My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  "So maybe you have time for some fun real quick?"

  Sandra and I smiled at each other hopefully, but it was not long lived.

  "I told you," Zara said. "I'm having fun."

  Sandra sagged against the couch cushions in defeat. I sighed and then smiled across the room at my daughter.

  "Okay, baby, you have fun," I said, forcing a smile.

  When I looked back over at Sandra, she was assessing me over the lip of her already refilled wine glass.

  "What?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "We're all having fun."

  "Emhmm."

  I sipped my wine sheepishly, avoiding Sandra's firm gaze. An “emhmm” from her meant a loud, resounding “bullshit”, just like “bless your heart” meant “go ahead and go fuck yourself, please, and thank you”.

  I tried not so subtly to change the subject. "So I was doing some more research on the best high schools in the state and—"

  "You need to go out," Sandra said, interrupting me.

  I sighed. "Can I at least tell you about this one high sch—"

  "No," Sandra interrupted again. "No, you may not. Zara is nine and you need to go out and get laid."

  I lunged forward and clasped a hand quickly over Sandra's mouth. I jerked my eyes toward Zara, and Sandra calmly peeled away my hand.

  "That child wouldn't hear a fire alarm until the flames were already on her books," Sandra said.

  I glanced warily over at Zara, who licked her finger to turn a page.

  "Listen to me, Abbi," Sandra said. "You haven't been laid in years, and your only friend is your child's old-ass wino babysitter."

  My lips paused on the edge of my wine glass. "You're not my only friend," I protested.

  Sandra levelled her gaze at me. "The mailman does not count," she argued, somehow reading my admittedly sad thoughts.

  "Um, I baked him cookies for Christmas."

  "Yeah, but did he eat them?" Sandra asked.

  I sighed and threw a hand up into the air. "How was I supposed to know he was allergic to nuts?"

  Sandra crossed her arms over her large chest. "Aren't you friends?"

  I rolled my eyes dramatically. "Forgive me for not knowing one teeny, tiny, itty-bitty detail about one of my friends."

  Sandra bobbed her head side to side. "Okay, fair, fair," she said, surprising me.

  I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at her, fearing a trap.

  "Is your mailman's name a 'teeny, tiny, itty-bitty detail', too?" she asked, tracing her finger along the lip of her own wine glass.

  "Huh?"

  Sandra shook her head. "Nope, no, don't you 'huh' me, Abbi," she said, wagging a finger at me. "Tell me your BFF the mailman's name right now. Tell me, Abbi. Tell me right now. Tell—"

  "Why would I need another friend when I have you?" I interrupted, clearly trying to deflect from the fact that I did not indeed know my mailman's name.

  Sandra placed a hand against her chest. "I am a fantastic friend," she said. "That's not up for debate. I mean, you really lucked out with me. One-in-a-million kind of friend right here. I mean, really the best."

  "Okay now."

  "But that's not the point!" Sandra continued. "You have needs that I can't…" Sandra glanced over at the table where Zara sat, still studying, and lowered her voice, "…attend to." She eyed my crossed legs.

  I smacked her. "I thought we were playing charades. That's all I need, really. My friend, my daughter, and a nice night in playing charades."

  "Emhmm."

  I ignored Sandra's pointed gaze and again tried to get Zara to come join us.

  "Z, baby, we can do US presidents if you'd like? Or foreign prime ministers? I know you love foreign prime ministers."

  When we received no response but the scratch of Zara's pen against her notebook page, Sandra jumped up from the couch, her wine nearly sloshing out of her glass that she clearly had no intention of letting go of.

  "How about I go first?" she said, moving to stand behind the coffee table in front of the TV.

  I adjusted myself on the couch, tucking my knees beneath me as I grinned. "See, we're having fun," I said. "What's the category?"

  Sandra held out her hand. "Don't worry, I don't think you'll have any problem guessing it."

  I nestled into the couch with my last few drops of wine, ready to guess. I didn't need much more than this. I really didn't. I was happy. I was.

