Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  Ruth moaned as he pushed up her T-shirt to pinch one thick nipple. She reached down to the waistband of the boxers he’d been sleeping in, shoving them down without much grace. When she felt the growing hardness of his cock against her palm, she shuddered.

  Evan pulled her underwear aside and slid a finger through her wetness. She was almost always wet, now. Always desperate for him. And she’d thought she had it bad before she got pregnant…

  “Again?” he asked softly, a teasing light in his eyes. “You’ll wear me out.”

  “Liar.” She squeezed his erection as he pulled off her knickers, and then released a choked gasp as he thrust two fingers inside her.

  “Come on,” he said calmly, even as his hand worked over her mound. “Sit up for me, love.”

  Because she wasn’t supposed to lie on her back for too long, now, and definitely not during sex. As Ruth pushed herself into a seated position, helped by Evan’s strong arm, she moaned. Every shift brought his fingers into contact with that delicious spot that sent her eyes rolling back.

  Evan pulled her into his lap, so that her back rested against his chest. She spread her legs wide and looked down to watch his fingers thrusting into her—but his rigid cock blocked the view.

  “On your knees,” he said softly, and she adjusted until she was straddling his thighs. He pulled his fingers from her pussy, and she tried not to whimper—but it was hard, so fucking hard, when she could feel his naked skin on hers, his body surrounding her, his laboured breath against her neck.

  “Evan,” she moaned softly, and he bit gently at her throat.

  “Shhh, love. It’s okay. I have you.” He gripped her thighs, pulled her up slightly, and she reached down to guide his cock. When the swollen head pushed into her, they both released a tight breath.

  Evan wrapped an arm around her hips, slid the other over her gently swaying breasts. As his fingers pinched one taut nipple, hard, Ruth let her head fall back against his shoulder.

  “There,” he whispered. His beard brushed her throat, his lips grazing her ear. “Is that what you wanted, my love?”

  “Yes,” she panted, but it wasn’t completely true. Ruth shifted her hips, clenched her muscles around him, chased the growing pressure within her.

  He laughed. “Are you sure?” And his hands moved, cradling her hips, holding her tight, lifting her—fuck. He pulled her up, and delicious friction burst to life inside her. Then he pushed her down again, onto his cock, and said, “You don’t want that?”

  “I do,” she gasped out, her voice almost a sob. “I do. Please, Evan—” She broke off as he repeated the movement, his strong arms lifting her, letting her fall again, sliding her up and down his length. “Oh, Jesus,” she moaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as he moaned too, low and raw and deep in his throat. He sounded like an animal. The heavy pants of his breath felt almost feverish against her skin, and then he bit her, sinking his teeth into her shoulder, and Ruth had to reach down and rub her clit because this was too fucking much.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped out, his hips jerking beneath her. “You’re so beautiful and perfect and you’re mine.”

  “And you’re mine.” Ruth rubbed harder, tried to ride him even though it was a struggle, even though he set the pace and moved her body for her, because she was reaching that desperate, frantic point when lust surpasses reason. “Fuck, Evan. Christ, I love you.”

  “I know.” He slammed her down harder onto his cock, bit her shoulder again.

  And she came. Screaming, sobbing, breathless, sated. That was how he always left her, any time she asked for it.

  Evan came too, with a choked moan that always made her smile, because it belonged to moments like this. And then they sat there for a while, his arms wrapped around her, Ruth’s hands clinging to him. She could feel his length softening inside her and even that, weirdly enough, made her happy. Everything made her happy.

  “Perfect,” she murmured, her body still soft and liquid with pleasure.

  He roused enough to press a kiss against her cheek. “I love you. Will you sleep, now?”

  “Oh, is that what that was? You putting me to sleep?”

  “Depends. Did it work?”

  Ruth closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. “Maybe. Possibly.”

