Sweet Sinful Nights

by Lauren Blakely

  She could barely move, and she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. All she wanted was to give herself to him. All he ever wanted was her. And she gave, and she gave, and she gave.

  Her back scraped the desk as the friction drove her to the edge. “Please,” she called out, as tremors of lust slammed into her, assaulting her with pleasure and sending her flying as her body detonated. The world slipped away into bliss, into ecstasy, into the end of missing-the-love-of-your-fucking-life.

  There was no more missing. There was only having.

  He held her harder, gripped her head. “I love you,” he grunted as he thrust, reaching his own release. “I fucking love you so much.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Travis looked dazed and confused.

  He slumped against the wall, watching a woman in red walk away. Brent headed over to him, knotting his tie after having just washed his hands in the men’s room. He had to make a flight back to Vegas with Shannon in a few minutes, but wanted to catch up with his old friend.

  “You hiding out here in the hallway?”

  Travis blinked, then shrugged. “No. Just trying to understand a woman.”

  Brent clapped his buddy on the back. “Good luck with that. It’s like learning a whole new language, and no one gives you a dictionary for translation.”

  “Exactly,” he said, gesturing in the direction where the woman had disappeared. “One second she’s all over you, and the next second she practically wants to slap you.”

  “Been there, man. I have absolutely been there. If it’s any consolation, sometimes those slaps can turn into something a whole lot better.”

  “I was hoping it was going to turn into something better tonight,” Travis said, shoving a hand through his hair, then turned to face Brent and pointed at him. “Hell¸ I was about ready to use your office.”

  He laughed. “Afraid you would have found it occupied.”

  Travis knocked fists with Brent. “Excellent news. At least one of us is figuring out women.”

  “Took a long time. You’ll get there. You should talk to her though. Whoever she is.”

  Travis scrubbed a hand across his chin and sighed. “She might be a little pissed off at me right now. I wasn’t completely honest about something.”

  “Then let her know you were less than honest, say you’re sorry, and tell her what you want. Her, I presume. Women like honesty,” he said, speaking the simplest of truths. Weird, that after all that had transpired he was now in a position to give relationship advice. “By the way, thanks so much for coming by today. I really appreciate you doing a prelim for me.”

  “Anytime. And incidentally, Shay is pretty crazy about you. Let me just say that. I chatted with her earlier, and I’m pretty sure she has it bad for you. She’s a keeper.”

  A grin spread across Brent’s face. He was sure of that, too. Being certain of how they both felt was such a gift. One he’d cherish.

  Fifteen minutes later, Shannon was on top of him, riding him hard in the limo on the way to the airport, and he thanked his lucky stars the flight home was short because he couldn’t wait much longer to have her again. He had a wild hunch they wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight. That they’d be wrapped up in each other all night long, making up for lost time. She told him she wanted him to come back to her place, and even though he had a ten a.m. meeting with James and his real estate guys, he figured that was what coffee was for.

  That was all he’d need tomorrow. For tonight, he’d have her.

  * * *

  The stars twinkled against the inky black night as the driver pulled off the highway, and headed to her condo. Time marched closer to the moment. To the telling. Her stomach executed a fresh series of nosedives as the town car neared her home. She reminded herself that everything would be fine. Well, maybe not fine at first. But it would be fine soon enough.

  She’d tell him, and it would be hard for them both, but they’d comfort each other.

  This was not the sort of news that could break them up. The loss was simply another part of the past, one she’d share now that they were finally back in the town they called home. Even though so much had gone wrong for her in Las Vegas, so much had gone right there, too. Las Vegas was the place where her grandma and her brothers lived, and it was the town where she and Brent had fallen in love again, against the neon lights, and the blinking billboards, and the spectacle of the Strip. From the fountains at the Bellagio, to the Shops at Caesars, to the darkened theater at the Luxe—this was their place, and the city of sin had given them a second chance at love.

  And at truth.

  That was why she wanted to tell him the story there. At home. Not in a hotel room. Not in an office. Not in a cab, or a car, or a plane. But in her house, where she could tell the story the way she needed to.

  As the car wedged itself next to the curb, Brent paid and tipped the driver, then grabbed their bags.

  “A sleepover at last,” he teased as they walked up the three flights, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the creaky silence of the building after midnight. She unlocked the door, both grateful and nervous that the moment had arrived. She spotted a lone spare key amidst the mail she’d tossed on her table in a rush when she’d left yesterday.

  “Crap.”

  Brent turned around, and shot her a curious stare.

  She smacked her forehead with her hand. “My friend’s cat. She’s out of town, and I said since I was only gone for twenty-four hours that I could feed him.”

  “He’s probably hungry.”

  She snatched the key from the table. “Be right back. Sorry if the place is a mess. I left in a hurry.”

  Racing upstairs, her heels clicking against the wood, she unlocked Ally’s condo to find the silver and black tabby meowing indignantly at her.

  “Hey Nick,” she said to the feline.

  Now, where was his cat food?

