Good Girl's Bad Lessons

by Carmen Falcone

  “Relax, Emma.”

  Nico massaged her cheeks, not moving for a moment. The feel of his strong hands rubbing her, squeezing, kneading, clutching, created fire in her belly. Her shoulders loosened, and he resumed entering her, simultaneously stimulating her ass.

  A moan of pleasure flew from her mouth, and he moved inside her. She responded by gyrating her hips, to intensify his claim of her. When he began to retreat his cock only to plunge it in again, she groaned.

  “You’re perfect, Emma. Your ass is mine now,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Yes. She wanted to be his—for as long as he’d have her. The thought added another notch of excitement, and he continued to fuck her, in and out, each time harder, until he found an insane slamming rhythm. She clutched her pillow, shifting her head from side to side. The friction.

  The friction of his cock tunneling in and out of her caused a blazing reaction, and soon she rocked her ass into him, wanting, no, needing more. Needing him.

  “Touch yourself for me, baby. Play with your naughty clit so we come together.”

  She slid her hand down her body and mimicked the movements he’d made earlier, working her clit. A crazy amount of pressure built in her bundle of nerves, fast-tracking her cells. He smashed her back hole, his balls slapping against her, the scent of tangy sex and sweat mixing in the air.

  Too much. It was too much. He placed his hands at her waist, his fingers digging into her and powering up his claim on her. She flicked her clit, harder, until her body contracted for one moment, and she jerked backward. After a beat or two, she shook, letting the waves of pleasure ride her. Her heart slammed against her rib cage, her breathing labored.

  Soon, he followed her, and with one last plunge, filled her with a warm load. She waited until he finished, and fell on the mattress, completely spent, her eyelids heavy.

  He dropped next to her, panting, and she didn’t need to see him to feel his exhaustion. “Mine,” he whispered, and she sighed—sated, happy, and unbelievably foolish.

  …

  “Mama.” Nico saw the silhouette of his mother strolling on the beach, and he followed her, speeding to keep up. No matter how fast he ran, he was always a few steps behind, yet she didn’t seem in a hurry. She didn’t glance back, not even once. She didn’t call his name.

  She entered a lush forest, and he sped up but tripped on a fallen tree trunk. His vision blurred, and the trees moved, closing in on him. A dark smoke covered the area, and when he looked down at his feet, instead of dirt or grass, his toes touched the edge of a slimy black pool. He fell inside, the gooey liquid surrounding him. When he tried to reach for the edge, he didn’t make it in time. His mother kept walking, and someone handed him a stick. All he needed to do was hold on to it and get out of there. His six-year-old brother Marco gave him a sad smile. “Why didn’t you tell me, Nico? Why did you lie?”

  His brother yanked the stick from him, and Nico drowned, the thick liquid weighing him down, his lungs giving up on him. He moved his head from side to side, desperate for a way out but—

  “Nico. Nico,” a female voice called him.

  His eyes opened with a start, and he jerked himself upright to a sitting position. He took a big gulp of air, his heart throbbing in his ears. Am I still alive?

  “It’s me, Emma,” she said, and quickly he focused on her pretty face. A look of concern washed over her, and she held his arm, like she wanted to ground him.

  He rubbed his eyes, assessing the area around him. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. He hadn’t had a dream like that in a long time. Must have been the trip, and how much he’d been made to think of the past.

  “Are you okay?” she asked in a gentle voice. She sat across from him, legs crossed.

  “Yes, I’m sorry if I woke you. I haven’t had this kind of nightmare in a while.”

  “What happened? You were shouting and asking for forgiveness.”

  Shit. He rubbed his temples, wishing so hard the throbbing would stop. Wishing this were a dream inside a dream, and it didn’t really happen. “It’s nothing, Emma. Don’t worry about it. I’m good now,” he said, reaching for her face to touch it, but she scooted back and shook her head.

