Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

  I wanted to tell him all those things but didn’t.

  There was no happy-ever-after on the horizon for us, there couldn’t be. So the fact I was going was a moot point. Besides, I didn’t want to dampen the fun we were having by putting a ticking clock on it. Instead, I decided to do what my mom told me to do. Live my life.

  As the sun broke the eastern horizon, casting Raph’s room in a pale-golden light, I kissed him and said the words I never ever thought I’d say to anyone. “I really enjoy being with you. Want to do it again sometime?”

  He laughed, flipped me onto my back and proceeded to show me just how much he did, indeed, want to do it again.

  I barely made it back to my room before Brendon banged on my door, telling me to get up. “Twenty-four hours is enough time to be a pathetic layabout,” he called through the wood. “Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you can slacken off, you hear?”

  Suffice to say, I wasn’t my best at the gym that morning.

  For the next three days, I immersed myself in my Sydney experience and allowed myself the joy of doing so. Every morning, Brendon dragged me out of bed for our pre-breakfast workout. He never said anything about Raph. I knew he still disapproved of the situation—the way they both puffed up and engaged in those chest-thumping staring wars whenever they came face to face in my company told me as much. But he didn’t cast dispersions or make any snippy comments either.

  Okay, he might have rolled his eyes the morning after my lunch with Raph and muttered something that sounded like, “Bastard better let you sleep sometime.” And he might have ordered that I at least have a nap that afternoon before I bonked the night away, but he did it with a smile, and as I left, the hug he gave me was completely platonic.

  I didn’t nap, by the way, despite his instruction. I had limited days left. I wasn’t going to waste them doing something as inane and unadventurous as sleeping, was I?

  So I worked out each morning with a guy who was well and truly on his way to being the best brother I’d never had, meditated after in the quiet of my room in preparation for the day to follow, popped my meds when I was meant to, went to class, worked on my thesis and spent every second between those things with Raph.

  It was bliss.

  Wonderful, funny, relaxed bliss.

  Horn was nowhere to be seen. I don’t know if he was fired or just lurking out of sight. I asked Raph once and the answer I got was a shrug and, “As long as he’s nowhere near us, I don’t care.”

  It was a sound philosophy. One I adopted with relish.

  The only thing that soured those days was the growing pile of books on Parkinson’s I kept finding in Raph’s room. On his desk. In his car. How many of the damn things was he reading? To what end?

  I didn’t want him to be focused on that. I wanted him to be focused on me, Maci Rowling, hot American girl he was having an incredible time with, not Maci Rowling, PD sufferer. I know it sounds stupid I was so intent on keeping these two facets of my life separate, but no matter how many pep talks and lectures I gave myself about letting Raph see the Parkinson’s side of my life, I couldn’t.

  I didn’t mention them, even if they were irritating me. Nor did I comment on the times Raph undid his own buttons and fly as we were making out, or the times he would pick up the water bottle I’d purchased at the university cafeteria and twist the lid off as we talked. I knew what he was doing—helping me. I’d tried to convince myself he was just being nice, but I’d watched Dad do the same thing to Mom—helping when help wasn’t really needed—my entire childhood and recognized it for what it was. Well, not the undressing-while-making-out bit. That would be just wrong. Although by the time Dad was killed, he was helping Mom with her buttons, otherwise she would never be able to get dressed and undressed.

  Raph’s determination to help me was a faint taint on an otherwise perfect adventure, (yes, I’d truly grabbed on to that word), an itch I knew needed scratching but one I ignored because I was too busy having fun.

  On my last day in Sydney I woke—as I had every day since our private lunch—in Raph’s arms.

  The early morning sun was streaming through the window in his room, and for a long moment, I just lay there, curled on my side, his long, hard body spooning my back and thighs, the hard length of his erection nestled against the crevice of my butt cheeks. I watched the dust motes dance on the air, picked out by the golden light of dawn, using the moment as an impromptu meditation session.

