by JC Harroway
My mother tried to be there for me, but I pushed her away too. I couldn’t stand the disappointed look on her face that told me I’d also let her down. So I learned detachment, a habit I’ve never quite shaken. I don’t blame my mother. She lost the son she thought I was and a grandchild in quick succession.
Brooke says nothing. Her eyes are so full of understanding, I can’t bear to look at her. She makes sense, but all it does is remind me of the reasons I would normally be headed out the door by now, out of her life for good. No explanations necessary.
Because who the hell would want this emotional closeness when it’s laced with the pain of a million shards of glass?
Water pounds us. Rivulets of suds pour over her pert breasts and stomach, between her legs in a caress I ache to mimic, if only to shut out the recrimination in my head. Frustration and helplessness rip through me. I lash out before I can stop myself.
‘We fuck one time and now we need to share our feelings?’ I say, my tone icy as I trace the line of suds over her collarbone and the curve of her breast with my fingertip, stopping at her hard nipple.
I want to lick them off. To lose myself in pleasure. Now I’ve had one taste of the woman who’s burrowed so far inside me, I may never get enough. But I’ll find the discipline I need to control this. I always do. It’s a fight for life.
Disappointment wars with arousal in her eyes. ‘I get it. It must be very hard to talk about this.’ She tilts her chin. ‘But even big tough guys like you feel things strongly. Someone in your line of work needs to keep everything together, to be in control. I understand that, and I reap the benefits. But you need to let go every once in a while. We all do.’
She steps close so her nipples brush my chest and my cock grazes her mound. ‘What happened between us in there––’ she tilts her head towards the bedroom ‘––that was you holding back physically because you think it will protect you emotionally.’ Her eyes meet mine, new resolve glittering. ‘Does it work?’
I want to laugh in her face. To say, yes, yes it does. It always has in the past. But not with her. She’s different. I can no more lie to her that I can fight the urge to crush her lips under mine and block out the truth. I do just that, drawing her face up to mine so she has to cling to my waist for balance while I kiss her quiet.
My tongue delves inside her mouth and the sensation of falling spins my head, just as it did when I finally pushed my cock inside her tight warmth and I thought I’d never survive.
She grips my wrists and tears her mouth from mine, panting. Her eyes flash with pain and challenge and anger. ‘I’m safe, Nick. Next time, I want you to come inside me,’ she says, declaring in her determination that there’ll be a next time.
‘I never fuck without a condom,’ I throw back, my tone flat. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘Neither do I. That’s how I know it’s okay for you to let go with me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re safe with me, just like I’m safe with you.’ She looks down and I follow the path of her stare, watching her hand wrap around my hard dick.
I stifle a groan. How can I want her again so soon and after literally tearing out my heart for her? I can’t leave this time as I normally would. I tell myself it’s because she’s a client. That I’m still on the clock. But it’s a lie. She’s dangerous. Addictive. All the more reason to resist her pull. And I’m an expert at keeping people at an arm’s length.
I slide on what feels like a smirk, when everything inside me wants to fight the inclination.
‘If you really want me to come inside you—’ I slide my fingers around her slender neck, drawing her mouth up to mine once more so there’ll be no more talking ‘—you can always get down on your knees.’
Her pupils flare. Instead of walking away as I half-expected, she smiles, still fisting my cock. ‘With pleasure, but I want it all this time.’ She drops to her knees without hesitation, looking up at me through those endless lashes as she angles my cock towards that full, pouty mouth of hers. Her tongue flicks over the head, a tease. But there’s no humour in her eyes, only steely determination and terrifying perceptiveness.
‘You like to watch.’ She laves the head of my cock with laps of her tongue. ‘But you don’t want to be seen yourself.’ Her gentle caresses to my balls taunt me. Make me crazy both to deny her and give her my all, as she wants.
Before I can speak, she takes me inside the blissful haven of her mouth and I have to bite my tongue to stop the groans of satisfaction that want to rip free. I brace my hands on the walls of the shower cubicle and curse under my breath as I watch her swallow me, her stare all but stripping the skin from my body.
Then she pulls back. I free a grunt of protest.
‘But I see you, Nick.’ She pumps my length and my hands curl into fists. ‘I see you and I want you just as you are. So give me everything.’
And then she’s on me again, moaning while she sucks. Taunting me with her own pleasure-seeking abandon. Pushing me closer and closer to the edge of that cliff of control and the treacherous chasm beyond.
I focus on my frenzied desire for her, watch fascinated as she gives me head I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I should have known that, even while I try to manage this thing between us, she’d bring me to my knees. She’s a siren and I’m battling overwhelming currents.
But this is better than digging through the past.
I cup the back of her head as she bobs over me, her tongue working my shaft and hitting all the right places as she watches the pleasure I can’t contain contort my face.
‘Brooke,’ I growl in warning as my balls rise up and fire builds in my groin. My valiant attempts to contain the rapture tense every muscle in my body, and I’m all but spent.
