inside her tight heat. He cupped her face with his hands, caught her mouth in a searing kiss that spoke of need and desire as she rode him.

  Harder, faster, deeper. Gasping breaths and moans of need. Whispered words of promises unspoken. Faster still, her body tightening around him, her climax crashing over her with hard tremors. Riding him, her head tilted back, nails hard against his skin as he gripped her hips and drove himself into her.

  Hard. Harder. Until his own climax seized him, leaving him shaking. Breathless. Mindless.

  He tightened his arms around her, held her flush body against his as the world slowly righted itself.

  As reality sunk in.

  JP stiffened for just a second, held his breath. Waiting, hoping. Knowing it was false hope, his mind realizing what his body already knew.

  The condom broke.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  This really couldn’t be happening.

  Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror and repeated the words, over and over. The woman looking back at her didn’t believe the words, no matter how many times she said them.

  She leaned over the sink, splashed cold water on her face, then looked back up. The reflection was the same: it was her, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, her coloring maybe just a little too pale in the bright light of the bathroom.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and made a quick wish, then opened them. Another deep breath and she looked down, hoping that the image would change.

  It didn’t.

  She stared at the small stick, at the two pink lines filling the small window.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  She glanced at the second stick, the one she had purchased just in case. As a back-up. As a fallback. As reassurance.

  A small laugh escaped her, breathy and borderline hysterical.

  There were no pink lines on the second one. Instead of those damned lines, she saw a small plus sign.

  Plus. As in positive.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  She scooped both sticks up with a shaking hand and shoved them back into the drugstore bag. She wanted to throw them out. To burn them. To pretend she had never seen them, had never purchased them.

  But it was too late for that.

  About three weeks too late.

  She tossed the bag into the trashcan then lowered herself to the edge of the tub, her hands gripping the cold porcelain. Her mind spun, a thousand different thoughts and worries and fears colliding against each other, each one there for the space of a heartbeat before it darted away, replaced by another thought.

  And another and another until her head spun and her vision swam.

  She closed her eyes and leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her middle and sucked in deep breaths, waiting for the nausea to pass. A sheen of cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her stomach twisted, clenching as the nausea got worse. She swallowed, took another deep breath and held it as she perched on the edge of the tub, ready to dive for the toilet just in case.

  But the nausea slowly eased, leaving her tired and drained.

  Why couldn’t it have been the flu? For two weeks, she had been hoping it was the flu. The tiredness, the nausea, the constant feeling like she was drained. It should have been the flu.

  She pressed her against her flat stomach and looked down, still not quite believing.

  No, it wasn’t the flu.

  She was pregnant.

  And oh God, how had it happened? She shook her head, her snort of laughter mocking her. She knew exactly how it had happened. And when: the night JP’s condom broke. In her living room. On her sofa.

  She hadn’t worried about it, had honestly thought the timing was wrong. And JP had been so concerned, so tender. And she had assured him there was nothing to worry about. Had practically guaranteed it.

  Oh God, she needed to tell JP.

  But how? What could she say? It wasn’t like she couldn’t tell him, he’d figure it out eventually.

  Unless …

  Would he think she was trying to trick him? Or trap him? What if he didn’t want her to have it? She couldn’t do that, couldn’t just … no, she couldn’t even think about that.

  But what if he wanted no parts of it? No parts of her? They hadn’t been going out that long, hadn’t talked of commitments or obligations or anything like that. She thought she knew him, better than she knew a lot of her friends. And she thought she knew how she felt, thought he possibly felt the same way. But what if she was wrong?

  A calmness she hadn’t expected settled over her, followed by steely determination. Well, if he didn’t want her or their baby—and oh God, she was going to have a baby!—then she’d raise it herself. Women did that all the time, right? She was strong, independent. She had a somewhat good job doing market analysis that gave her a somewhat decent paycheck. She’d make it work.

  She had to.

  But she had to tell JP first.

  And how would she even do that? She certainly couldn’t just pick up the phone and call him. No, this was something she had to do in person. Except he was leaving this evening for an extended road trip. Should she wait until he got back?

  Yes, she should wait.

  No, she needed to tell him now.

  She glanced her watch, chewed on her lower lip as she argued with herself. Tell him today or wait? Wait, or tell him now? Back and forth until she made herself dizzy.

  Enough. She was being foolish. She had to tell him, she couldn’t wait.

  Which meant it had to be done now.

  She stood up, splashed some more cold water on her face and ran a brush through her hair. Then she hurried from the bathroom, grabbing her keys and coat on the way out the door, that sense of unreality following her the entire time.

  The doorbell rang again, a little longer this time. JP muttered to himself, nearly tripping as he pulled on a pair of nylon workout pants. The material clung to his wet legs and he cursed again.

  He grabbed a towel as he walked out of the bathroom, running it across his bare chest and dripping hair. Who the hell was at the door? It couldn’t be Randy, not yet. They weren’t due to leave for another two hours.

