by Naima Simone
“Please, if we can all just calm down for a moment,” Henrietta pleaded, glancing from her husband and back to Ezekiel and Reagan. “Before we all say something we can’t take back.”
“Mom, I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Reagan said, a weariness that Ezekiel detested weighing down every word. “And I’m sorry for hurting you. Again.” Inhaling a deep breath, she dipped her chin in her father’s direction. “You, too, Dad.”
She turned and walked out of the room, and Ezekiel followed, not giving her parents a backward glance. His loyalty belonged to the woman they’d just selfishly, foolishly rejected.
Fuck it. He would be her family now.
She had him. And no matter that their union was temporary, he would give her a family to belong to.
Thirteen
Funny how a person could have pain pouring from every cell of their body and still walk, breathe, live. Since arriving at her parents’ house, she’d become the embodiment of agony, grief and rage. Yet, she managed to grab an overnight bag, descend the front steps, climb into Ezekiel’s car, buckle up and not break down as he drove away from a house that had been her home all her life.
Like a horror-movie reel, the scene in the informal parlor played out across her mind. Only to rewind when it finished and start again.
Reagan squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands in her lap. But all that did was twist the volume up in her head. She’d known deep down that her father blamed her for her past mistakes, had never forgiven her for them. And his accusations as well as his stony silence confirmed it. But still, oh God, did that hurt. It hurt so badly she longed to curl up in a ball on the passenger’s seat and just disappear.
Be strong.
Never show weakness or emotion.
Be above reproach and avoid the very appearance of impropriety.
Those had been rules, creeds she’d lived by as a Sinclair. And except for when she’d fallen so far from grace at sixteen, she’d striven to live up to that hefty responsibility. But now, after living with so many cracks and fissures because of the pressure placed on her, she just wanted to break. Break into so many pieces until Reagan Sinclair could never be formed again.
Then who would be left? Who would she be?
God, she didn’t know. And how pathetic was that?
“Reagan.” Ezekiel’s voice penetrated the thick, dark morass of her thoughts, and she jerked her head up. He stood in the opening of her car door. A car she hadn’t realized he’d stopped and pulled over, and a door she hadn’t heard him open. “Come on out.”
He extended his hand toward her, his green eyes, so full of concern, roaming over her face. Slowly, she slid her palm over his and allowed him to guide her from the vehicle. Only then did she notice he’d parked on the side of a quiet, deserted road.
She recognized it. Several country roads twisted through Royal, some leading to the ranches that dotted the town and others leading to rolling fields filled with wildflowers. This one lay several miles outside her parents’ gated community. A bend in the road and a thick copse of trees shielded them from anyone who might travel past the end of it. As Ezekiel closed the door behind her, turned her so he rested against the Jaguar and pulled her into his arms, she was thankful for the semi-privacy.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmured against her head as he wrapped his arms around her, one big hand tunneling through her hair and pressing her to his chest. “Let it go. No one can see you here. Let it go because I have you.”
The emotional knot inside her chest tightened, as if her body rebelled against the loosening storm inside of her. But in the next moment, the dam splintered, and the torrent spilled out. A terrible, jagged sob wracked her frame, and she buried her face against Ezekiel’s chest as the first flood of tears broke through.
Once she started, she couldn’t stop. How long she wept for that sixteen-year-old girl who’d been abandoned by the boy she’d loved and her family, Reagan couldn’t say. It seemed endless, and yet, seconds. Fists twisted in his shirt, she clung to him, because at this moment, he was her port in a storm that had been brewing for years.
Eventually, she calmed, her harsh cries quieting to silent tears that continued to track down her cheeks. And even they stopped. Ezekiel cupped one of her hands and pressed a handkerchief into it.
“Thank you,” she rasped, the words sore against her raw throat.
He stroked her back as she cleaned up the ravages of her weeping jag.
“I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you don’t want to talk. Your choice, Reagan,” he murmured.
The self-preservation of her family’s demand for secrecy—as well as her own guilt—battled the urge to unload. But God, she was tired. So tired. Yes, she struggled with trusting people, in trusting herself. Maybe, just maybe, she could try to take a little leap of faith and trust him...
“When I was sixteen, I was involved with a boy—well, he was nineteen years old. My parents didn’t approve of him. And in hindsight, I understand why. But back then, I was just so hopelessly in love with him and would’ve done anything for him. And I did. I rebelled against Dad and Mom. I saw him behind their backs, sneaked out at night to see him. He consumed my world as a first love usually does. But...” she swallowed, closing her eyes “...I ended up pregnant.”
Ezekiel stiffened against her, and she braced herself for his reaction. Shock. Disbelief. Pity. Any or all of them would be like a punch to her chest.
He shifted, settling more against his car and drawing her between his spread thighs. Pulling her deeper into his big, hard body. Gentle but implacable fingers gripped her chin and tilted her head back.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.”
She forced herself to comply, and her breath snagged in her lungs. Compassion. Tenderness. Sorrow. But no pity. No disappointment.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, so don’t look down while you give me your truth.”