  “I understand you don’t want to tell me anything about you. But now you must. At least about what caused this dream.” She folded her arms and stared at him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. If he owed her anything, it had to be the truth. She lived in L.A. and didn’t even know his brother—or anyone else from his family. Besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone. His gut clenched, and he popped his knuckles. Still wasn’t easy to talk about a subject he’d never told a soul about. “My mother’s mental health really deteriorated after my brother’s birth. She had a complicated pregnancy, and it triggered her illness. My father began acting all distant from him and blamed him for Mama’s downfall. When she killed herself, he wasted no time blaming Marco.”

  She folded her arms. “He blamed…a child?”

  “Yes. Not like he loved me, but he treated me better than Marco. One day I overheard him talking to a lawyer about Marco not being his real son.”

  She slid closer to him, unfolding her arms and touching his knee. No sexual response arose from her hand on him, and he appreciated her support. “You mean—”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. Why lie now? “My mother had an affair, and Marco wasn’t his,” he said, enunciating every word. Frustration expanded in his chest, but he wouldn’t change the subject now. Hell, he…trusted her.

  A flicker of kindness sparkled in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I never told Marco about it. When I was a child, I didn’t know what to say, or how that’d impact his life. Then as adults, it didn’t make sense to cause all that pain,” he said, resolved to protect his brother from the truth. He hadn’t been able to guard Marco from his father’s verbal abuse as a child—that guilt he’d carry forever.

  “Of course.”

  Anger welled up in his throat, and tears prickled behind his eyelids. He blinked them back, desperate to keep going. “The truth is…I wasn’t able to protect my brother. Not against my father’s evil treatment or anything else.”

  She squeezed his shoulder, then kissed it. “You were a kid yourself. I think you’re being hard on yourself, Nico.”

  “Nah, I’m being realistic,” he said avoiding having to look in her eyes.

  She let her hand slide down his arm until it fell on the mattress. Poor Emma didn’t deserve to be in the middle of this mess. She’d insisted, though. “You carry this guilt with you, and you never talked about it with Marco?”

  “With Marco? I haven’t talked about it with anyone.” Not even Linda, whom he’d thought he trusted for a while.

  “See? You care for him—you’re trying to protect him now.”

  He gave a humorless laughter. “No. Now I’m trying to save face.”

  “Why do you always want to believe the worst? You’re this uber-successful, loaded guy, good-looking, have it all. But you don’t share your emotions because you think by sharing them you’ll be vulnerable. Weak.”

  “Yes.”

  She touched his chin, forcing him to stare into her eyes. “When it’s the other way round, Nico. Expressing your feelings only makes you stronger.”

  “I don’t want people to see me in that light.”

  “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know it isn’t easy for you. And you know what? Guilt is worth feeding only when you’ve done something wrong. You haven’t… You were a kid, and your father failed you and your brother. He probably failed your mother too, which might explain why she had an affair.”

  He swallowed. He’d never thought about it that way—or questioned why his mother had cheated on his father when their marriage had seemed perfect until her disease took over.

  “You don’t have to fail just because he did. You’re much better than him,” she said, threading her fingers with his. She lifted his hand to her lips and plante
d a kiss on the back of it. A quick, sweet smooch that carried a promise. A promise of support. He swallowed. A promise of love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Ready to pick up your baby?” he asked.

  Emma nodded. She’d meant it when she’d told him dreams changed. What if Nicky wasn’t the big Lab she could take on a hike? He needed her more than any other dog she’d get in the United States, which automatically gave him an advantage.

  As he knocked on the door, she was more worried about the answer he’d get from Desmorais. God. Maybe he’d need a puppy himself as a therapy device, to recover if he received a no. And then…she’d work with Desmorais on the project and think about his dream every step of the way. That would be too much of Nico in her mind for her to deal with.

  Sabine, the same lady who showed them in days ago, welcomed them and took them to the living room.

  Emma sat on the edge of the sofa, but he stood, pacing in small circles.

