by Alam, Donna
And my thoughts are . . . complex. I want her. I think I’ll always want her but wanting and having aren’t the same. Aren’t always sane. And now, we have another person to consider. Or at least, we will have soon. This morning—yesterday morning?—in the whole entire world, I only had myself to think of. And Ivy, though I tried not to, even if my attempts were as successful as turning back the tide.
So I sit, and I watch . . . like a creep because it isn’t long before my thoughts turn to the body concealed by her clothes. Dainty feet in blue tennis shoes, creamy legs beneath yoga pants, and under her t-shirt and fleece? Tits shaped like teardrops; tits so perfectly formed, so full and so perfect, they’d incite the gods themselves to tears.
It’s so fucking hard to sit here and not act on impulse—to refrain from touch—because her scent in these close confines is almost overwhelming.
Orange blossom perfume and nostalgia.
I want so badly to reach out and smooth the unruly wisps of hair from her cheek. Reach out and touch the roundness of her. Touch the place that holds our child, skin to skin.
Feed my thumb into the space between her lips.
But I won’t.
I won’t do any of those things because we are complicated enough, she and I. Because we already have too much at stake.
I’m still watching when her eyes spring open.
‘Hey.’ She blinks heavily, her brain obviously on delay. ‘We’re here?’ She stretches a little, pushing her chest out in a way that makes my cock react.
‘Yeah—yes.’ I want to look away, but I can’t. Not even when she wipes the back of her hand over the corner of her mouth, seeking drool.
‘What’s funny,’ she asks through a yawn.
‘Nothing at all.’
Her rumbled response fills the interior of the car with a boatload of get fucked.
‘Come on,’ I say, chuckling. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
And suddenly, neither of us are laughing
Chapter 38
Ivy
My heart beats like a bass drum as I reach the door, feeding the key into the lock while Dylan stands behind me, pulling my bag from the car. The lock disengages, the front door swinging open, but I resist turning, wondering where the weirdness between us has suddenly sprung from. One minute, we seem okay . . . tentatively okay . . . and the next, odd doesn’t seem to cover it.
His boots scuff against the pavement, and I realise he has both Nat’s bag and mine in his hand, which just goes to prove go home so you can bring Nat some clean clothes tomorrow was a ruse. I’m not annoyed, truth be told; the fight has drained out of me, especially as he stops dead in front.
So close yet not.
He looks gorgeous even though sans ball cap, his hair is a mess and tiredness is beginning to show in the shadows around his eyes. Dark and gorgeous and tempting. I don’t know a lot. I don’t know what’s going on between us, or what the future might hold, but I do know if he bends forward to kiss me right now, I’ll totally let him.
And maybe that’s where the weirdness stems.
‘Upstairs?’ Dylan asks; his expression so open it’s almost bland. I nod and step away from the doorway, allowing him to pass and then follow his heavy tread . . . while staring at his arse.
At the top of the stairs, we shuffle, swapping positions on the small landing so I can unlock the door to my flat. I step back again, my heart speeding up as Dylan steps inside, but my excitement is short lived as he places both bags in the hallway and immediately turns around.
‘Looks nice,’ he says, but how could he tell?
‘It’s okay,’ I demure. ‘Bigger than the studio.’ The studio apartment we started in.
For a minute, he looks about to speak, maybe changing his intended words at the last minute. ‘I . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ The door is still open, and he’s heading for it, so I do the only thing I can; I follow to say goodbye. Again.
‘What time shall I call in the morning?’ He’s on one side of the threshold, and I’m on the other, but a brick wall may as well be between us. Hands fisted in his pockets, he won’t look at me, but for fleeting glances, his eyes can’t seem to resist.
‘I-I’ll be at the hospital.’
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll take you there.’
‘No, I mean I have an appointment.’ As my fingertips touch my stomach, his eyes widen in recognition. Excitement? ‘Then I thought I’d go see how June’s doing . . . and deliver Nat’s clothes.’
Recognising the twist to my mouth, he ducks his head, but it’s his smile that acknowledges the subterfuge.