  Even if I wasn't the happiest ever, I was responsible. I was there for her, there to give her what she needed. I was providing for Zara the best I could. I had her enrolled in the best private school in the state. I made sure she participated in every extracurricular activity. I fed her the daily recommended servings of fruits and vegetables, even if they were more often than not from a can. That was what was most important.

  "You ready?" Sandra asked, to which I gave a quick nod.

  I watched as Sandra held up one finger.

  "One word," I replied dutifully.

  Sandra nodded and then shuffled her feet from side to side before planting them about a shoulder's width apart. Then she mimed holding something out in front of her, grinned across the living room at me, and then thrust her hips forward again and again and again.

  "Sandra!"

  After my outburst, I quickly covered my mouth and checked behind the back of the couch, sighing in relief when I, unsurprisingly, found Zara's nose buried behind a growing stack of library books.

  "Sandra," I hissed, turning back toward my friend, who was giggling behind her glass of wine.

  "Sorry, sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I just couldn't help myself."

  I glared at her.

  "I'm done, I'm done," she insisted. "Just wanted to have a little bit of fun for a second."

  I huffed irritably and said, "We've been having fun this entire time."

  Why did it seem like everyone, including myself, needed constant and persistent convincing of this?

  "Anyway," Sandra said, ignoring me to instead go to refill her glass, think better of it, and then just grab the whole bottle. "Okay, for real this time."

  I relented with a sigh. "Fine."

  Sandra nodded, wedged the wine bottle against her chest, and then managed to hold up six fingers. I raised an eyebrow.

  "Six words? Wait, is this a movie title or what?"

  Sandra repositioned and then held up nine fingers. I frowned in confusion.

  "Nine words? You just said it was six wo—Sandra!"

  One benefit of her being drunker than me was that when I hurled a pillow at her, she was too slow to duck and I got to watch it hit her in the face. I laughed and realised it really was the first time I'd truly laughed that night. It felt good. And it left a tinge of sadness in my chest.

  "Are we going to play or not?" I asked, threatening to throw another pillow at her.

  "Yes, yes, Schoolmaster," she said, rolling her eyes. "We'll play, okay?"

  I settled back into the couch.

  "Two words," I supplied when Sandra held up two fingers.

  "First word."

  Sandra turned around to face the TV. I frowned.

  "Um, turning?"

  Sandra faced me again and then made a big deal of turning around.

  "One-eighty?" I guessed. "Um, other way? Backwards?"

  Sandra's tilting hand told me I was closed.

  "Okay, backwards. Second word."

  Sandra mimed pulling out a gun and then tipping a hat.

  "Cowboy?" I said. "Almost. Me? I'm a cowboy. No, me, cowgirl! Cowgirl."

  A mischievous glint sparkled in Sandra's dark eyes as I put it together aloud.

  "Backwards cowgirl. Backwards cow…"

  Reverse cowgirl.

  Sandra squealed as I leapt up from the couch and chased after her. She darted into the kitchen and I followed, snatching at her. We found ourselves on either side of the round kitchen table, books falling to the floor as she tried to escape me.

  "Hey!" Zara cried.

  Our little game ended w
hen she pushed back her chair, gathered her books into her arms, and stormed off toward her bedroom.

  "I thought I was the child," she shouted before slamming her door closed.

  Sandra and I looked at each other across the table, and then we each struggled to keep our uncontrollable laughter silent. We went to each other, pushing our fingers against the lips of the other as tears streamed down our cheeks.

  "You have to be quiet," I gasped.

  "You have to be quiet," she giggled.

  We ended up on the floor, side by side, leaning against the refrigerator, wiping away our tears as we clutched our aching sides and gasped for breath.

  I leaned my head back against the fridge and sighed. "I need to get a life, don't I?" I asked Sandra quietly.

  I turned my head enough to see her nodding at me. I returned my gaze back to the white ceiling.

  "I'm just not sure I know how to anymore."

  Michael

  The flight attendant's fingers clawed at the dark granite walls of the men's bathroom in the VIP lounge for American Airlines. My fingers clawed at her waist.