  “Good. You need your rest.” Which was an ironic statement, considering what he’d just done with her, but Ruth would let that slide. He murmured, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “You know I won’t let you down.”

  “I’ve never worried about that,” she said. “You’re perfect.”

  Evan raised a hand to her forehead. “Are you okay?” He asked incredulously. “Feverish at all? Hysterical? No?”

  “Shut up.” She pulled his hand away, then kissed his palm. “I wasn’t worried about you. I was worried about me.”

  “Well, don’t. Because you’re perfect too.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  Evan tutted. “Don’t insult my wife. I take it very personally.”

  There was a point when Ruth would’ve brushed those words away. When she would’ve been uncomfortable at the pure love in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he held her.

  But she was used to it now. She was happy with it. And she deserved it.

  So instead, she turned her head to kiss him, soft and chaste. Then she said, “You are correct, I suppose. We’re both perfect for each other.”

  He smiled. “That sounds about right.”

  The End.

  Next Up: Laura Burne gets a second chance with her first love… away from Daniel. Keep reading for Damaged Goods.

  Or, if you can’t wait for Hannah Kabbah’s nanny vs single dad romance, skip to Untouchable.

  Damaged Goods

  Ravenswood Book 1.5

  For Truly Scrumptious, my blessing.

  Content Note

  Please be aware: this book contains descriptions of domestic abuse, intimate partner violence, and child abuse that may trigger some readers. Specific warnings below.

  Chapter 5: Detailed discussion of child abuse.

  Chapter 9: Depiction of domestic abuse and intimate partner violence.

  Chapter 12: Gaslighting and internalised misogyny.

  Chapter 16: Confrontation with abuser and gaslighting.

  Chapter 18: Depiction of childbirth.

  1

  The stranger arrived on a Saturday night.

  Her great, sleek Range Rover rumbled into the seaside village, gleaming like whale skin under the full moon. A young lad walking his dog watched it pass in awe, his jaw slack. Not even during the season, when the middle-classes descended upon Beesley-On-Sea for their summer holidays, had he seen such extravagant rims on a car. And he’d certainly never come across a private plate like that.

  BURN3, it read.

  The car drove past the astonished youth without pause. Its driver barely saw the boy, just as she’d barely seen the Welcome to Beesley-on-Sea! sign she’d passed five minutes ago. It didn’t matter, though; she knew exactly where she was. Even after all these years, the briny tang of seawater on the breeze made her muscles loosen and her heart rise. By the time she reached her destination, the old beach house, she was grinning like a ninny.

  The driver’s name was Laura, and she left her rings in the glovebox.

  They were irritating, anyway, you see. The teardrop diamond of her engagement ring always dug into her other fingers. The wedding band was alright—if one forgot the part where it symbolised her legal attachment to the biggest piece of shit on earth. But, she reminded herself, that attachment would soon be dissolved. Thank fuck.

  The beach house of Laura’s memory was a grand old thing, but fifteen years later it was simply… well, an old thing. Her father-in-law’s monstrous Range Rover looked ridiculous on the driveway, gleaming smugly beside the house’s battered wood panelling and chip
ped, white window frames. And yet, in an instant, she loved the beach house quite unreasonably. The car she loved far less, even if it had allowed her madcap escape.

  The house keys had been left in the old post-box by the door, because the estate agent overseeing this rent was an older, small-town man. The older, small-town man, Laura knew, was a curious specimen. They tended to lack the proper survival instincts, so they did ridiculous things like… well, like leaving the keys to a house in said house’s post-box and trusting that no-one would steal them.

  Thankfully, no-one had. Laura glanced over her shoulder as she fished them out, squinting into the moonlit darkness, searching for potential home invaders. All she saw was leafy isolation across the street and scattered stars lighting up the night. All she heard were the familiar sounds of night creatures hooting and rustling and whispering on the breeze. She could almost pretend she was back home in Ravenswood.