She stared at him. Nothing to be ashamed of. No one—not her parents, not her brother or sister—had ever said those words to her. But this man did. Against his wishes, she briefly closed her eyes. That or allow him to glimpse the impact of his assurance. He’d said her eyes reflected her feelings, and she didn’t even want to identify the emotion that had her mentally backpedaling. Had fear rattling her ribs and clenching her stomach.
Shoving everything into a lockbox deep inside her, she drew in a breath and lifted her lashes, meeting that piercing green gaze.
“As you can expect, my parents didn’t react well to the news. And yes, I was terrified. Yet I also believed my boyfriend when he said he would never leave me. What I hadn’t counted on was that dedication not measuring up against the check my father waved in front of his face. Dad paid him off, and he disappeared. And my parents... They sent me away. To a girls’ home in Georgia.”
“I remember,” Ezekiel said. “It was just before the school year ended, and Harley was upset because you wouldn’t be with her for the summer. She never mentioned—”
“She didn’t know,” Reagan interrupted, shaking her head. “No one except my family did. My parents didn’t want anyone to find out. I was supposed to go to the home, have the baby and adopt him or her out. I didn’t want to give my baby up, but they were adamant. They were embarrassed and ashamed.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. “Especially my father. Before, we’d been close. I was a self-admitted daddy’s girl, and there was no man greater than my father in my eyes. But afterward... He couldn’t even look at me,” she whispered.
“And this?” He gently pushed her fingers aside—the fingers that had been absently rubbing the scar on her collarbone.
“When I was about fourteen weeks, I started cramping. I didn’t tell anyone for the first couple of days. But the third morning, pain seized my lower back so hard I doubled over and almost fainted. I did fall, and on the way down I clipped myself on
the dresser.” She again stroked the mark that would forever remind her of the worst day of her life. “I lay there on the floor, curled up, bleeding from the wound when I felt a—a wetness between my legs. I was miscarrying.”
“Oh, Ray,” Ezekiel whispered, lowering his forehead to hers, and his breath whispered across her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Spontaneous miscarriage, they called it,” she continued, needing to purge herself of the whole truth. To cleanse herself of the stain of secrecy. “They told me there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it, but I still felt responsible. That it was my punishment for disobeying my parents, for not being the daughter they deserved, for having unprotected sex, for not being good enough for my boyfriend to stay around, to love me—”
“Sweetheart, no,” he objected fiercely, his brows drawing down in a dark frown as his head jerked back. “None of that is true. It happens. My mother suffered two miscarriages. One before me and one after me. It happens to good people, to women who would’ve made wonderful, loving mothers. It was biological, not penal.” Worry flashed in his eyes. “Were you hurt more than you’re telling me?”
“Do you mean can I still have children? Yes.” Relief swept away the concern from his expression, but she shook her head. “But do I want to? I—I don’t know.” It was a truth she’d never admitted aloud. “It may have happened ten years ago, but the pain, the fear, the grief, the terrible emptiness...” She pressed a palm to her stomach. “I’ll never forget it. And I’m terrified of suffering that again. I don’t want to. Losing another child...” She turned her head away from his penetrating stare. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Reagan. Sweetheart. Will you look at me?”
Several heartbeats passed, but she returned her gaze to him.
He circled a hand around her nape, a thumb stroking the side of her neck while the other hand continued to cup her face. “You don’t have to explain or justify anything to me. I get it. After my parents and then Melissa died, the thought of loving another person only to lose them to illness, fate or death paralyzes me. They don’t give out handbooks explaining that one day that person might be snatched unfairly from us. No one prepared me for that, just as no one prepared you for the fact that you might lose your baby before you had the chance to hold him or her. And because no one did, we only get to dictate how we deal.”
He stroked the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze softening.
“Do I think you would one day make a beautiful, caring and attentive mother who would love your child as fiercely as the most protective mama bear? Yes. Do I believe you deserve to know the feeling of cradling a child in your arms, smelling their scent, hearing him calling you Mom? Yes, sweetheart. You deserve all of that and more. But I’m the last person to tell you you’re wrong for being afraid of it. And Reagan...?”
He paused, his scrutiny roaming her face, alighting on her mouth, nose and finally eyes. She felt his tender survey like caresses on her skin. “If no one else has ever told you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the loss of your baby. I’m sorry the boy—because he’s not worthy of the title of man—you believed would stand by you abandoned you instead. I’m sorry that you felt deserted by your family. And I’m sorry no one told you that in spite of—no, because of—your life lessons, you are even more precious.”
The need to reassure him that he, too, deserved more trembled on her tongue. Ezekiel deserved a woman who adored him beyond reason. Who would be his soft place to land as well as the rock he leaned on in times of trouble. The thought of him alone, with the heart he so zealously guarded as his only companion, saddened her more than she could vocalize without betraying emotion either of them would be comfortable with.
So instead, she rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Tried to convey her gratitude for his compassion and kindness. Attempted to relay everything she was too confused to say aloud.