‘Can I take you? To your appointment, that is?’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Tomorrow, the hospital will be teeming with people. It’s only a matter of time before someone makes a call and you get rumbled.’
‘I’ve got my trusty hat.’
‘The ball cap?’ I ask doubtfully. He’s as tall as Rory, as striking, and the way he carries himself just screams for attention. Plus, his exotic looks and confident demeanour are pure superstar. ‘I hate to tell you, but it’s not much of a disguise.’ He’s too gorgeous, too striking . . . too many superlatives.
‘If you don’t want me to come, you only have to say.’
God, I could answer that question so many ways. I roll my lips inwards to avoid letting half of them escape.
‘Ivy.’ He elongates my name, dragging it over gravel, and then his hands reach out but drop before getting anywhere that counts. ‘I want to be good,’ he whispers, the words sounding pained.
‘What happens if I don’t want you to be?’ I murmur to my running shoes.
His answer is both agonisingly sweet and painful. He whispers that I’m lovely and that he doesn’t want to spoil things, and I don’t hear very much after that as tears seem to rob me of my vision as well as my sense.
‘Please, Ivy, this is so much bigger than just you and me now.’ He holds his arms out for me again, his eyes flicking over me quickly, but not so quick as to hide the heat there.
‘Just stop,’ I blubber, holding up my hand. ‘I get it—please, just, let’s pretend I didn’t say anything.’ Because being taken in his arms and consoled is rejection still, whichever way you look at it.
‘Hush, Edera. Hush, babe.’ Heedless to my hands, he crushes me against him. ‘I’m so sorry. And I really am trying to be good.’
‘I know,’ I say part laugh, part sob. ‘But I don’t have to like it, do I?’ I curl my hands in the front of his shirt as though it’ll stop him from pulling away, but as his fingers find my shoulders, our bodies separate anyway.
‘You’re so lovely. So strong and brave. I’m in awe of you—of how you’ve coped—but I want to be here for you now. I don’t want you to do this alone.’ More words of consolation I don’t want to hear from him. Sentiments I can’t appreciate right now, at any rate. ‘If, if that’s what you want.’
His tone offers no accusation, but I hear it anyway. I’ve locked him out of my life in so many ways—since the very beginning—and for what? For the sake of the opinions of others? Because I didn’t want to be that girl? A selfish daughter—the girl others talk about. So instead, I gave him up while I pretended to be someone else.
‘You’re absolutely right.’ I step back and wipe my eyes. ‘It must be the hormones.’ Horny hormones. I don’t remember reading about this in that damned book.
I straighten my spine then look him straight in the eye as I lie to him.
One.
Last.
Time.
‘I need you in my life but not like this.’
Chapter 39
Dylan
‘Fuck. Fuck!’
At the bottom of the stairs and two locked doors, I rake my hands through my too-long hair.
As she’d stood on the threshold, her eyes pure and clear and her gaze full of longing, a jolt of realisation shot down my spine. I was closer to her than I’d been in such a long time. Closer to
her than I might ever be again—this is what I wanted, maybe what I needed, too. And I ache to be inside her, even for just one last time.
Christ, how I want her—I wanted to reach for her, and almost did, but for the flicker of fucking conscience. A flash of concern that I might be leading her into something she might regret.
I need to think about more than my own needs. I want to deserve her, to be worthy, but right now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, gallantry can fuck right off to hell because with every fibre of my being, I want her.
I want to knock down the door and storm up the stairs.
Take her in my arms.
Make her mine for always.
But some things should never be, no matter how good they feel in the beginning. No matter how much you think you need.
The car keys weigh heavy in my palm as I turn.
Chapter 40
Ivy
I cried a few tears after he’d left, but no more than a few self-pitying sniffles. I’m not done weeping, I know, but I’m done for now.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and down it, one hand curled and gripping the sink. I rinse my glass. Stack. Dry my hands on the dish towel then head to the bathroom to wash away this awful day. Ordinary actions, one foot after the other, are the only way to go. June, I know, would agree.
