His pregnant mistress

by Carol Marinelli

  He felt a close­ness to the baby that defied his own harsh beliefs, already an immeasurable love for someone he had never met, for a child he couldn't wait to hold, but that Richard had been there, had touched her, held her, loved her—

  Could he live with that too?

  His indecision truly terrified him, from utter ab­horrence, to outright rejection at first, but now, slowly, he was coming around to the idea. The lines he had drawn so fiercely in the sands of time between them were fading with each glimpse of a life beside her, rules he had imposed on himself paling into in­significance as he contemplated a future without her.

  He didn't understand.

  Didn't want to understand how she could want them both. And she did want him, Ethan knew that. The kiss in the shower had only confirmed what he knew. The heat, the sexual heat that radiated between them was so strong he could taste it, could reach out now into the charged air between them and grab hold of it, feel it in the palm of the hand he clenched be­neath the surface. He didn't understand how she could be so ready to move on, her grief for her baby's father, for her lover, so, so inadequate somehow. Oh, she missed Richard. He'd heard she missed him, but the Mia he knew, the Mia he loved, should be on her knees.

  On her knees as he would be if it were his love, if it were Mia ripped from him, taken from his life, his future, his dreams. He'd be on his knees, howling at the injustice, raw with agony, tortured with regret at the missing years.

  He simply didn't understand.

  She slipped away then, darting beneath him, slip­ping out of his grasp, barely a ripple on the surface to mark her exit, and he glimpsed then what Mia had felt seven years ago, when he had cut her out of his life, left her bereft, questions unanswered, all alone with nothing to cling to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘I want to paint.'

  They were barely inside the front door. A trail of sand on the cool marble tiles followed her as Mia headed purposely towards the alfresco area, not even bothering to turn on the lights as she went, her head full, bursting, with ideas, with colour, with passion, finally ready and not a moment too soon.

  'Now?' She heard the incredulity in Ethan's voice. 'Mia, it's eleven at night; we've been out since seven. Surely you should rest, get some sleep...'

  'I couldn't sleep.' An impatient shake of her head left him none the wiser. 'Ethan, I feel as if I've been asleep for weeks. You were right; I needed to get out there, to see it again, to hear t he people's excitement as they witnessed the reefs beauty for the first time. This has been the best day...'

  It had been. From the splendour of the reef, to the virgin beach where they had picnicked, e very moment had been an awakening and it was far from over. Her skin still tingled from the sun's scorching kiss, like a shell to her ear she could still hear the ocean, see the vivid colours Ethan had taken her to in her mind's eye, and Mia knew she had to get it down now. 'Fi­nally everything's come together; it's all here!' She tapped the side of her head, but Ethan shook his.

  'And it will all still be there in the morning, Mia...' he started, but she wasn't listening, pulling a dust sheet from her canvas, pulling up a stool and staring at the same work she'd stared at.

  ‘Do all this tomorrow.'

  'It might not be there tomorrow.' Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, to be quiet. 'Ethan, it isn't a desk I can leave and come back to; it isn't a pile of figures that might look clearer in the morning. With what I do, there might be nothing left in the morning. I have to take it while it's there, have to...'

  She trailed off, realizing it was hopeless, that the austere busi­nessman who stared back at her could never begin to understand, but when he gave a tight nod, when he headed to the kitchen and poured them both a long drink, handing Mia's to her with out a single word, her smile contracted in disbelief for a second, grateful eyes acknowledging his silence as finally it flowed, as finally what she felt, the visions that had lurked in the background for so long, sprang forth.

  And even if Ethan didn't understand it, he had to respect it, because watching her work, watching her brush stroke the canvas, seeing her creation grow be­fore his eyes, witnessing her talent, he could do nothing else.

  On she worked, each stroke moving the image closer to what they had witnessed that day, capturing the beauty the way no photo ever could, t he depth of her imagination, the attention to detail, the sheer skill in those lithe fingers almost enough to hold his attention. Almost.

  The angle of her bikini not enough to cover the peach of her buttocks, which rose occasionally out of the stool as she leant forward or shifted position, each tiny motion stirring him further.

  'I'm going for a shower.'

  She didn't even answer.

  Didn't seem to notice him leave.

  Didn't look up when, after the longest time, he returned.

  'You're crying?'

  'Happy tears.' Two glittering jewels flashed at him momentarily, blinding him with their beauty. 'I'm fi­nally finished.'

  She turned back to her work and he walked up behind her, staring at the canvas but not even seeing it, his head so full it felt as if it might burst. For a slice of time he maybe even understood, knew how it must feel to act on impulse, to know, just know that the magic, the closeness, the beauty that was now mightn't be there in the morning, to understand that if he walked away now he might never come back, might never capture this moment again.

  And he wanted this moment with her.

  Knew with absolute clarity that what he was feeling was right.

  Sure, he could weigh up the pros and cons, listen to his factual mind that always seemed louder than his heart, think of a million reasons why it could never work, but not one of them held a candle to how he felt standing there behind her now.

