Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

by Heidi Rice

  She stopped herself from asking him any of those questions, though. Because she doubted he would answer them. His closed expression suggested that even giving her this much information about the incident had been a struggle for him.

  But compassion for that little boy, and the man he had become, swamped her regardless. And tangled with the guilty knowledge of her pregnancy.

  She should have told him about the baby as soon as she’d arrived. She’d intended to, but seeing him again had been so overwhelming she’d needed to compose herself, to figure out exactly how to say it. And when she’d finally worked up the guts to do it he’d interrupted her. And then given her this devastating glimpse of the trauma he’d suffered during his childhood—his tone so controlled and unemotional it had broken her heart. As if sharing the pain of those moments would somehow diminish him in her eyes.

  Consequently, the news of her pregnancy was now lodged in her throat like a boulder that she couldn’t seem to expel. Suddenly his motives two weeks ago—when he’d told her he didn’t have it in him to be a father, that he didn’t make love, that he didn’t need love—seemed so much more complex.

  What if he’d said that, what if he believed it, not because he was cold and emotionless but because he needed to believe it to protect himself? If she told him about the baby now, he would react the only way he knew how, the way he’d done as that traumatised child. By shutting down his emotions and denying they existed. He’d feel threatened and trapped again, and he would have every right to feel that way because she’d lied to him.

  Telling him the truth now would destroy this thing between them before it had ever had a chance to grow.

  Would it be so wrong to give it a chance, not just for her own sake but for their child’s?

  ‘The proposition I’m going to make would always be based on mutual consent,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’m not going to threaten or bully you into my bed. If you’re not there of your own free will it would destroy my pleasure just as much as yours.’

  She managed a mute nod again, heat flooding through her at the intensity in his gaze. And the memory of his hands on her hips, his huge erection seated deep inside her. Perhaps the connection they had was purely sexual. But would it be so wrong to discover if it could be more than that?

  ‘But I’m not going to deny I want you back in my bed,’ he added. ‘Any way I can get you. I’ve had sex with a lot of women, Bronte. I’ve got a healthy sex drive, probably above average, but even so I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you.’

  It wasn’t a declaration of his feelings. He was talking about the sexual chemistry between them. She knew that, but even so she felt the deep tug of yearning twist and turn inside her and morph into something that felt like hope.

  ‘I’d very much like to explore that connection,’ he continued, his voice so husky now it seemed to scrape over her nerve endings like sandpaper, igniting and agitating every inch of her skin. ‘I know you’re inexperienced so I’m prepared to take it slow. I’m not great at compromise but we can negotiate the where and when and how of this liaison. I want you to be comfortable. But I think it would be madness not to make the most of a physical connection that has the potential to give us both so much pleasure. Don’t you?’

  It was a direct question. One which she should only have one answer to. No.

  Sleeping with Lukas Blackstone again was the height of insanity—from an emotional point of view. A leap of faith that she had promised herself she would never make again, ever since she’d been a little girl and she’d stood on her father’s doorstep praying for him to look at her, just once.

  But even before she’d taken the pregnancy test this morning she’d known, although she had refused to admit it to herself, she was already more invested, more drawn to Lukas than she should be. And despite the deep throbbing in her sex, the dizzying, disorientating rush of adrenaline at Lukas’s proposition, she knew that investment had always been more than just physical.

  Surely now though, after what she had discovered less than an hour ago, she had the incentive to discover how much more.

  She was pregnant with Lukas’s child. Whatever happened now, she would always have a connection to this man. Would it be so terribly wrong to take this opportunity to get to know him better? Before she told him about the pregnancy?

  Even with her tiny amount of experience, she knew it was a massive mistake to think sex with Lukas would lead to emotional intimacy—especially as she now knew why he was so guarded. But surely physical closeness—and spending time with him—would give her the opportunity to at least answer some of the many questions she had about him. Didn’t she deserve to know those answers?

  And then there was all the pleasure he was promising too. She’d never regretted the sacrifices she’d made to look after Nikky, because the rewards had been astronomical—not just in every smile and cuddle she got from him, but also in the things she’d discovered about herself as a person. But what was wrong with wanting to experience more of the wild, uninhibited joy she had found in Lukas Blackstone’s arms? Why should she feel guilty about wanting him?

  She clasped her hands in her lap and stared out of the window of his penthouse. She took a deep breath and turned back to him, to see the inscrutable concentration on his face. Excitement and terror surged.

  Be brave. Take a chance.

  ‘Okay,’ she murmured, her breath choking out.

  His eyebrows rose, the evidence that he hadn’t been 100 per cent sure of her answer making her even more sure of her decision. Maybe he wasn’t quite as arrogant as he seemed either.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  He stood and stepped over the coffee table, then grasped her trembling fingers in one firm hand and tugged her to her feet. He cupped her cheek, let his fingers delve into her hair as he angled her head for his mouth, then stopped inches from completing the kiss she already yearned for beyond reason.

  ‘You need to say the words, Bronte, before I can kiss you,’ he commanded softly.