Please, God, let her be okay.
‘Things could be so much worse,’ I tell myself through the small vanity mirror. Wrapped in a towel and dripping wet from the shower, I’m holding my toothbrush in hand. June is alive and stable, my friends and family will be there for me, and Dylan seems to want to forgive me. To be a part of our lives.
‘Hear that, Vlad?’ I place one hand on my stomach and the little bugger bursts to life. ‘You like the sound of that, do you?’ And of course, he’s saved his rave until bedtime. ‘Think you could move for your daddy next time? I think he’d find it pretty special.’
It might make it more real for him. More real than a boring hospital appointment, at any rate. Tears spring again, but I’m not wallowing. Instead, I make my way to the bedroom and slip on a huge t-shirt I’ve adopted as bedwear these days.
Want, frustration, pain, and hurt.
I’m going to sleep it all away.
Start again tomorrow. Maybe try a smile on for size.
I slip between the cool covers of my three-quarter bed, switching off the small bedside lamp that once belonged to my gran. I send my love heavenwards to her, along with a silent plea that she look after June and little Vlad. Then I thump my pillow to maximum effect, turn, once, twice, and begin to drift off.
Five minutes later—or five hours, I’m not really sure—I wake to the sound of hard hail against the window pane. Muttering a curse, I pull the quilt over my head then fold the corners of my pillows over my ears, just to be sure.
Deep even breaths. Stay calm. Centred. And just for good measure, I’ll add in some Sanskrit chants . . .
Bang!
‘Oh, you bunch of little bawbags!’ I throw the quilt back from my legs and touch my feet to the floor. ‘If it’s those bloody kids from the estate . . .’ I yank back the curtain and push the window wide. ‘Away ‘round your own doors, or I’m callin’ the polis!’ I yell in my best angry Scots housewife voice. Bloody cider swilling delinquents. Or are drugs to blame these days?
‘Ah, hell. I’m turning into my mother already,’ I mutter. Still, I suppose I’d best get used to being the voice of authority. With a daddy like Dylan, this babe is bound to be a handful.
I can’t see the ground for the nearby glow of the streetlamp but cover my eyes anyway, breathing out another chant.
‘Fuck this day, fuck my life and just . . . fuck!’
‘Hey,’ calls a familiar voice from below. ‘Was that an invitation?’
By the time I’ve buzzed open the bottom door and cranked the lock on the second, Dylan is already on my doorstep. Hands clasped to the sides of the doorframe, he leans toward me but doesn’t step inside.
‘I thought you’d left,’ I say, tucking my wild hair into a quick twist.
‘I tried.’ He shrugs, sort of ruefully, his gaze coming up from his shoes. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘So I see.’
‘Listen, I think you’re gonna be a fantastic mom,’ he states suddenly—sincerely—knocking me off my stride.
‘Because I can yell out a window?’ He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can’t make out what he’s thinking from his expression. Not at all. ‘Or because I can yell like a fish wifey, or—ow, you wee bugger!’ I whisper-hiss, clutching my stomach as Vlad kicks my bladder . . . and stomps on my uterus.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, stepping closer and into the hallway.
‘Yeah, f-fine.’ With his momentum, my back is literally against the wall, and I hold up a hand to ward off his concern or maybe his approach. I was desperate for him earlier, but I need to learn from my mistakes. Learn some self-control. ‘It’s just disco time. Your son’s quite the mo—oover.’ Ow . . . and oh, shit. Again. ‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’
Baby brain strikes again; I didn’t tell him I’m having a boy. Fuck it. I’m not going to cry, despite getting it wrong again. Only, Dylan doesn’t look hurt but stunned. Maybe? And he hasn’t lowered his hands.
‘A boy? We’re having a boy?’
‘So I’m told. You can have it if you want—the actual birth, I mean. Take one for the team?’ Stop. Babbling.
‘May I?’ he asks, gesturing to the area currently doing the rumba under my oversized tee.
‘He’s obviously an actor’s son,’ I answer, smoothing my hands over the cotton.
Dylan’s eyes rise from my moving midsection. ‘How’s that?’
