Beautiful Illusions Duet Bundle: Eighty-One Nights and Beautiful Ever After

by Georgia Cates

  “All you have to do is breathe and I want to be inside you.”

  We move to the bed and she lies down on the middle. I begin at her ankles, kissing my way up her body, which still looks amazing after four babies. She occasionally complains about stretch marks and her stomach being fleshy instead of flat, but I don’t see flaws when I look at her. She’s perfect to me.

  Pushing up her slip, I look at the tiny scrap of knickers covering her in the front. I push my fingers under the elastic waistband and tug. She lifts her bum and I drag the pink lace down her legs.

  After tossing her knickers on the floor, I migrate up her body slowly. When we’re face-to-face, I cradle her cheeks with both of my hands. “I love you, mo maise.”

  “And I love you, my hot Scot.”

  She brings her legs up around my waist and wiggles beneath me until I’m positioned at her drenched opening. “I was planning to go down on you.”

  She shakes her head. “Later. Right now, I want you inside me.”

  She squeezes her legs to coax me closer and I glide in slowly. I push her legs back, bending them out and she tilts her hips. I thrust in and out several times, and she meets each one, bringing me deeper inside her.

  “I miss this, Lou. Being so deep we become one with no beginning and no end.”

  I move my hand to where we’re joined and briefly enjoy feeling myself sliding in and out of her before I seek out her clit. We may be making love instead of fucking hard, but I’m still making sure my girl comes.

  She moans when I find the spot and I circle it with my fingers. “Does that feel good?”

  “Oh yeah,” she moans. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

  She tenses and squeezes her legs tightly, signaling the onset of her climax, and then I feel the magnificent way her body squeezes my cock. That, combined with the knowledge of knowing I’ve brought her to orgasm, ignites the onset of my undoing. I thrust a few more times and then drive deep inside her, emptying all of myself.

  Still blanketing her with my body, I kiss her forehead and lift my head so I can see her face. “Hi.”

  She smiles and giggles. “Hi.”

  She releases her legs from around my waist, but I’m not ready to pull out. This is a rare occasion these days. I want to stay like this for just a little bit longer.

  I lower my face to hers and gently scrape her with my facial hair. “I love the way your beard feels against my face.”

  “I’ve been thinking of shaving it.”

  “No! Absolutely not. It’s sexy as hell and I love the way it feels against my skin.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll keep it if it makes you happy.”

  I plant a quick kiss against her mouth before pulling out and rolling to my back. I reach to take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers. I still have to be touching her in some way after sex.

  We lie motionless and I savor the post-sex bliss and luxury of being sprawled naked. And a thought occurs to me: I’m actually going to get to fuck my wife a second time tonight. That never happens anymore.

  “What do you want for your birthday?”

  Well, that was out of the clear blue.

  “I don’t know.” Why is she asking about my birthday? It’s so far away.

  “I have a gift for you. But I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it.”

  “I always love your gifts. You know that.”

  “You didn’t ask for this gift.”

  “Sometimes those are the best kinds of gifts.”

  Lou takes my hand and puts it on her stomach. She places her hand on top of mine and presses down. “Your gift is right here.”

  I rise from the bed so I can see her face. “Are you… pregnant?”

  She nods and tears fill her eyes. “I am.”

  I look at our hands on top of her stomach. “How far along?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Maybe six weeks.”

  Another baby.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” With each pregnancy, Lou has been sick through the fourth month.

  “I’ve been fine so far.”

  Another baby.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Two days.”

  Another baby.

  “Did you wait to tell me because you were afraid of my reaction?”

  “Maybe.”

  I rub my hand over her stomach in a circular motion, same as I did the other times she was pregnant, and it still amazes me. “It’s right there beneath my hand. Already forming and growing.”

  I place my head on her stomach. “I want this baby. I already love him or her. Don’t worry for one second that I don’t. You and our children are my heart and now this baby is too.”

  “Just as you are mine. Always.”

  The End

  Author Note

  It is my greatest hope that you enjoyed my writing. I appreciate the time you invested in my story… in my words… in a part of me.

  I would be honored and grateful if you choose to leave a review.

  Continue reading to enjoy an excerpt of A Necessary Sin. An epic tale of revenge and love in a new romantic trilogy.

  Excerpt - A Necessary Sin

  The Sin Trilogy Book 1

  I’ve watched him from afar for years. And he has no idea.

  I take joy in that.

  Through my observations, I’ve learned what makes this charming villain tick.

  Whisky.

  Power.

  Beautiful women.

  And Sex. Lots of it.

  Sometimes you must get into bed with the enemy for the greater good. And that’s what I’ll do; it’s all part of making Sinclair Breckenridge fall in love with me so I can penetrate his inner circle.

  There’s hell to pay.

  I’m a dark horse. The perfect storm.

  I am Bleu MacAllister. And I’m coming for him.

  Prologue

  Stella Bleu Lawrence

  Age Seven

  I’m wearing my pretty pink princess apron and chef hat while doing my most favoritest thing in the world–baking chocolate chip cookies with my mama. I inspect the shiny plastic roll of dough, studying the picture of the white fluffy pastry boy on the package before turning it around for her to see. “Mama, look. He’s wearing a puffy hat just like mine. Except mine’s prettier.” Everything is prettier when it’s pink.