Immediately, his lips parted under hers. His hold on her cheek slid into her hair, and his fingernails scraped her scalp, arrowing shivers of heat directly to her breasts, belly and lower, between her thighs.
Sorrow and hurt morphed to heat, kindling the desire inside her that never extinguished. Not for him. For Ezekiel Holloway, she was a pilot light that never went out.
His groan vibrated against her chest, then rolled into her mouth. She greedily swallowed it, the emotional turmoil of the last hour spurring her on to drown in him and this overwhelming pleasure that bore his personal stamp of ownership.
“Ray.” He moaned her name, but his hands dropped to her shoulders as if to push her away. “Sweetheart.”
“No,” she objected. Stroking her hands over his hips and up his back, she curled her fingers into his shirt. Held on and pulled him tighter against her. “I want you. I want this. Don’t deny me, Zeke,” she said.
Demanded.
Pleaded.
His gaze narrowed on her, studying her. After the longest of moments, he shifted, spinning them around so she perched on the hood of the Jaguar and he stood between her spread thighs.
He flattened his palms on the metal beside her, leaning forward until she placed her hands next to his and arched her head back.
“I won’t deny you anything,” he growled.
Then his mouth crushed hers.
He hated the words as soon as he let them slip. Wanted to snatch them back. They revealed too much, when he should’ve been protecting his tender underbelly from exposure.
But with lust a ravenous beast clawing at his insides, he couldn’t care right now. Not when her tongue dueled with his, sucking at him as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Nipping at him as if she wanted to mark him. Licking him as if he were a flavor that both teased and never satisfied.
He should know.
Because as he sucked, nipped and licked her, all three were true for him.
This woman... Goddamn. She was ruining him with her sinful mouth, wicked tongue and hungry moans. Even now, he couldn’t remember another’s kiss, another’s scent. Another’s touch. And that traitorous thought should anger him, fill him with guilt. And maybe later it would. But now? Now, all he could do was dig his fingers through her hair, fist the thick strands and hold her steady for a tongue-fucking that had his dick throbbing for relief.
Nothing else mattered but her and getting inside her.
With fingers that were miraculously steady, he swept them over her jaw, down her throat, lingered on the scar that carried such traumatic memories for her and lower to the simple bow at her waist that held the top of her wrap dress together. He tugged on the knot, loosening it, and didn’t hesitate to smooth his palms inside the slackened sides to push the material off her shoulders and down her arms to pool around her wrists.
Reagan started to lift her arms, but he stilled the movement. Instead, he gripped her wrists and pulled them behind her back. Trapped by her dress and his firm fingers, back arched, she was a gorgeous, vulnerable sacrifice for him. Only, as he lowered his head to drag his tongue down the middle of her chest to the shadowed, sweetly scented valley between her breasts, he was the one eager and willing to throw himself on the altar of his need for her.
God, he couldn’t get enough of her taste. That honeysuckle scent seemed entrenched in her smooth, beautiful brown skin, and he was a treasure hunter, constantly returning for more.
Tracing the inner curve of her breast, he couldn’t resist raking his teeth over it and satisfaction roared through him at the shiver that worked through her body. He’d earned a PhD in the shape and map of her body in the last few days, and yet, every time he discovered a new area that caused her to quake or whimper, he wanted to throw back his head and whoop in victory. He’d never get tired of eliciting new reactions from her, of giving her new things to shatter over.
And that was a problem since he was letting her go in a year.
Smothering the thought that tried to intrude on t
he desire riding him, he refocused all of his attention on the flesh swelling above the midnight blue lace of her bra. And the hard tip beneath it. Bringing his free hand into play, he tugged down the cup, baring her breast to him. Then, pinching and teasing the silk-and-lace-covered nipple, he drew its twin into his mouth.
He couldn’t contain his rumble of pleasure as he stroked, lapped and sucked on her. Part of him believed he was obsessed with her—the last four days pointed toward this. His preoccupation now further emphasized it. How he took his time circling the beaded nub, relearning her although he’d just had her before they left their suite that morning to board the plane home.
The other part of him wanted to get down on his knees and beg her to push him away, ban him from her bed so he could wean himself off an addiction that could only destroy them both in the end.
“Zeke,” Reagan gasped, twisting and arching up to him, thrusting her flesh into his mouth. Demanding her pleasure. “I need you,” she said on the tail end of a whimper.
Fuck if he didn’t love that sound from her. Every needy, insatiable sound that telegraphed her hunger for him.
As he’d said before, he couldn’t deny her anything.
Shifting his head, he freed the other breast and reintroduced it to his mouth. Over and over he tongued the tip, swirling and teasing, pulling and worshipping.
Because she deserved to be worshipped.
And not just because of this body that could make a grown man find religion. But because she had a strength of spirit and character as well as a spine of steel underneath the genteel socialite demeanor. Because she’d taken her own tragedy and now planned to offer a safe haven to girls who faced the same difficulties.
Because she was just good.
Inexplicably, desperation surged through him, and he reached around her to unhook her bra and then rid her of both it and the top still trapping her wrists. He didn’t question the need to feel her arms wrapped around him; he just surrendered to it.