‘Little Vlad here does a mean Alien impression, though it’s a bit dramatic for my tastes.’
‘Vlad?’ he asks, trying hard to conceal his distaste.
‘Don’t ask,’ I say with a sigh, taking his hand in mine and placing it on my stomach, and giving him something else to focus on. ‘The name won’t be sticking around for his arrival into the world.’ And like a made-for-TV film, Vlad choses his moment well, kicking out against Dylan’s hand.
‘Please don’t start crying,’ I whisper as awe spreads across his face. ‘I seriously don’t have the energy to join you.’
He blinks. Heavily. Once. Twice. Three times. Drops to his knees and feeding his hands under the hem of my t-shirt, pushes it upwards to expose more than just my blue cotton knickers. I should be protesting. I should be moving away. Instead, I’m leaning against the wall before my knees give way.
‘Dylan.’ So much meaning stuffed into one word. I place my hand on his head as he lowers it, his shoulders rolling forward like a penitent. Only he’s not sorry—not at all—if the way his hands trail the backs of my thighs then palm my arse is any indication.
His lips press softly on my stomach, and I’m done for. Both hands in his hair now, I toy with the strands and stroke the nape of his neck.
He pulls himself from his knees, sort of like someone who’s just suffered a frontal lobotomy yet is still alive. Without words, he takes my hand and leads me down the narrow hallway and into the living room. And what’s more, I just let him.
‘Which is your bedroom?’ His eyes scan the white doors leading off the small room.
‘It’s that one.’ I point at the first door on the right. I mean I could protest. Ask him what this means, what he’s all about, but what would be the point? If he said he wanted to say thank you for allowing him to kiss his child, or that it was comfort he was offering me, a one-time deal or a pity fuck, would I say no?
How about you don’t ask yourself.
Dylan pushes the door open, and before I can speak or think, he’s on me. I don’t even have a chance to inhale. His arms around me, he holds me up, which is just as well; I’m afraid my body might turn to vapour, bypassing both the liquid and solid stages.
‘Tell me you don’t want this,’ he whispers, hi
s words barely puffs of breath against my jaw. ‘Tell me, and I’ll stop.’
‘If you do, I won’t ever speak to you again.’ I sense his smile against my cheek; the bristles on his jawline rough against my skin. ‘I want you. Right here and right now.’ I’ll want you forever, I don’t say.
‘I want you all the fucking time,’ he growls against my neck, unravelling the loose twist of my hair. ‘It won’t go away.’
I tilt my head, smiling in satisfaction and not wanting him to see. Long may he want, and long may he receive.
His hands feed under my nightshirt, pulling it over my head, and at that moment, our bodies are separated, and his eyes widen—like, massively. I back away, unsure, the bed bumping the back of my legs. But I needn’t have worried as he falls to his knees in front of me again.
Dylan Duffy. On his knees. For me.
‘Christ, you’re so beautiful,’ he murmurs huskily, the words sounding dragged from the deep.
I don’t feel it, but the look in his eyes is almost enough to make a believer of me. His hands drift up my thighs, my hips, his mouth covering one hard nipple, the other caressed and pinched between his fingertips. I cry out; the sensation is too much. The way his green eyes watch from under his lashes, the satisfaction glowing there—it’s pure sensation overload.
His mouth comes away with a soft pop, the full flat of his tongue swapping attentions while his big hands now frame my breasts.
‘What the fuck did you do to these?’ he asks, almost awestruck.
My head rolls back almost at a right angle to my neck because yes, more of that, please. The touching, the kissing, the confidence boost.
‘Plastic surgery’s all the rage these daysss. Oh! Yes!’
He laughs, the brush of air cooling my hard, wet nipples. I resist taking his head between my hands and directing him to lavish them again. To suck, lick, devour. Then start all over again. I think I’m whimpering.
‘Your nipples are so big . . . so sensitive.’ Let’s stop with the running commentary and do something about it instead. His mouth covers me again, and I cry out from relief. ‘How’s that feel, baby?’