  In twenty-four hours, I would be at the train station, ready to board the train that would take me to a town called Tamworth, from which I would then catch a bus to a smaller town called Gunnedah, where someone from my host family would collect me. Then it was a ninety-minute drive to their ranch where I would begin my fieldwork on koalas.

  Today was my last day with Raph.

  Ever.

  A cold grief tore at my heart, my stomach clenched and I closed my eyes.

  I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay here with Raph. Not just in his bed, not just in his arms, but with him. I wanted to continue existing with him, sharing my life with him. He made me feel whole. He made me feel complete. And he made me feel stable.

  When I was with him, I didn’t fear the future in front of me. I rarely even thought about the future in front of me, with its bleak loss of muscle control and even bleaker degradation of my mind. When I was with Raph, I lived in the moment and loved those moments. They were full of life and laughter and pleasure and desire and…and…

  Oh God. Oh God, no.

  It had happened. I’d done the unimaginable. The stupid, the downright idiotic. I’d done what I promised myself I’d never do.

  I’d fallen in love with the guy.

  Oh God, this sucked.

  Big time.

  Drawing in a slow breath, I held it for a count of ten and let it go, opening my eyes as I did so and focusing on the dancing dust motes again.

  Jesus, I’d let myself fall in love with Raphael Jones. What was I thinking?

  At my back, his warmth a mocking strength and comfort, Raph mumbled something. His arm draped over my waist and, mumbling again, he tucked me closer to his body.

  Throat tight, heart hammering, I twisted a little on the bed, shooting him a look over my shoulder.

  His eyes were still closed, his breathing deep and regular.

  Asleep.

  The knot in my tummy rolled over on itself. I returned to my side, the undeniable presence of his body pressed to mine a torture I didn’t know what to do with.

  “Fuck.”

  At my whispered curse, Raph mumbled something else and curled his arms tighter around me.

  God, it was incredible. And perfect. Without thinking about it, I raised my hand and trailed my fingers up the length of his forearm.

  I stopped when I noticed how much my fingers—my whole hand—was trembling.

  I swallowed, my throat dry, and stared at my fingers.

  They shook. Like they always did when I was stressed. Like they always would as the days and months and years passed. Even when stress had nothing to do with my brain, my fingers, my hand, my whole fucking body would, one day, just shake for no other reason than because I had fucking Parkinson’s Disease. It was going to destroy everything I knew in my life and there was nothing I could fucking do about it.

  Scrunching my eyes closed, I balled my hand, squeezing my fingers as hard as I could into a cruel fist.

  Pain shot through my palm, lanced up my arm.

  I squeezed harder, punishing the unpunishable. Hating my hand, my fingers, hating the way they shook. Hating them.

  If they didn’t shake, if I didn’t shake, I could have the life I so wanted to have. I could…I could… God, I could tell Raph I was going and maybe, just maybe ask if he’d like to come visit me in the States. I could ask him how he felt about long-distance relationships. Or maybe I could transfer to Sydney University next year to complete my studies. If it wasn’t for the way my whole fucking body shook and twitc
hed and betrayed me, we could…he and I could…maybe…

  Cold grief shot through me. Equal to the pain I was causing in my hand.

  Grief and hate and contempt and—

  “Hey, American girl.” Raph’s sleepy voice at my shoulder made me jump. As did the feel of his warm lips on my skin. “You okay?”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

  He ran a slow hand up my arm, kissing my shoulder again. “You feel tense.”

  His voice was less sleepy now and my stomach, already a mess of turbulent emotions, churned some more. I did not want him concerned.

  Not today.

  Today, I just wanted him to be the relaxed Raph. The one I was going to miss like hell tomorrow. And for the rest of my short, shaky life.

  Damn it.

  “I’m okay,” I murmured, every fiber in my body aching. Christ, why did I have to fall in love with him? “Just slept funny, I think.”

