Driven By Fate

by Tessa Bailey

  Five minutes later, she’d finished outlining her business model. There was a dragged-out silence before the applause had her falling back a step. Pleasure, relief, and surprise clogged her insides, but as soon as the lights came on, her attention swung to the entrance—

  Just in time to see the door open and close.

  No. No…she had to know if it was Porter. If she stayed put, if she didn’t at least find out, she would always wonder. It would drive her crazy speculating if he’d come to see her one last time. A group of her professors was coming toward her, still clapping, but she rounded the podium on the opposite side and ran. Ran right up the center aisle, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd, her uncle’s alarmed voice. She reached the door and burst through it. No one. The hallway was completely empty, except for one sleeping student who jolted upright at her loud exit.

  She pressed a hand to her side to ease the stab of disappointment and then jogged for the door. Sunlight blinded her when she pushed outside, so she lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

  No footsteps. No sign of anyone. Had her exhausted imagination conjured something that wasn’t really there? A beautiful hallucination? How unfair. How cruel.

  Wind cut through the quad outside the building, whipping her hair back, threatening to drag out the tears pushing behind her eyes. Then silence. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, picturing how Porter had looked coming toward her in the hotel lobby. Possessive. Heroic. That man wouldn’t leave her standing there feeling like she might die, would he?

  Slowly, she cracked an eye. Still alone.

  Feeling as though weights were tied to her ankles, she reentered the building.

  …

  She spent an hour answering questions before she received her grade.

  An A.

  Or a motherfuckin’ A, as her uncle called it on the drive home. Not only had she gotten the highest grade possible, but two of her professors had expressed interest in investing in Frankie’s Fleet. For now, she planned to keep it in the family, but she’d agreed to take it under advisement with the board—also known as the cab drivers who followed her, blaring their horns the entire way back to Queens.

  There was happiness. Exultancy. She’d done it. Tomorrow would begin a long journey until she saw her vision succeed, but the validation she’d needed for so long had come in spades. And yet there was a void so wide and deep, she couldn’t jump across. She could share the victory with her family, but it only filled a margin of the gap. Her uncle watched her steadily from the passenger side of her cab, looking anxious, as if he wanted to ask her why she couldn’t keep the smile on her face longer than two seconds before it fell and broke in half at her feet.

  She pulled up to the house and shifted the cab into park. Her uncle alighted immediately, heaving his bulky frame onto the sidewalk. Move your legs. Walk inside. Make lunch. She knew the actions they expected her to perform, actions she usually liked performing, but just then the effort was equivalent to scaling a mounting without a harness.

  As her uncle reached the driveway, a vehicle drew her attention, one she’d never seen before. It was…old. Old and gorgeous. It looked like a vintage New York City taxi. Just like….just like the one Porter had given her in miniature. Only this one had been painted a deep rose color, with the words Frankie’s Fleet stenciled on the side in gold lettering. She hiccupped a sob, finally finding the strength to leave the car. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Shiny, chrome wheels. Original headlights. Perfect. It was perfect.

  “Did you do this?” she asked Joe, circling the fender. “It’s…God, it’s amazing.”

  He nodded toward the house. “Not me, Frankie.”

  That feeling she’d had in the quad outside the lecture hall came racing back. It tore over the ravaged ground it had left the first time around, burning the whole way. It was too soon for this much hope again. Her first instinct was to turn and run, fast and far. As far as she could get from the house. From hope. But the invisible tether guiding her toward the house was stronger. It pulled her, tugging her through the front door. A familiar smell wafted from the kitchen, bringing her hands to her mouth, pressing hard, so hard.

  She stopped in the archway that led to the kitchen, praying everything she saw in front of her was real, that she hadn’t mentally rounded the bend and created the image of Porter cooking. Cooking in her kitchen.

  It had to be real, though, because her mind couldn’t possibly create such an epic mess. Raw, loose spaghetti noodles lay on all available surfaces. Tomato sauce decorated the walls. Porter hadn’t seen her yet, too focused on the pot he stirred in front of himself on the stove.

