“Ma’am,” the receptionist says sternly, “if you give me your information, I’ll set up—”
“Go back there and tell him Joanne is here.”
My stomach drops as my entire world narrows to her belly. She can’t be his Joanne. This…this woman is pregnant. A lot pregnant. Like easily seven or eight months along.
Emeric said he hasn’t seen her in six months.
My chest clenches. No. No, no, no. Emeric would’ve told me.
The receptionist stands. “Is Dr. Marceaux expecting you?”
“I’m expecting his grandson.” She points at her stomach. “VIP pass. I need to see him. Now.”
Nausea barrels through my gut, doubling me over. It’s not true. I must’ve misheard.
The receptionist widens her eyes then slips down the hall toward the back.
Relaxing against the counter, Joanne rests her phone on the ledge of her baby belly. Emeric’s baby.
My insides roil with bile. I scan the waiting room for a bathroom, and my gaze catches and locks on hers. She gives me a tight smile and moves on, taking in the people sitting near me.
Her small nose, smooth flat features, and close-set eyes give her a tiny pixie look, one that works well for her. Really well. She’s painfully beautiful, like a perfect mix of Kristen Bell and Keira Knightley.
No wonder he loves her.
The mother of his child.
I ball my hands to stop the trembling. Why didn’t he tell me? Is he trying to resolve things with her? So they can be a happy family?
Tears sneak up, burning my eyes, and a horrible ache seals my throat. I spring from the seat and walk as calmly as I can into the single-person bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, I drag in loud, ragged breaths and hit the last call dialed on my phone.
Emeric’s gravelly voice scrapes against my eardrum. “Ivory.”
“Your pregnant girlfriend is here.”
Please tell me I’m mistaken. My chest hurts so badly I can’t breathe.
The line goes silent for a weighted moment. Then a flurry of sounds rushes through. His exhales, the slam of a door, the roar of a motor. “I’ll be there in three minutes.”
So it’s true. The gravity of that steals the strength from my legs. I slide down the door, drop to the floor, and try to keep the tears from wobbling my voice. “You lied to me.”
“Bull—”
“Omitting is the same as lying.” I squeeze the phone. “Your words.”
His heavy breaths rasp through the receiver. “Tell me you didn’t talk to her.”
“Why?” My chin quivers. “Because I’m your dirty secret? Your side piece while you work on your relationship—”
“So help me God…” His voice is so cold it lifts the hairs on my neck. “I’m going to break my fucking belt on your ass.”
I lower the phone, take a huge calming breath, then lift it back to my ear. “You’re a bastard.”
“Keep going, Ivory. You’re not going to walk for a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A loud thump vibrates through the phone, at odds with the silkiness in his tone. “This is my problem, one that’s going to go away very soon.”
“What?” Outrage pitches my volume. “You don’t just make a baby go away!”
“Lower your fucking voice. Where are you?”
“In hell.”
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you.”
I punch a pathetic fist against the tiled wall. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you for making assumptions about shit you know nothing about!” he roars.
“Is the baby yours?”
“I asked you a question!” he shouts then reins in his tone. “You’re making me wait.”
“Good.” Sitting against the door on the bathroom floor, I kick my legs out in front me. “You can go fuck yourself while you wait.”
“I’m outside.” The grating of his breaths strains the silence, followed by the bang of a car door. “Listen closely. I know you’re hurt, and I caused that. But you’re going to get the fuck over it and trust me.”
He can’t be serious. I don’t bother responding.
“I’ll deal with Joanne,” he says, “and you will get that fucking check-up.”
He ends the call, and I stare at the screen in disbelief. I remain on the floor, grinding my molars and cursing the creation of the opposite sex.
Men who praise and promise are the ones who hurt the most. They coerce and bribe and fuck with my head. Then they fuck my body and leave the kind of scarring fear that no one can see.
I thought he was different. Now I’m not sure.
