Be My Always: A BWWM Romance (Make It Marriage Book 1)

by Nia Arthurs

  It’s ten feet to my apartment.

  Seven.

  Five.

  Two.

  Zero.

  I stop in front of my door. Unlock it.

  The apartment is an okay size for this uptown locale, but it isn’t exactly Brendon Humes’ mansion. The main room is cluttered. Towels cover the floor. All my paintings are leaning against the wall, melted faces fit for a horror film.

  Shame creeps across my cheeks as I stare at the mess.

  It looks like I’m a slob. “I haven’t had time to clean up yet.”

  “It’s okay.” Brendon arches an eyebrow. “Evidence of the flood?”

  “Yeah.” I bend down to pick up a towel.

  He takes my wrist and pries the wet towel out of it. Flings it to the ground. Still holding my arm, he swings me around and presses me into the wall that was once a relaxing ‘sandcastle tan’ and now boasts ugly water stains.

  The damp smell leaking from the concrete mixes with the perfume of lust.

  My heart pounds so hard I’m sure my neighbors can hear.

  Brendon moves closer, pinning me to the wall. Our chests, our hips, our thighs brush. Our lips hover inches apart.

  Then he closes the distance.

  Our mouths collide.

  The kiss is soft at first. A peck.

  Then it’s more.

  He’s sucking and nibbling.

  It tastes so good.

  He tastes so good.

  Brendon pulls my body closer, taking me back from the wall.

  A hand settles on my hip.

  Pushing me up, up.

  Closer.

  Against his hot body.

  His kiss is at once tender and needy.

  His eyes are closed.

  Mine are still open.

  I’m… enthralled.

  By his vulnerability.

  By the trust he’s shown meeting me here, screaming for comfort in his own Brendon-way.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but something in my chest twinges.

  Melts.

  Dissolves.

  I want to be the one who offers that respite.

  I want it as much as I want to find that refuge in him.

  His fingers trail my neck. Down to my shoulders.

  My eyes close immediately.

  I moan.

  Fall deeper into the kiss.

  Heat spreads through me like a raging fire.

  I need him.

  Now.

  Brendon takes a tiny step backward.

  We’re both breathing hard.

  The space between us allows room for thoughts to creep in. But I bat them all away. I don’t want to think about anything but this moment and this man. His body. My body. Where and how fast and how hard.

  That’s it.

  Brendon stares at me, silver eyes burning through my clothes. “Turn around.”

  Feels like lightning whips through my chest at the demand.

  I swallow hard.

  Do as I’m told.

  “Now,” his dark voice sends shivers down my back as he eases up behind me, brushes a lock of hair away from my cheek and whispers what I should do next.

  The buzzing starts at the tips of my toes and travels to the top of my head.

  I do what he wants.

  A few minutes later, I’m clinging to my ankles for balance and exploding with pleasure, the wet towels, the musty smell in the air, and the damp stains in the wall, completely and totally forgotten.

  Twenty-One

  Brendon

  My arms wind around Kayla’s body.

  Her soft, delicate, pliable little body.

  My nose lies flat against her neck.

  I’m clutching her tightly.

  Too tightly, too intensely, for our still-undefined relationship.

  I’ve rocked her world two nights in a row.

  I want to do it again tomorrow.

  The one-night stand thing is dead.

  There hasn’t been a moment to discuss what this is yet though.

  Hasn’t been much talking in general.

  Not unless you count the dirty talk.

  Which I don’t.

  My hold on Kayla tightens.

  Her breathing is deep and even. She fell asleep pretty quickly once we moved to the bed. Whether I’m the one who tuckered her out or she had a long day in general, I’m not sure.

  My fingers swirl up her brown skin. Tracing the length of her arm. An invisible circle around her elbow.

  So soft.

  So beautiful.

  My heart aches, begging me to stay.

  I should probably leave.

  Lying here with her is just as—no—even more comforting than everything else we did tonight.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  That’s my grief talking.

  That’s me burying my head in the sand so I don’t have to confront the fact that my mom is dying.

  That this entire time I had no idea what she was going through.

  None.

  I wasn’t there for her.

  I squeeze Kayla tighter to combat the vise-like grip guilt has on my head.

  I should have asked more questions about those charity trips instead of just letting her go.

  Kayla grunts.

  I barely hear her over my rushing thoughts.

  I should have checked up on Mom more.

  Should have…

  Maybe then, she wouldn’t be…

  “Brendon.” A soft touch on my knuckles draws my gaze down. Kayla glances at me over her shoulder, brown eyes wide in the dimness. “You’re hurting me.”

  I relax my arms immediately. “Sorry.”

  She turns around. Faces me. Gives me a laser scan.

  I wonder what she’s thinking.

  What her internal radars are picking up.

  If she can see what I’m trying so hard to hide, what I tried so hard to bury beneath the slick and sweaty meeting of our bodies tonight.

  Does she feel used?

  Am I using her?

  I like her.

  I do.

  More than I want to admit.