  She drummed her fingers on her knee. Hopefully, Desmorais would end the suspense quickly, and Nico could move forward. The previous night he’d shared with her a secret he’d never told anyone else. Her heart broke for the young child having to carry such weight on his shoulders.

  “Hello,” Desmorais said, coming down the stairs. Differently than the other day, the old man walked slowly to them, with dark rings under his eyes. A five o’clock shadow covered his chin. He almost seemed…disheveled.

  “Hi, bonjour,” she said, standing to give him a hug.

  He greeted her robotically, barely returning her embrace, then spun on his shoes and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit nervous. Nico, I really need to talk to you. It’s personal, so maybe Emma can go take a look at the dogs while we chat.”

  Nico shortened the gap between them and held her hand. She couldn’t help but notice his palm was a bit cold, as if he, too, picked up on the tension filling the air. “Anything you tell me, she can hear it. I trust Emma.”

  Her stomach dropped to the floor. I trust Emma. He squeezed her hand, cementing his statement. This was it. He trusted her and wanted her by his side.

  Why does it matter? Her heart nearly galloped out of her chest. Because you’ve fallen in love with him. Her breath caught in her throat, and her knees almost buckled under her. How had she been so stupid? Goodness. Out of all the men in her universe, Nico Giordano had to be the worst fit for her…

  “Okay.” Desmorais sat and gestured for them to do the same.

  She plopped next to Nico and disentangled her hand from his. She rested her palm on his leg, desperately wanting him to know he could count on her—for better or for worse.

  For better or for worse? Her cheeks flushed. I’m losing it. I really am.

  “There’s a reason why I never wanted anything to do with the Giordanos,” he started. “I got involved with your mother many years ago, during one of her first vacations in Port Louis.”

  “Involved? How?”

  “We were intimate. I loved her.”

  Emma inhaled all the oxygen in the room. His mom had an affair with Desmorais? She glanced at Nico, whose composed posture didn’t give away a thing. He was probably shocked but still digesting the information.

  “Was it before or after her marriage? She married young.”

  Desmorais coughed, his cheeks reddening. “Yes. We fell in love, but her father never approved of me. I was quite the lothario back then, older than her, with a short temper. So we broke up, and then she married your father shortly after. He always had his eye on her.”

  Was Desmorais the guy she had an affair with, the one Nico told her about? The little hairs on the back of her neck rose. A shiver zapped down her spine, and her gaze darted between the two men. What if Desmorais is Marco’s biological father?

  “My father was a better match.”

  Desmorais gestured with his hand in agreement. “Yes. Italian, charming, coming from an affluent traditional family, great prospect.”

  Uneasiness filled the air. She remained rooted to the spot. It isn’t my place to say anything.

  Nico rubbed his forehead. What went through his mind? “So you ended.”

  “We tried.” Desmorais picked up one of the crystals on the console table, his fingers playing with the pointy edges.

  “I don’t remember you in the picture. My parents, for a while, seemed happy with each other.”

  “I believe a part of your mother really wanted to be happy. She loved the idea of being a wife, and having a family, and wanted to cling to those dreams.”

  Nico snarled. “But she still saw you?”

  “We met only a few times after her marriage. A couple of them by accident.”

  Nico rose to his feet, tension oozing from his body. He curled his fingers into a ball. “You knew she had a family. Why didn’t you walk away?”

  Desmorais placed the crystal back on the table and peered at Nico. “I’m a man who paid the cost of his freedom. Funny thing is, I didn’t marry her, yet for years couldn’t be with anyone else. I felt more loyal to her than if I’d been married,” he said, sadness lacing his voice.

  “I can’t believe this. Is that why you bought the house? Did my father—”

  Desmorais stepped toward Nico. “I don’t think he knew about me. I mean, before the marriage yes, but after… She never told me anything.”

  Nico shook his head, more to himself than anyone else in the room. “He knew. I heard him once talking to a lawyer about his life insurance and how he wanted to keep confidential the fact that one of his sons wasn’t his.”

