by Naima Simone
She sighed.
At the onset of this whole…arrangement, she’d believed it would be simple. But that had been before he’d started inching under her skin. Before she’d caught glimpses of the emotions she’d hadn’t believed he possessed.
Before he’d kissed the ever-loving hell out of her.
Damn it. Common sense and self-preservation begged her to return to her room and call it a night. But apparently her feet decided to disobey marching orders, because she started across the living area toward his bedroom door.
But then a breeze skated across her cheek, drawing her attention to the other side of the suite. She frowned, shifting direction and moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the back wall. When they’d first arrived at the hotel earlier before leaving for his father’s house, she hadn’t been able to resist opening the double balcony doors and getting closer to the breathtaking view of the New York skyline. Now one of those doors stood open, allowing in a chilly night breeze. And as she neared it, she noticed the tall figure standing on the large terrace.
Alex.
Like he was the last two pairs of Louboutins at a BOGO sale, he lured her. Again, that self-protection flare lit up the night sky of her mind. Why he stood out on the balcony alone, appearing like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders, wasn’t her concern.
And once again, she ignored that sense of self-preservation.
Who needed that Fifty Shades millionaire’s tools of masochism when she had her own lack of sense?
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” Morgan muttered, stepping out onto the balcony. Hugging her arms around herself, she moved to the railing, shivering. Yes, coming out into the November night wearing only a robe, nightgown, and slippers wasn’t one of her smartest decisions.
Alex didn’t reply, but one glance at her, and he stripped out of the suit jacket he hadn’t removed and draped it over her shoulders. The jacket retained his body heat, and she bit back a moan as it enveloped her in his warmth. His earthy scent embraced her, and when he returned his gaze to the stunning New York skyline, she couldn’t resist burying her nose into the material and inhaling more of him. Slipping her arms into the over-long sleeves, she slid her hands into the cuffs, like a makeshift muff.
“I thought dinner went relatively well,” she observed after several silent seconds. Score one for subtlety, she scoffed, leaning against the stone balcony railing.
“Define relatively,” he murmured.
“Well, your father didn’t take one look at me, point a shaking finger, and pull a Joe Wilson, screaming, ‘You lie!’”
He snorted. “There is that.”
More silence.
Oh hell. Beating around the bush was for Australian Crocodile Hunters and lesbians, not her. “What happened when you and your father disappeared after dinner?”
“He wanted to talk to me about you,” he stated. “About how the timing of our relationship seemed suspicious with the deadline only weeks away.”
Damn. She winced. “So he didn’t believe us?”
“More like fishing. He accepted the story, though.”
She sighed, relief pouring through her. “Well, that’s good news.” Tilting her head, she studied his profile that could’ve been carved from the stone she leaned against. “So what’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because I think—God help me—that I’m coming to know the difference between your regular Spock demeanor and your something-is-bothering-me face.”
“And the number of times I ask myself ‘what the hell’ when you talk has actually lessened,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
“See?” She shrugged. “Progress. I think that puts us somewhere between eat-shit-and-die and friends. I mean, I put up with your father tonight. Who, by the way, is a bit of an asshole.”
“I’m a prick, and he’s an asshole. The Bishop men haven’t really impressed you, have they?” he said, voice quiet.
“No, I thought you were a prick. Big difference. We had kind of a rocky start. Mt. Rushmore rocky. But we’ve come some distance since then. Hell, we’re engaged now. We’re picking out china patterns and brainstorming baby names. So stop trying to change the topic and tell me what’s wrong.”
He huffed out a breath, and be still her heart, it actually almost sounded like a laugh. Not quite, but the closest she’d ever heard from him. In spite of the chilly night air, warmth slid through her. And in that instant, hearing him laugh outright became her mission. Seeing a smile curve his sensual, hard mouth ran a close second.
Alex studied her, the darkness casting half his face in shadows.
