Mr. Big

by Delancey Stewart

  “Oliver!” Her voice was urgent, and I leapt to my feet, setting the letter aside and running to her side. “We’d better get going,” she said, her eyes wide and a hand on her middle.

  “Really? Now?” Excitement and nerves had made me dense.

  “Please?” she said, looking exasperated.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus. This was it.

  Epilogue

  Holland

  I don’t really know how it happened that I agreed to live with Oliver. Somewhere in the fog and stress of that last week of pregnancy, I just lost the motivation to struggle against the things I really want in life, the things that feel good and right despite the way they might look on the outside. I was already having the CEO’s baby. How much worse could it be to live with him, too? And at some point—maybe about the time my water broke and I let him know we needed to head to the hospital—everything stopped being about what other people might think or feel, and started being about us. About my family.

  “Do you put this shirt in the dryer?” Oliver stood in the doorway of the nursery, holding a gauzy blouse I’d worn the night before and looking adorably confused.

  I was sitting on the glider, nursing, which was something I felt like I’d spent most of my life doing since our son was born. “Oliver.” I smiled. “Just let Brenda do the laundry when she comes this afternoon.”

  Oliver stood in the door a minute longer, watching me, a dreamy grin on his face that I’d seen a lot in the months that followed the birth. It was an astounding transformation, really. The arrogant, out-of-control man I’d seen throwing potted plants around Cody Tech and screaming at people was now doing laundry and goggling a baby. I’d worry that he’d become over-domesticated if not for the way those dark eyes still burned when we were able to find time alone together. “She has enough to do. I can help,” he said, putting the shirt aside with a shrug.

  The baby had nursed himself to sleep, so I stood and put him into his crib, and Oliver stepped to my side to gaze down at our son.

  “Sleep tight, tiny Adam,” he crooned, and I turned to look at the man beside me. He was still steel and strength, the brutal jawline and sable eyes catching me off guard with their intensity. But Oliver’s fire had been tempered and controlled by fatherhood. He was no less masculine or sexy, but I no longer felt that vibrating tension around him, that silent warning that he might explode. Instead, Oliver had become a steady column of power, one I could draw from when I needed support. He surprised me constantly, not just with spontaneous gifts or with his actions, but with his capacity to love, and to forgive. He’d let go of the anger surrounding his parents’ death—naming our son after his father had been his suggestion—and he’d found some peace in the knowledge of his roots. Though he still didn’t know who his biological father was, he seemed content not to have that piece of the genetic puzzle to fit into place.

  “Adam was my father,” he explained to me soon after the baby was born. “The rest is just molecular, insignificant unless you’re a scientist. Adam was the role model I’ll work to emulate, he was the man who loved and raised me. That’s what matters.”

  I was happy to see Oliver at peace, and it made the home we shared that much more peaceful.

  My own life had settled into a steady rhythm as I got used to having Adam to care for. It was demanding and terrifying being responsible for another life, but it also felt like the job I’d been searching for all along, the place I fit best. I had taken some time off from work when the baby was born, and now was starting to work from home, taking calls and meetings from the office Oliver and I shared. One of the responsibilities I’d taken on after Adam’s birth was an effort to make Cody a more female-friendly company—something Oliver had asked for and had coordinated with the HR department. We were beginning with family-leave policies and flexible work arrangements, but hiring practices and promotion criteria were on our long-term agenda as well. In the meantime, a crackerjack statistician had been brought in from the master’s program at UCLA while I’d been out—a woman who was already shaking things up at Cody.

  With Adam sleeping, Oliver and I had a few moments to spend together, and we settled on the couch in the living room in front of the window facing the pool. Winter had come to Los Angeles, such as it was, and while the air outside wasn’t exactly cold, it did carry an edge of chill that made me want to wrap up in warm sweaters and make soup.

  “Cold?” Oliver asked, pulling me into his chest as I shivered with the thought of winter.

  “Not really,” I said, snuggling close.

  Oliver’s hands ran down my back and he reclined until we were lying side by side, the blue sky visible above us out the window. His fingers traced patterns on my back, drawing out the tension and fatigue that came with sleepless nights and worry over small things, and as his hands moved over my body, I felt an entirely different tension coiling inside me.

  I turned in his arms, pressing our chests together and sliding myself higher so I could meet his eye. There was a question there—a hesitation that came with knowing how tired we both were, how different things might be now that we had a baby to think of. I answered it by taking his lower lip between my teeth gently, and was rewarded with a low groan and a growing stiffness against my thigh. I released Oliver’s lip and slanted my mouth to his, dropping the tip of my tongue between his lips, teasing. His tongue met mine, and the kiss deepened until our tongues slid together, reaching and grasping as our heart rates increased. Oliver’s hands found the waistband of my jeans and pushed them from my hips easily as I lifted myself to help him remove his.

  Our mouths still connected, I found his hardness with my hands and grasped him gently in a fist, stroking along his length as my body slid along the hard planes of Oliver’s.

  “God,” he moaned into my mouth.

