by Ava Ashley
Hungry.
He breathes his way down. He kisses inside one knee, then the other, working a path to where the hunger burns.
A sudden, blinding flash of lightning blinds me, but it’s not from the outside storm. Lennox has found my center. He has taken that tiny knob at my core and caressed it into a perfect explosion of desire. A feral scream erupts from my mouth, but is suddenly silenced by the sudden, impassioned thrust of the full length of Lennox’s manhood inside of me. The lightning explodes into a sudden rainbow of colors as I pinnacle over another wave of ecstasy.
I can’t tell what drums at a more furious pace. The driving rain beating against the pane of the window or Lennox’s steady, building rhythm as he moves in and out of me. I tilt my hips as high as I can get them, trying to keep my budding belly from interrupting the pace.
I feel another shudder building. Lennox growls desperately in my ear.
“Come with me, Sloane. Please. I don’t want to do this alone.”
For a brief, flashing moment, I wonder exactly what he’s asking. Then pure biology makes the decision for me as we both cry out, bodies quaking together, then falling. Spent.
Lennox falls away from me, but keeps the connection of a protective hand on my stomach. Our collective breaths heave from the exertion of our fireside calisthenics. My pulse runs a little higher than usual, still chewing on Lennox’s whispered plea.
Before I can ponder it too deeply, Lennox finally breaks my mental reverie.
“So, how was your pizza?” he grins widely.
I decide to tell the truth.
“Best damn pizza I’ve ever had.”
*****
“Naked cakes?” Disbelief hitches a questioning hook to the end of my phrase as I peruse the menu.
Lennox’s face beams in a loose, casual smile. He leans back comfortably in his chair, soaking up the al fresco atmosphere, decidedly more relaxed than last night.
“Thought it was appropriate considering how we woke up this morning,” he replies.
I innocently sip my herbal tea, eyes locking with his over the blend of mint, verbena and alfalfa. “Yeah. I guess we did violate our agreement, now, didn’t we.”
“Best pizza I ever had.”
I stretch back myself, my fourth month plus belly button poking out like one of those turkey timers. I scramble to pull the hem of the shirt back down. Lennox reaches out a staying hand. He shakes his head.
“Don’t. I think it’s kinda cute.”
I cock a doubtful head sideways. “Really?”
He nods. “Yeah, really. Haven’t lied to you so far, have I?”
I try to disguise the visible wince of guilt that slips across my face.
Wish I could make the same claim.
And that’s just it. I really wish I could.
Fact of the matter was, when the sun had burned off the foggy haze of pre-Starbucks brain, I liked where I had woken up...in Lennox’s arms. His warmth laying the length of me, strong arm wrapped snugly around me. I had lain there for a good while, listening to the rhythm of his heart beating in his muscled chest. A steady, soothing thump behind his sternum that had nearly lulled me back into delicious sleep. I’m still not certain if it had been a sudden, unusual flutter in his chest or the sudden internal jumping jacks on my bladder from a certain little person requiring an immediate and mandatory trip to the ladies’ room, that had startled me back alert. Either way, my urgent movements, naked across Lennox’s bedroom, had stirred him awake and prompted this little breakfast field trip.
I didn’t know how much longer I could lie to him.
Or how much longer I could lie to myself.
“Orphan House, huh?” I comment, gesturing to the restaurant’s marquis.
Lennox nodded. “Only place in Sacramento you can get Naked Cakes.”
He lowers a thick cut of curled, smoky bacon into his mouth.
“But, why do they call it Orphan House? I mean, that’s kind of depressing, isn’t it? I keep expecting Oliver Twist to come around the corner begging for more.”
“No, no, no. It doesn’t have anything to do with orphans. It’s just a business term. When a business is isolated, operating on its own without being under the umbrella of a larger business unit and doesn’t receive funding from a bigger system or sponsors, it’s considered an ‘orphan’,” Lennox explains.