  Sanchez’s kid was sitting on the counter, pointing at the contents of the pot, wearing his Jets hat, as always. “You need more garlic, man.”

  Porter stopped stirring, his profile showing his perplexity over the kid’s advice. “You can’t be serious. I’ve put in enough bloody garlic to supply Italy for a week.”

  The kid patted his shoulder. “This isn’t Italy, it’s Queens. Add more.” He nodded as Porter blinked at him and started to peel another white clove, then finally noticed Frankie standing in the doorway. “Hiya, Frankie. Hey guys.”

  She turned slightly to see her uncle and his buddies crammed into the hallway behind her, arms crossed, but Porter commanded every ounce of her attention after that. His shoulders tensed as he set down the spoon and faced her. “Francesca.”

  Not trusting herself to speak or move right away, she could only stand there and soak him in. His huge presence. The fact that he was inside her home in the first place. She didn’t care why, didn’t care what had brought him, just hoped he never left.

  “You were there,” she managed. “At my presentation.”

  His breath rushed out. “Of course I was there. Of course.” His throat worked while he looked her over as if committing her to memory. “I was so proud of you.”

  Oh, God. Would he hold her? Would he?

  Frankie wished she’d asked the questions out loud, because he looked suddenly unsure. Unsure of what? She wanted to grab onto him and never let go. “The plan was to have the spaghetti done when you got here.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He took a step in her direction. “It is okay. It’s okay because plans change, don’t they? They change and shift and accommodate, just like you said. You were willing to change yours for me, even if it only lasted a minute—a minute I wish I could go back and live inside because it meant you wanted me.”

  Oxygen was trapped inside her lungs, rattling, pushing to get out. She wanted to tell him the minute was never-ending, but he kept going, his heart reflected in his eyes.

  “I would never ask you to give up a single one of your dreams, Francesca. I would only ask—no, I’m begging—for you to let me share them. There’s a space beside you and I need to fill it to survive.” He pointed at the floor near her feet. “If you let me stand there, I’ll help you create a home full of children. And I’ll love them all because I’m incapable of not loving anything that makes you happy. I’ll love them because I know I’m capable of loving now.”

  Another step closer.

  “I’ve been locked away, Francesca. I put myself in a place where I couldn’t fail anyone and no one could touch me, but I couldn’t keep you out. I never, ever, want to try to keep you out again.” He laid a hand over his heart. “I’m in love with you. I’m in love with the way you think, your honesty and convictions, your beauty. I’m so in love. I’ll love everything you allow me to share with you—your friendship, your time, our children. I’ll love you—and them—until I’m out of breath.”

  Frankie was certain her body would cave in on itself at any moment. His words kept her standing, though, kept her whole. They always would. He always would. Because no way in hell would she let him go again. “Porter,” she choked out.

  He appeared to steel himself. “Yes?”

  She shook her head. “This is highly irregular.”

/>   His breath escaped in a rush. “Monocle.”

  Frankie dove for him, knowing he would catch her. And he did. He did. Her feet came off the ground as his strong arms banded around her and she was home. Porter was home. Not the one she’d envisioned. Not the one she’d always thought she wanted or deserved.

  No. He was better. They were better.

  She opened her eyes and realized the tears she’d managed to keep in check since Miami were finally falling, coating her cheeks, soaking the shoulder of Porter’s sauce-stained shirt.

  Porter pulled back to look at her face. “Ah. Please don’t break my heart when it’s only just started beating again.”

  He kissed her lips, and she pressed close and breathed him in. “I love you, too. I won’t ever stop.”

  “Jesus. That ought to mend it.” His voice shook. “I’m sorry for everything. The unforgivable thing I said…letting you leave. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  “You’re forgiven.” Her lips found his, kissed, lingered. “Give me forever and you’re forgiven.”

