Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

“I don’t have time for your jokes, Killian,” she scoffs.

  Maybe it’s the whiskey—and the Guinness.

  Maybe I’m really just that horny and wanting any excuse to get her back into bed.

  Or maybe I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.

  That seems like the most likely explanation.

  Since she doesn’t immediately hit me, maybe she sees that I’m not just taking the piss.

  “I get how much you love kids, Rebecca. You’re the greatest illustrator of children’s books in the world because of how much you love them. And I know how much being a mother means to you. I know how wonderful you would be at it.”

  I know that I may be laying it on thick, but it’s also the truth—truth that I hope works in my favor.

  “So you want to have a child and have a big happy family with me? Is that it?”

  Now here comes the part where she might still hit me.

  “Not quite. Think of this as purely a business arrangement between friends or acquaintances. You get to have the baby you always dreamed of without having to worry about being stuck in a loveless marriage. You don’t have to ever worry that you’ll be single forever and with nothing to show for it. I get an extension I need for my book. It’s a win-win for the both of us.”

  I can see her weighing the pros and cons. Which—for me—is a good sign.

  Obviously, it isn’t everything that she dreamed of being offered, but it’s a lot that I’m throwing out there at her.

  It’s a heavy-handed move on my part that—I will admit—is rather manipulative.

  But I need the extra time. I have nothing to write, and I have a deadline looming over me like the fucking Ghost of Christmas Past.

  The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

  This way, I can tell my publisher that I, too, am having a baby and need the time off to prepare—which would all be true—and to make sure the love of my life is well taken care of during the pregnancy—which would be a slight exaggeration.

  It would lift this weight off my shoulders and give my anxiety a vacation.

  Who knows, maybe all the baby-making with Rebecca will get my creative juices flowing just as much as my baby-making ones.

  That thought has my cock twitching a bit prematurely.

  Not yet, boyo. Let the woman say “yes” first before you celebrate.

  “How can I even take you seriously, Killian? You’ve been drinking all day. I could say yes now, and then you could wake up tomorrow and take it all back.”

  Her breathing picks up as she imagines this scenario.

  “You could show up at my door,” she continues, “and be all, ‘Oh, sorry, lass. I was a wee bit hammered last night and really didn’t mean it when I offered to have a baby with you. But I’m totally down to fuck.’” Her impression of yours truly is not that bad. “I can’t handle that kind of humiliation.”

  With that last sentence, there’s this raw emotion in her voice that hits me hard. She’s put herself out there for me to see, and it’s incredibly courageous of her to do.

  There’s an honesty to it that I find very admirable. It’s not something I could do, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t respect it.

  Luckily for her, her fears are unfounded.

  “Alright, I’ve had some drinks. There’s no point in me trying to say I haven’t. But we both know that I haven’t had enough to impair my judgment.”

  I begin to close this gap between us and move slowly toward her, looking her in the eye as I explain this the best I can.

  “I’m offering you this with sound mind and body. This isn’t something that I’m going to wake up tomorrow and go, ‘Oh shite, what have I done?’ I’m telling you, Rebecca, this offer is as serious and genuine as any offer could be.

  “I know I can’t give you the whole big happy family bit that you want and deserve, but I can give you that piece of the puzzle. And I would like to think you know that I wouldn’t offer something like this to be cruel or to make a joke. That’s not who I am. So please, have a baby with me.”

  13

  Rebecca

  All of his words linger and run in a continuous loop in the back of my mind. But it’s that last line that I focus on.

  So please, have a baby with me.

  Not at all how I expected the day to turn out.

  “Okay, let’s say that I say ‘yes’ to your business proposal.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I can’t exactly tell myfamily. I haven’t even told them that I’m divorced yet. We would have to keep this all a secret.”

  “That’s okay with me. Only people who need to know are you, me, and my publisher. That’s it. Everyone else can be on a need-to-know basis.”

  I can’t believe how crazy and ridiculous this all is. I went from accepting that I would never get my happy ending and have kids to being one word away from getting it all.

  Sure, I never envisioned being a single mother—I’m sure not many women do—but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t gladly do it.

  I bet I’d be pretty damn great at it, in fact. It still feels like there’s a black hole in my heart leftover from my marriage, and it’s hard to imagine that ever healing. But when I think about having kids, I know for freaking certain that I have all the love in the world to give—and then some.

  And even on a practical level, being a single mom wouldn’t be all bad. Especially since I don’t exactly have a typical job that requires me to go to the office and be away from home for forty-plus hours a week. I would have all the opportunities to be there for the baby.

  For my child.

  I would be there every step of the way to guide and encourage them as they grow. There’s nothing I would have to miss out on.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  It might be the best thing I could do with my life, and I’m sure it would be more rewarding than I could even begin to imagine now.

  But then, would it be fair for the baby? I know I have more than enough love in me to make up for two parents, but what do I say or do when they get older and ask about their father?

  Do I tell them the truth and say that it was just a business arrangement and that their father didn’t actually want them? Or do I play with the truth and twist it about into some kind of romantic fairy tale?