  She felt a smile curve her lips, tremulous, determined and only slightly terrified.

  ‘Are you going to keep telling me what to do? Because if you are, I may change my mind,’ she found herself saying, not sure where the strength to tease him came from, but impossibly pleased with the result when his lips drew another millimetre closer.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, the smile in his voice impossibly alluring. ‘Because I won’t let you.’

  She had only a moment to gasp in mock outrage before his mouth was on hers—taking, demanding, tempting. The rich taste of the bourbon shattered the last of her defences as he licked across the seam of her lips. She kissed him back, letting the excitement surge as he explored her mouth in masterful strokes.

  She swayed and firm hands gripped her waist, holding her steady as his lips travelled down to the pulse point in her neck to nip and suck and drive her wild.

  She was panting, breathing so heavily she was scared she might start to hyperventilate, as his hands travelled up her back, gliding under the soft cotton of her camisole. His thumbs toyed with the peaks of her breasts, the nipples tightening into throbbing points even through the fabric of her bra. She arched into the caress, desperate to feel his touch on naked flesh, annoyed by the clothes inhibiting them.

  ‘Please, I... Can you take off my bra?’ she stammered, the colour flooding her cheeks when he drew back and her whole body shuddered in protest—and unrequited need.

  Dropping his hands from her breasts, he cupped her cheeks.

  Humiliation swept through her when a smile tugged at those firm sensual lips. Had she actually just begged him to take off her bra?

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you orders.’ Or sound so desperate, she thought when his smile became more pronounced.

  He chuckled, the sound rusty. ‘You don’t have to
apologise for telling me what you want.’

  ‘Oh... Well, good,’ she said, feeling ridiculous. Insecurity flooded her. ‘But why did you stop then?’

  His dark eyes flashed with a fire so intense she felt scalded.

  ‘I’m not stopping, but how about we slow down?’

  She wasn’t sure it was a question but she nodded anyway, mesmerised by the gruff note of need. She hadn’t turned him off. This was good.

  He lifted her hand to his lips then kissed the knuckles, and each of her fingers in turn. The act was tender, reverential, but also carnal. Her heart lurched in her chest as heat bloomed in her abdomen.

  He laved the webbing between her fingers, mapped the tracery of veins on the back of her hand, tested the swell of flesh beneath her thumb with his teeth and finally planted his lips on the pulse point pounding in her wrist.

  She gasped and squirmed as the shock wave of sensation speared through her body.

  Who knew her hand was an erogenous zone?

  Grasping her fingers—limp now with desire—he tugged her against him and wrapped her hand around his back until her whole body softened against the hard lines of his. The powerful jut of his erection, outlined against her stomach, sent a quiver of reaction arrowing down.

  ‘FYI,’ he whispered against her hair, tracing the shell of her ear with that deviously coaxing tongue, ‘you couldn’t turn me off if you tried.’

  She leaned back, a little horrified that he had been able to read her doubts so easily. But what she saw in his face—the rigid control, accompanied by wry amusement and unadulterated need—sent a betraying shudder of excitement through her.

  You’re not lying to him about the baby...you’re simply delaying telling him the truth.

  Clasping her hand, he led her towards the bedroom suite, which was flooded with natural light from the late autumn sunset.

  ‘Could we close the blinds?’ she said as he closed the door behind them.

  He cradled her cheek, a wry smile reaching his eyes. ‘The windows are treated; no one can see in. And anyway, we’re thirty-one floors up.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  His brows lifted in quizzical enquiry, forcing her to spell it out.

  ‘Last time we did this it was darker.’ And she’d had a lot less to hide. ‘I’m not used to men...to anyone seeing me naked.’

  * * *

  The unfamiliar pang of tenderness struck Lukas—not just at her request, which made him all the more aware of her inexperience—but at the bravery with which she delivered it, despite the quiver of uncertainty.

  Damn, what the hell am I going to do with you, Bronte?

  She was so much more than he had expected. And so much sweeter, and hotter, and more straightforward than he was used to.

  Which made her vulnerable in ways he had never considered.

  He’d accepted he would have to be careful with her, that he would have to keep his more basic and elemental desires on lockdown until she got used to being in his bed. Which was why he hadn’t given into the desire to rip her clothes off the minute she’d asked. But until this moment he hadn’t considered anything beyond their sexual connection. She’d been so strong and independent up till now, it hadn’t even occurred to him that the responsibility not to hurt her, not to take too much, went way beyond the physical.

  The thought disturbed him. He’d never had this responsibility before, never wanted it.

  But, unfortunately, as she stood before him and he noticed for the first time how slender she was, how small and fragile compared to him, he knew backing away now wasn’t an option. The ache in his groin spiked, as if to remind him and get his libido back on track.

  He quelled the desire to suggest they keep the shades up just because he wanted to see every inch of her succulent flesh while he devoured it.