Another broad smile lights up Lennox’s face. Likely from the gape that has found its way onto my own.
“Don’t look so shocked. I may have gone to UCLA on a football scholarship, but I was a business major, too.”
Sloane, the reporter, starts worrying at the edges of the story. “Was that because of your dad? Because of the family’s oil business?”
The bright sunshine of the morning clouds over. At least it does on Lennox’s face.
“Not really,” he mutters. “It was just a backup plan. Much as I’d like to, I knew I wasn’t going to be playing football forever. Don’t get me wrong. I love the game. And football’s been there for me since I was a kid. But these days, with all the crap coming down about CTE and the guys getting jacked up on performance enhancing drugs?”
He picks at the pancakes swimming in maple syrup, totally skirting the topic of his father. He’s not wrong. The game definitely took a toll on its players. And the constant drive to be bigger, better, faster had caused a lot of good guys to succumb to the physiological and psychological troubles of steroid use. Even with the institution of regular mandatory testing. Make a new test and the users just found new ways around them.
“Figured it would be a good idea to have some concept of what to do with all that pro ball money after I got out. Some of the guys have business managers that handle all that stuff for them. Me? Never was one much for relying on other people.”
“So, you never had an interest in taking over your dad’s company?” I press.
He scoffs. “Even if he had left it in any kind of shape to be worth anything, I already got more than I ever wanted from dear old dad.”
He subconsciously pulls his sleeves down to his wrists. The dots are starting to connect in my head. And the picture they’re forming are disturbingly tragic. I can only hope I’m wrong.
It also makes me feel like a total heel for lying to him just to get a story.
But, it wasn’t just about the story anymore, was it?
The little voice inside my head needles.
“Can we talk about something else?” Lennox asks through a mouthful of pancake.
“Yeah, um, sure,” I reply, eager to see a smile back on his face. I’ll talk about his favorite subject.
I think about last night and grin widely.
Okay. Maybe his second favorite subject.
“How are things looking for Sunday’s game?”
That seems to perk him up. “Pretty good. The Jackals are a tough team, but we can take ‘em. Practices have been a little rough, but I think we’ve got what it takes to go all the way this year.”
“That’s really great, Lennox!” I say excitedly. Suddenly, my belly flutters.
“Oh!” My fork clatters to my plate and my hand clutches for my belly. Lennox lunges forward, worry etched in his face.
“What? What’s wrong? Is something wrong with the baby?”
His worry mixes with complete confusion as I start to giggle. I grab his hand and rest it across my belly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I wave him quiet. “Just wait.”
It’s a strange little moment, with his wide hand across my tight, rounded little belly.
Lennox’s eyes pop wide. “Holy crap!”
“You felt him? Did you feel him move?”
“I...I did.”
“Guess you’ve got a new fan, Mr. Hardy,” I grin. “He got excited when we started talking football.”
Lennox pulled his chair right up next to mine and cautiously moved to put his hand back on my belly. I can’t help but smile and nod.
“You know it
’s a boy?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not officially. But, I just kind of have this feeling, you know.”
“Hey! There he goes again.”
“Sloane?” A voice interrupts the intimate moment. “Sloane Armstrong?”
I look up to see Kirk Dennison, my idiot former editor, striding across the patio straight towards us.
“Who’s that?” Lennox whispers in my ear.
“Let’s just say you’re not the only one with people you’d rather forget.” I stand, a little surprised that Lennox stands immediately behind me, protective hand around my waist.
“Kirk Dennison,” I manage civilly. He moves in for a one-handed hug, but before I can even think about ducking it, Lennox blocks it for me, stepping out in front, hand outstretched.
“Lennox Hardy.”
Lennox’s size dwarfs Kirk. He accepts the shake with some hesitation, but the newsman’s curiosity wins out over any trepidation. “Yes, indeed. Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Hardy.”
A slick smile creeps across Kirk’s face. “But, not a whole lot about you.”
“Yeah. Just the way I like it.” Lennox counters.