  He hmm’d against the back of my neck, snuggling me closer to him with a firm arm. “That’s okay, then.” He nipped a path of soft kisses down to my shoulder, smoothing his palm down my belly to the junction of my thighs. “For a moment there, I thought you were about to do a runner, and there’s no way I’m ready for you to leave this bed yet.”

  He brushed his fingertips over the curve of my sex to emphasize his point, finding the tiny nub of my clit with his index and stroking it.

  I bit back my whimper. I couldn’t do this. Not now. I had to…I had to get my head around the situation. Jesus, I’d fallen in love with him and tomorrow…

  With a forced laughed, I shifted on the bed. “I am going to do a runner,” I said, inching away from him. “At least, I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

  Yeah, brushing my teeth. That would give me all the time I needed.

  Fuck.

  Before I could get free of Raph’s arms, however, he hooked a thick, muscular thigh over my hip and pressed me back to the mattress. “I don’t care about your teeth, American girl,” he murmured, covering me completely with his body, his palms smoothing the length of my arms to capture my wrists in a firm grip as his cock nudged at the entrance to my sex. “I care about you. And this.”

  He lowered his head to mine and kissed me.

  Oh God, I wished he hadn’t. Because it was so good, so perfect, so wonderful, any hope I had of fleeing shattered.

  His tongue found mine with coaxing strokes. I moaned, already lost to the pleasure of his touch. He nipped at my lips, gentle little bites he immediately kissed better. I closed my eyes and gave myself over completely to this one last moment of perfection.

  I had no other choice.

  I was going to cling to this for the rest of my life.

  Closing my eyes, I arched beneath him, wanting him inside me already. I was ready. I could feel the moisture of my arousal on my inner thighs.

  Raph had other ideas.

  With a chuckle—Christ, I would miss that raw, naughty sound—he scored a path down my chin and throat to my collarbone.

  I hissed as he grazed his teeth over the ridge and then groaned as he ran his tongue across the same line. A shudder rocked through me. My nipples pinched tight. Real tight.

  I let out a ragged breath, aching for the feel of his mouth on them.

  Raph delivered.

  Just as I was about to start begging, he explored my right breast with his mouth and then captured my nipple and sucked it.

  “Yes,” I rasped, thrusting my hips upward. “Yes.”

  He feasted on my nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, flicking his tongue over its very tip. All the while, he held my wrists to the bed. If he felt the trembles in my limbs, he didn’t let me know. Instead, he nudged my thighs wide with a firm knee and moved his mouth to my other breast.

  I gasped, loving the sensation of his lips and tongue on my nipple. He hummed around the point of flesh, sending wicked pleasure through my body. Tight heat unfurled in my core, threading through the very fabric of my life.

  A soft whimper fell from me and I rolled my head. Releasing one of my wrists, Raph smoothed his hand down my arm to my breast. As he worshipped one nipple with his mouth, he kneaded, pinched and squeezed the other. Hot pleasure crashed over me. I arched again, fresh heat pooling in my sex.

  “I love the feel of your breasts, Maci,” he murmured, rasping his lips against my nipple. “As much as I love the way you respond when I suck them.”

  To prove his point, he drew my nipple back into his mouth with fierce suction.

  I cried out, wrapping my thigh around his hip in an attempt to bring his rigid length closer to my heat. The need to have him inside me was tantamount to my need to breathe. More so. I felt certain I would die soon if he didn’t bury himself inside me. I could survive without air for at least six minutes. There was no way I’d survive that long without Raph penetrating me.

  There wasn’t.

  “Please,” I moaned, scraping my nails over his bare shoulders. “Please fuck me.”

  He raised his head from my breast and gave me one of those filthy laughs. “Not yet, babe. Not until I make you come with my mouth first.”

  Carnal lust poured through me. Raph loved going down on me. I’d lost count how many orgasms he’d given me over the last four days with just his mouth and tongue.

