by Sam Crescent
“I’ve wasted so much time already. I could have approached you. Gotten to know you. Dated you. I don’t want to let another moment go by when I don’t tell the world that you belong to me.” He kissed her again. “Marry me.”
“Am I dreaming?”
“No.” He ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “You’re not dreaming. You and I, we’re right here, together. I won’t let you go.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll marry you.”
He kissed her hard, and Leah couldn’t believe it.
Nate broke the kiss. “I’m going to make you the happiest woman on earth.”
“I’m already the happiest woman. There’s no way I could be any happier.” She touched his cheek, marveling at just how happy she was. “I don’t want this moment to end.”
“It’s not going to.” He picked her up and carried her through to his bedroom where he made love to her all night long.
Epilogue
Eight months later
Nate didn’t know love felt this way. Staring down into the sleeping face of his little girl, he was blown away by everything. His wife, exhausted from a long labor, smiled up at him. She’d finished feeding their hungry daughter, and she needed to rest herself but seemed determined to stay awake.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, taking her hand, kissing it as he sat down close so they both could look at their daughter.
“I can’t believe she’s really here. She’s so beautiful,” Leah said.
The day after he proposed, he’d gotten a pregnancy kit and discovered Leah was already carrying his child. From that day, everything had been crazy. He’d married her within the month, then sued several magazine and newspapers for the slanderous names they called her. His wife was no gold-digger or a whore, and yet some had tried to claim she was. He wouldn’t have any one upsetting his wife. She was his woman, and he’d vowed to take care of her, to love her. She still continued to work with him as his PA. Rebecca was there as well. He had two PAs, so neither one had to work as hard.
“You’re the most amazing woman,” he said.
She laughed. “I’m like every single woman.”
“No, you’re my woman.” He kissed her cheek.
Nate had no idea how empty his life had been before she turned up into his world. There was no one else he wanted. She was the love of his life.
“I’ve never been so scared,” he said.
Leah had woken him up with a scream as the first contraction hit. From that moment, he’d been in a state of panic to get her to the hospital. He’d called ahead and they’d been ready, but even as the contractions were painful, she’d not been dilated enough. For hours, he’d held her as she screamed and cried. Once each one passed, she tried to make him feel better, but nothing would.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I don’t want to go through that again. I can’t bear to see you in pain.” He kissed her lips.
“It wasn’t so bad, and look what we got. Little Rose.”
“That’s going to be her name, Rose Cowley.”
“I love it,” she said.
“No, I love you.” He didn’t know if he was ever going to be able to handle another baby, but he did know he’d give Leah whatever she wanted.
The End
Find more books from author Sam Crescent:
www.evernightpublishing.com/sam-crescent
Sam Crescent’s Chatroom
Stacey and Sam’s Playroom
SUTTER
Raven McAllan
Copyright © 2020
Chapter One
Sutter stood by the bedside and glanced at the woman sprawled across the sheets.
He knew he was jet-lagged, but not to the extent he wouldn’t remember issuing an invitation to share his bed.
His bed. His sheets. The ones his ex had laughed about. She couldn’t understand why he wanted the best quality cotton when in her words, silk was so sexy. There was a lot else she couldn’t understand. Including fidelity.
Do not go there. Over and done with, thank God.
Back to the present problem.
Here. In his house.
The house where he’d had to unlock the door to get in, and switch the burglar alarm off.
The alarm supposed to repel all invaders. Someone, somewhere needed a good shake up. Of the “your bleeping alarm didn’t bleep, it’s crap, sort it,” type.
Who the hell was she? How on earth had she got in? As far as he remembered—and he had a phenomenal memory—he had made no arrangements for company that night. Or any night. His cock was under the impression a warm, welcoming pussy was a figment of his imagination.
If he thought about it, there had been no arrangements for company any night for as long as he could remember. His dick was redundant. An appendage with no function—except to pee.
He yawned and shook his head to try to disperse the fog there. When was the last time he had more than three hours’ consecutive sleep?
Weeks, if not months. And now this.
He was, in a word, exhausted. It had been an arduous, protracted, and complicated few days, where each one of those days felt as if it had thirty-six hours in it. Time where he’d traveled halfway around the world, bought one ailing company, sacked a lot of dead wood, and as ever, gained more enemies than friends. Jet-lagged, pissed off by how much trouble one sodding naysayer could cause, and no longer speaking to his father, all Sutter wanted was a glass of single malt and his bed.
The malt he had. The bed appeared to be a fond memory, cotton sheets notwithstanding.
He was, in a word, knackered. Almost, as he said in a semi-jest, to a crowd of … of what … friends, acquaintances, enemies, hangers-on, ready to say fuck the lot of you and go and live on his island in the middle of a Scottish loch. Permanently.
The cries of “what about us?” left him unmoved. As did his father’s “you callous bastard, what about me and Dorene?”