  It was all the encouragement I needed, and I used my hand to guide him to my wet entrance, leading him home and finally breaking contact with his mouth as I arched up to feel him deep inside me. Whatever chill I’d felt was gone, and I pulled the thick sweater from my body, sitting astride Oliver in front of the soaring window. His hands found my hips and we worked together to find a steady rhythm, my clit pressing against the base of him with each thrust until I felt I would spiral out of control. I leaned back as the orgasm hit me, reaching for his legs behind me, to brace me as every ounce of tension inside me released and I flew for a minute, color and time and place swirling around me.

  Oliver watched, and I opened my eyes to find his face suffused with passion, his eyes burning and his mouth open slightly. “You’re so fucking hot,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  His hands began to guide me again, up and down along his length. I let him direct me, but dropped one hand behind me again, cupping his balls against my ass with a steady pressure at the base of his length.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, the edge of a growl in his voice. “Fuck,” he said again, more urgently.

  He was thrusting harder now, closer to the edge of control, and his breath was ragged. I watched him as the orgasm hit, his eyes shutting and his chin jutting forward as I felt him release inside me and heard a rumbling groan fly from his open mouth. When he’d finished, I stretched out my length on top of him and closed my eyes.

  This, I thought, was exactly where I wanted to be—where I wanted to stay. Connected in every sense of the word—connected to a man I loved, to the family we’d created, to a world I was shaping. This, I realized, was exactly what I’d been searching for, planning for. I thought of the list in my notebook, every item now checked off, and for a moment I felt unmoored. The plan had defined me for so long, directed my choices and my path. But the best things in my life hadn’t been planned at all. Maybe it was time for a new plan.

  I decided it was time to plan not to plan. As I lay there, cocooned in the life that had happened to me, that had been so completely unintended, I decided to take things as they came, to enjoy what life had to offer and to stop worrying so much. And
in that single decision, I felt truly happy.

  This book is dedicated to my family

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge all those who helped in the realization of this story. First, my agent, Nalini, for believing in me and pushing me forward. Second, Sue Grimshaw at Loveswept for being so receptive and encouraging. It has been such a pleasure working with you! I also need to thank Robin Covington and Melanie Harlow for being my plot whisperers, and Tina Hobbs Payne for her constant role as personal cheerleader. And finally—but most of all—my family for granting me the time it takes to envision and complete a book.

  BY DELANCEY STEWART

  Mr. Big

  PHOTO: DAVID SMAY

  DELANCEY STEWART writes contemporary romance from her home outside Washington, D.C. In a house populated by two tiny pirates and one full-sized Marine aviator, inspiration for her heroes is never hard to find—though quiet time to write often is.

  Get news about Delancey’s latest releases by joining her newsletter here.

  delanceystewart.com

  Facebook.com/DelanceyWrites

  Twitter: @DelanceyStewart

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Mr. Rich

  by Virna DePaul

  Available from Loveswept

  Chapter 1

  Julia

  The sound of licking and sucking fills my ears, and an occasional low moan filters through. My sole focus is on the man in front of me and the knowledge that I have nearly brought him to his knees with pleasure. He groans lustily as his teeth nibble and his tongue flicks. His throat works as he swallows, and his fingers are slick. Slippery. Searching.

  My body shudders.

  With revulsion.

  “Hey, you got any more wings?” Joe Miller asks.

  Joe is a six-foot-five former pro football player who now coaches at the local high school. He relishes the samples I hand out at Cooper’s Food Market and Pharmacy, and he’s currently still licking his fingers clean of wing sauce like he’s a toddler rather than a grown man.

  I try not to grimace, knowing that I’m all out of wings but not wanting Joe to complain to the manager about skimpy portions.

  This is what I get for asking for a promotion. Instead of working behind a cash register, I make a dollar more an hour doing the culinary equivalent of spritzing perfume on random passersby. I glance down at the display samples, my dual offering of coconut curry wings and asparagus intended to appeal to the health nut and adventurous eater alike. A lone chicken wing sits in a red-and-white checkered paper tray, like the ones used to serve fries in gas stations, only smaller. An identical tray contains portioned green sticks of healthiness (I keep telling them raw asparagus isn’t edible, but no one listens to me).

  Joe doesn’t even glance at the asparagus, not that I blame him.

  I’m not a fan of curry, but give me something with some freaking calories any day.

  Joe eyes the tiny wing sample, as if calculating if it would be worth the energy to eat it, or if he should ask me to go to the back and get some bigger ones. I smile, hoping he’ll go away.

  My feet feel like I’ve been standing in this spot without a break for the five years I’ve worked here, but I know that’s not true. I spent them standing behind the register for three; that’s how I know almost everyone who comes through the door.

  Could be worse. It could be like it was when all of my friends from high school were graduating college and coming home to get their things together to move off to wherever they were going next, be it grad school or fancy new careers.

  When I think about how I got stuck here, I have to remind myself that at least I’m working for Mr. Cooper, the owner, even if I’m not fond of She-Hulk, the new manager he recently hired. Cooper’s is owned by a local family, and Mr. Cooper gave me a chance when no one else would.

  God, please don’t let this be my life forever.

  “Here you go, Joe,” I say finally, since it’s obvious Joe isn’t going to leave until I satisfy his appetite for more wings. I hand him the little tray with the last wing, plus several napkins.