  Her blood froze. She’d give anything to take the bitterness from Nico’s expression.

  Nico squared his shoulders. “Does this mean you’re Marco’s father?”

  The muscle in Desmorais’s jaw twitched, and he looked at Nico square in the eye. “No, Nico. I am your father.”

  …

  Nico’s body trembled. His father. There had to be a mistake. His entire body paused for one long minute then pulsed again. “Can’t be.”

  He studied Desmorais’s features, his strong jaw, the greenish eyes…maybe the eyes had the same roundness as his. No. He ran his hand down his face.

  “Why do you believe such a thing?”

  His lips curled into a small, modest smile. “Your mother told me.”

  Nico pushed air through his clenched teeth. “Why?”

  “Because she asked me to stay away. She wanted to work things out with your father.”

  Emma touched the side of his chest. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she whispered, then nudged him again. “Call if you need me.”

  He’d asked her to stay because he trusted her—and he appreciated now how she decided he should handle this part of the conversation by himself and offered to leave.

  His temples throbbed, and he rubbed them with his index finger, trying too hard to focus on the present. On the man in front of him, with tears brimming in his eyes. What if he told him the truth? “I can’t believe it without a DNA test,” he said, throwing it out there to see if Desmorais would bite.

  “It may be a bit complicated, given that your mom’s dead, but I’m in if you are. Or, I can show you these—”

  He headed for the shelf and grabbed a folder. Clearing his throat, Desmorais took a stash of letters bound by a rubber band, and gave them to him. “The one on the top was from your mother to me. Before she had you, she disappeared for months and didn’t answer my letters or phone calls. I let her be, as I always had. But I heard she had a baby, and I wrote her asking if you were mine.”

  Nico leaned against a column and silently read the letter on top. He touched the paper, damaged on the edges. When he recognized the bold strokes of his mother’s handwriting, his heart leaped up his throat. She wrote in Italian and not French.

  Dear Angele,

  I’m sorry I’ve disappeared. I’m trying to focus on raising my baby boy and hope you understand. What you asked me in the last letter…it’s true. He’s yours. But my baby n
eeds a father, someone reliable who’ll be there and help me. I know you like to travel, explore the world, investigate, and write, and I’d never ask you to give it up for me. Please don’t try to contact me anymore. If you love me and if you love this child, let me raise him the best way I can.

  Always,

  Luciana

  Nico’s fingers trembled, the paper in his hand shaking. Frustration clogged his throat, and when he finally spoke, he groaned. He’d chastised himself all those years because he’d thought he hadn’t told Marco about finding out Marco wasn’t Calogero’s son, when it’d been him all along.

  “I understand you’re upset.”

  “Upset?” Nico shouted. “The word doesn’t even begin to describe me. Do you know what it was like to be raised by Calogero? He became an alcoholic monster after my mother’s death.”

  Tears rolled down Desmorais’s cheeks, and he sucked in a breath, his eyes glittering with regret. “I didn’t know Luciana had died until many years after. Then I thought it was too late.”

  “You’re despicable. I’ve been wanting to buy this property. You wouldn’t talk to me,” he said, remembering all the hoops he had to jump through to even secure a lunch with Desmorais. How much he’d had to do when the man could have seen him if he’d chosen to do so. If he had wanted to do so.

  Desmorais wiped the tears from his cheek with the back of his hand. “I have a lot to apologize for.”

  “Why? Why weren’t you even a little bit curious to see how I’d turned out?” God, he’d been worried about someone else’s kid that day at the beach. A kid he had never met before. Yet his so-called…father never bothered to check in on him. Worse, he’d turned down every opportunity to meet him.

  Desmorais grabbed a tissue from a box and wiped his tears. “I thought you’d be better off without me. I didn’t know about how Calogero had mistreated you. After your mom sent me that letter, I decided to put the past behind me. I met someone else. I married. I had a daughter. Eloise.”