He filled her hands, low groans of pleasure reverberating in his chest. She did that to him. It made her feel exceptionally powerful, but suddenly it wasn’t enough.
When she pulled away from him, he almost stumbled forward. “I want you to undress me.”
She expected him to turn around, rip her clothes off and throw her onto the bed. She’d gotten him overwrought, after all.
But that wasn’t what he did. Oh, he turned around, all right, and, cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her. The kiss packed a fair amount of heat—as did certain body parts that were pressed against her belly—but it wasn’t something frenzied or out of control. It was the kiss of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
He broke the kiss long enough to bend his head down to her neck. As his lips moved over her sensitive skin, he ran his fingers over the straps of her cami, then peeled them off her shoulders. As he worked the top down, he followed the fabric, pressing his mouth against her collarbone, then her chest, then her breast.
Heat flowed out from her center. Oh, yes. This was exactly what she wanted.
She’d told him to undress her, and that was what he was doing—but the way he was doing it? He’d known what she needed, even if she hadn’t put it into words.
Desire had her trembling. It was the only thing she felt right now—no awkwardness, no nerves. It was completely natural that Bobby was now licking the tip of her right breast as his hands pulled the cami to her hips. It was also completely natural when he fell to his knees, pulling the cami and her panties off. Heavens, it was nothing but natural that he cupped her backside and kissed the top of her thigh.
She laced her fingers through his hair as he shoved her clothing down the rest of the way and let go of her long enough that she could step out of her things. He kissed her again. The length of his body pressed against hers, nothing between them—not even bedclothes. This time, there was more behind the kiss—more hunger, more need. His control was slipping.
She liked it—that he needed her so much that he couldn’t hold himself back. He was giving her a kind of power over him.
“Tell me what you want.”
That was the sound of complete surrender. She could do whatever she wished with him and he would accept it. Gladly.
She couldn’t fight it any longer.
“On the bed.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than he was back where he’d started, half reclining on the pillows. His erection stood at full mast.
She straddled him, feeling him rubbing against her. He leaned forward and caught her in another kiss as her hips ground down onto him. Every sensation she felt was focused on where he was touching her—his fingertips pressing against her hips, his tongue rasping over her lips, his erection straining to enter her.
She pushed against him, wanting him inside her.
“No, wait.” He lifted her off, just far enough that he could lean over and grab a condom. It still seemed ridiculous—she was already pregnant, for crying out loud—but he’d already made his point about being tested.
As soon as he was sheathed, he pulled her back on top, settling her weight onto him. She shuddered with desire as her body willingly took him in. “Yes.” Her voice came out more as a groan than an affirmation.
“Is this what you want?” he asked as he began thrusting, holding her hips steady—doing all the work for her.
“Yes,” she groaned again, digging her fingers into his shoulders for balance.
“You’re so beautiful, my Stella.” As he said it, he kept moving, stroking into her with a wonderfully relentless pace. The heat built and built as he kept saying, “Mine,” over and over.
His. That was what she wanted. To be his. And for him to be hers.
When he bit down on the space between her neck and her shoulder, though, she couldn’t contain herself a moment longer. She would make him hers, if only for the short while they had together. She grabbed his hands from her hips and pinned them over his head as she rose and fell on him faster and faster.
“Stella,” he said, trying to pull his hands out of her grip, but she held fast. “Wait.”
But she didn’t listen to him. She rode harder and harder, edging close to a climax.
“That’s it, babe,” Bobby said.
Her eyes snapped open and focused on his face. He met her gaze, his beautiful hazel eyes so deep she could get lost in them.
“Let me have it—let me have all of it.”
Something in his words, his eyes— Yes. She cried out as the climax unleashed itself on her.
That had been exactly what she wanted. In the morning light, no alcohol to be seen—and he still made her feel this way. She loved him for that.
She was terribly afraid that she loved him.
Spent from the orgasm, she loosened her grip on his wrists. In a heartbeat, he had her by the waist again and was furiously pumping his hips into hers.
With a roar only muffled by his face against her neck, he came. The two of them collapsed onto each other, both panting from the effort.
He hauled her off him and disposed of the condom. Then they curled into each other as if they’d never been apart.
She traced a finger through the golden hairs on his chest. A kind of peace came over her, certainly helped by the excellent sex. She knew she could ask anything of him and, rather than have him shut her down, he would do everything in his power to answer.
“We’ll chat and call and all that, won’t we?”
“Of course,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. One of his hands skimmed up and down her back.
“Even before the baby is born?”
“Even before.”
“And you’ll visit?”
“I’ll be there for the delivery—assuming we have enough lead time.”
That wasn’t the answer she was looking for, however right it had been. “No, I mean—you’ll visit, right?”
“Yes.” But his tone of voice made it clear he hadn’t quite caught her meaning.