  My mama sprays the pan we’re using for our cookies. “He sure is, Bleubird. And I think you’re right. Yours is much prettier. Did you know only the best chefs in the world wear hats like yours?”

  Wow. This hat makes me one of the best chefs in the world so that means these cookies are going to be the most delicious I’ve ever baked.

  “It’s your favorite song,” I squeal when “Amanda” begins to play. Mama says Boston sings that song just for her. I think she could be right since Amanda is her name.

  We always listen to music when we’re cooking so I’ve heard this song a million times. I know every word by heart but I don’t understand what it means. Mama says it’s all about grown-up stuff and I’ll understand one day. I’m not sure I ever want to understand. Grown-up stuff makes my mama cry. A lot.

  I’m singing my guts out because it always makes her crack up. I love seeing her laugh because it means she isn’t crying. She’s too pretty to cry so much.

  She holds the plastic roll of dough to her mouth and pretends it’s a microphone. She sings so pretty. Everything about Mama is pretty. I hope I grow up to be just like her.

  The song gets to the part where there are no words, only guitars, so she puts her pretend microphone on the counter and slices into it with a sharp knife. She always does that part because she says I’m still too little to use knives. My job is to roll the dough into little balls. I’m not always great at it, though. Some come out big, some little. But she always tells me I’ve done a great job–even when I know I haven’t.

  “Can I have a bite of dough?” She’s making her “no” face. “Please… with lots and lots of sugar on top.�
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  I can’t remember why she said it’s okay to eat the cookie dough after it comes out of the oven, but not before. “Hailey’s mama lets her have cookie dough.”

  “Maybe one little bite will be okay, but we’re not going to make a habit of this, little lady.” She pinches off a tiny ball and I almost jump up and down because I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted to taste it because Hailey says it’s delicious.

  I miss cooking with Mama. We used to do it all the time but that was before she started her new job. She works at night so she has to leave me with our neighbor. Amelia’s nice to me but she’s old, smells funny, and never wants to play. All she does is sit in her chair with her feet up and watch that news show where the same stories repeat over and over. It’s sooo boring.

  I finish my tiny ball of cookie dough and immediately want more. “Another? Please, with sugar on top.” That worked the first time.

  “No, Stella. I said one bite and that’s what I meant so don’t ask again.” I knew she’d say no but it was worth a try.

  I line the balls of dough on the pan and she puts them in the preheated oven. “We’ll check them in ten minutes.” She sets the timer on the stove because we don’t want to burn them. We love our cookies gooey. “What do you want to do while we wait?”

  I look at the roll of leftover dough in the roll. “Umm… eat cookie dough?” I grin and bat my eyelashes, as if that’s going to get me what I want but she doesn’t budge. I only succeed in making her laugh, which is better than making her mad since I asked again after she told me not to.

  I sit at the table in our kitchen, tortured by the smell of baking cookies. “They smell sooo good. How much longer?”

  I’m not sure why I asked. I can plainly see the timer counting down. “Five more minutes.”

  I huff and blow my hair out of my face and prop my chin on my hands. “I wish they’d hurry up. I’m ready to taste those ooey-gooey cookies.”

  “Good things come to those who wait.” She tells me that all the time but I don’t understand why good things can’t come sooner instead of later. I hate waiting. “Do you want milk with your cookies?”

  “Yes!” I run to the fridge and swing the smaller side open. I hope we have mugs in the freezer. I love that milky ice that forms in the glass.

  The doorbell rings and Max, our ginormous German shepherd, barks as he runs toward the door. I bounce up from the kitchen table to follow him. “I bet it’s Hailey wanting to play.”

  Mama puts her hand out and catches me by the back of my shirt. “That’s not Hailey. Her mother wouldn’t let her come over this late.” She goes up on her tiptoes and spies through the peephole. She jerks back and twists to look at me before placing her finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tiptoes to me and takes my hand. She grabs Max by the collar and takes us down the hallway.

  She goes to her knees so we’re face to face and holds both of my shoulders when we are in my bedroom. “Listen to me very carefully. We’re going to play a little game. I want you to hide under your bed and be very, very quiet. Stay there until I return and tell you it’s okay to come out. Do you understand, Stella?”

  I nod, afraid and confused, but I do as I’m told and crawl under my bed.

  “Max, stay,” she commands. I see him obey, his butt sitting on my carpet, but he doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be quiet. He’s whining the way he does when he wants to disobey. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear,” Mama says.

  I watch her feet leave my room and she pulls my bedroom door shut. I lie silently on the floor beneath my bed, waiting for her to return so I can come out. This game is not fun.

  The music gets super-duper loud. Loud enough that I’m sure the neighbors will call and complain to Mr. Johnson.

  It’s another song I know by Boston. “More Than a Feeling.” The guitar is screaming so I know we’re going to get in trouble with the landlord. Our neighbor, Mr. Benson, likes to turn us in every chance he gets. He doesn’t like us much and I don’t know why.