“I hate going to that house,” he finally said. “It wasn’t a…happy place to grow up in.” Nothing in his flat tone or shuttered expression correlated with the poignant, heart-rending statement. But she didn’t need to hear or see his pain to get it. She’d seen his childhood home. While it’d been gorgeous, she couldn’t imagine a child running down its halls or writing scribble-scrabble in markers on its pristine walls.
Her childhood hadn’t been the most stable with her father’s death and her mother’s subsequent marriages. But she’d had Merri, and later, even Cynthia. And never once had Morgan doubted her mother’s love for her. For all the moments of grief, uncertainty, and rejection, there’d been an equal—if not more—amount of joy, laughter, and even peace.
Alex hadn’t been that blessed. And she hated that for him. Wished more for him.
“It was a cold place, but at the same time, chaotic. My earliest memories were of the fighting. When my parents and I went out as a family, they were nice to each other. Civil. Even affectionate. But as soon as we were behind closed doors, the fighting started. Shouting, screaming, shattered glass. As a child, I thought this was normal behavior, and so I had terrible tantrums, mimicking them. One day, after a really bad one where I bit and kicked my mother, she shouted she’d had enough and was done. The next morning, she left and didn’t come back. And I never threw another tantrum.”
Oh God. The breath stuttered in her throat, a fist of horror squeezing the hell out of her lungs. Alex blamed himself for his mother leaving. She heard it clearly in what he hadn’t said. Even after all these years…
“How old were you?” she breathed.
“Seven.”
“Alex.” God, she wanted to touch him. Hold him. Kick his mother’s selfish ass. “You have to know you weren’t to blame for…”
He nodded. “As a man, of course. She and my father weren’t happy together. But as a boy…” His voice trailed off, and he turned, staring off again into the New York night. “After she left, my father married again, divorced again. Brought girlfriends to live. He hosted an endless stream of parties and dinners, even a gala once. It seemed as if he couldn’t stand to be by himself, to be still, or quiet. Tom pretty much raised me—him and my grandfather. I felt more at home with my grandfather and at Bishop Enterprises’ offices than I did there.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way for you. When you marry and have a family, it doesn’t have to be a miserable place, but a home,” she objected gently.
But he gave his head one hard, abrupt shake. “This engagement with you is the closest I’ll come to marriage again, Morgan. I don’t want—or need—that kind of commitment. Once was enough.” His jaw tautened, a tiny muscle flicking along the strong, forbidding line.
“What about children? Don’t you want a son or daughter to—”
“No.” The answer was brutal, final. “What kind of father would I make?” he asked, voice rough. “I’ve had such a great example. Mine neglected me and rejected his other child. No,” he repeated. “I don’t want children that I can fuck up.”
Silence throbbed between them. One that pulsed with unsaid words, unleashed emotion, and the life of the city beneath them. Stunned, she stared at his harsh profile. Had she really believed he didn’t feel? Maybe that icy reserve served as a shield to ward people off…and keep his emotions in.
A heavy si
gh floated on the air. “I wanted to…thank you for taking up for Kim tonight. It’s difficult for her knowing how Malcolm’s going to act. I hate subjecting her to Malcolm, the whispers, and the outright snubbing. But she insisted on being there for us tonight. So, thank you for making her feel welcome. For acknowledging her as family.”
“Please,” she scoffed, waving off his gratitude, although sadness rose in her chest. “Kim’s my girl. I actually plan on keeping her in our divorce. I should’ve had you add that into our contract. You go, but she stays.”
Alex shook his head. “Too late to renegotiate now.”
“Damn.” She leaned a hip against the wall, debating whether to ask the next question. Part of her didn’t want to dig deeper into his world. Because that would mean she would have more to force herself to forget. But the other half… That half wanted to—needed to—know more. To obtain more pieces of the man beneath the reserve and fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle. “Why is he like that with her? Why won’t he recognize her? If you don’t mind telling me…”
He stepped back from the railing and slid his hands in his pants pockets. Once more, silence fell between them, and her belly dipped. Had she pushed too far, too fast…?