He didn’t give a flying fuck about his money-draining, stealing parent and the man’s bloodsucker—or was that money-sucker—of a wife. His fault for not stopping things earlier. Turning off the tap. Sacking thieves. However, now, enough was enough. Sutter had decided he’d been the bank of the family for long enough. Why, just because he’d worked hard and got to where he was—a multi-millionaire with more money than they thought he knew what to do with—should he be the one to payroll other people’s hedonistic lives? He was always happy to put his hand into his pocket and copper—or quid—up when it was for someone or something deserving, just not for those who thought it their due and did nothing to warrant it.
So, here he was. No energy left to play squash, or checkers, let alone bedroom games.
His cock twitched. Almost no energy, he amended.
Nevertheless, what the fuck was this scenario all about?
Sutter sighed, loosened his bowtie, and took out his cufflinks as he watched the slow rise and fall of the sheet over her body. Was she naked? It was hard to tell with the soft cotton wound so tight round her shoulders. He sipped some whisky and considered the woman.
He didn’t know her that was for sure. Neither carnally—although judging by the way it had hardened to a rock, his cock would like to change that—nor any other way. No woman of his acquaintance with carrot-red spiral-curled hair had ever graced his bed, that much he did know.
So who was she and why was she there?
Sutter headed for the bathroom deep in thought and stopped dead at the sight of a pile of damp clothes hung over the towel rail, next to the bath.
Naked then. He hesitated, turned on the shower, and stood under the spray as he rotated his shoulders to get the aches out of them. If the water woke her and she didn’t scarper—hard he assumed without her clothes—all for the good. He could ask her what the hell was going on.
Sadly, it didn’t get rid of the erection he sprouted or the erotic ideas he’d conjured up when he saw her. Inappropriate an
d ill-advised they might be, but shit, they were also bloody interesting.
She still hadn’t woken, when with a towel around his hips, he strode back into the bedroom. She’d moved though, and the covers had slipped to allow one creamy skinned foot, with pearly varnish on the nails, to show, and the hint of a curvy breast peeked around the top edge of the sheet.
There was just enough space to allow someone to slip into the bed next to her.
Accident or design?
Coincidence? Sutter didn’t believe in them.
What the fuck was going on?
Sutter bent his head and touched his lips to hers. She could only clout him one after all. His almost acquiescent cock went from semi soft to hard enough to chop bricks in a nano-second.
Her lips softened, and he slipped his tongue between them to mesh it with hers. The soft moan she uttered was music to his ears. His weariness lifted.
The sheet dipped even further, and one rosy breast demanded to be touched. Not that body parts could act independently—except he reckoned, for his cock, but he obliged and stroked the soft skin until her nipple hardened and he was able to nip and twirl it between his thumb and forefinger.
She sighed. “Nice.”
That was an understatement. “Open for me, sweetheart. Let me touch you inside.” Let me fuck you.
“Mmm … night…” If she’d been awake the little snuffling noises she made told him she wasn’t any longer.
He considered the slumbering form for a second, then bent and tugged on the foot that showed.
The woman muttered something he couldn’t understand, grunted, and tried to turn over. He held on and tugged again.
“Darling, I’ve been waiting for you to come and make l—” She opened her eyes, let out a scream that made his head ache, shot up as if she had been shot, shoved her arm in his direction and planted one tight fist on his nose.
Sutter reeled back as inevitably his nose began to bleed, and hurt like hell. If she’d been about to say “make love” she chose a mighty strange way to show her desires.
“Whadafoo?” It was the best he could manage as he undid the towel from around his waist and put it over his nose.
“Almost my words,” she said as she scrambled out of bed, with the sheet wrapped around her. “Don’t you know not to wake someone up like that? Apart from scaring me to death, now you’ve got blood all over the towel, and shit.” Her voice rose to a screech, which made him wince. “You’re bloody naked. Put something on.”
And horny.
To his amusement she screwed her eyes shut.
He decided to take her words literally. “I do have blood on the towel,” he said. “But no shit. I am naked because I used the towel I wore to stem the bloody nose you gave me. Oh, and I’m happy to make love to you.” Even though I have no idea who you are.
She went bright red. “That’s irrelevant, all of it. Get dressed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sutter unhooked his toweling robe from the back of the bathroom door, replaced the towel with a wad of tissues, and wandered back into the bedroom as he tied the belt of his robe. It tented, but there was nothing he could do about that. The one sure-fire way to get rid of his erection—hot, sweaty sex—was, he guessed, about as likely to happen as him regaining his virginity. She seemed to have forgotten—conveniently or otherwise—her welcome. “All covered now. You can open your eyes. I’ve spared your maidenly blushes.” Though how on earth a woman in his bed, his bed, could be innocent he had no idea.
She opened one eye, squinted at him, then looked away hurriedly. “Good. Er, do you have a spare robe?”
Sutter shook his head. “Nope,” he lied shamelessly. “You’ll have to make do with the sheet. Or go naked. That won’t bother me.”
“It will me though. Gah, men.” The woman wound the sheet around her and tucked the ends in. “All cock-eyed ideas.”
He snorted, and she scowled.