Kirk practically burps a wry chuckle. “We know. So, imagine my surprise when I look across the room and see you sitting with our little Sloane here – a bona fide member of the press corps! I thought ‘Sloane’s with Lennox Hardy? No way!’ But, look. Here you are! What a surprise.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. The last thing I need is for Lennox to start over-thinking our relationship – to realize what my ulterior motive is. I could lose my chance at the story, any hope of getting my mom’s house back, and likely be out on my ass.
I’m suddenly keenly aware of Lennox’s hand around my waist. The warmth seeping in through my t-shirt. The soothing sensation of his thick thumb rubbing against my side. And the flutter of the tiny human inside me who seems to like it, too.
I could lose a lot more.
I chance a sideways glance at Lennox to see if any warning flags are at half-mast. Nothing yet, but his narrowed eyes are cautious...wary. This whole scene could go south. In a snap.
Kirk’s a dick. If he weren’t, I’d likely still be at The Bee. And if there’s one thing I know for certain, dicks hate being cockblocked.
Kirk takes an obvious look at my belly. “I’d ask you what you’ve been up to since you left The Bee, but it’s a little obvious isn’t it”
I ignore the slight, even though it seems Lennox is having a bit more difficulty in that department. I grab his hand in mine a give a gentle squeeze.
“Left The Bee?” I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “The way I remember it, you fired me, Kirk.”
“Semantics. But, either way, it certainly looks like you’ve landed on your feet. Even if they are a little bare.” Kirk sneaks in the snarky pregnancy dig. Yep. He’s still pissed I turned him down that night at the bar. And late that night at the office. Doesn’t stop him from eyeing Lennox and me up like he’s just stumbled upon the story of the century. “Is that wedding bells I hear ringing in the not-so-distant future?”
I open my mouth to refute Kirk’s tabloid supposition when I hear Lennox’s voice assert behind me.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
My head whips around so fast I’m pretty sure I hear about three cervical vertebrae pop like firecrackers.
Wedding? What the hell?
“But, it’s going to be a very private event. Family and friends only. And since you’re neither, guess The Bee won’t be covering that story. Come on, baby. You said you wanted to look at china patterns.” Lennox throws a fifty on the table, puts an arm around my stunned shoulders, and starts to steer me away.
A few moments of shocked silence hangs in the air.
“You know, Sloane, I’d be careful if I were you. Don’t let the name fool you. Hardy women don’t fare very well in marriage,” Kirk calls after us. “Just ask his mom.”
I freeze in my tracks.
How in the hell...
Emma! Damn it! I knew it had been a bad idea to have my friend use Bee resources to help me flesh out my article on Lennox. Kirk must have seen some of her research. But, before I can consider exactly what information Kirk discovered, Lennox whips around and is up and over the rod iron café table between me and Kirk faster than a heartbeat.
“Lennox!” I cry out.
Lennox has two, white-knuckled fists full of Kirk’s shirt, lifting him an easy foot and a half off the ground. The restaurant manager comes running out from the main dining area, cell phone in hand, no doubt poised to dial 9-1-1. Lennox’s arm cocks back, ready to rearrange Kirk’s facial features. My heart sinks.
I wanted a story, but this was not the story I wanted.
I run between the two men, two flat palms against Lennox’s chest. “Lennox! Stop! He’s not worth it.”
I stare into his eyes, and I can see the ocean of hurt swimming behind the rage...
... and that he’s drowning in it.
“Let’s just go home, okay. Please? Let’s go home.”
Home. The word feels familiar, like a delicious dream you try desperately to remember after you’ve woken up. It seems to wake Lennox out of the fugue of rage.
“Sloane?” he croaks. Lennox suddenly lurches to one side, nearly dropping Kirk on his ass. That isn’t what concerns me, though. Kirk could use an abrupt introduction to the pavement. It’s the green tinge in Lennox’s face that causes worry to bubble up in my gut. That and I can see way too much of the whites of his eyes.