“Kim’s mother was a supermodel from Britain. I’ve seen pictures of her from then; she was gorgeous. Still is. I can see why my father became involved with her. But he neglected to tell her he was already engaged to another woman here in New York. My mother. Kim’s mom became pregnant, refused to have an abortion, and Malcolm cut off all ties with her. I didn’t find any of this out until I was sixteen, and my grandfather told me. He was dying and having regrets. He wanted me to do what he’d been too stubborn to do. Reach out to my half sister.”
“Jesus,” Morgan whispered. “That’s one hell of a burden to lay on a kid.”
A corner of his mouth quirked, but not in a smile. “I hadn’t been a kid for a while by then. But after my grandfather told me about Kim, nothing could’ve kept me from seeing her. I flew out to Chicago the next day and showed up at their house. She actually hadn’t seemed surprised to see me. Her mother hadn’t kept her in the dark about the father and half brother she’d never met. It’s funny, but we never had an awkward moment; we just…clicked. Something my father wasn’t too happy about when I returned home. He threatened to disown me if I didn’t cut all ties with her. But at that point, I didn’t give a fuck. There was nothing he could say to me. At that moment, as he ordered me to forget ‘that girl,’ I lost some respect for him that I’ve never gotten back. Up until then, he’d been uninvolved and a more-than-a-little absentee, but I’d never thought of him as vindictive or spiteful. Except for a check he had his accountant cut every month, he’d been a deadbeat dad.”
Anger on behalf of Kim and Alex flickered in her chest. She’d witnessed the charming side of Malcolm this evening, but she’d also seen a glimpse of the man Alex described. Which she still couldn’t grasp. Morgan had only known Kim for two weeks, and the other woman was gorgeous, intelligent, confident, and successful. Any father would be—should be—proud to claim her as his own. Why Malcolm couldn’t open himself to the two children he had instead of just the one with balls… She curled her fingers into a fist inside the jacket’s sleeve.
“That only makes me more infuriated with your father. But why does he blame Kim? Reject her?” she asked. “It’s not her fault she was born. It can’t be because she’s half Black. He was with her mother…”
“It’s not about race. Well, at least not for Malcolm. No, with my father, it has to do with control and image. Kim’s mother defied him and refused to have an abortion as he demanded. An illegitimate child would have jeopardized his engagement to my mother—a marriage pretty much arranged by my grandparents. Embarrass his parents? Shame the Bishop name? No. And while my father didn’t have a problem being with a Black woman, I’m sorry to say my grandfather did. Her mother wasn’t acceptable. My father wasn’t about to go against their wishes. So Kim was a constant reminder of his fall from grace. Bishops didn’t have outside children. They might be cheating bastards, but they didn’t make ‘mistakes.’ And that’s what Kim represented to Malcolm: his mistake. His fallibility. Another time he’d disappointed my grandfather. She still does remind him of that.”
He gripped the railing. Even in the muted glow of the suite that barely penetrated the darkness surrounding the balcony, she noticed the paleness of his knuckles as his fingers tightened. His chin dipped, and he stared into the night, his body rigid. Only his chest rose and fell on deep, rough breaths. Concern rippled through her, and though no one was there for them to put on the fake engagement act for, she touched him. Covered his hand with hers. Laced her fingers through his so they both clutched the railing.
“Sometimes I…” He paused. After a moment, he continued, his voice like gravel. “I look at her. Catch the pain, the insecurity in her eyes before she conceals it, and I feel guilty. For being the chosen one. But she had a loving mother who gave her more attention and affection than either of my parents did. If she only knew the truth. That I’ve been envious of her.”
Oh God.
Something creaked in her chest. A tiny fissure zig-zagged across her heart and slowly inched wider. Damn it. She desperately tried to patch up the crack with emotional mortar, frantically reminding herself of every time she’d been hurt, disappointed, broken.
But it seemed none of those mental recaps could compare to the first time Alex let her in for a peek into the man behind the ice.