  What really bothers me is the thought that I might be considering this not because I really want a baby—even though I absolutely do—but because of my recent divorce from Dickhead.

  That black hole in my heart might be clouding my judgment and pushing me to jump on whatever opportunities I find to get what he refused to give me.

  Speaking of the divorce, like I said, I still haven’t even told my family about it. I can just imagine being at the next family gathering and saying, “Hey, everyone, I just divorced my abusive asshole of a husband, and I’m also having a baby with Irishman who spends more time in a pub than the bartender. Pass the rolls and butter, please.”

  No, I don’t see that going over too well.

  My poor mother would probably have a fucking stroke, and Grandma would make everyone uncomfortable when she asks—and she would ask—if the baby daddy was hung or not.

  In those exact words.

  “Fuck, I need a drink.”

  I brush past Killian and walk right up to the counter. I grab the glass of whiskey that he had poured for himself, and I drink it in one go.

  The chestnut-colored alcohol burns on the way down my throat—just as I need it to—and I can’t help but let out a small cough after I swallow it.

  I’ve never had Locke’s Whiskey before, but it’s actually really good. Better than Bushmills, though not as good as Jameson.

  This is something I need to pick up more of the next time I’m in town.

  Pouring another glass of whiskey, this one filled nearly to the top, I take another deep breath. My mind is racing with the pros and cons of the idea taking turns trying to persuade me.

  This entire idea of his is batshit crazy.
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  Yeah, I know that I shouldn’t even be thinking about actually accepting his offer. There should be no weighing of pros and cons. The whole thing’s absurd.

  Here’s what I should be doing: I should be telling him no, flat out, before throwing this drink in his face and telling him to get the fuck out of my quaint little cottage.

  It should be insulting to me. He wants to knock me up just so he can get his book deadline extended and get his cock wet at the same time with none of the responsibility that comes afterwards.

  And maybe I’m a little insulted by all this. I’m not some fucking baby-making scapegoat to be used because he can’t handle some fucking writer’s block.

  But baby fever is a powerful force not to be underestimated. It’s like this giant rush of phenomenal fucking cosmic power right to the ovaries.

  Instead of doing all those things I should be doing right now, I make the mistake of looking up at him from the whiskey in my hands.

  Damn it, I really shouldn’t have done that.

  He’s looking at me from across the room with those goddamn blue eyes of his that I’ve been a sucker for since day one.

  It’s like he can undress me, fuck me, and see into my very soul all at the same time. It’s a weird blend of arousing and annoying.

  And then there’s the accent.

  The man was born hot enough as it is. But God, in her infinite fucking wisdom, had to go and give him an accent on top of it.

  And that isn’t even the worst part of it all.

  Oh, no. Not even close. Because, and I know from experience, he’s amazing in bed.

  And—writer’s block notwithstanding—he’s incredibly talented and creative. Even when he’s an asshole, he’s still so fucking charming.

  It makes you want to hit him with an SUV—which I’ve already done—and then take him to bed afterward. And I’ve done that part, too.

  Albeit in reverse order, but still. Did it.

  Knocking back the whiskey in my hands, I try to get a read on him.

  It’s hard—I haven’t seen him in years. And even then, we never really took the time to get to know each other on a personal level.

  Not that it would matter right now anyway.

  All I can really focus on are those piercing blue eyes of his, looking straight at me. And it makes it hard for my brain to operate—outside of telling me to kiss him.

  I turn away and put the glass on the counter.

  “Let’s say, down the road you decide that, for whatever reason, you want to be a part of this baby’s life. And I tell you to get lost and never show your face?”

  With that, I turn my head and look at him from over my shoulder.

  “Then I would respect your wishes,” he tells me with a shrug. “I know this isn’t the most conventional business arrangement. I get how crazy it is. But isn’t life meant to be a little crazy?”

  Crazy is one thing. This is outright fucking insane.

  But he does have a point.

  And I, admittedly, have always played things safe. Maybe crazy is exactly what I need in my life right now. Maybe I’ve earned the right to have a crazy moment or two after having to deal with that fucking Dickhead I was married to.

  Turning to face him, I do my best to not get lost in his eyes.

  “This…this is big, Killian. This isn’t exactly something that I can just answer on a whim.”

  I don’t even realize that I’m walking across my cottage towards him.

  “I get that, lass. I completely understand.”

  My eyes catch his looking down at my tits. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad bit relieved that they weren’t looking back into my own eyes. Because then, they might as well be looking into my soul.

  But all this talk about baby-making now has me thinking about the actual act. I can see that he’s already been thinking of it, too.

  Before I know it, we’re back to where we started. His arms have mine in their grasp, and the palm of my hands are pressed gently against his firm chest.

  “I’m going to have to sleep on it.” My voice comes out so husky it surprises me.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  The word is barely out of my mouth before our lips meet like tidal waves colliding against a rocky shore in the middle of a torrential storm.