  The carpet is making my cheek itch so I lift my face to scratch it. In the process, I bump the back of my head on the railing of my bed. “Oww.” I put my hand over my head and rub it where it burns.

  Max gets up from where he’s sitting and scratches at the carpet, trying to get out of my room. He whines louder and begins barking as he paws at the door. “Stop, Max. You’re gonna make Mama mad if you scratch the paint.”

  I hear a bang, the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life, and my heart beats faster than I can ever remember. “Mama?” I whisper but stay put because it’s what she told me to do. Don’t come out until I say it’s okay.

  What was that loud sound?

  I smell the burning cookies. Mama wouldn’t let our cookies burn.

  I think something bad is happening.

  Max howls, now clawing to get out, and I press my face into the carpet so I can see between the floor and my bed skirt. I think about letting him out so he can go to Mama.

  I don’t have time to do it before my bedroom door opens slowly. Max backs away and then lunges for the leg of the person coming into my bedroom.

  I hear that same bang again, this time even louder, before seeing Max fall to the floor.

  Red. It’s splattered all over my beige carpet and I know what it is. I want to scream at the top of my lungs but I can’t. My breath is gone and it feels like there’s a person I can’t see covering my mouth with a hand to quiet me.

  I want to squeeze my eyes shut but I can’t because I’m watching the big, black shiny shoes come toward my bed. It’s a man and his pants are torn where Max bit him. He’s bleeding.

  His feet go still next to my head. I hold my breath so he won’t hear me but I can’t do it for long. It feels the same as when I’ve been under water too long. My body forces me to take a breath. It’s louder than I intend. I hear it so I’m scared he did too.

  His feet don’t move and then the bed skirt next to my head lifts. “I see you under there,” he says and I recognize his voice. He’s that man that talks funny.

  My mama has never let me meet him but I know it’s him–the man who comes here to see her at night after I’ve gone to bed. She calls him Thane. “You can come out, wee darlin’.”

  I squeeze my eyes and scoot away. “Mama told me to stay here until she comes back.”

  He crouches next to the bed. I still can’t make out his face but I see the bloodstain getting bigger on his pants where Max bit him. “She says it’s okay. Your mum sent me to your room to get you.”

  I don’t believe this man. He’s bad. He killed my dog. “No.”

  “How old are you, toots? Six? Seven?” he asks.

  I back away until I’m pressed against the wall.

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment but when he does, it’s loud. “Fuck! Why did that wench have to go and have a bairn in the house?” he yells in a growly voice as he kicks my bed. I’m shaking because I’m scared. I squeeze my hands over my ears because I don’t want to hear him yell.

  He reaches beneath my bed and grabs my ankle, yanking me from the safe place. I have nowhere to go so I curl into a ball and wrap my arms around my head. I know what comes next. I’ve seen what bad men do. They hit.

  “Oh, toots. I really don’t want to do this but I have no choice.”

  I squeeze my eyes tighter and wait for the pain to come. But that isn’t what happens. He flips me to my back and presses something soft and feathery into my face so I can’t breathe.

  I kick, struggling for air, but he presses it harder. I fight with every ounce of strength I have but it’s no use. He’s a grown-up and I’m only a little girl. I don’t have the strength to make him stop and I’m afraid. I’m about to die.

  Then everything goes black.

  Chapter One

  Bleu MacAllister

  Memphis, Tennessee

  Just as a rose is unable to change its color, it isn’t possible for us to alter the past. It’s only once you realize this that y
ou’ll be set free. This sounds really lovely, like it should be a quote in a book, but what happens when you can’t break the chains clutching you to a devastating and life-altering event? No one likes to talk about that kind of ugliness.

  Events in our lives shape us. There’s basically two categories–good or bad. I’m not going to touch on the praiseworthy since I’m not a motivational speaker. I want to address the ugly.

  This isn’t a perfect world. Bad things happen to good people. True evil exists and it walks this earth in the form of a well-suited man wearing expensive shoes. He speaks with a charming Scottish accent and smells of liquor and sweet tobacco. My mother’s killer.

  Most children are too naïve to recognize the moment they are being ruined for the rest of their lives. I wasn’t that lucky. I remember everything about that dreadful day and the memories often replay in my head–the bitter aroma of burning cookies, the smell of gunpowder floating in the air, even the vision of seeing Max’s brains splattered onto my carpet. I wish the amnesia I claimed to have would’ve stolen those gruesome memories. Maybe then this unquenchable demon with a thirst for hunting and executing wouldn’t have been spawned inside me.

  That was the day Stella Bleu Lawrence died. And Bleu MacAllister was born.

  I can barely recall a time in my life when I wasn’t obsessed with finding our attacker. I’ve spent years imagining the different ways he might beg for mercy as I hold a gun to his temple. These were the aspirations in my head when my mind would drift from memorizing presidents and state capitals. I never had innocent, childlike thoughts. My dreams weren’t of becoming the doctor to discover the cure for cancer or becoming the first female president; they were consumed by dark, vengeful thoughts.