“And when you visit, we’ll...” She pressed her lips against his chest, right above his heart.
He didn’t immediately reply, which made her feel as if she’d overstepped her bounds. She was presuming a romantic relationship that perhaps didn’t exist—not outside this apartment for the next few weeks, anyway.
Then he ran his fingers through her hair, tilting her face up to meet his. “For as long as you want me, I’m yours, Stella.”
Just like that, she knew two things. One, she was in love with Bobby.
And two, when she left him it would hurt worse than anything she’d ever experienced.
But she had to leave him. The sooner she made the break, the easier it would be to get over him. To stop loving him. The more she loved him, the more power she gave him—power to break her heart, power to break her baby’s heart.
Yes, he would marry her—but not because he loved her. Because it was the proper thing to do—honorable, noble. The best of intentions.
But intentions didn’t keep a woman warm at night. Intentions didn’t give a baby a father who wanted her. Intentions weren’t even promises.
Bobby could have the best intentions in the world, but that didn’t change the fact that she could not bind herself to a man who did not want her as she was. To do so would lead to more heartbreak than simply walking away from him ever could. She couldn’t risk her heart like that. She couldn’t risk her child’s.
She wouldn’t let it happen, no matter how much it hurt.
So she said nothing. She merely kissed him while she still could. Soon enough, this would pass. All things did.
He didn’t seem to notice the change in her mood. After he kissed her, he let her go.
“Now,” he said, rolling out of bed. “We need t
o get to work.”
“Yes.” Needle, thread, cloth. If she was leaving, she might as well go to the fashion benefit. It was a good opportunity, after all. Yes, she would go.
Without him.
Thirteen
Sunday was one of the better days in Bobby’s memory. He set his laptop up on one end of the dining room table while Stella set up the sewing machine on the other. She requested classic girl rock—the Bangles and Cyndi Lauper, that sort of thing—so they sang out loud as they worked. He made her laugh by knowing every word to Pat Benatar’s songs, and she impressed him with her singing voice—clear and beautiful. Just the way she was.
The day passed quickly. She started knitting something, so she took up residence on the couch. Several times, Bobby caught himself staring at her. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t using any pattern, but the yarn turned into lace before his eyes.
“This won’t be true lace,” she said when she caught him looking.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just admiring what you can do with your hands.” Her cheeks shot pink. “How did you learn to do that?”
“My mum,” she said, and a happy smile lit up her face. “She taught me to crochet—that’s with one needle, when I turned five, and to knit, that’s what I’m doing now, when I turned six.” Her voice was soft and light, her British accent stronger. “She told me that O’Flannery women—that was her maiden name—had been knitting for generations, passed down from mother to daughter. ’Twas my birthright.”
The whole time she’d spoken, her fingers hadn’t stopped moving. Bobby wondered if she could knit in her sleep.
Her face darkened and he remembered that she’d only been eight when her mother died. “Then, when I was at school, they took my needles away from me. I seem to recall I threatened to stab a girl with one for teasing me. But Sister Mary O’Hare took pity on me—as much as a nun takes pity, I suppose.”
“Cracked your knuckles with a ruler?”
“Oh, yes. But Sister Mary took a shine to me and let me come up to her room and knit by the fire. The needles had to stay with her, but every night, I got an hour to work away from the other girls. An hour I could pretend my mum...” Her voice trailed off and Bobby thought she might cry.
Then everything about her shut down and she became unreadable.
“So you stayed the night at school?”
“I lived at St. Mary’s in Cambridge full-time. Even though they didn’t take boarders until thirteen, they made an exception for my father’s money.”
“You lived there?”
She nodded. “If he could, Mickey would come get me for Christmas break and take me back to our old flat. Then my father sold it, so Mickey and I, we started having Christmas at his flat.” She managed a small smile. “A bit cramped, but very cozy.”
Her voice was carefully level, but her fingers were moving faster than ever. If Mickey could—but not her father? What kind of man didn’t make time to see his daughter on Christmas?
Not a good one, that’s for damn sure. This had to be why she wanted “assurances” that he would call and visit for birthdays and holidays. He could not imagine anything sadder that a motherless little girl stuck at some heartless school run by heartless nuns, ignored by her father.
He finally managed to say, “Just you and Mickey, huh?” mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else.
“Yes. Just me and Mickey.”
It broke his heart—which was a new, painful experience. Aside from that one time when he thought he might be in love with Marla, he didn’t get close enough to women to hurt for them.
But now? Listening to a woman detail a childhood of neglect while she produced knitted lace as if the whole world depended on it? He could just see her sitting at the feet of some severe nun, huddled by the fire for warmth, knitting as if the yarn was the only connection she had to her past. Because it was.