“Lennox?” I reach a steadying hand to his shoulder.
Then, quick as it hits, the episode passes. He sets my former employer down, if not gently. “I’m sorry. I was just trying...I’m sorry.”
Lennox shakes his head, looking disoriented, and walks away, leaving me standing there as the manager and several employees come to check on me and Kirk.
“Sir? Ma’am? Can we get you anything? Do you need ice?” Kirk straightens the fist wrinkles crumpling the lines of his shirt. He angrily clears his throat as he waves the restaurant employees away.
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m fine!” I’m pretty sure the only thing bruised is his ego. “Doesn’t matter. His brother’s the bigger story anyway. Going to beat it to The Citizen on Monday for the congressional debate. Scuttlebutt says he’s got some big news that’s supposed to really shake things up in Daley’s camp.”
“You’re lucky Lennox didn’t shake you up, Kirk.” I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t harbor a little regret he hadn’t. “He hasn’t been himself lately.”
“What? A Neanderthal jock with a god-complex and aggression issues? Come on, Sloane. He’s an open book.”
“Maybe,” I counter. I purse my lips in considered thought. “Too bad you’re only ever interested in the pictures, Kirk.”
Kirk’s eyes narrow to thin slits. He leans in toward my ear.
“You know, Sloane, I always thought you were smarter. You could have avoided all this,” he gestured to my less-than-svelte appearance. “If you’d just been a little friendlier to me.”
My fist connected solidly with his nose.
“I’ll take that ice if you’ve got it,” I tell the waiter.
Chapter 12
Lennox
My blood feels like ice in my veins even though the bathroom boils with billowing steam.
I lost control...again.
At least I had a good reason this time. That slimeball, Kirk Dennison had been insulting Sloane. Even I wanted to take a shower after just a few minutes in his presence. Droplets of water splatter against the shower wall as a heavy, weighted sigh escapes my lips.
Yeah, right. That’s just a weak stab at trying to justify the trigger-finger anger that seems to be becoming par for the course for me lately.
It’s bullshit, Hardy!
My inner conscience balks.
The asshole brought up your mother and you couldn’t hack it, you dumb shit.
I punch the wall. Stars explode in my
field of vision as I connect solidly with the marble tile. I’m glad for the fresh pain, though. It stops the emotional wounds from cracking open and bleeding all over again. From hurting as sharply and intensely as the day I opened the door and found her.
Before the sting in the corners of my eyes can turn into angry tears, I twist off the water and grab the towel hanging on the wall hook. My face contorts in a twist of pain as my abraded knuckles stretch excruciating
Sonovabitch that hurts!
Wasn’t the only thing hurting lately, though, I have to admit as I give my left arm a few bends and stretches as I head for the freezer and a generous ice pack. I had started to feel some serious discomfort in my joints over the course of the season. All those stupid shots Hugh was pumping into me weren’t doing jack shit.
Anti-inflammatory my ass.
Suddenly, I hear the key turn in the front lock and then the door snick closed.
“Lennox?” Sloane’s voice carries through the apartment, and it sounds worried. “Lennox? Are you home?”
She rounds the corner and pulls up short. She clutches her chest. “Oh, thank god. I came right back to the condo earlier, but you weren’t here.”
“Yeah. I, uh, went for a walk after I left you and your buddy Dennison. Had to clear my head. Work through a few things.” I adjust the ice pack on my bruised hand. Sloane notices it almost immediately and rushes to my side.
“Jesus, Lennox! Work through a few things? Tell me you didn’t get in a fight!” She fusses as she examines the fresh splits across my knuckles. I pull my hand from hers.
“That really all you think of me?” I find it hard to hide the hurt on my face.
Sloane lowers her eyes almost immediately. She shakes her head gently. “No. No, of course not.”
I move into the living room, the cold shoulder I give her matching the chilling ice pack. “Could have fooled me.”