  And as surely as Mia could hear the ocean in an imaginary shell he heard her voice then.

  Maybe it's time to chase your own dreams, Ethan...

  She was a dream, his dream, the nightly visitor to his subconscious, who invaded every inch of his personal space by her mere presence, and he could deny it no longer.

  He could do this; could love her without question; would love her if she let him.

  Would push aside the reservations that had held him back, quite simply because he could do nothing else.

  Dragging a stool closer, he rested a hand on her shoulder as he sat behind her, both gazing a t the underwater view she had created, living again the sen­sual beat they had danced to when they had left the world behind, the freedom they had found this very morning. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she gasped tiny, shallow breaths.

  The tension that had simmered was rising to a crescendo now, bubbles of lust rising to the surface as her skin seemed to merge in with his an extension of his own. Her long slender neck, the flickering pulse in its hol­low, seemed to call his lips of its own accord. He felt it under his swollen mouth, capturing the beat with his tongue, the scent of her hair as it trailed across his cheeks, and he closed his eyes in regret, for all he had thrown away, for the conclusions he had drawn, for having doubted her, for not having been able to fully believe in the magic he had found that night.

  As if on autopilot his hand slid down inside the flimsy fabric, no caution now, no turning back, pur­pose in his action, because it was now or never. He could feel her nipple beneath his fingers, the thud of her heart behind her breastbone as he gently rolled her nipple between the pads of his thumb and finger and pressed his torso against the spinal column that had teased him. And she arched backwards, the hol­low of her neck the refuge for his free hand, locating her galloping pulse, leaning over her and soothing it with his cool lips.

  'I can't, Ethan.' Her voice was a hoarse whisper, regret lacing every word. 'Can't do this; can't risk waking up in the morning and seeing regret...'

  'There will be no regret, Mia. Not any more. I've lived with regret for seven years now and I'm not going to lose you twice. I'm not going to let my pride get in the way of us again. I ca
n't go on like this, can't live a moment in this house and not have you. All of you.'

  'Are you sure?' Her hand reached for his, stopping stealthlike movements, but the heat of his palm scorched into her breast, and she struggled internally, desperate to give in, to go with the feelings he insti­gated, for Ethan to blot out the loneliness, the agony, the tension that saturated every pore. Yet she was wired with vulnerability, terrified to feel again, to let him in only to have him walk a way, couldn't survive the torture of a second rejection.

  'Are you sure that you can forgive the fact it's Richard's baby...?'

  'It has nothing to do with forgiveness,' Ethan said, his voice thick with emotion. 'I know that now, Mia. It's to do with acceptance. I didn't know if I could accept it at first, wasn't sure I could accept the fact that you and Richard...' He paused for a heartbeat, sensibility gushing in, and he blocked it, almost phys­ically pushed the taunting questions away, such was his need, his want, his love.

  'From the day I asked you to move in here, from the moment I saw you again, I've wanted you, Mia, wanted all of you; you know that as well as I do. But wanting is one thing, seeing it through is another. I can't just have you in my home as much as I can't just have you in my bed. That's why I've waited; that's why I've pushed you away. It has to be all of you, Mia.'

  'And it has to be all of you, Ethan.' Her voice trembled as she recalled his rejection, the futile end to something so beautiful, the wasted years he had ripped away from them. 'You have to promise to talk to me, Ethan, to tell me what you're thinking, how you're feeling.'

  'I will.'

  'You have to!' There was urgency in her voice. 'You didn't even give me a chance to defend myself, threw away seven years that we could have spent to­gether because you were too mistrusting to even con­template there might be another side to the story, that Richard might not be telling the truth, too damned proud to ask me my truth.'

  'I know that now.'

  And such was the sincerity in his voice, such was the regret, the pain, the love behind his words it was enough to quell her fears, to finally admit that maybe they could make it after all. S he nodded her under­standing, closed her eyes as she moved her hand that had been stilling him away, leant back in to him as his hand slid between her cleavage, fingers splaying between the two trembling mounds, the soft sheen of her skin like an accelerant as his fingers massaged her deeper.

  'It will still be there in the morning,' he whispered, and this time she believed him, this time she under­stood that he knew what he was saying. Her neck arched further backwards, a strangled gasp in her throat as his hands inched down, leaving her exposed breast to the mercy of his lips as he leant over behind her, his jaw scratching the soft skin, his tongue work­ing the taut nipples, teasing them ever longer, his thighs wrapped around hers, his hand massaging her stomach.