  Dimple flashing, he lowered his head back to my breast and continued his worship. I swear, I almost came numerous times as he feasted on my nipples. I’d moan and writhe and plead for more, plead for mercy, and Raph would give me everything and nothing. I can’t fathom how many minutes passed while he drove me wilder and wilder just by sucking and biting my breasts alone. I was so wet for him. So ready. My pussy prickled with hot need and pleasure. Every time he raised his head, my breath caught. Hope that he would thrust into me warred with hope he wouldn’t.

  When he finally moved lower down my torso, his lips journeying with slow intent over the curve of my rib cage to the dip of my bellybutton, it was all I could do not to cry out with frustrated rapture.

  He explored my navel with a series of little tongue flicks and nips, his chest pressed to the curve of my sex, roaming his hands over my thighs. I whimpered on each one. My pussy throbbed, eager and impatient for what was to come.

  Raph, however, was in no hurry. He tormented me with his lips, raining a slew of nips all over my belly, my hips, even high inside my thighs. I groaned, aching for him. Aching for his tongue on my most intimate of places.

  And finally, after he’d kissed his way down to the toes of my right foot, back up to my bellybutton, down to the toes of my left foot and back up again, he finally stroked his tongue over my sex.

  I threw back my head and cried out. I bunched my fists in the sheets.

  Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!

  With each stroke and lap and lick, he propelled me closer and closer to release. Closer to eruption. I thrust my hips upward, grinding my flesh to his mouth. I tossed my head from side-to-side. I did all those cliché things you see in the movies and couldn’t stop. My body, always ready to do whatever it damn well wanted, had completely surrendered to the pleasure Raph was giving me. I’d become a cliché and I didn’t care.

  It was too good. Too good. Too—

  I orgasmed, biting my lip to silence the cry I knew would wake the rest of Mackellar House.

  Holy fuck, I came.

  And then, and only then, as my sex contracted and throbbed and pulsed, did Raph slide up my body and bury his length in my heat.

  I lost control of my cry. It reverberated around his room, loud and raw and undeniably torn with pleasure. There was no denying the reason for that cry.

  I should have been mortified. Instead, I was drowning in pleasure. Drowning in the sensations Raph awoke in my body. Drowning in love.

  We moved together, Raph supporting his weight on my body with an elbow, his other hand gripping the back of my thigh. We moved as one, in perfect rhythm. He kissed my lips, my chin, my jaw. He thrust
deep inside me and explored my ear with his tongue and sucked on the side of my throat and we moved as one.

  A lifetime, a few moments. I don’t know. Don’t care.

  We moved as one, in harmony.

  And when I came again, Raph came. A shudder racked his body, his thrusts grew faster, wilder and, gaze holding mine, my name falling from his lips over and over, he pumped into my sex.

  Oh God, it was perfect.

  So perfect.

  And so goddamn heartbreaking.

  So wretched.

  Knowing I was going to deny myself this.

  He slumped on me a few heartbeats later. I hugged him, willing every molecule of my existence to remember this. To absorb his essence. I would hold on to this moment for the rest of my life.

  I would draw strength from it when I had none left.

  I loved him.

  Damn it, I loved him.

  “Shit, woman,” he muttered against my shoulder. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but…” He lifted his head and shook his head, his smile wide, his breaths shallow. “But that was incredible.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in his scent. “It was.”

  He kissed the tip of my nose. “Good thing we’ve got classes all day today or I think we’d never get out of this bed.”

  I laughed. I’m sure it sounded weak. I was both exhausted and dying inside.

  “However,” he said, shifting just enough for his length to slide from my sex, “what do you reckon we take a break from all this debauchery for a few hours tomorrow and head to Wet’n’Wild. Will you spend the morning at a water park with me, American girl?”

  An image flashed through my head—Raph and I laughing together as we splashed each other in a pool. The joy on our faces was clear. As was the love in my eyes.

  My stomach churned. My heart clenched, a painful vise. The image was perfect. So perfect it stole my breath and made me insane with longing. And then clarity crashed into me, reality, and I opened my eyes to look up at him.