The feeling of his heart breaking changed and he felt furious. How dare David Caine cast off his daughter? He wanted to tell her that he would never turn his back on their baby. But everything about her was still closed off. It was clear she didn’t want to talk about it—and he couldn’t blame her.
“Is that for the benefit?”
Her face darkened, but only a little. Someone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t have noticed. But he did. “Yes.”
“So you’re going?”
“Yes.”
So she’d decided. Which meant she would be leaving in less than two weeks. He was surprised at how little he liked that idea. He couldn’t tell if that was because he would be waking up alone or because it felt as if she was bowing to her father’s demands. Either way, he didn’t want her to go.
Unfortunately, he was in no position to tell her to stay.
“Will you have it done in time to show me before you go?”
The corners of her mouth curved down, but a second later the look of sorrow was gone as she shook out the three inches of knit lace she’d produced while they talked. “I hope so.”
That was all they said. The Go-Go’s came on and they started to sing and work.
Even considering he took time to make lunch and dinner, he still got the numbers done that Ben needed. Stella had already gone to bed by that point. He wanted to climb into bed with her, feel her body curl around his. Such a small thing, but something he craved.
But he needed to do something, so he took advantage of the solitude and made a call.
“What?” Billy’s voice was less than pleasant. In other words, he sounded normal.
“I need a favor.”
“No.”
Bobby ignored him. “I need you to do something cameraworthy on Thursday.”
“What the hell for?”
“I have an appointment—no cameras allowed. I need you to be entertaining.”
He could hear his oldest brother fuming through the phone. Billy did not like being a reality star, which was a crying shame because he was truly terrific on-screen. He cursed and threw things and glowered like a pro—all of which made for great television. They’d gotten the reality show because Billy had brought in a huge number of viewers to the webisodes that had come before the TV show. But part of the TV deal had been that Bruce and Bobby would be the focus of the show so Billy wouldn’t get homicidal on-screen all the time.
Bobby waited. He didn’t want to tell Billy about Stella—not yet, anyway. The big man had a surprising soft spot when it came to pregnant women and babies. If he knew about Stella, God only knew what he might do. Bobby was in no mood to find out.
“Who is she?”
Damn it all. Had Ben told him, or was he just that good at guessing?
“I’ll explain later, okay? Just cover for me on Thursday.”
Billy whistled. Bobby decided he liked it better when the big man was cursing at him. “You’re gonna owe me for this, big-time.”
“I’m aware.”
“You doing the right thing?”
Bobby silently counted to ten. More and more, it sounded as if Ben had ratted him out. “I’m trying. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.” And he hung up.
That went well. The only thing left to do was tell the production crew that they’d be at the shop on Thursday. He sent the necessary emails and shut everything down.
Then he went to bed, wrapping an arm around Stella’s slumbering waist and listening to her breathe until he fell asleep.
He didn’t want her to go.
But he didn’t know how to make her stay.
* * *
They fell into an easy rhythm. He and Stella made all kinds of crazy love in the morning, then he went to work at the construction site, trying to make building a five-hundred-room resort as entertaining as possible. Most of the time, Mickey came ov
er and did...whatever grumpy leprechauns did during the day while Stella worked on her dress.
The longer he was away each day, the more he wanted to go home—him, who’d been sleeping in this trailer rather than make the drive back to the condo for weeks on end. Things were different now.
He worked damn hard to be back in his condo by six so he could make dinner with Stella. She showed him her progress and he told her about the build. He couldn’t quite see how her dress was going to come together, but there was no denying the handiwork that had gone into it.
At several points, he found himself looking at the blueprints for his penthouse apartment. He had plenty of space—he needed to put in a room for the baby. Should he designate one of the guest rooms as Stella’s? Or would she sleep in his bed?
The other thing he wondered about was Stella’s shop. Her work was amazing, after all. He had space on the first floor of the resort blocked off for retail. What was stopping him from carving out a little of that space for Stella? She could have her shop with room to do the custom-made pieces she liked. The guests who could afford to stay at his resort could afford to buy a piece of her work, and her hard-yet-soft sensibility would fit right into the posh-biker theme.
Maybe, he reasoned, if he offered her a shop—the shop she’d been trying to get financing for, the shop she wanted so much—she would realize that he could give her what she wanted. That he could make her happy.
Nothing was stopping him from giving her some real estate...except Bobby couldn’t bring himself to mention it. The chances were good she’d decline—politely, of course—because, really, her life was in New York and she’d already said no. He didn’t want her to say no again. He didn’t want to know there was nothing he could do to make her stay.
So he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t talk about rooms or shops.
On Thursday, they went to the doctor’s office. He held her hand while she had her blood drawn. He’d arranged for Gina and Patrice to pick up Stella after she was done—she didn’t need to hang around a waiting room with sick people while he had his physical.
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