  And this time his touch wasn't cautious. This time she could feel the love, the passion, the reverence in his movements, holding the child within her in an almost proprietary gesture, cradling the swell of her stomach in his hands. She felt as if he had reached in and captured her soul, knew that his touch was more than just lust, more than just want, but about need and acceptance as well. That in touching her now he was taking all of her, and she surren­dered to him then, kissed the last grey shadows of doubt goodbye,

  Ethan's touch all she needed to move on. His lips were moving upward now, kissing her ears, his hot breath driving her in to a frenzy as her head spun, a dizzy frenzy of lust as a hand moved down, slipped into the bottom of her bikini. Probing fingers brushed the soft down as his other hand moved under her but tocks, coming at her from both directions, an onslaught of sensations she didn't know how to respond to, a driving need to turn around to face him, coupled with a selfish need to stay, to allow his skilful hands to work their magic, to carry on this teasing stroke, sliding into her warmth.

  A tiny groan escaped her lips but was drowned out in an instant by a shuddering gasp as his other hand captured the core of her womanhood, her buttocks rising out of the stool of their own accord, her back arching in delicious submission, legs twitching almost spasmodi­cally as he brought her so damned close it was indecent.

  'Ethan.' It was all she could manage, the single word a gasp, but he understood what she was saying, understood the language her body was speaking, free­ing her for a second. As she turned around they faced each other head-on, perhaps for the first time. And he held onto her, guided her down as she lowered herself onto him, slid over his length, his arms steadying her as her head threw back, moving her, lifting her up and down his heated length as his face drowned in her bosom, feeling her thighs tighten around his back, her stomach swollen against his.

  He tried to hold back, terrified of hurting her, but she wouldn't let him, bucking against him, giving him the permission he needed to grind himself into her, to give into the spasm that racked his body, feeling her most intimate vice tightening convulsively around him. He let go then, shuddering into her, a primal groan escaping his lips as she dragged every last sweet drop out of him.

  Exhausted but elated, she rested against him, lay her glowing cheeks on his damp shoulder, felt arms that would never let her fall wrap around her as her breathing caught up, as a heart that was beating wildly out of control finally tripped back into rhythm. And Mia knew then in a blinding flash of clarity that she could finally tell him the truth, because she wouldn't be shouting it in defense, but telling him for all the right reasons. That Richard would understand. 'Ethan, about Richard...'

  'Don't.' He lifted her back slightly, stared at her for the longest time. 'Not now, Mia, not when we've just found each other again. We've got the rest of our lives to sort things out. Like I said before, it will all still be there in the morning.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was.

  For seven years Mia had loved Ethan, had missed the beauty of waking beside him. Of feeling him curved into her back, his knees tucked behind hers, her head resting on his upper arm a s his hand cupped her breast, while the other hand rested on her stom­ach, as if even in sleep he couldn't bear to let her go. Wriggling free, ignoring his low moan of protest, she turned to face him, scarcely able to believe that in all this time she'd never witnessed him relaxed, never known the ethereal beauty of his face without the stern mask he wore.

  She stared, capturing every feature, tracking with her artistic eyes the superb sculp­ture of his cheekbones, the strong jaw that looked softer in sleep, the dusting of an early-morning shadow that made her breasts tingle at the memory of its scratching feel against her s kin. Her eyes worked lower, utterly uninhibited in the absence of his brood­ing gaze and she caught her breath in wonder.

  The morning sun rising through the unclosed shutters cast shadows on the hollows of his ribs, drew her eyes to his nipples dark as mahogany, a snaky ebony trail of hair guiding her downwards. She ached to pull the sheet away, and, she realized with a deep satisfaction, finally she could.

  She was in bed beside the man she loved.

  Finally, after so much want, so much need, so much pain, she could act on her impulses without reprimand, look into his eyes without fear of revealing the depth of her passion, because he felt it too.

  Her hand crept boldly down, pushing away the crumpled cotton, and she stared at the tumid beauty, rising gently just at her will, as if her gaze, her need, was enough to rouse it. She couldn't not reach out and touch it, needed to feel its silken beauty in her hands, running a finger along its heated length, men­tally pinching herself that it was hers to stroke, to hold, that it was her touch he responded to, and that knowledge made her bold. His eyes as they slowly opened made her feel so wanted, so adored, they made her feel safe.

  'Good morning.' The two words were a low rum­ble, thick with desire and lust, no shadows of regret in the dark pools of his eyes, no hesitation in the hands that pulled her in closer that parted her thighs as he softly slipped inside. And there was a tenderness to their lovemaking that hadn't been so visible be
fore. Deep, slower strokes, the abandonment and furious possession of before replaced instead with the heady knowledge that time was on their side; that this was theirs to keep. And they stared at each other as they moved together, no words needed as their bodies spoke volumes, the intensity of their orgasms so over­whelming, shuddering through her, her hands clinging onto his back, dragging into his skin, hi s name escaping her lips.

  When tears filled her eyes she didn't blink them back, just let them fall, the release of emotion so intense, so cathartic it felt like a new awak­ening; that he was still there, still holding her, still loving her was like the sun coming up all over again.

  ‘I’ve got the doctor s at nine. What about you?’

  'I've got a video conference with the manager of the Sydney resort at nine-thirty and a solicitor's appointment at eleven.'

  'Sorry.'

  'For what?'

  'Keeping you from work. I know you're in limbo...'