She smiles, perhaps at my use of just her first name, and shakes her head. Eyes that are glassy with arousal widen in warning. Her sucking grows stronger. Her hands grip my thighs, telling me she wants this almost as much as I do. There’s no place to retreat, even if I could.
I grit my teeth, staving off the inevitable. I’m going to come in her mouth and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold all that euphoria inside. She’s tearing me apart, strip by strip, and part of me—that part already addicted to Brooke Madden—wants to explode for her, spill out all my ugliness and be done with the endless, lonely and soulless fight.
She moans out encouraging noises. The erotic sound, muffled by her full mouth, vibrates through my cock.
I curl my hand into a fist in her short hair as bliss grips me, slamming into me harder than ever before. And with a roar I’m not even aware of, until it echoes back from the shower walls in shockwaves, I release myself in racking spasms down her throat.
I gasp, fire streaking along every nerve. I open my eyes and she’s still sucking me, triumph glittering in her pretty eyes, deservedly so. I’m undone, physically demolished.
And emotionally I feel like, where this woman is concerned, there’s nowhere left to hide.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brooke
MY BREAST CANCER charity work is important to me, especially since my mother’s diagnosis. But today I am distracted as I talk with survivors of this common and often devastating disease. I paste on my smile, and pose for the photographs that will launch my new fund-raising lipstick range in collaboration with the charity.
I leave the Breast Cancer Awareness building in central Milan feeling drained and duck into the car. Nick and I made some huge progress yesterday. My head is still fuzzy with everything he confessed. My chest aches for his dreadful and tragic loss. One that I’m sure the passage of time can’t diminish. But stronger still are my feelings for Nick.
Complex feelings.
I care that he’s hurting. I want to hold him until he stops punishing himself. To absorb the blows he thinks he deserves and give him a moment’s reprieve from his pain.
I want him to know that I’m here for him, to feel that he’s not alone.
But how can I do that when he’s still holding back? Obviously his physical withdrawal reflects his emotional distance. Can he ever overcome such a long, self-inflicted sentence of punishment? Last night proved that, where I’m open to our deep physical connection, Nick is way behind. Thanks to Dave’s cruel betrayal, I struggle with trust. But Nick clearly doesn’t trust me. If he did, he’d let go, let us happen. He’d see that I’d be there to catch him. That I’m not going to use his vulnerability against him.
I’m silent as Nick pulls into traffic.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, heading north out of the city. The three-hour drive to Saint Moritz will take us just over the border into Switzerland, one of my favourite places in the world. My parents would hire a lodge every year of my childhood. I have memories of fun and crisp alpine air and cosy hot chocolates...
I nod, aware of this man in whole new ways. His beautiful conker-brown eyes still carry that haunted look of last night. I want to reach out to him, but I’m also wary of my growing emotional entanglement.
I offer him a grateful smile. ‘I’m just feeling a little wobbly. I met a lot of brave women today. Women fighting a horrible illness. Women like my mum.’
He glances sideways, remnants of his former guardedness shielding his expression. ‘Your charity work must be sometimes gruelling. It’s natural for it to take its toll.’
I ache to hold him. To seek out and to offer comfort. Because physically we click, at least for me. But there’s new risk. Our closeness is a brittle and fragile thing. I shake my head to clear the images of Nick’s heartbreak last night when he spoke about the loss of his baby, although my throat aches with trapped feelings. ‘It certainly puts some of the things I worry about into perspective.’
‘Such as?’
I inhale deeply. ‘Sometimes I feel like a fake because I’m always projecting an image. I feel like I’ve been acting my whole life, slipping on the mask the public sees in order to protect myself and my family. When we were little girls my parents would take my sister and I to places they knew there’d be cameras. We’d be excited to dress up, but terrified we’d put a foot wrong and the world would see. Terrified of the wall of lenses and flashing lights. Terrified we’d let our parents down in some way.’
I lean back against the head rest. ‘Days like today make me realise that perhaps I’ve forgotten what’s real and important. What matters.’
People. Loved ones. Him.
‘I can understand how you feel, but there’s nothing fake about you. You’re the most real person I know.’ His hand covers mine in my lap. It’s such a normal yet intimate gesture that, for the first time, I feel like maybe we could have something real when this trip is over.
The thought should bring me contentment. Excitement. Instead my mind throws up roadblocks. Nick has spent years protecting himself from his past pain, avoiding meaningful attachment. The depth of his issues scares me. Yes, we’re similar in some ways, although I haven’t experienced anything like his degree of personal devastation. But we’re both struggling. Me by trying to separate my private life from the media interest I attract for fear of hurting my loved ones. Fear that I’ll misplace my trust and be humiliated and hurt again.
Maybe it’s time for us to stop fighting so hard.
I drag in a shuddering breath. Being emotionally open is terrifying. I know the consequences. I’ve felt the sting of that exposure and I’ve spent the past year recovering from its harshness.
Nick glances my way and then merges onto the motorway that will take us north towards Switzerland. ‘Just because you have parts of your life you don’t share with the world doesn’t mean you’re acting. Everyone is entitled to a private life. And you brought happiness to those women today—laughter and lipstick. That’s a real skill. That relatable connection is your gift.’