  * * *

  So this was her place. This was her home. He’d caught a glimpse of it on Saturday, but hadn’t taken it in. Her home had an open, airy feel, even at night. The couch and chairs were light shades of yellow and beige, with gold pillows tossed on the cushions, and billowy curtains by the windows.

  Her house was hardly messy at all.

  As he wandered through the kitchen, he spotted that frame again on the counter. The bright sunflowers. He peered more closely at it, and wondered again what the stone was by the flowers. Maybe a garden wall?

  Wait.

  She’d called him a sunflower, hadn’t she?

  He snapped his fingers, remembering. On the phone the other night, she’d said he was her sunflower. Maybe this was her way of thinking about him when they weren’t together—with a picture of a sunflower. The corner of his lips twitched up. Fine, he wasn’t a flowery guy, but when the woman you love says you’re the sun in her life, you gladly take the compliment. He tapped the frame once, then set it back in place and strolled down the hallway. He stopped short at her bedroom door, opened wide. He couldn’t resist peeking. That was where she’d spent her nights. That bed, right there, with the orange and purple pattern on the cover.

  That was where she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He could picture her perfectly, on all fours in the middle of the mattress, her back bowed, hands tied to the headboard. He’d take her like that. Fuck her hard on her hands and knees. Grip her hips and sink into her. Smack her ass as he made her cry out in a pleasure.

  A barely audible groan escaped his throat as the reel played before his eyes of her naked, lithe body trembling. Ready for him. He strolled into her room and brushed a hand over the corner of her bed. A few more minutes, and he could have her like that. That was his plan. He turned around to leave, when a flash of yellow caught his eye once more. Something about it felt familiar. He walked to her nightstand. The drawer was open and a small book appeared to have fallen off the nightstand into the drawer.

  Or been shoved in.

  Some part of him knew better. But another part was intrigued. Curious
. Then far too curious when he saw the cover.

  It was a photo album, and the cover image matched the picture in her kitchen frame. Another close-up shot of a sunflower. Somewhere inside of him, a warning bell told him maybe not to cross this line. He shouldn’t even be in her bedroom without permission. You don’t just walk into a woman’s bedroom, uninvited. And you don’t take a photo book out of a drawer without permission. But when you spot a black-and-white image slip out of one of the pages, and that black and white image has a name and a date, you might not be able to control yourself.

  The name Paige-Prince, Shannon was printed in small letters on the edge, along with a date ten years ago, and then the words that knocked him to his knees. Highgate Maternal Fetal.

  His heart sped in his chest, spinning wildly out of control. Blood pounded in his ears, and his throat went dry.

  He inhaled deeply, as if the air would steel him, but his breath still came erratically. Then he did it. With traitorous fingers that dug into her privacy willfully, he pulled out the black-and-white image. He blinked. Once, twice, then he let it register. An ultrasound picture of a baby inside the womb.

  His eyes returned to the date again, and he computed quickly. This was four months after they graduated from college. Four months after they split. A strange, sick fear descended on him, and his nerves frayed like the ends of a rope as questions assaulted him. Where was the baby? Did she give up a baby for adoption? Have an abortion? Have a kid somewhere? Was her grandma raising her baby?

  Their baby...?

  That thought was too foreign, too bizarre. He sat on the edge of her bed, frozen, holding the image, the private medical record.

  His fingers itched to open the book.

  His sense of right and wrong told him to let it be.

  But selfish desire won. He flipped to the beginning. The album was scant, containing only a handful of images. The first was a shot of her in a mirror, and his heart tripped back in time as he gazed at Shannon, his Shannon, from ten years ago. Her hair was short then and still blond, her face so fresh and young, her expression a half-hearted smile. She had taken the photo of herself sideways, capturing the small swell of her belly in a mirror.

  Seeing the ultrasound was one thing. Seeing her pregnant was entirely another. It walloped him.

  He turned to the next page. The words nineteen weeks were written in blue ballpoint on the page, and in the plastic sleeve was another shot of Shannon, barely bigger. Then one at twenty weeks. He turned another page. An image of a white baby blanket on a hospital bed. After that the photos ended, and the last several pages contained only images of sunflowers.

  He didn’t know what to make of the sunflowers, or of the way the story in these pictures was unfinished. The story ended, and then it became something else, told in a language he didn’t understand.

  Shoes clicked on the floor, and the hair on his neck stood on end. He snapped the book closed as she called out his name. He started to stuff the book into the drawer. But when he turned around, she was standing in the doorway, and he had her photo book in his hand, trying to jam it into the nightstand.

  Her expression was one of shock. Then disappointment, and next came a trace of grief. Somehow, her eyes contained all three.

  She swallowed, and her face seemed pinched. But her voice gave her away. A bare whisper, laced with pain, as she closed her eyes, opened them, and spoke.

  “Like I said, my house is a little bit messy.”

  He nodded. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Yes. But why were you going through my things?” she asked again as she stood in the doorway. She wasn’t sure she could move.

  Maybe he couldn’t either. He didn’t stray from the bed as he shrugged listlessly. “There’s no good answer, Shan. I saw the sunflower on the cover, and it matched the one in your picture frame.”