  He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and opened the app which controlled the apartment’s electronics. Then adjusted the shades. The glow of the setting sun dimmed but did nothing to take away the golden quality of the light on her skin. Not quite ready to give up the game completely, he brought the lights up a fraction because while he was willing to make adjustments for her shyness, he wasn’t about to make love to her in the dark. The concession felt worth it though, when the rigid line of her shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked as he flung his phone on the dresser.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, and he couldn’t help it, he laughed, breaking at least a little of the tension mounting in the room, her studied politeness striking him as comical.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ she said, dismayed.

  He placed a hand on her butt to anchor her to him and chuckled again. That had to be another first, he thought vaguely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed during sex. Sex was usually a serious business for him—a bargain struck between two consenting adults to achieve sexual satisfaction—but with her it felt spontaneous, joyful, fun in a way it never had before.

  ‘No,’ he said as he concentrated on unbuttoning her shirt and dragging it off her shoulders.

  ‘Then why are you laughing?’ she said, sounding a little defensive.

  The shirt dropped to the floor and he sobered, the rush of heat obliterating everything else. The stiff peaks of her breasts were clearly visible through her tank and bra, her breaths making her curves more abundant.

  He moistened his lips, the desire to feel those ripe nipples stiffen against his tongue drying his mouth. Hooking his forefinger into the belt of her jeans, he tugged her closer, close enough to strip off the tank and release the hook on her bra.

  ‘I’m not laughing any more,’ he murmured, breaking the strained silence as he dragged down the thick cotton straps, discarded the bra and cupped the heavy flesh in his palms.

  He rubbed his thumbs over the resilient peaks then plucked and played, learning the shape and texture of her and gauging her reaction. He revelled in her unguarded response, the broken sobs as her nipples swelled and hardened.

  Her eyes glazed with stunned passion, her back arching in instinctive invitation. He bent to drag one straining tip into his mouth.

  She pushed into his mouth as he feasted on the sweet taste of her desperation. His fingers became urgent as he fumbled with her belt, popped open the buttons on her fly and eased her jeans over slim hips.

  She held his head, her fingers gripping his hair as he continued the sharp suction on her breast and pressed the heel of his palm to her core over damp cotton. She bucked against his hold but he ignored her startled breath, the sultry spice of her arousal filling his nostrils as he slid his fingers beneath her panties and found the plump, swollen folds of her sex.

  She was soaking wet, his fingers gliding against the stiff button of her clitoris with ease.

  He stroked over it and around it, teasing her, testing her, her shuddering response as she charged towards orgasm making his erection strain so hard against his fly he was surprised it didn’t rip open his pants.

  ‘Oh...oh,’ she sobbed incoherently against his ear. ‘I can’t...’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ he demanded, stroking ruthlessly now—desperate to see her shatter. Thrusting one finger then two into the tight clasp of her body, he massaged the walls of her sex.

  She cried out against his ear, her body gripping his fingers as he thrust her into orgasm. His own climax licked at his spine. She collapsed against him, limp and sated and all his.

  Scooping her into his arms, he strode to the bed but the weirdest thought assailed him as he stripped off her pants and boots, tugged down her panties and then tore off his own clothes and fumbled with the condom.

  If he didn’t get inside her in the next ten seconds, burying himself so deep that he was the only thing she could think about or feel, he might very well die.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘THE HORMONE LEVEL
S in your test are consistent with your dates, which makes you six weeks’ gestation. So if you’re considering termination I’d strongly recommend that you make the decision soon.’ The young female nurse sent Bronte a fleeting smile tinged with sympathy.

  ‘I’m not,’ Bronte said, her hand straying back to the life growing in her belly.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to ask me?’ the nurse said gently. ‘You can still take more time to think about the options if you need to.’

  Bronte shook her head. ‘I don’t need time to think about it. I’ve decided I want to have the baby.’ The words came out on a whisper of breath, the first time she’d ever said them out loud. But all the reasons why having this baby would be a disaster didn’t hijack the bubble of happiness sitting under her breastbone.

  She would have to tell Lukas now. She couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. She’d started feeling nauseous some mornings and it had been a month since they’d started sleeping together regularly—hot, feral, erotic encounters snatched whenever she was willing to go to his penthouse. She’d limited those encounters to two days a week, and made sure that she never stayed with him overnight, to at least try to keep her emotions in perspective.

  But the more time she spent with Lukas, the more desperate she became to crack the shell he kept around his feelings. Because over the evenings they’d shared together her own shell had crumbled. Every time he stroked or licked or thrust her to orgasm, every time he held her afterwards and tried to cajole her to stay, she’d become convinced the connection they shared went way beyond the sex.

  The way he insisted on accompanying her back to the house whenever they had a liaison. The fact he hadn’t left the country since she’d agreed to their arrangement. The way he called her every day. And the effort he was making to forge a relationship with Nico.

  She’d even begun to see those increasingly autocratic texts, when he demanded to know if she would be visiting the penthouse that evening, as a sign of his deepening need for her in his life, rather than just a sign that he was far too used to getting his own way.