  Our harsh pants filled the locked bathroom as I fucked her from behind rough and fast and hard. Her deep-ruby hair slipped from the tidy bun at the base of her neck as her head fell between her shaking shoulders.

  "Yeah," she whined. "Fuck, yeah."

  I gripped her full hips tighter, nails digging into her pale flesh just below her skirt that she’d tugged up herself as I locked the door behind us after I’d followed her into the first stall. We hadn't bothered with foreplay, let alone kissing. I didn't know her and I didn't want to know her. I didn't even want to know anything about her, save the heat of her pussy and the sound of her high-pitched moans as she tightened around my cock.

  I'd slipped off my suit jacket, hung it carefully on the hook on the back of the door, and loosened my tie to undo the first button of my collared shirt. Then I’d released my cock from my open zipper, rolled down a condom, pushed her down with my hand between her shoulder blades, grabbed her ass, and thrust deep inside of her with a long, low groan.

  The girl tried to look back at me, but I didn't meet her eye. Instead, I grabbed hold of the red silk scarf all the airline's first-class stewardesses wore around their long, elegant necks. I tugged slightly, just enough for her to get even wetter at the thought of how dangerous I could be. She could imagine me however she'd like; she could imagine that this seductive rendezvous in the bathroom could be the start of something. She could imagine she'd found a bad boy that she'll reform with her smile, with her tits. She could imagine I'd remember her an hour from now. Hell, if she wanted, she could imagine I'd remember her a year from now.

  I didn't care.

  Because I was imagining a fantasy scenario, too. I was imagining if I fucked her fast enough from behind, I would finally forget those lingering memories of soft hazel eyes looking up at me. I was imagining that if I pulled her hair hard enough, I might forget what it was like to move my lips achingly slowly over sun-kissed skin. I was imagining that if I came with this woman facing away from me, I'd convince myself that it was how I liked it, that I didn't want to see a face, that I didn't need to see a face.

  That I didn't need to see her face.

  If I could dream, well, so could this flight attendant.

  I pulled back on her silk scarf just a little harder and she reached an arm back to tug my hips closer. I thrust deeper inside her pussy and she quivered around me. I grabbed her wrist and pinned it at the small of her back, making her moan wildly.

  With each foot, I nudged farther apart her tall black stilettos and drove deeper still. I hammered into her for a minute more as sweat broke out on my brow and my nails left deep, red indentations in her milky skin.

  As she came she started to scream and I quickly reached a hand around to clasp my fingers over her mouth. Her teeth sank into my fingers and at the flare of pain, I buried myself fully inside of her clenching muscles and came, yanking back at her scarf as she bit me.

  I only allowed myself to sag against her for three quick, steadying breaths before I pulled out, straightened, and got rid of the condom before rebuttoning my shirt. I was retightening my tie when the girl turned around. I eyed her warily as she leaned against the back corner of the stall and bit her lips while running her long fingers up and down her thighs.

  "That was fun," she said, her voice silky and seductive.

  I gave her a curt nod and straightened my tie.

  "You know, I fly through Dublin all the time," she continued as I dragged my hands through my hair to smooth back the pieces that had fallen into my eyes. "We could, you know…do this again some time?"

  Her fingers moved toward my chest, but I turned at that moment to take my suit jacket down from the hook.

  "So you think you'll be able to pull some strings and get me onto that earlier flight to La Guardia?" I asked, slipping it on in one easy motion. I adjusted the cuffs and brushed a strand of her hair from the arm. "You'd really be helping me out."

  My fingers easily found my Blackberry tucked away in the inner breast pocket of my suit. I typed in my password and pulled up my email. My first big project as a new senior partner at PLA Harper was to oversee the merger with an American firm. That meant several weeks in the States. That meant several weeks of an interruption to my schedule. And worse, it meant several weeks of working with a new assistant provided by the American firm.