She shifted forward, slid her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek and breasts to his back.
He stiffened, his big hands cupping hers and squeezing. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up and take this hug.” And in spite of his rigid frame, she hung on, holding him tighter.
Gradually, degree by degree, he relaxed against her. An image from one of her favorite books, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, flickered across her mind. C.S. Lewis’s lion, Aslan, blowing on the stone giant Rumblebuffin and watching him slowly come to life. That’s who Alex reminded her of—that giant shaking off the stone fragments, coming to life in her arms.
He turned, and in the next moment, she found herself in his embrace. Her body didn’t press against his now. With just a small step, his chest, abdomen, and thighs imprinted themselves on hers. And, Jesus H. Christ, his erection. She swallowed…or tried to. She couldn’t get air or moisture past the arousal strangling her in its noose. Long. Thick. Hard. His pants and her robe and nightgown separated them, but his cock branded her belly like hot steel.
Move back. Get away. Mayday. Mayday.
She shuddered. Shifted closer. And her resistance plummeted in a screaming, fantastic blaze of glory. The chilly night air would be a handy excuse she could grab onto to explain the shivers coursing through her, but it would be a lie. Not when the heat from his big body melted the cold and set her on fire. No, this man caused the shaking, was responsible for the need pouring through her like gasoline. And his touch?
It was the match.
He cupped her face between his wide palms, and she tilted her head back, relying on his strength. Telling him without words how much she craved his kiss. She curled her fingers around his thick wrists and clung, hanging on. Waiting.
She’d expected him to take her mouth. Claim it like he’d done in his office. But instead, he slowly lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers in a barely there caress. Once. Twice. Then, a gentle nibble to her bottom lip. A flick of his tongue over the top one before sucking the flesh and letting it go with a soft pop.
He didn’t feast on her. He sampled.
Savored.
And it was as devastating as if he’d consumed her.
Moisture pricked her closed eyelids, and a tremulous breath escaped her.
Who would have thought in the middle of the hunger twisting her belly so hard she ached and shook with it, there would be…tenderness? That even with his cock prodding her, he could make her feel
worshipped. Special.
No.
She jerked free of his hold, panic surging through her like a lightning bolt. Her feet tangled, and she stumbled, but a firm, gentle hold steadied her before her ass met the ground.
“Morgan.” That’s it. Just her name.
But enough to ratchet up the arousal still thick in her veins. And her anxiety spiked right along with the need.
“Not like that,” she rasped. Belatedly realizing she twisted her fingers together in front of her like some distressed damsel, she forced her arms to her sides and met his hooded stare. “Kiss me like you did in your office,” she demanded.
Give her fire, desperate greed, and equally ravenous, groping hands. Not soft caresses and tender holds. Give her hard kisses where teeth clacked and tongues dueled. Not teasing licks and reverent, affectionate grazes of lips. Hot, burn-me-down-to-the-ground lust. Not something that resembled, even in the smallest of ways, making love.
Because while her body and mind might know the difference, her heart wouldn’t. Not her traitorous, stubborn-as-fuck-and-refuses-to-give-up-on-fairy-tales heart. Her bruised heart that longed to be cherished and protected. Her needy heart that would believe someone desired her for more than her face and body, but for her.
That lover’s kiss reminded her she’d been a fool once. A blind, heart-on-her-sleeve fool. And she didn’t want to be that with him.
For him.
“What are you hiding, Morgan?” he murmured, stepping forward and reclaiming the space she’d desperately placed between them. His arm lifted, his fingers already bent as if to cradle her cheek again.
But she didn’t give him a chance to touch her with that gentleness that would break her. She charged him. Threw her arms around his neck and used her hold as leverage to jump and wrap her legs around his hips. The rigid column of flesh nestled between her legs, right up against her sex, and she moaned, low and long. A shiver rippled through her as moisture dampened her folds, pooled in her clenching core as if preparing itself for an invasion that had been a long time in coming.