  His embrace was crushing, in the best way possible. “Forever with you will go too fast.”

  “We’ll think of ways to savor it,” she murmured against his ear, needing him close. So close.

  As she’d known he would, Porter scooped her into his arms and carried her from the house. He took her home. Their home.

  Their home was wherever they happened to be standing together.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  From his seat across the office, Porter watched his wife work. Not their home office, where he worked alone now. The brightly painted room with Christmas lights draped from the ceiling was Frankie’s Fleet headquarters. They’d rented the space four months ago after spending more than half a year planning the launch of Francesca’s cab service for women, by women. He should be home working, as his publisher had just officially requested a sequel to London Larceny. Little wonder, since his first had made the New York Times bestseller list for hardcover fiction. Yet here he sat, staring at Francesca. His enjoyment of the activity hadn’t lessened a whit over time. Instead his fascination with her seemed to grow the longer he stared.

  Did she know today was their one year anniversary? Not their wedding anniversary. That wouldn’t be for another three months, when they would commemorate the Sunday morning last spring when they’d married in Central Park as the sun broke the trees, the only day that managed to surpass the one in her kitchen, when she’d taken him back. No, today marked the one-year anniversary of her walking into his room at Serve, when she’d changed his life irrevocably. When she’d started chipping away at his outer shell until it bloody-well fell and revealed a better man. A man who felt human.

  Had he managed to subdue the nature that demanded he plan or create rules? Not completely. In the dark, in his bed or out, Francesca was his submissive, in addition to being his wife, the woman he loved to the point of utter madness. Those defined roles were a requirement they shared and reveled in. He’d found a signal she preferred, a way to inform her he loved her, cherished her, but that he was quite ready to fuck her until she couldn’t walk correctly. A bite. On her shoulder, her hip, her hand. His teeth sunk into her skin and wherever they were, she became his to make demands on. Just yesterday, he’d bit her wrist halfway through dinner in their dining room. She’d dropped to her knees, laying her cheek on his thigh. Looking up at him. Waiting. The memory had distracted him all through the morning, which is what led him to this office to stare at his wife, waiting for her to get off the bloody goddamn phone.

  Even in the midst of his anxiousness, his chest swelled just watching her schedule routine maintenance on their fleet. He was proud of his new career as a novelist, yes. But that pride in his own work didn’t compare to that which he felt for Francesca. Using his connections as an ex-antique dealer, they’d managed to procure nearly one hundred vintage taxicabs that had been rusting in garages all over the tri-state area. With Joe and his friends’ help, they’d restored each one and made them part of Frankie’s Fleet. Those cabs were now on the road, driving women home safely, creating jobs for hundreds of New York City women, some of whom shared cabs to minimize costs. Having made major headlines, Frankie’s Fleet was in high demand and only grew by the day, with his dynamic wife at the helm and Joe handling payroll. But Porter had demanded her uncle’s office be located on the other side of the space for afternoons such as this, when he couldn’t wait for Francesca to get home before he was inside her.

  Finally, she hung up the phone and looked at him, silver eyes glowing. “Hey, monocle man.”

  No, that wouldn’t do. She knew it, too. His wife loved to play with him and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Which wasn’t to say he’d allow her to get away with it. Porter rose and circled the desk, concentrating on the erratic pulse at her throat, the way her shoulders loosened, the way her palms flattened on the desk as he reached the spot directly behind her.

  He curled a hand around the back of her neck, letting his thumb trail over her jumping pulse. “Stand up, Francesca.”

  She gained her feet, allowing his gaze to travel down her back, over the tight swell of her ass. The ripped jeans still appeared occasionally around their apartment or at Sunday breakfast at Joe’s house, but she’d started wearing skirts, his wife. Not overly short, or she knew he’d never allow her out the front door. Still, this black cotton number had ridden up her thighs, revealing the golden skin ruling his mind and the red mark just beneath her bottom that he’d sucked onto her flesh last night. All mine.