  I'd grown used to Caroline as my personal assistant. No matter what time, day or night, weekday or weekend, holiday or goddamn family funeral, she replied immediately. I said jump, she said how high. I said work overtime, she said how long. I said fuck, she said which position, sir.

  So far from this new assistant I'd gotten nothing but silence. All I knew was that she would be there to pick me up from the airport. She had yet to reply to any of my emails regarding files I needed pulled, reports I needed aggregated, documents I needed bound and distributed to board members. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

  My fingers flew over the little keyboard, sending in quick succession several emails to my new assistant, whose first impression was certainly lacking. Even after those there were several more that needed sending. I was halfway through the next one when I realised that I'd forgotten about the flight attendant crammed into the tight space of the bathroom stall with me.

  I raised my eyes from the small screen of my Blackberry to find the woman with her arms crossed, glaring at me. I frowned at her in confusion. "Yes?"

  She tapped a toe of her tall heel.

  "I'm starting to think that you're just using me," she said.

  I stopped myself from saying what first came to the tip of my tongue, “No shite, Sherlock.” But just barely. I did my best to keep my frustrated sigh to myself. Normally I'm pretty good at picking the women who wanted what I wanted: a fast fuck, an even faster goodbye. I avoided the ones who might get the wrong idea, those who entertained silly notions like sentimentality, feelings, “real connections”.

  I'd assumed that when this woman leaned across the counter it was an intentional move to press her tits higher in her bra so I could see them straining against her skin-tight blouse. I'd assumed that meant her body was open for business. I'd assumed we could both be adults and handle this business proposition as such.

  I forced a smile.

  This happened sometimes. Sometimes you had to make them feel wanted. Sometimes you had to make them feel desired. Sometimes you had to make them feel like a rough fuck in a goddamn bathroom stall was the start of a fairy-tale romance.

  In other words, sometimes I had to lie.

  "Is that what you think?" I asked, my voice dark, alluring, like the dangerous rattle of a snake in the bushes.

  She was pouting, her bright-red lips pushed out like a fucking child. She nodded and in a whining voice said, "Yeah. That's what it seems like to me."

  I subtly glanced at my wristwatch. Still thirty minutes before the earlier flight to New York bo
arded. There was still time to make this work, I thought. There was still time to make the flight attendant…pliant.

  I approached her in the small space, moving to stand in front of her, loom over her. I placed a hand on either side of her freckled face.

  "Is that what it seems like?" I asked softly.

  Her eyes dilated, pupils widening as she bit her lip and nodded up at me. "Yeah."

  "Is that what this seems like?" I asked as I slowly lowered myself to my knees in front of her.

  She shivered as my fingers started to run along her ankles. But the unwanted memory of sea glass bracelets, tiny and delicate and smelling of salt water and sunshine, made me pull back my hand as if I'd been burnt. I shook my head to clear it and instead shoved the girl's skirt up to her hips in one quick movement; she gasped.

  "Do you still think I'm using you?" I whispered up to her as I wiggled her red lace thong down her legs.

  "Maybe," she said, running her palms over her straining, hard nipples.

  I smirked up at her. "How about now?" I asked before exhaling against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, gripping her legs with both arms.

  She exhaled shakily and let her head fall back against the wall, sagging slightly against it.

  "You might be able to change my mind," she sighed, fingers moving to card annoyingly through the hair I just fixed.

  I told myself it didn't matter. I'd have a whole international flight to fix it in thirty minutes if I got her to put me on the earlier flight. I just had to focus. My mouth was moving toward the flight attendant's wet pussy when a knock sounded at the bathroom door. Her eyes opened and she glanced down at me with worry. I grinned up at her wickedly.

  "Busy," I shouted before burying my face between her legs.

  I had a flight to catch.

  Abbi

  Nothing starts a Monday morning off like an inbox exploding with pestering, incessant, rude emails from some international lawyer douchebag who gives his very detailed and very pain-in-the-ass lunch preferences before something as simple as his name. Each email read like a demand list from a hostage taker, signed just –M. Needless to say, I was just thrilled, absolutely thrilled to be spending the next several weeks with this asshole.