  God in heaven, I forgot how good his lips feel.

  14

  Killian

  I forgot how fucking good it feels to kiss her. Her luscious lips are catching mine between hers in a series of soft, velvety brushes.

  But neither of us is ready for it to end with just a kiss. No fucking way.

  My arms slide down around her slender waist to pull her closer to me as I grow impatient, our lips lusciously grazing into a deeper kiss.

  Her arms wrap around my neck, and her tits press firmly up against my chest. Our tongues tangle together, and I can feel my cock stirring.

  With all the whiskey I’ve had tonight, that is nothing short of a miracle.

  Her kisses are as eager as mine, and her tongue is covetous, insatiable.

  As for me, it’s like I can’t get close enough.

  I slowly slip one hand up under her sweatshirt, gliding my palm over her ribs, inching slowly toward those beautiful, ivory mounds. Although I half expect her to move away, to chide me for taking liberties, she doesn’t.

  She’s enjoying it just as much as I am, and I find myself wondering just how far into it she wants to get.

  If she knows how bad I want her.

  If she wants me anywhere near as badly.

  Fuck it, boyo, just enjoy the moment.

  My hand still under her shirt, I yank her bra down and her warm, full tit spills into my hand. I cup it, giving it a firm squeeze before I tug on her nipple, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Killian…” Her lips are slightly parted as she pants my name. The sound is like sweet music to my ears.

  Ever since our first night together, I’ve longed to hear her husky whispers again. It’s not something that I can easily forget.

  Not that I’d want to let go of those memories. They’ve visited me in several of my more pleasant dreams over the past few years.

  Now she’s finally here in my arms again. I’d be a fool not to savor this moment as it unfolds.

  “You’re so sexy when you moan my name like that.” I kiss her again, shoving my tongue in her mouth greedily, hungrily.

  She moans softly into my mouth, the gentle hum skirting across my tongue.

  That’s my answer. She’s just as into this as I am.

  Pulling away slightly, I lean down to drop lingering kisses against her jaw and ear. I drag my tongue down her neck, stopping to nip here and there.

  “Ah!” She grabs my hair and tugs me back up to kiss her.

  “Impatient lass you are,” I grin roguishly.

  “You have that effect on me.” Her green eyes, locked with mine, are glimmering with desire. The look on her face is enticing, provocative, and fucking smoldering with a flame that’s about to turn my entire being into a conflagration of desire.

  Fuck, I want her. I’ve never stopped wanting her.

  In one swift motion, I pull her sweatshirt over her head. Her red locks cascade over her shoulder. She bites her bottom lip, sucking it between her teeth.

  Fucking vixen.

  The contrast of her smoldering hair against her fair skin is driving me completely fucking mad. I pull her to me again and crash my lips against hers.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I moan between kisses, never taking my lips off hers.

  My hands dip down to the button of her jeans, undoing them before I slip a hand down the back and grab a handful of her arse.

  I slip my other hand inside and start sliding her jeans down, exposing her black lacy panties.

  Kneeling slowly as I slip her jeans further down her legs, I kiss her beautiful body the entire way down until her jeans are pooled at her feet.

  I
take my time getting back up, letting my hands roam over her thighs and her stomach as she writhes against me.

  She is perfection personified.

  We kiss again, moving back toward the couch where I lay her down and hover over her, one leg between hers.

  “Killian, please…”

  It’s as plain as fucking day that she wants me. I fucking want her, too.

  “What do you want me to do?” I tease her, taking her left nipple in my mouth without breaking eye contact.

  “Ohh…” She whimpers as I graze my teeth over it. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving me orders, Becks. I’m in full control here.”

  With my middle finger of my left hand, I reach down and stroke her pussy lips through her panties. One touch is all takes for me to notice how hot and how very fucking wet she is.

  Her eyes are half-lidded as she gazes at me, begging with just a look.

  It’s like her desire’s given her an astronomical fever, and my cock is the only cure.

  Leaning down, I drop soft kisses down her stomach until I reach just above her pussy.

  She sucks in a breath as I dip even further down. I lick her cunt lightly through the thin fabric, getting just the briefest taste. Then I grab her panties in my teeth, pulling them down and out of my way.

  She’s naked in front of me, staring into my eyes. The faintest of a blush creeps up her cheeks, but she doesn’t shy away.

  “Gorgeous,” I whisper, barely audible.

  Kissing her once more, I slide my finger over her clit, rubbing gently as she shivers beneath my touch. I skirt around her pussy lips with my middle finger before sliding it inside of her.

  Soft. Wet. Tight.

  So very tight.

  My thoughts drift back to the first night we spent together and how her pussy just sucked my cock right in.

  It’s doing just that to my finger right now. I insert one more, then start moving them in and out gradually, teasingly. My eyes never leave hers—I want to see every nuance of her every reaction as I bring her to new, blissful heights.

  She shudders as I curl my middle finger, finding that sweet G-spot. Her hips lift to meet me, so I increase the movements.