  But not quite. There were three key differences, so far, between Ravenswood and Beesley. The first: Ravenswood didn’t have a beach, and thus its breeze lacked the raw, wild, salty scent of Beesley’s. The second: in Ravenswood, she would’ve been secure in the knowledge that her friends—or at the very least, her father-in-law—were within walking distance. The third: she would also have been terrified by the knowledge that her husband was within walking distance.

  That last point alone made Beesley far preferable to Ravenswood right now. She hurried into the house.

  Its interior was as charmingly faded as its exterior had been, filled with mismatched furniture and outdated appliances. Laura hadn’t brought much with her, so it didn’t take long to unpack. Everything had its place: designer clothes stuffed into the bleached-wood wardrobe, La Mer arranged on the eighties-style tiles of the en-suite’s counter, phone charger plugged in by the dusty-rose divan. She wandered downstairs, stomach growling, and found the kitchen fully stocked.

  The sight of fat, round grapes by the sink, a floury bloomer in the pantry, and a slab of white cheese in the fridge made Laura nauseous. This was the food she’d requested. This was the food that, five minutes ago, she’d been desperate to shovel down her throat. Now the mere idea made her stomach roil. The midwife’s pamphlets had totally lied, and Laura was still bitter about it. Morning—or evening, or afternoon, or midnight—sickness did not fade after the first trimester.

  “Alright then,” she murmured, looking down at the swell of her stomach. “What do you fancy?”

  The bump remained silent. Typical.

  She wandered over to the kitchen sink and ran her sweaty palms over its cool steel. Still fighting the queasy lurch in her gut, Laura glanced out of the window at the stars, then studied the narrow scrap of beach outside, untouched by the high tide.

  That was the ocean she saw, winking at her like an old flirt, just beyond the sand. Oh, how she loved the ocean.

  “A walk on the beach, perhaps?” she suggested to her own abdomen.

  The foetus within held its tongue. Did they have tongues, at this stage? She’d have to consult her pamphlets again.

  Oh, whatever. The baby may not have an opinion, but Laura knew exactly what she wanted.

  And for the first time in a while, she was free to go for it.

  Samir didn’t think he was being spied on.

  On the one hand, people were often spied on here in Beesley—especially during the off-season. Folks had too much damned time on their hands. The elderly in particular became vampires in their old age, always thirsty for someone else’s drama.

  But on the other hand, whoever had just joined him on the beach was far too noisy to be a spy. Surely, if they were trying to be sneaky, they wouldn’t blunder over the stony shoreline like the world’s loudest bulldozer. And they certainly wouldn’t be tossing pebbles into the silky ink of the ocean with a successive plop, plop, plop that yanked him right out of his evening’s angst-fest.

  So they weren’t going to pinch his cheek and call him a lovely boy, and they weren’t going to tell the whole town that Samir Bianchi had been staring out to sea, grim-faced and resentful, like some wannabe Batman. Those were good things. Very good things.

  But Samir still wasn’t feeling charitable toward the person who’d intruded on his solitude—and never mind the fact that this was a public beach. It was the middle of the night, for goodness’s sake. A man should be able to brood without interruption on a beach in the middle of the night. An hour or two of self-indulgence wasn’t asking for much.

  Clearly the bulldozer disagreed. They came ever closer, ever louder, ever clumsier, until it became suddenly and painfully clear that Samir was going to have to announce his presence. It was dark enough that, if he didn’t, this bulldozer of a human being might just bulldoze him.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice breaking the gentle, wave-tinged silence.

  “Argh!” the bulldozer said and fell on top of him.

  What followed was an alarming series of shrieks, grunts and mumbled apologies that Samir really could’ve done without.

  “Bloody hell,” he blurted as the bulldozer collapsed over him like a sack of bricks.

  “Oh!” the bulldozer cried. “I’m so sorry!” She—it did seem to be a she—accompanied those words with what felt like a shoulder to his throat.