But I do know he’s not the type to get a woman pregnant and bail. He’s too controlling and obsessive to not be fully invested in his child’s life.
That’s why he took the deal with the dean rather than moving out-of-state.
I love that about him. But I hate it, too. Because I’m jealous and selfish. I hug the pain twisting in my mid-section. God, this fucking hurts.
A fist knocks on the door. “Ivory Westbrook?”
The unfamiliar voice is deeply masculine. Probably the nurse or Emeric’s dad. So what do I do? I dread seeing Emeric with Joanne, but I can’t stay in here forever.
I climb to my feet, wipe away stray tears, and open the door.
The man on the other side stands a foot taller than me. Frank Marceaux, M.D. is embroidered on his white coat, but there’s nothing familiar in his handsome features. Wrinkles line his brow, though not many. He’s probably in his fifties? Reddish-brown hair combs back from a severe widow’s peak. Thick eyebrows curve over green eyes, and a small gold ring cuffs his earlobe.
But it’s his presence that denotes the family resemblance. Hands behind his back, feet planted in a wide stance, he studies me with too much focus. A shiver trills up my spine.
He raises an auburn brow. “Are you ready?”
No, definitely not. I slide the phone in my back pocket. “Yeah.”
As I follow him through the waiting room, my gaze locks on the wall of windows and the scene playing out in the parking lot. My shoes stick to the floor, and every cell in my body zeroes in on Emeric.
He paces a circle around Joanne. His mouth moves, his eyes blaze, but his overall posture conveys calm confidence.
She stares at her hands where they rub her belly, head lowered, and lips in a thin line. Probably the way I look when he’s teaching me a lesson.
Jealousy burns hot and fierce in my chest.
“Ivory,” Dr. Marceaux says.
I step forward to follow then pause.
Emeric stops just behind Joanne, breathing down her neck. With his fists on his hips, no part of him touches her, but he’s so close. The kind of closeness two people share when they’ve spent a lot of time together. When they’re familiar and intimate.
My heart squeezes and shrivels. She knows him better than I do. He’s been inside her, put a baby in her, and I’m… I don’t know what I am to him. We haven’t even had sex.
“Ivory.” Dr. Marceaux steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Follow me.”
I can’t seem to make my feet move, but my eyes work just fine, burning images of Emeric and Joanne into my brain and leaking tears all over my damn face.
Dr. Marceaux gently grips my elbow and leads me to an exam room. The moment he shuts the door, he stabs a finger toward the exam table. “Sit.”
I jump at the command in his voice and hurry to the table, crinkling the paper against the vinyl as I hop up.
He sets a box of tissues beside my hip, which makes me feel like an emotional little girl. I grab one anyway and wipe my face.
Lowering onto the stool, he rolls it across the floor until he’s sitting right in front of me. “He didn’t tell you about her?”
I wad the tissue in my fist and square my shoulders. “Not about the pregnancy.”
A muscle tics in his jaw, and his hard eyes crease, fanning wrinkles from the corners.
“Is it his?
” I ask.
“He doesn’t know.”
My breath hitches. “He doesn’t…? She was with someone else? Did she cheat on him?”
“He has no proof of that.”
“Oh.” My chest deflates. “She told the receptionist she’s carrying your grandson.”
He swivels toward the drawers behind him and removes equipment and supplies, giving me a momentary reprieve from his stony gaze.
“I know you’re living with him.” He rips open packages of instruments. “I’m not going to lecture you on the risks you and he are taking. I gave him my opinion on the phone last night.” He turns back to me, his expression pensive. “Emeric is hardheaded and unstoppable when his passion is provoked.”
I disagree with the unstoppable part. At least when it comes to my limits. Where his passion is concerned, I’ve been on the receiving end of that for two months. I guess that’s why this secret he’s kept from me feels like a blade in my chest.
Dr. Marceaux slides on reading glasses and grabs the blood pressure monitor. Without asking me to change clothes, he begins an above-the-waist exam. For the next ten minutes, he pokes, prods, and draws blood while I answer his medical questions, including the embarrassing ones about my sexual history and mishaps with protection.