  Kayla’s the first person I thought about when I left Mom’s luxurious private hospital, reeling from shock and frustration.

  Her pretty face was the only one I wanted to see.

  It still makes no sense—how drawn I am to her.

  Even now, she fits so perfectly in my arms.

  Like she was meant to be there.

  I take a deep breath, trying to shake the thoughts free. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall down the rabbit hole and start confessing my undying love.

  Not a good look after only knowing her for a handful of days.

  Her hands graze my arms and up toward my shoulders. Her touch is whisper-soft. “You’re so tense.”

  “That’s just muscle, Princess.”

  “Princess?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “The nickname?”

  “Princesses.”

  She settles into my arms. “Of course I love princesses. Who doesn’t? I grew up on fairytales like all the other brain-washed Cinderella-wanna-bes.”

  “Sounds like you have something against Cinderella.”

  “She should have left the house and let her step-mother clean her own crap. The kid is dumb. It’s a fact. Not personal.”

  “You’re surprisingly bitter for someone who arranges marriages for a living.”

  “Nice.” She tries to roll away.

  I tug her back. Paste her against my chest with an arm. “Touched a nerve?”

  “My work has nothing to do with my personal beliefs.”

  “Which are?”

  She eyes me, looking irresistible with her dark hair falling into her stormy eyes. “Happily ever after is a myth. There’s no such thing. Marriage takes work and most relationships fail. That’s life.”

  “Ouch. Maybe consider a career change?”

  “I love what I do.”

/>   “You’re a walking contradiction.”

  “I’m a realist. I don’t get distracted by fluff and feelings. My clients know what they’re getting into and what to look for when they’re matched by me. You meet a jerk, you marry a jerk, he’ll still be a jerk. No bippity-boppity-boos here.”

  “I love that.”

  “What?”

  “A boss lady.”

  I don’t need the lights on to know she’s getting red.

  A contented sigh slips past my lips.

  Pillow talk.

  Against hook-up etiquette.

  But we’re doing it and she seems in no rush to kick me out of her bed.

  Maybe there’s a chance she’s ready to bend her rules for more than an extra night.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “Me?”

  “Brendon Humes. Son of George Humes. Multi-billion-dollar owners of Humes Corp. Celebrities. Philanthropists. Shall I continue?”

  I groan. Throw a hand over my forehead. “Don’t start.”

  She grins, delighting in my discomfort. Rolling up on her elbow, she looks down at me. “It’s crazy I didn’t recognize you sooner.”

  “We try to keep our family affairs private. Dad’s the one in the spotlight.”

  “I’m curious about something.”

  “What?”

  Her teeth flash white. “How did that gold spoon taste growing up?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m just saying. You’re a real life Prince Charming.”

  “Would that make you Cinderella?”

  “Only if I wear the shoe.” She winks. Plops back down beside me. This time, when she speaks, it’s with a thoughtful note. “Why did you come tonight?”

  “Because one taste wasn’t enough.”

  “I’m serious, Brendon.”

  I know.

  And I trust Kayla.

  Now that my mind isn’t so jumbled and chaotic, I’m okay with facing that darkness again.

  “My mom’s in the hospital.” I force myself to say the words, to pull them into reality. “She’s dying.”

  Kayla shoots up. “What?”

  I yank her back down. Wrap my arms around her again. I don’t want to think about Mom anymore.

  That’s not what I drove all the way here for.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “I wasn’t the only one trying to forget something.”

  She clears her throat—ahem-ing and aha-ing—for a solid minute. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh. I can bare my soul, but you can’t?”

  I expect her to sink back into her armor or worse, treat me with kid gloves sewn from pity, offering hollow condolences, but she smiles instead. “I wanted everything but your soul bared, yes. Is that a crime?”

  “I see how it is.” I tickle her side. “You were just using me for my body.”

  She laughs.

  “I was nothing but a stick of meat to you, wasn’t I?”

  “Brendon…” She chokes on laughter. Can barely get my name out.

  I grin.

  A real one.

  Damn.

  She’s got me feeling like there might actually be some rhythm to nature, some sense to the world.

  I’m losing my mother, but I met Kayla in the same season.

  That can’t be a coincidence.

  I’m choosing not to consider it one.

  “Fine. Fine.” She sighs and I lift my hands, eyeing her carefully in case she gets the inkling to run away before giving me what I want. “Remember that guy I was telling you about?”

  I have to wrack my memory. “The one who committed suicide?”

  “Yeah.” She nods soberly. The light seeps out of her eyes and I wish I hadn’t pushed her to discuss it. “His death anniversary’s in a couple days.”

  “What does that mean to you?”

  She shrugs. Keeps her voice carefully casual. “I usually stop by his grave. You know? Spend a few minutes.”

  There’s a catch in her tone that warns there’s more to the story.

  What’s up with this ex?

  Did she love him?

  Is she still carrying a torch for him?

  Is that why the only thing she’s looking for is sex?

  Freaking pull it together, Brendon.

  I’m jealous of a dead guy.