  “You are aware that my drivers know exactly what we’re doing in here?”

  He hid his smile, thinking of the knowing looks he’d received on the way into the warehouse, where dozens of women took breaks or got ready for their shifts. “If they know, it’s because it takes an hour for the sex to fade from your eyes. You talk to them in that voice, worn out from containing your screams of my name. Why do you think I’m constantly dragging you back in for round two?”

  “Oh, is that why?” she breathed.

  “Among many other reasons.” God, he’d love to just forget the nagging worry that had afflicted him for months, seat himself inside her and rock his hips until neither one of them could think. Kiss her neck, shoulders, back to calm her afterward, when he’d feel momentary relief that all was well. But no. He’d resolved that today he would get to the bottom of his wife’s reservations, so he could set about chipping away at them one by one.

  Sensing the unusual way he held back, Francesca tilted her head to look at him. “Is everything okay with the book? Do you need to talk through the plot, because—”

  “No.” Porter turned her around, taking a moment to appreciate the face he’d never get used to in all its beauty. The face he was privileged to wake up beside every morning. He loved this face, this woman. They could handle anything. “Francesca Evans—”

  “Uh oh. He means business.”

  His long-suffering sigh made her smile. “It’s been a full year since you became mine. I count it as the first year of my life because it’s the first year I’ve lived. You’ve made me want to live.”

  Her breath hitched. “Porter—”

  He laid a finger over her mouth. “You’re still taking your birth control pill every morning.” He ignored the alarm trickling through his resolve when tears sprung to her eyes. “If I haven’t convinced you yet that I’m capable of being the father you wanted for our children, please tell me what I can change.” Now that the words had started flowing, nothing would stop them. They’d been trapped inside for months. “You made me want something. Made me need a family with my wife. I’ve been ready since I saw you, it only took me some time to realize it.”

  When he uncovered her mouth, she whispered his name. “I’m sorry you thought it had anything to do with you. I’m so sorry.” She laid her hands on his chest. It felt so good, so perfect. “The truth is, it’s me. I hear you grumbling every morning when I t
ake my pill, but I thought you knew.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Knew what?”

  She laughed. “I’m the one who’s selfish of you. I’m not ready to share you yet.” Her hands slid down to his belt buckle, gripped the leather. “I’m kind of addicted to my husband.”

  Weight fell from his shoulders until he felt so light he might hit the ceiling. Oh, but then lust made him heavy again. As always. Every time. “When I walked in, you called me monocle man.” Once more, he turned her around to face the desk. Placing his grip at the back of her neck, he tilted her head, sinking a bite onto her shoulder blade. Not too hard, not too soft. Just enough to let her know she would be pleasing her husband, and he’d be pleasing her in return. “Greet me again, wife.”

  Her voice wavered. “Hello, my lord.”

  “Better.” Porter knocked her phone off the receiver to bar any disruptions. “Lean forward. My eyes are starved for the sight of your backside. I woke up with it warm and naked on my lap and I’ve been hard ever since.” He dragged the material of her skirt over her taut curves, shaking his head on a groan. Fuck, she grew sexier every time he looked at her. Somehow she grew sweeter at the same time. Her magnificence cut right through him. With a hand that he commanded to remain steady, he stroked her right cheek, his cock growing harder when she tilted her hips. “One year ago today, I gave you your first spanking. How many have you received since?”

  She whimpered as the flat of his hand glanced off her bottom with a slap. “As many as you’ve deemed necessary, my lord.”

  Christ. Her unhesitant answer, combined with the sting he felt radiating from her flesh, sent a potent mixture of lust and awe twining through his bloodstream. “My wife is giving me exactly what I need today, is she?” He smoothed a hand up her inner thigh, massaging her pussy with the heel of his hand. “Mmm. She needs something, too. Reach back and feel the stiff cock you’ve earned. Put your greedy hand on it. Worship it.”