He maintains a professional demeanor, but I wonder if he thinks I’m just a money-grubbing whore.
While he makes notations on his tablet, the door opens.
Emeric slips in, shuts the door, and his frosty eyes find and imprison mine.
Chills sweep over me, and I find it difficult to look away.
Dr. Marceaux stands, his voice clipped. “What are you doing in here?”
Emeric doesn’t break eye contact with me. There are so many emotions seeping from him, I don’t know how to sort them. Anger is the easiest to recognize, locking his jaw and engorging the veins in his tense forearms. But there’s an undercurrent of something more vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides, and tendons stand out in his neck. Is he scared? Afraid I’ll leave? Or is that my wishful thinking?
Dr. Marceaux moves toward the door, his voice low and harsh. “Emeric, there are five nurses here today, watching your every move. I won’t be able to contain the gossip.”
Emeric holds my eyes as he speaks to his dad. “After the scene Joanne just made, they’ll think I came in here to talk to you.”
“Is she still here?” I relax my hands in my lap and try to look brave and mature. “What did you talk about?”
“You can discuss it at home.” Dr. Marceaux pulls a gown from the drawer and sets it beside me. “Dr. Hill will be in any second to do the pelvic exam.”
“I’m staying.” Emeric leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, settling in.
“No, you’re not.” I grab the gown, turning it every which way to make sense of it. “This is awkward enough. Besides, I’m pissed at you.”
He snatches the smock from my hands and holds it open. “It goes on like this.”
Dr. Marceaux grips the doorknob. “Let’s go, son.”
In a flash, Emeric closes the distance between us, grips the hair at my scalp, and puts his mouth at my ear. “We’re not finished.”
Then he follows his dad out of the room, leaving me breathless and even more confused than I was before.
In a daze, I pee in a cup in the bathroom and change into the weird gown in the exam room. The elderly Dr. Hill arrives with news that I’m not pregnant. Then he hands me a package of birth control pills, does a breast exam, and sticks his hand and other invasive things in my vagina.
By the time I climb into the Porsche, my head is pounding with a barrage of questions. Where do I go? What should I do?
I grip the steering wheel and search my gut for the right decision. Going to his house doesn’t mean I’m desperate or needy. I can always go back home and return to the way things were before.
But I’ve never been the girl who runs from an argument. I need answers, and there’s only one place to find them.
A few minutes later, I punch in my code at the security gate, a code Emeric let me come up with on my own. Then I park beside the GTO and enter the house through the unlocked back door.
Schubert greets me in the mud room with a purring leg rub. As I scoop him up, I’m distracted by the muffled melody of a piano. He’s playing?
I give the kitty a nuzzle, set him down, and follow the notes through the winding corridors.
I’ve peeked into his music room several times, admired his Fazioli from afar, but I’ve never gone in. I had this idea that he would lead me there when his hands were healed. Then he would sit behind the keyboard and play something crazy amazing, like Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit.
As I draw closer, I don’t hear Ravel or Brhams or Liszt. He’s playing Metallica.
I freeze in the doorway, held in paralyzing captivation as the familiar tune of “Nothing Else Matters” wraps around me. Twenty feet away, he rocks on the bench, eyes closed, profile relaxed, and forearms flexing as he hammers the keys.
He’s conservatory trained but plays metal on the piano? Without a music sheet. Only virtuosos can so smoothly replicate pieces they’ve heard. I’m completely and totally awe-struck.
When I remember to breathe, my lungs expand, inhaling the sight of him, the poignant arrangement of notes, and the energy in the air.
Head down, black hair hanging over his brow, he sways his jaw side-to-side in a slow tempo with the music. The melody is a desperate plea infused with longing, and he opens it up with expert strokes, tapping his bare foot softly, his posture a powerhouse of contracting muscle beneath the white t-shirt.