  It’s unnecessary.

  And pathetic.

  As tragic as her ex’s ending may be, he’s gone.

  I’m here.

  I shift around and stare at the ceiling so she can’t tell how tense I am when I ask, “You want some company?”

  Kayla’s body goes still.

  She sucks in a deep breath. “You offering to be there?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the cemetery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not really romantic.”

  “Are you afraid I’d try to take you against a tomb stone?”

  “What?” She snorts. “No, of course not.”

  More silence.

  I’m pushing past my boundaries again.

  Just like that day on the way to the photo-shoot.

  Inviting myself into her life.

  Into a part of her that she’s kept private and closed-up.

  Opening her legs to me doesn’t mean she’s opened her heart.

  Still, I want to protect her.

  Keep her safe.

  Make her smile.

  “I can be your security guard,” I add when she still doesn’t answer. “If that sweetens the deal.”

  “You’ll protect me from all the dead bodies?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  She chuckles. “Okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She glances up shyly. “If you want to.”

  “I do.”

  She nods, her brown cheek nuzzling against the pillow.

  Freaking. Adorable.

  I wrap my fingers against the back of her head and drive her face into my chest. The other hand grips her wrist and holds her palm against my heart. Her pulse is beating fast.

  Is it from arousal?

  Excitement?

  Fear?

  I bring her knuckles to my lips and kiss each one slowly. Then I press a firm kiss into her forehead.

  If it’s arousal, I’ll satisfy her.

  If it’s excitement, I’ll laugh with her.

  If it’s fear, I’ll assure her.

  No matter what, I’ll take care of her.

  Now that…

  That’s a promise.

  Twenty-Two

  Brendon

  I leave Kayla’s place early in the morning and head back to the hospital. At a red light, I hold the steering wheel loosely and study the clock on the dashboard screen.

  Six thirty.

  I run a palm over my face.

  Early.

  Way too early.

  I should have stayed with Kayla a little longer. Held her a little longer. But I hadn’t been able to sleep. Spent most of the night tossing and turning. My stomach twisted in knots.

  Kayla must have been uncomfortable, but she didn’t make a peep. She let me hold her like a life vest. Like the only rope tying me to sanity.

  The night crawled on, long and dark.

  She was my relief, but even the comfort of her presence couldn’t quiet the niggling voice in my head telling me I should get back to mom.

  Back to my responsibilities.

  Back to being a Humes.

  To the secrets and the scandals.

  I calm my breath.

  Drum my fingers against the steering wheel.

  The sun is shining now.

  The night is gone, slinking away until it’s his time to reign.

  I’m close to the hospital.

  A few minutes away.

  When I see Mom…

  The bitterness inside threatens to overwhelm me, but I push it back with all my strength.

  Mom doesn’t n
eed my judgment.

  She made a call. A call to keep me out of her issues, away from her demons. As much as it hurts me that she ran to Dad of all people, instead of her own son, I have to let it go.

  Releasing another deep exhale, I ease forward when the light turns green and search the street I’m cruising.

  I’m a few miles out of town, but it feels like I’m deep in the heart of a ritzy square.

  Clairford Avenue.

  It’s a gated community within a gated community.

  The sidewalks are laid with weathered, red bricks. Large trees spread their leafy branches over buildings that eye the shade with stiff indifference.

  There are no colorful fabric awnings to add a welcoming touch. The flowers are all carefully curated and pruned to perfection, not a stray leaf in sight.

  It’s beautiful—in that ordered, restrained way that seems almost unnatural.

  Mom’s hospital is a sprawling structure that occupies a city block. Ritzier than a trendy hotel, it’s got big windows covered in blinds (just in case the paps are lurking) and a gold sign welcoming ‘guests’ inside.

  I park in the basement garage and head up to Mom’s floor via the wide, sprawling elevator fitted with plush red carpet, gold and mirrors. A pretentious classical score is on repeat.

  It grates my ears.

  I’m glad to hop out when the elevator arrives on the right floor.

  Nurses dip their heads when I pass by, but turn and watch me when my back is turned.

  Some smile in admiration, others narrow their eyes in distrust.

  Mom’s been here for almost two years. I’d bet a few of those nurses have gotten their skirts hiked—courtesy of my father.

  I keep walking.

  Focus on that door on the end of the hallway.

  My heart is beating fast.

  It happened yesterday too, when I first saw Mom. She’d smiled at me, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I didn’t ask any questions. We’d stood there for hours in painfully awkward silence, each trying to come to terms with the unveiling and what it would mean.

  I wonder if today will be more of the same.

  My fingers press a button and the door slides open automatically.

  The room is exquisite. Walls painted a light green. Abstract paintings in neutral colors. A flat screen TV (with Netflix and video-conferencing capabilities for patient-doctor consults) and an add-on salon fitted with sofas and a piano.

  There’s a large, plush bed that’s as soft as the ones back home. If not for the equipment fitted cleverly into the spaces above and beside the headboard, no one would be able to guess that this space belongs to a hospital.