  He hurried through the living room, nearly slipped on the tile floor of the entranceway before reaching the door. He yanked it open—

  And froze, all thoughts of finding a new place to live fleeing his mind. Emily stood in front of him, looking small and fragile in the oversized winter coat. Her hair was tousled, as if she had run her fingers through it numerous times. And her face was pale, her eyes wide and a little dazed as she looked up at him.

  “Emilie.” JP reached out, grabbed her hand and tugged her inside. “Are you okay? Did something to happen?”

  It was a stupid question. Of course something had happened. She looked shell-shocked, like she didn’t quite know where she was or how she got there. Her gaze darted around, never landing on any one thing for longer than a second. The sparse furnishings. The bare walls. The balcony overlooking the Baltimore skyline below.

  His bare chest.

  A flush crept across her cheeks and she quickly averted her gaze, staring down at the tile floor. JP took her hand again and led her to the overstuffed leather sofa. She didn’t look at him, didn’t even try to shrug out of her heavy coat.

  He tossed the towel to the side and squatted in front of her, taking both of her cold hands in his. “What is it, mon ange? Did something happen?”

  She took a deep breath, her gaze clearing as she finally, slowly, looked up at him. Her mouth opened, just as quickly closed with a snap as she looked away. He squeezed her hands, a knot of apprehension twisting his gut.

  “Emilie. Tell me. What is wrong?”

  “I—” She stopped, looked away again, took another deep breath and stared down at their clasped hands. “I’m pregnant.”

  The whispere
d words hung between them, suspended between reality and disbelief. JP heard the word, understood its meaning. But not the context.

  Not right away.

  Not until it slammed into him with enough force that he actually lost his balance and fell backward, landing on his ass.

  “Preg—” He stuttered, had to close his mouth and swallow, tried to clear his throat. His mind. Tried to make sense of the word, of what she meant. “Pregnant?”

  His hands briefly tightened around hers, maybe too tight because she pulled her hands from his grasp. And then she was standing, stepping around him because his ass was still glued to the fucking floor. She was talking, soft jumbled words that didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense, not when shock and disbelief battered him, sent him reeling.

  Kept him frozen in place.

  Pregnant.

  Emily was pregnant.

  And he was the father.

  He was going to be a father.

  The thought terrified him. Thrilled him. Petrified him. Excited him.

  He was going to be a father.

  Emily was going to be the mother of his child.

  A vision of her, soft and glowing, holding their daughter to her breast, seared his mind. Vivid, clear. He ran a hand across his chest, trying to understand the sudden tightness beneath his breastbone.

  Trying to understand the feral possessiveness that tore through him, shredding all anxiety and doubt.

  He was going to be a father.

  The sound of the door opening echoed through the room like a shot. He looked up, fear twisting his gut when he saw that Emily was leaving.

  He shot to his feet, a string of French falling from his lips as he raced after her. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, saw her eyes widen in shock as he cupped her face with both hands.

  He wiped his thumb across her cheek, high up to catch the single tear falling from her eye. Then he lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss against her soft lips. Sweet, tender, a million emotions and thoughts and dreams encompassed in that single touch.

  He pulled away, swept his thumb along her lower lip, trying to find the right words.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She hesitated, shook her head. “I don’t expect you to—”

  He kissed her again, silencing her, then pulled her into his arms. “She is mine, Emilie. Mine and yours. Ours.”

  She stiffened in his arms, tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her. He kissed her again then dropped to his knees and pressed one hand against her stomach. Flat still, firm, with no hint of the life growing within her.

  He swallowed against the thickness clogging his throat, leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her stomach. Her hand threaded in his hair, her fingers trembling. He reached for her other hand, gently tugged until she was kneeling in front of him.

  “Mine, Emilie. Always mine. You and our daughter.”

  She ran a hand across her eyes and tried to smile. “Or son.”

  “No, a daughter. As beautiful as her mother.” He cupped her cheek with his hand, stroked her smooth skin with the pad of his thumb.

  Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain. The same emotions running through him were reflected in the deep blue of her gaze. “I’m scared, JP.”

  “No, Emilie. There is nothing to be afraid of. We will get through this together.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and pressed his free hand against the flat of her belly. She reached out and covered his hand with hers. He caught her trembling fingers, steadied them with his own, and kissed her again.

  “Together, my Emilie. The three of us. Always.”

  No, JP and Emily’s story doesn’t end here … not even close. This is just their first shot at love!

  Do they get their happily-ever-after? What does the future hold for these two? JP and Emily are one of my best-loved couples … and two of my readers’ favorites! You can read the rest of their story in BREAK AWAY, The Baltimore Banners Book 5

  Lisa B. Kamps is the author of the bestselling series The Baltimore Banners, featuring “hard-hitting, heart-melting hockey players” (USA Today), on and off the ice. Her Firehouse Fourteen series features hot and heroic firefighters who put more than their lives on the line. She’s introduced a whole new team of hot hockey players who play hard and love even harder in her newest series, The York Bombers.

