by Geneva Lee
I dissolve into frantic pants, and his arms tighten protectively.
“You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere,” he says, closing my eyelids gently with his thumbs before planting tender kisses there.
“I don’t want to be alone again,” I whisper. “Come find me.”
His weight shifts, and he pulls my head toward him, my body responding to his implied command, my lips parting in anticipation. The scruff of his stubble scratches my cheek, and then his lips are on mine. There’s a pang in my swollen lip, the place he nipped yesterday, and the spark of memory lights my body like kindling, pushing the anxiety and dread of my nightmare from me.
“I want you right here, next to me,” he says, his tone languid and inviting as he continues to explore me with his hands and mouth. Each kiss, each brush of his skin on mine, erases more of the dream until finally it fades to a memory. “I want you to know that—no matter what—I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
For the hundredth time over the last few days, I wonder how I ever let myself believe he had abandoned me. My mind spins with flashes of our passionate sex yesterday, and of anger at myself for taking so long to trust him. But that too is driven from me when he rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him.
I straddle him, aware of the hard promise of what’s to come pinned between us. My eyes adjust again in the dark to reveal the lines of his body. But while the hewn curves of his muscles and his stacked abs are hard and brutally beautiful, he’s relaxed. He looks like Sunday morning. Unhurried. Certain. He’s liquid sex, and I want to melt into him, but he has other ideas.
His hands start at the tops of my hips, rubbing gently up my back and pressing my belly and breasts into the hollow under his chest, releasing a lifetime of tension there. He kisses my forehead and eyelids like he never plans to stop.
I burrow into him, drinking in the smoky notes of his cologne, which has long since faded into something that is only Sterling and always has been. I want to taste him, and I begin to kiss his chest, savoring the taut bands of his muscular pecs, then his collar, then his neck. I inch toward his lips, my hips moving with me and dragging my aching seam along his thick length. By the time my hair falls around us both, my mouth greedily sucking his lower lip, the promise wedged between us is nudging me open.
“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he growls, the corners of a smile tugging against my mouth.
“You can’t even see me,” I tease, planting a kiss on his brow.
“I’ve got every inch of you memorized,” he says, chuckling and kissing the hollow under my jaw, driving words from my lips. “I don’t need to see.”
His fingers knead my ass, and I slide my hips further up his torso, inviting more of him—but he tucks his arms against his sides and his hands grab my hips. He yanks my body up until his mouth is between my thighs.
He pauses and my body takes over, my hips bucking closer impatiently. His soft chuckle sends a soft stream of air brushing over me.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” he teases, lightly drawing his stubble across me. “Because I’m exactly where I want to be, and I plan to be here a while.”
A whimper escapes me, and I lock my hips before they mutiny and take control. Finally, his mouth covers my cleft, the warm heat of his tongue licking across my seam. He urges my traitorous hips forward, adding just enough friction to make me light-headed.
I’ve never felt anything like it before. At first—in the brief flashes of coherent thought, anyway—it’s almost better than normal sex, the sensation warmer and gentler. Within a few moments, it feels like he’s connecting me to some deeper part of myself, and each time I exhale, it’s not just air coming out of me, it’s tension and stress and fear.
How does he always know what I need? Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, what I see looking back is something written in another language. But Sterling always knows how to read me, like he was born knowing my language.
My hands find his hair, tangling there in some desperate, subconscious attempt to tether myself to this man, who has so much power over my body and soul. Each second winds me around him, until there’s only his skin against mine, the caress of his mouth, the scratch of his jawline. I coil and wrap but there’s only one way to completely bind myself to him. “I need you inside me. Now.”
Sterling doesn’t object. He simply scoots my hips toward his, as his soft, warm sigh floats up to me like a summer breeze. What we did yesterday left me sore, but his attention so far has dulled that particular ache, and when he enters me, it feels like something I’ve only glimpsed and never known: the easy rightness of coming home.
“I love you so much, Adair,” he says with wonder bordering on reverence.
We’ve made love with me on top before, but even then I always let him be in charge. But I take the reins now, riding him slowly as I work up and down, savoring every sensation as I guide us toward the edge. I watch his face, moving my pace to his, urging us on to the same path, and when he goes rigid, I let myself shatter, melt, dissolve.
I know he will catch me and put me back together—always.
And I won’t forget.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, slipping from the bed.
I watch covetously as he grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser and tugs them on. They hang loosely at his hips, and he disappears out of the bedroom.
Panic seizes me instantly, and I scramble out of the bed. Picking up his abandoned shirt, I slip it over my shoulders and button it as I go to find him.
He glances over from the refrigerator, the light from the ice machine silhouetting his form. Sterling holds up a glass as I join him. “I was just getting you some water.”
I fall in love with him all over again
“I wish you’d never left,” I blurt out, feeling another crying jag coming on—all over a stupid glass of water.
But it’s more than that. It’s being taken care of by someone who loves me more than himself. It’s loving him so much it physically hurts. It’s feeling my breath hitch every time I see him again for the first time.