  “Bloody hell!” he spluttered, this time with even greater feeling.

  A small storm of sand was kicked up as the two of them shuffled apart like crabs on speed. He felt the grit against his skin, scratching his dry eyes, and even sneaking into his open, panting mouth. Delightful.

  Eventually, despite all the scuffling and swearing and shrieking—this bulldozer operated at a rather high pitch—they managed to put a decent amount of space between them. Samir could see the outline of a person in the moonlight, just a few feet away. The gentle whoosh of the wind over the waves should’ve made the silence between them peaceful. Instead, it felt painfully awkward. He should say something, really. The only problem was, he thought his voice box might be damaged. The woman’s shoulder must be made of bloody brick.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, the words sudden and disarmingly earnest. She sounded absolutely mortified. In fact, it was more than that; she sounded ready to throw herself down a well. The abject discomfort in her voice was so intense, it was making him uncomfortable. And there was something else, too—something in her tone, or maybe her accent, that tugged at a thread in the back of his mind. It was a weird sensation.

  He decided to ignore it.

  “It’s okay,” he managed, his voice far too cracked and hoarse to be convincing. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She snorted. It was a soft, horse-like sound, and something about it tugged on that thread again. “It most certainly is not okay,” she said. “I must’ve squashed you.”

  This was the part where he lied gallantly. “I wouldn’t say squashed—”

  “I would.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “I might believe you,” she said wryly, “if you weren’t still wheezing like a donkey.”

  Samir managed to choke out a laugh in between wheezes.

  Maybe his eyes were adjusting, or maybe some of the cloud cover had passed. Whatever the reason, he suddenly caught a glimpse of his strange companion: the gleam of moonlight on long, dark hair as she tipped her head back; the outline of a sharp, rather no-nonsense nose; the curve of the impressively substantial shoulder that had found its way to his throat. No wonder he was still a bit winded.

  “Please,” she said, sounding oddly, subtly urgent. “Let me be sorry. I’m very, very sorry.”

  He recognised something in her voice—something self-flagellating and hopeful all at once. Something he’d heard in his own voice, once upon a time. Or rather, he thought he did. He was probably imagining things.

  “If it matters so much,” he said lightly, “you can be as sorry as you like.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she murmured, a slight smile in her voice. “I appreciate it.”

  And wasn’t the h
uman mind such a strange thing? Because, out of everything she’d said over the past five minutes, it was that single phrase—those three little words—that pulled loose the insistent, tugging thread in his mind.

  “I appreciate it,” she’d said fifteen years ago, after he’d given her a stolen Cornetto. She’d been all prim and proper while she unwrapped his ill-gotten goods, and for some reason it had made his teenaged heart sing. He’d wanted to steal a thousand more Cornettos, just for her.

  Over the course of the summer, he probably had.

  Samir sank his fingers into the gritty sand, grounding himself even as strange hope ran wild. Surely not. Surely not. This woman, whoever she was, dredged up old memories for some other reason. She just happened to have the same accent and that same arch tone. It was a coincidence. Because the chances of meeting her again, here, after all this time…

  It wasn’t possible. That sort of thing didn’t happen.

  But Samir found himself squinting at her in the darkness, anyway, as if he could will himself to develop night vision.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. She might as well have whacked him over the head. Now he was sure. He was positive. He could’ve predicted every inflection in that sentence, from the way she glided over the you to the wobbling lilt on okay, as if she really gave a shit. Because she did.

  “Laura?” he asked slowly. And, though he’d been certain a second ago, just saying her name made it seem so impossible. Made him think that he must be mistaken.

  Until she stilled, her shadowy outline stiffening. Her voice was hard as glass and twice as fragile when she demanded, “Who are you?”

  Because of course she’d be freaked out by a strange man knowing her name. Who wouldn’t? Through the flood of disbelief rushing over him, he managed to say, “It’s Samir. Samir Bianchi. Do you remember me?”