The face of his watch glints in the light as he leaps between octaves. With each snap of his wrist, I imagine that hand whipping across my skin. The spread and flex of his fingers makes me wish they were curled around my throat with the same passion and intensity. His hips roll, and I tremble to straddle his lap and ride the wave of his body as he plays.
In the right hands, the piano can steal the soul. Clearly, his hands are made for the keys, because I don’t just feel the notes inside me. They devour me like a dark, voracious flame.
He’s so sexy and talented I don’t know what to do with the dangerous feelings he stirs in me. I’m supposed to be mad at him and demanding answers. I should feel lost, uncertain.
Instead, I feel claimed, as if he’s caressing each key with me on his mind. We’re not finished. He wants me here, even though he hasn’t acknowledged my presence.
It takes me several seconds to realize the lid is closed on the Fazioli. Did he forget to open it? Looking closer, I see something that doesn’t belong.
Familiar black straps hook underneath the piano, stretch across the black top, and attach to leather cuffs near the keyboard.
My pulse skyrockets, and my gaze flicks back to his face.
His eyes are still closed. I could slip into the hall and… What then? I’m not going anywhere until I talk to him.
Am I afraid of what he has planned for me? Well, my lips are numb, and my heartbeat is raging out of control. But I’m certain those cuffs will lead to answers about Joanne as well as myself. If the truth is too painful, he’ll release me with one word.
I stand taller, but not quite confident enough to step into the room.
The song winds to a close, and he rests his hands in his lap.
Lifting his head, he turns his glacial eyes on me. “Leave all of your clothes at the door.”
Emeric
“Metallica.” Ivory tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and gives me a tentative smile. “That was good.”
I was trained by the best, graduated from Leopold, and hold a seat in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. Not once in my musical career have I cared what anyone thinks of my talent.
Until now.
She’s been frozen in the doorway for five minutes, and good is the only compliment her gorgeous lips utter?
When we met, I was afraid the balance between us
would be heavily tipped, that I would overpower her and take advantage of her. I weigh almost twice what she does. I’m twenty-seven, and she’s seventeen. I’m a Dominant, and she’s my high school student. Christ, I had so many doubts.
But no more.
As I sit here, aching for her brilliant pianist’s mind to spout poetry about my music, I realize she doesn’t just hold the power in the bedroom. She commands my emotions, tests my confidence, and haunts my every thought. She could destroy me, not just my livelihood, but the very fiber of who I am, and she doesn’t even know it.
It’s my responsibility to balance the harmony between us and manage our roles. Right now, she’s disobeying, and I’m going to remind her what it means to be mine.
“Your clothes. Now.”
Flinching at my hard tone, she glances at the restraints on the Fazioli. Her chest heaves once, twice. Then she closes her eyes and lifts the t-shirt over her head, dropping the material to the floor.
Her tits swell over lacy pink cups, her toned abs encased in dark golden skin. Those sexy legs… I clench my hands. She’s making me wait, her fingers frozen on the button of her jeans.
I rise from the piano bench, the Dom in me taking over. I straighten my spine, roll back my shoulders, and even my breaths. She watches me with hooded eyes, parted lips, her hands dropping to curl against her thighs.
Knowing her trust in me was fractured at the clinic, it’s incredibly satisfying to see her standing here, let alone considering my order. But for us to work, it’s vital I push her to the edge, to that place where she both fears and respects me, but not so far that she can’t breathe.
I force myself to ease back a notch, to use less growl and more finesse.
Approaching her slowly, I hold her gaze with assertive focus. As I crowd her space, her chin lowers, breath hitching, but those huge brown eyes stay with me, refusing to look away. So brave. So fucking intoxicating.
I lower into a crouch and, with painfully slow movements, unzip the fly of her jeans. Hovering my lips an inch from her panties, I drag the denim down her legs. She trembles as I gaze up at her and take my time kissing the skin around the pink satin.
Falling For The Forbidden Page 25