Sterling’s eyes close and he places the glass on the counter, reaching out to take my hand. He kisses my knuckles, his eyelids still pressed into two firm lines. When he finally speaks, his words are thick on his tongue. “You have to believe that if I’d known, I wouldn’t have left you.”
“We can’t change the past,” I say, swallowing hard. We can relive it, however, and I can’t avoid it any longer. He needs to know the truth. He needs to know what we’re up against. “But you need to know.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. When I nod, he leads me over to the couch, the glass of water forgotten on the counter. Zeus pads over, looks between us, and then flops to the floor at my feet like a guard dog.
“By the time I realized I was pregnant, you were gone,” I begin.
Anguish clouds his eyes, and I force myself to look away. I know the pain of being separated from a child too well.
“I wish you’d tracked me down,” he says fiercely and for the first time, there’s a dangerous edge to his words. “I should have been told.”
“I tried,” I say flatly. “I called Francie. Did she tell you that?”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t talk to me much when I was enlisted. Couldn’t,” he clarifies quickly. “There’s not a lot of time for personal calls. She probably forgot to tell me.”
“I doubt my frantic call to her slipped her mind. Look, she didn’t want me to reach you, and I can’t blame her.”
“Francie would never—”
“I believe her exact words were that I’d done enough by ruining your life, and…”
“And?” he presses.
I take a deep breath, finally voicing the words that had haunted me for years, “She told me if you died out there, your blood would be on my hands.”
They crack me open and spill out along with the tears I’ve been trying to keep contained. I can’t hold back anymore. There’s too much�
�too much he needs to know, too much I need to finally confront myself.
“But I’m right here,” he says, his palm stroking my arm gently. “I’m sorry, Lucky. I’m not mad at you for not finding me. I’m just mad that I wasn’t there for you.”
“I wanted you there,” I croak.
“Even after I left?” He shakes his head, that familiar self-loathing twisting his handsome face. “You’re a better person than I am. I can’t imagine what you went through. I can’t imagine what your family did to you.”
“That’s why I went back to London.” I shake my head, wishing I could slap my younger self for ever being so monumentally naive. “I thought I could hide it from them until I figured things out, but I was just fooling myself.”
“You were...alone?” he asks in a strangled voice. “You didn’t tell Poppy or...anyone?”
One side of my mouth curls into a sad smile. “I didn’t want to disappoint everyone. I didn’t want to hear their advice. I only cared about holding onto the last piece of you I had left, but I should have known better. You can’t outrun your problems.”
“God knows, I’ve tried,” he says. “What happened in London, Lucky?”
“I made a terrible mistake,” I whisper.
Summer five years ago
I’ve been pacing the length of the hall since Poppy texted that her flight landed at Heathrow. For the tenth time, I pause to check my reflection in the foyer’s mirror, wondering if my flowy blouse is doing its job. It looks casual and summery for now. I won’t be able to hide my swelling baby bump for much longer. I wouldn’t have to if Poppy hadn’t decided to come for a summer visit. Thankfully, she’s not planning to stay at the flat I’ve taken in London since she’s dragged Cyrus along for the trip.
The intercom buzzes and I answer with a quick, “Hello?”
“Miss MacLaine, I have two visitors for you,” Bart, my building’s front desk attendant says in a Scottish brogue so thick, I can hardly understand him. My father insisted I take a flat in a staffed building, but I’d chosen the neighborhood of Notting Hill for its low-key vibe.
“Send them up. Thank you.”
My eleventh check in the mirror is accompanied by a nervous flutter and I instinctively press a palm to my belly. Even with my shirt pressed close to the bump, it just looks like I’ve been indulging in too much fish and chips. The truth is that until the last few weeks, I’d barely kept a meal down. Poppy’s decision to stay in Valmont for the first summer session saved me from an earlier visit. It had been hard to hide my morning sickness once it hit. I’d resorted to coming up with an insane excuse about a sudden, once-in-a-lifetime study abroad opportunity landing in my lap to get out of Valmont before everyone figured out the truth. I’d left before the spring semester ended and planned to stay through the summer. For the last few weeks, I had been studying the toilet in my bathroom’s flat. I could probably do a dissertation on porcelain, actually.
No one knows the real reason that I came here. No one knows that there’s no study program. Well, there is. I found one to pitch to my father, knowing he would never let me go on my word alone. I even enrolled and let him pay the tuition, so there would be no doubt. I just haven’t bothered to attend. I’ve been too busy gestating and trying to figure out what to do next. All I know is that if I stay in London as long as possible, I can have the baby before my family finds out and tries to stop me.
Because there’s no way that Angus MacLaine would let his daughter have a bastard, especially once he realized who the baby’s father is.
At first, I thought Poppy’s visit would throw a wrench in my plans, but I’d never get by without seeing anyone from home until after the baby came. It will be easier to avoid everyone later, extend my study visa, and make excuses about staying for the holidays. It’s not a perfect plan—in fact, it’s hardly a plan at all, but it’s all I have to work with.
A knock on the door startles me, and I feel another flutter of panic like fragile butterfly wings in my belly. I pat my bump and whisper, “Showtime.”