“Shut up.”
Evidently that hadn’t come out the way she meant.
“Right,” she demanded. “Explain yourself.”
He explain himself? What on earth did she mean?
“I think, my dear,” he drawled. “The boot is on the other foot. Or would be if either of us were wearing any. What the fuck are you doing here, in my bed?” Waiting for us to make love? Ha, I should be so lucky.
Her eyes opened wide. “Waiting for you of course. In a non-romantic way.”
That was what he was afraid of.
“So why the arousing welcome?”
“Wh… there wasn’t.” However, she appeared to find it hard to look him in the eye. “I was dreaming. Not of you.”
“If you say so. In any case, where’s the cameras?” Sutter demanded as he glanced around the room. Though where they could hide he had no idea, and how they—or she—could have got in even less idea. “Or the journalist to ask what I’m doing with you in my room?” To say nothing about the tears and recriminations? “If it wasn’t an affectionate welcome, why the no clothes scenario?”
She blushed. “I brought a takeaway with me, and spilled ketchup all down myself. I tried to wash it off. Bad idea so I left them in the bathroom to dry.”
That could be plausible, but he still had to ask. “Did my father or his wicked witch put you up to this?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is all down to you, you sod, and you know it.”
It is? What is?
The woman shook her head so fast her hair spun out like a halo of moonlight. A blood moon. Was that red as carrots color real? There was one way to find out, as long as she wasn’t one of the dare to be bare brigade, but his chances there were as likely as his football team winning the cup. Since their inception over a hundred years earlier they’d never even made it out of the first round. Sutter dragged his mind away from hair, there or otherwise, and concentrated on the matter in hand.
“Come off it, honey. Who sent you here and for what?”
“You’re the one who started this, not me.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, folded her arms across her sheet-clad chest, and glared at him. “You better have a good reason and an even better way of sorting it all out. First you do that horrid thing, and then you send that snarky note to be here now or else. Then you aren’t here, but there’s a key and so on waiting for me. And on top of all that, you say, ‘oh going to be late, do not go away,’ and I spill ketchup on my clothes. You, mate, have a lot of explaining to do.”
His head ached. She was either innocent or one of the best actresses it had been his displeasure to meet. Something was wrong, and he had no idea how to find out what it was. Sutter’s patience, never very strong at the best of times, gave up and let his temper take over. He ignored what she’d said and headed for the kill.
He pounced.
“Were you going to jump up and shout surprise?” he demanded. “Well, Miss Whoever you are, you’re the one who’s gonna get the surprise. Reporters, cameras or not, you’re the one who will lose out here.”
“Rep… What are you on?”
Her indignation and air of “pardon, what,” struck him as, well odd, in the circumstances. His anger fizzled out like a damp firework.
“A knife edge with my temper it seems. Elucidate, woman.”
“Do not say ‘woman’ in that tone, mister,” she rapped out. “Why would I want reporters to see what an up your own self person you are?” She scowled. “Actually, that might not be a bad idea, but then I’d be dropped in it even further than I am anyway. Just bloody tell me what made you do it?”
“Do what? I’m in the dark here. What the fuck is going on, and who the hell are you?”
Maybe his anger hadn’t quite fizzled out after all.
Chapter Two
Enya Brown stared at the bloke in front of her.
Hot wet dreams material. Did she dream someone had kissed her, stroked her breast and asked her to open for him, or was it real? It was a nebulous thought … not something she could hold onto or
define. Wishful thinking? Probably.
Otherwise why was he acting in such an obtuse manner? He had to know why she was there and who she was.
“Do not come the innocent, Mr. Sutter,” she snapped. “You know full well what the f…” She couldn’t bring herself to use the “f” word. “Hell is going on, and who I am. Stop pretending you’re guiltless and tell me what you’re going to do to sort the whole sorry mess out.” God, what do I sound like? Her words reminded her of an old teacher who would never ask anyone to do something nicely, always demand, and as a result got a lot less cooperation. Flies and honey… “Please.” Unfortunately, it was impossible to stalk toward him and poke him in the stomach as she would like—the sheet was too confining—but she could, and did, give him her best glare, even if it did go against the grain and not really work with her “please”. What the hell was his first name? Surely, he should at least provide that? It was strange, and she still couldn’t understand what had happened or why.
To have the day she’d had and then see him naked was a bit too much. Not that she had any objection to naked men, just the opposite. Not that long before she’d had to appear to make her living from them after all, but his nakedness was different. Disturbingly different and to feel aroused was the last thing she needed right then.
This bloody day—or she supposed day, evening, and now night—was a nightmare. How could her life have gone to hell in a handbasket in such a short time?
“What is your name anyway?” she asked him abruptly.
“Sutter.”
“I know that,” Enya replied impatiently. “Who Sutter?”
“Just Sutter will do. I never use any other name.” He sipped some more whisky. She hated the stuff, but a glass might just do some good at the moment.
“Can I have some please?” she gestured to the glass in his hand. “It might help my blood pressure.”