  In a previous life, she worked as a firefighter with the Baltimore County Fire Department then did a very brief (and not very successful) stint at bartending in east Baltimore, and finally served as the Director of Retail Operations for a busy Civil War nonprofit.

  Lisa currently lives in Maryland with her husband and two sons (who are mostly sorta-kinda out of the house), one very spoiled Border Collie, two cats with major attitude, several head of cattle, and entirely too many chickens to count. When she’s not busy writing or chasing animals, she’s cheering loudly for her favorite hockey team, the Washington Capitals—or going through withdrawal and waiting for October to roll back around!

  Interested in reaching out to Lisa? She’d love to hear from you, and there are several ways to contact her:

  www.LisaBKamps.com

  Newsletter

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  Do you want to connect with a great group of hockey romance authors and like-minded hockey fans? Then please join me at The Sin Bin!

  The Sin Bin is a fun place to talk to other hockey romance readers and hockey fans, discover new books you might enjoy, interact with romance authors, drool over the male physique, and to generally bask in the board-bashing, emotional, testosterone-filled world of hockey romance.

  Wild Pumpkin by Martha Sweeney

  After a night out drinking with friends, Delilah, a tattooed, cigarette-smoking, twenty-six-year-old bad-girl, swerves to avoid hitting an animal in the road and hits a road sign instead. She ends up in court for reckless driving. Though it was her first offense, and the first time ever getting caught breaking the law, Delilah is not pleased when she’s sentenced to community service.

  During her newfound, unpaid job, Delilah meets goody-toe-shoed Lance who is the epitome of what she’s not and hates. Will Delilah learn to change her ways or will she corrupt Lance, causing him to follow in her footsteps?

  Delilah

  “Due to the fact that this is your first offense …” the judge explains, looking sternly at me. “I’m willing to be a little lenient with you.”

  I can’t help but notice the crater lines that seem to ever expand from the corners of her eyes out across her face, sucking me in as if it’s the Earth quaking open. Her tone is raspy as if she’s smoked a pack or two of cigarettes a day all her life. I make a mental note to push myself to quit smoking, scared that her raisin-like face and baritone voice is my imminent future.

  “The fact that you only hit a road sign, Ms. Powell… .”

  Is it just me, or do judges really like to hear themselves talk? They seem to ramble on more in person than they do on television shows.

  “That you were not at or above the legal limit for intoxication… .”

  Listening to her speak is akin to nail on a chalk board.

  “This court suspends Ms. Delilah Powell’s license and sentences her to sixty hours of community service.”

  “What?” I gasp. My head snaps to the right toward my assigned attorney, the public defender.

  “Shh,” Mr. Baron scolds as he scribbles down something on his notepad.

  The judge continues to talk, but her voice becomes drowned out by the thoughts that are flurrying in my head.

  I shouldn’t be getting sentenced to anything. It wasn’t my fault. That sign wasn’t there before. I would know because I’ve driven on that road plenty of times to know if it had or not.

  I sit in shock for a few more seconds as I try to process what’s shappening to m
e. “You told me the worst would be thirty hours,” I challenge with a clenched jaw, leaning close my lawyer. I almost choke on the stench of cologne that barely masks his vulgar body odor while they both assault my nose.

  “I told you that the worst would be up to a year in jail,” Mr. Baron counters. “Be thankful that Judge Vaughn is being nice.”

  “Nice?” I snap.

  “Yes,” he says curtly. “Nice. Judge Vaughn is not known to be this lenient when it comes to anyone who enters the system … even first time offenders.”

  “Offender?” I scoff. “I wasn’t intoxicated. I swerved to avoid hitting an animal.”

  “The law requires that you maintain control of your vehicle at all times,” Mr. Baron states flatly.

  “I did have control,” I rebut.

  Mr. Baron offers me an unimpressed expression. “You were also showing very low levels intoxication,” he adds. He stands and begins collecting his things, putting them in his briefcase. “Thank you, your Honor.”

  “No,” I challenge lowly but sternly. “I was not intoxicated. I was well below the drinking limit. This is not okay.”

  “Ms. Powell,” Mr. Baron begins, walking toward the back of the room.

  My feet shuffle to keep up with his sudden fast pace as I call after him. For the few times that I’ve met this greasy, fat blob, he’s never moved this fast. It’s like someone just announced that fresh donuts are out in the hall and he’s hurrying to make sure he gets his hands on them before anyone else.

  “I strongly advise that you take this time to ponder what happened and what you’re going to do with your life,” he suggests coldly.

  “Excuse me?” I scoff.

  “I can tell by the way you’ve spoken to me that this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten yourself into a … situation … however, this is the first time that you’ve gotten caught,” he claims.

  “I avoided hitting an animal,” I repeat, irritated by his accusation. “I’ve never… .”

  “I’ll be in touch with some community service options after the weekend,” Mr. Baron continues. “I strongly advise that you take this sentence just as seriously as if you were being sent to jail.”

  “You’re a shitty lawyer,” I retort, slowing my pace.

  “If you wanted better, you should have paid for one rather than seeking a public defender,” Mr. Baron returns coolly.