I take a second at the door, preparing myself to act like the same old Adair for the next few days. I don’t know how I’ll pull it off. Nothing about me feels the same. I’m not the person I was when I left Valmont. I don’t think I’ll ever be her again.
And then there’s my secret. How am I going to keep this from my best friend?
“Because you have to,” I remind myself. I’m all the baby has in the world. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
Poppy shrieks, arms splaying in the air, as she rushes me. “I missed you!”
Guilt washes over me, making me feel sick and for one terrifying moment I worry that my morning sickness is back and that I’m going to throw up all over her. But Poppy’s hug soothes me instantly. I don’t usually like being hugged but this one feels good. Something hot leaks from the corner of my eye. That’s when I realize that I’m crying.
Poppy pulls back, her hands on my arms. “Traffic was…” she trails off, staring at me. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“Nothing!” I shrug free of her and dash my tears away quickly. Turning, I discover Cyrus standing on the threshold, laden down with bags. “You look like a pack mule.”
“Good to see you, too,” he says dryly.
“Oh, sorry, love.” Poppy smiles sheepishly and helps him stack the baggage in the hall.
“Um.” I stare at the bags suddenly worried that our signals are crossed.
“We came straight here,” Poppy confesses as I lead them toward the kitchen where I put the kettle on for tea. “Our suite at the Westminster Royal isn’t ready yet. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, of course not,” I say, relieved. “You don’t have to stay there, though. I have a guest bedroom.”
It’s my duty as a Southern woman to ask but I mentally cross my fingers, hoping they don’t change their minds and decide to take me up on my offer.
“Oh no! We’re all set. Cyrus scored the suite that Prince Alexander reportedly used to stay in when he was sneaking around with Clara Bishop,” Poppy gushes while I take mugs from the cabinet. “That reminds me! There’s paparazzi everywhere. I guess they’re watching the house Alexander owns here, but I doubt they’d leave the palace for Notting Hill. Have you seen them?”
“Not really,” I say, adding, “but maybe you will.”
Cyrus rolls his eyes as she continues telling me every rumor she’s heard about the couple since their tragic wedding. I’ll gladly open the door for Poppy to gossip about the Royal family if it distracts her from asking me too many questions about what I’ve been up to for the last few weeks. Maybe she’ll be so focused on getting a glimpse of them, she’ll spend all her time Royal watching.
“I just want to see if there’s a baby bump,” she says.
I drop the mug I’m holding. It falls to the tiled floor and breaks into a dozen pieces. “What?”
“Darling, let me help you.” Poppy circles to help me pick up the pieces. “I was just saying I wanted to see the royal baby bump myself. All the tabloids are speculating that she’s pregnant and since her accident... It’s the Brit in me. I can’t help it.”
“Sorry.” I press a hand to my forehead. “I think I have a migraine starting.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Cyrus suggests. “We can clean this up.”
This earns him a blinding smile from Poppy. If she was smitten with him when I left Valmont, there’s no doubt that she’s head over heels for him now. I suspected as much when she called to say she was taking him to visit her London family.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling dumb and hoping they buy my excuse.
“It’s all this time in the city,” Poppy says, continuing to make the tea. “That’s why you’re coming with us to the country this weekend.”
“I’m what?” I stare at her.
“Don’t even try to say no,” Cyrus advises me. He stands up and looks around for the garbage can. “She hatched this plan during our flight, and I can promise yo
u that she’s not going to let you get out of it.”
“I have class,” I lie.
“Not on the weekend,” she says. “We’re just going down during the spring bank holiday. You won’t have class then.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t, and if I was attending classes, I would know about this bank holiday. But since I haven’t been and since I’m not British I had no idea that I needed an excuse until now.
“You two should go. It will be more romantic,” I say, grasping for one on the spot.
“We’ll have plenty of time for that during our trip,” Cyrus says, coiling his arms around her waist. Poppy tilts her head, black curls swinging around her shoulder, so she can kiss him.
I turn away, jealousy twisting inside me. I’m happy for my best friend but seeing them together only reminds me of how alone I am. My stomach flutters as I remember that I’m not alone. Not anymore.
Not ever again.
Poppy watches me, her eyes dark, and pulls gently away from Cyrus, shooting him a look.
“I promise we won’t be all lovey-dovey the whole time.”
“It’s fine.” I wave it off, hoping that I sound convincing.
“The truth is that he’s right. I get him all the time,” she says. “I want you. I can’t believe you’re going to stay here all summer. I have half a mind to stay here all summer with you.”
“No!” It bursts out of me before I can swallow it back. “I mean, I’m so busy with this program. You’d never see me anyway. No need to waste your summer here.”
“A summer in London is hardly a hardship,” she says with a laugh, pushing a mug in my direction. “But Cyrus does want to go to the Mediterranean.”
“You just have to decide if you want the French Riviera or the Italian Riviera,” he says.
The two begin planning the rest of their romantic summer plans, and I blow steam off the top of my mug. The minty aroma of the tea leaves hits me, and my stomach clenches. I swallow, trying to keep down my breakfast.