That he sees me so deeply and understands what I’m trying to achieve brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away, my mind restless with doubts.
‘I’m sure when you’ve been through something life-changing like those women have, like your mother has,’ he continues, ‘looking and feeling good about yourself again is a vital part of recovery.’
‘Yes, it is. It’s so much more than lipstick.’ A lump settles in my throat. ‘I’m not sure what’s wrong with me today—perhaps I just need to speak to my mum. Hear her voice. Feel her love...’
Perhaps that’s part of the answer for him, too. Perhaps if Nick talked his emotional regrets through with his mother he’d discover that she doesn’t blame him the way he blames himself. Maybe then he could learn to forgive himself. Be open to healing rather than pushing people away because it’s too painful to feel.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I hold my breath. Beyond our physical connection things are delicate. Complicated. Uncertain. But I’m starting to care about him; I realised that the moment I opened my eyes this morning and instinctively reached for him in my empty bed.
We returned from Club Vivace in the early hours and Nick insisted that I needed some quality rest before my busy schedule today. In truth, I think he needed space after his confession. He’s not the big tough guy he projects. Well, he is, but he’s so much more than that cliché.
He’s considerate and loyal and harbours strong regrets that have broken parts of him. Anyone who has that capacity to feel as deeply as he does also has the capacity for deep and lasting commitment. But for my own sake I need to tread carefully. I can’t get ahead of myself. Falling for someone like Nick, or anyone after Dave, is risky. The fact that I haven’t dated in a year tells me I’m still recovering.
‘Sure.’ He shrugs, the wariness back.
‘Have you ever talked about your feelings with your mother?’
His body tenses. ‘No. Why would I remind her of what a disappointment her son is?’
My heart clenches, each beat painful. ‘What if she’s not disappointed? You’re a thoughtful, trustworthy and dedicated man, Nick. You don’t have to punish yourself for ever over one mistake you made as a teenager.’
His mouth flattens into a stubborn line. ‘It’s...complex. My child died,’ he bites out.
‘I know,’ I whisper, because I’m in no way diminishing his past trauma or claiming to understand that kind of loss. ‘And I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’
I fall silent, so I’m shocked when he volunteers more information.
‘Julia was twenty weeks when the bleeding started. The baby was too young to survive. But the stress I put her through must have contributed.’
He pales, and guilt lances my chest. I’ve taken him back to memories that cause him pain.
‘Before I went inside, we’d made plans. We had a list of names... I hadn’t realised until she told me she was expecting how much I wanted to be a father. To do a good job and always be there for my kid. Always. I never knew my father, so it was important to me that I be the total opposite to my own child.’
His hands grip the wheel so tightly I feel sick for putting him through this.
‘Julia almost died, too. She bled so much... And I wasn’t there—not for her or for my son.’
I’m so choked up I have to grate out the words. ‘That would have been terrifying...distressing for you. Didn’t the prison service give you any dispensation at all?’
He stares at the road ahead, his face grim. ‘I was released in time for the funeral.’
I shouldn’t have brought this up. But he’s punishing himself, and seventeen years is a life sentence. Part of him will always have regrets, but he needs to forgive himself too. He’s a good man who made one bad decision, and he’s paid the ultimate price with his loss.
‘Julia was too devastated to speak to me. Her parents were hostile and blamed me—I could see it on their faces. My mother had also been supporting Ju
lia when I couldn’t, so they were united in their grief. It would have been better for everyone if I hadn’t been there.’
So he felt shut out. Alone. My throat is scratchy with unshed tears. ‘But not better for you,’ I whisper. ‘You had the right to say goodbye too. The right to grieve for what you’d lost. Your feelings are as valid as anyone’s Nick. It’s tragic and painful, and I know these things happen every day. It’s no one’s fault.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I think if you talked about it you might discover that no one else blames you.’
‘It can’t change anything.’ His lips thin.
‘No...but perhaps your mum wanted to be there for you too. It might help you to forgive yourself.’
His expression turns blank. I’ve over-stepped the line. But I can’t stop, after my emotional morning. After last night. After waking with feelings that scare me.
‘I care about you, Nick. I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just that after talking to those breast cancer survivors today, and then thinking about my mum, it confirms that life is short and precious and sometimes there’s little love to be had. Which means we should grab whatever love, whatever human connection, we can and never let go.’ I grow impassioned, my voice urgent with emotion. If I can just help him to see that he deserves good things, maybe he’ll allow someone to be there for him.
‘I guarantee your mother loves you and would welcome the opportunity to tell you that. You think she blames you for the past...but what if she doesn’t?’
He huffs, frustrated. ‘I should have kept my secrets locked away.’
I gasp at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Why? Because confiding in me has forced you to consider the possibility that you’re not as content as you think? That all your precious control does is push people away and anaesthetise you from feeling?’
Nick’s face might as well be carved from granite. ‘Thank you for your concern, but your caring is misplaced. In two days we’ll part ways. Perhaps we should just leave this conversation here before we say something we can’t take back.’