  “So you went through a photo book that you found in my nightstand because it matched one in my kitchen?” she asked, taking the time to process each action he’d taken.

  “It was open,” he said, his voice barren.

  Her skin prickled with fear at the sound. With nerves too, because she was stumbling blindly now. She’d wanted to tell him on her own terms. Not like this. Never like this.

  She shook her head, as if she could erase the last five minutes. Start over—begin at the beginning. Sit down, talk, share the whole sad story, and then feed the cat. She had never wanted him to discover the truth on his own. A part of her was mad as hell that he’d gone through her book, and a part of her was deeply ashamed at what he’d found—the evidence of all she’d withheld.

  A new emotion bubbled up inside her, too. Terror. She was terrified he’d walk away.

  “Were you pregnant ten years ago?”

  No point lying. No point hiding. “I was,” she said with a nod.

  “When?” he asked in a wobbly voice, as if every word was new and foreign.

  “I found out two weeks after you left.”

  “Where is the...” he said, letting his voice trail off.

  Her heart cratered, beating a drumbeat of hurt and sadness.

  Oh, this was the worst. This was harder than she’d ever imagined. She knew it wouldn’t be easy to get the awful words out, but being forced to say them tasted worse. Bitter and acrid to the tongue. She drew a deep breath, and laid them out, one by one, in a row of awfulness. “I was pregnant. It lasted for twenty weeks. My water broke and I went into labor in London, and the baby was born too early. He didn’t live.”

  “He?” Brent asked hoarsely. It sounded as if he’d been punched.

  She had never seen him like this, white as snow, shocked to the bone. “Yes. He.”

  Time crawled painfully to the next minute, then the next, and then the next. Soon, he managed to string more words together. “Was. He. Mine?”

  Something inside her snapped, like an electric wire sliced to the ground from high above. “Yes. How the hell can you ask that question?”

  He held his hands out wide. “How the hell can I ask? Because you just told me you were pregnant. It’s normal to ask.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, with some kind of dangerous cocktail of anger, shame and hurt mixing up inside her. “That’s not a normal question. It’s an insulting question.”

  He stood up from the bed, planted his feet wide. She knew that stance; it meant he was angry. Fear clutched at her heart, and she flailed for the right next words. She tried mightily to turn the knob inside her chest from boil to simmer. “Yes. The baby was yours.”

  Brent wobbled. The world seemed to sway for him. He crumpled onto the bed. She rushed over and wrapped her arms around him. Thankfully, he didn’t shrug her off. In the smallest voice, he croaked out, “What happened? When did you know?”

  She squeezed his shoulder, and ran a hand through his soft hair. “I had no idea when we split up,” she said immediately, because she couldn’t bear for him to even think she might have known then. “But two weeks later I was late, so I took a pregnancy test and then several more. I didn’t say a word to anyone at first because I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I was going to keep the baby, or give up the baby,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even so she wouldn’t sob her way through the conversation. That was no small feat. As she told the story, tears fell anyway. “I knew if I told you that you would give up your job and come rushing to my side.”

  He grabbed her hand, gripping tightly as he looked her in the eyes. His were full of fierce determination. “I would have. You know that I would have been there for you in a heartbeat.”

  “I know, and that’s exactly why I didn’t try to tell you right away. If you had come rushing back to me for this reason, you would have hated me. You would have resented me. You loved your work, and your career, and I didn’t want to be second choice or a forced first one. And I didn’t want it to affect your work.”

  “That’s not fair. That’s not fair t
o say at all. You don’t know how it would have affected me. You don’t know it would have affected me negatively. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

  “Nothing made a difference,” she said, heavily. “The baby is gone. It’s better that I never told you because it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

  “No, it’s not better,” he said, his voice rising. “I hate that you went through it all alone, without me.”

  “I tried to call you a few times. I called you before I even went to London. Your number was disconnected. I didn’t think you even wanted to hear from me.”

  “Of course I wanted to hear from you.”

  “But I didn’t have your number.”

  “I had to change phone services when I moved. It was different then. No one kept their phone numbers.”

  “Well, that’s exactly why I didn’t have it. I had to have my brother track down your new number. And I called you when I went into labor.”

  His face turned blank again. He didn’t move. A memory seemed to flick past his eyes. He stared at the wall for several seconds. She whispered his name to draw his attention. He turned away from whatever unseen point he was focusing on and looked at her. Recognition dawned in his eyes as he swirled his finger in a circle. “You. This. The baby. I thought you had to have been the unknown call from London that night.”

  She nodded, letting the tears fall. “I called you in the taxi on the way to the hospital. My water had broken. I was losing the baby already. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He lowered his head into his hands, pressing his fingertips hard against his eyes. “I was at work on the show,” he said, recounting the night. “I saw a missed call from an unknown number in London. I had no way to reach you.”

  “There was nothing to say after that point. The baby was gone. We can’t change the fact that my body failed. There is nothing that will change that. Even if we had been together, the fate would have been the same. The baby was never going to survive. The decision was made by Mother Nature.”

  “That’s not true.” He shook his head over and over, repeating the same words. “That’s not true. That’s not true. That’s not true.”