  He shoves the wing into his mouth in one gulp.

  Sauce immediately covers his face and drips on the gray T-shirt he’s wearing, already stained in sauce from earlier. Once again, I stifle a grimace as he sucks on the bone. He sounds like he’s literally inhaling his food.

  “Thanks.” Joe hands the empty tray back to me rather than tossing it in the garbage can in front of us.

  I look down at the tray, no bones in sight, and back up at Joe. I start to ask him if he ate the bones, but then a man walks by my stand and I’m stunned silent.

  I’m stunned, period.

  It’s the same reaction I’ve had the last five times I’ve seen him.

  No, I don’t know his name, but yes, I know exactly how many times he’s come into the store, at least when I’ve been here. He started coming in about two months ago, at various days and times, to peruse the vitamins.

  He’s tall. Big, buff, and crazy handsome, with short dark hair and chiseled features. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt that shows off his toned chest and arms, and jeans that hug an impressive package and tight ass. Even though he’s dressed casually, he radiates confidence and power.

  He’s never said a word to me. Never even looked in my direction. He could be the biggest dick on the planet, and that would be a damn shame, because I’d like to think he’s as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside.

  Every time I’ve seen him, I’ve been struck by a sense of familiarity, but I’ve never figured out why. I’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about what he does for a living. I always go back to him being some kind of movie star, though I can’t imagine what he’d be doing in Rutherford, especially on this side of the tracks.

  He certainly looks like a movie star, with a strong jawline shadowed with scruff and cheekbones high enough to make a girl scream. Hazel eyes that, even from a distance, entrap and drown anyone fortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire.

  Today, however, I’m suddenly struck by a vision of him in a fancy suit and tie, reigning supreme in an office building somewhere in the towering heights that are downtown Rutherford.

  “Girl, he is so far out of your league.”

  I jerk around at the voice that comes from beside me. Joe is gone, replaced by Kevin, my best friend, coworker, and constant enabler. He’s tall and thin, with eyes so similar to mine that many have wondered if we’re siblings. His hair is deliberately tousled and his shirt is always ironed. He’s clean and neat from head to toe. Normally, he’s the stereotypical gay best friend any girl would dream of having, but damn it, he’s distracting me from Big Sexy and I know he’ll be leaving soon; he never stays long.

  I’ve never told anyone about him or my intense reaction to him, not even my best bud. But one thing’s for sure: whether Big Sexy’s a nice guy or not, Kevin’s right—he’s way out of my league. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t admire the view while I can.

  “Thank you, Kevin,” I say, deadpan. “Thank you for taking a wrecking ball to my self-esteem.”

  “I’m just trying to save you from heartbreak.”

  “Heartbreak? I was ogling him, as I’m sure most people do. It’s not like I’m falling in love—”

  “That ass?” He glances back at Big Sexy, as do I. As we watch, Big Sexy suddenly crouches to examine a row of vitamins on the bottom shelf. Kevin and I let out simultaneous sighs. “That ass is worth falling in love with,” Kevin adds.

  “He’s out of your league, Kevin,” I say, throwing his words back in his face. Then I giggle softly. “Why are we getting into a pissing contest over a complete stranger?”

  “Because of that ass!”

  I take another surreptitious glance. “It is a nice ass.”

  “God spent a little more time on that bottom.”

  “And that smile.”

  “How can you possibly know what he looks like when he’s smiling?”

  �
�As you know, I’ve got a great imagination.”

  “You imagining him smiling before or after he does you?”

  “Both, of course.” I playfully shove his shoulder, but soon enough both of our eyes are back on Big Sexy.

  “Kevin Dorsey to customer service,” She-Hulk calls over the intercom. “Kevin Dorsey to customer service.”

  He groans, but takes no time marching forward. She-Hulk expects timeliness in all aspects of the job—especially when she’s reaming our asses. She-Hulk (real name: Sheila)—tall, blond, and lithe—is good at her job, but her moods swing back and forth like a pendulum; you never really knew what you’re going to get with her.

  Just before Kevin passes Big Sexy, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone and readies the camera. He looks back at me with a mischievous smile before snapping a picture of Big Sexy’s ass.

  I cringe when Big Sexy cranes his head over his shoulder, catching Kevin in the act.

  Maybe he really is a movie star, because he doesn’t seem surprised. Or maybe he didn’t see the phone. What he does do is crane his head farther over his shoulder until his eyes meet mine.

  God, those eyes. So perfect. I feel his gaze in every part of my body.

  Then he smiles slightly, and I swear, something inside me I didn’t know was broken clicks into place. With just his smile, Big Sexy has completed me. Made me whole again.

  Those gorgeous lips, taunting and teasing me. So red. So luscious. So fucking kissable.

  I feel a connection. He sees right through me, and I—

  Oh God, I’m staring!

  I whip my head to the side and turn around, and in so doing I twist my foot awkwardly. I’m not agile enough to pull off a smooth recovery, and my leg collides with the stand. In slow motion, the table, replete with the slow cooker filled with coconut curry sauce, empty trays, and a dozen sticks of asparagus, threatens to tumble.