by Jenna Sutton
He inclines his head. “After you.”
By habit, I claim my usual spot on the far end of my dark blue sofa. Made of soft chenille tweed, it’s my favorite place to curl up to watch TV or read a book.
Marco sits down on the other end instead of choosing the armchair upholstered in multicolored polka dots. Angling his body toward me, he rests his arm on the back of the sofa and props his ankle over his knee. His eyes settle on me, a hint of a smile on his lips and an expectant look on his face.
“I had my four-month ultrasound this morning,” I say.
His face goes blank. “Is everything okay with the baby?”
The concern shadowing his voice compels me to give him a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine. My doctor said the heartbeat is nice and strong.”
A strange expression crosses his face, almost wistful. “That must’ve been amazing—hearing the baby’s heartbeat.”
My smile widens, almost by its own volition. “I’ve heard it before, but it’s amazing every time.”
“What does it sound like?”
Trying to capture the sound and speed of the baby’s heartbeat, I say, “Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Like a steam engine.”
I lean forward and nab a thick, oversized book from the cream-colored leather ottoman that doubles as a coffee table. Before I can crack open the spine, Marco scoots closer and reads the title out loud, “The LEGO Architect.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “You like LEGOs?”
“Yes. I also like architecture. This book combines both. It has pictures of the most iconic buildings in the world, all built with LEGOs.”
I flip through the book, looking for the plain white envelope I placed between the pages after I got home from my doctor’s appointment. When I find it, I remove it and return the book to the ottoman.
Marco’s gaze snags on the envelope. “What’s that?”
“After my ultrasound, the tech asked if I wanted to know the sex of the baby. I asked her to write it down and put it in an envelope.”
His eyes shoot to mine. “Is that it?” His eyes dart back and forth between me and the envelope. “You haven’t opened it yet?”
Holding the envelope in both hands, I set it on my knees. As I stare down the stark white paper, I say, “Tessa offered to go to the appointment with me, but I told her not to worry about it. And then, when I walked in and saw all those other women there with their partners ... I felt so alone.”
Marco makes a pained sound, like someone punched him in the stomach. “Cassie—”
Needing to get everything out, I keep talking: “I asked the tech to write down the sex of the baby and put it in an envelope because I wanted to share that moment with someone special. I immediately thought of Tessa, but then I realized...”
I hesitate, struggling to find the words to explain the realization I had while lying on the exam table with ultrasound gel on my stomach.
“What did you realize?” Marco asks.
His voice holds a note I’ve never heard from him before. He sounds fearful and hopeful at the same time, which doesn’t make sense to me.
“I realized I didn’t want to share that moment with Tessa. I wanted to share it with you.”
I feel him shift beside me, moving closer until only a few inches separate us. His arm presses against mine, warm and solid through the fabric of his shirt.
“Why me?” he asks softly.
I look up and meet his eyes. “Because you’ve kept your word to be there for me. Because you didn’t judge me when I told you the truth about my baby’s father. Because you know my deepest, darkest secret, and I’m positive you’ll never betray my trust.”
Holding up the envelope, I say, “I wanted to do this with you, and now that you’re here, I can’t wait another second.”
I flip it over and tear open the seal. Marco squeezes in so he can see too. Spotting the small piece of paper inside, I tug it out. It’s ... blank?
“What the—”
“Turn it over,” he urges.
I twist my wrist to reveal the other side of the paper. Simultaneously, Marco and I read the word aloud, “Girl.”
“A daughter.” His voice is full of awe. “Oh, Cassie, we’re ... you’re going to have a daughter.”
I barely hear him. I’m still struggling to process the information.
“A daughter,” I repeat slowly, feeling as if I’ve never spoken the word before.
He laughs with unmistakable delight. “I can see her now—a little girl just as kind and smart and enchanting as her mother.”
He wraps one arm around me, and without asking my permission, he places the other palm on the curve of my stomach. Maybe I should be irritated by his presumption, but I don’t mind.
“Che benedizione,” he says, gently patting my bump.
“Huh?” I say dumbly.
“What a blessing,” he translates.
Suddenly realizing I forgot the other crucial element of the gender reveal, I say, “I have the sonogram picture. Want to see it?”
“Of course.”
I make a move to rise, but Marco stops me by saying, “I can get it if you’ll tell me where it is.”
“In my purse,” I answer, pointing to my bag where it’s hanging from the handle on the closet door.
Marco returns with my purse, and it takes me only a second or two to find the sonogram image, which is protected by a little photo folder. I wait until he’s settled next to me and then pass it to him. He opens the folder and stares down at the black-and-white image within.
I glance sideways at him and see that he’s completely engrossed in the sonogram image, his eyes riveted to it. He’s rubbing his forefinger over the paper, tracing the shape of the baby’s head and body.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
Even though I’ve stared at the sonogram for most of the day, I lean closer to get another look at it. “She’s about the size of a banana, the tech said.”
“Thank you for sharing this with me.” He turns his head, and I meet his gaze. “You have no idea how much it means to me.”
A wave of gratitude sweeps over me. I’m so grateful this man cares about me enough to support me through a really challenging, scary time of my life.
“Thank you for being here,” I tell him.
He leans toward me and brushes a brief, sweet kiss on my cheek before slowly drawing back. As I stare into his dark eyes, another emotion makes itself known—one completely unrelated to gratitude. It’s love.
That’s right. Love.
I love Marco. Not as a member of my extended family. Not as a good friend.
I’m in love with him.
I can’t say for sure when it happened, but I am sure the feelings have been building inside me for a while. They’ve been dammed up, like a swollen river, and over the past couple of months, the pressure created little cracks in the dam. At first, only a few trickles found their way through. But now a flood is rushing through me, drowning me with its intensity.
This knowledge that I’m in love with Marco doesn’t make things easier. It doesn’t make things less complicated. If anything, it makes everything worse.
Now that I know these feelings exist inside me, what am I supposed to do with them? It’s like owning ice skates but having no clue how to skate and nowhere to learn the skill. Or in my case, being too afraid to try them out because I might get hurt.
Marco’s eyes search my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but whatever it is causes him to inch forward until our mouths touch. The press of his lips against mine is tentative and unsure, an intriguing contradiction to his usual cockiness.
I close my eyes and part my lips to let him know that I want his kiss. I want more than that. I want everything.
Curving my hand around the back of his neck, I exert just the slightest pressure to bring his mouth into more contact with mine. He groans, the sound vibrating against my lips, and any hesitancy he may have had evaporates like morning dew under the sunligh
t.
His mouth opens over mine, gentle and persuasive. I can sense his need, but he’s holding back, probably because I freaked out the first time we kissed. But things are different now. He knows the truth about the baby, and I know the truth about my feelings for him.
His stubble grazes the skin around my mouth, making my lips sensitive and tingly. I nibble his lower lip, smooth and plump like a grape, before nipping it. He growls deep in his throat, hinting at his excitement, and I soothe the tiny bite with a swipe of my tongue.
When he slips his tongue into my mouth, I welcome it by stroking mine against his. As our tongues twirl together, his taste fills my mouth, dark and potent and hungry.
Our kiss gets wetter, and he thrusts his tongue into my mouth like he’s imagining what it would be like to fuck me. I’m thinking about that too. My pussy isn’t wet, it’s dripping, and I know he’d slide inside me with no trouble at all—nothing but hot, slippery pleasure.
Breaking our kiss, he pants, “Cassie ... I need ... to ... to touch you.” His voice, normally so smooth and resonant, is gravelly and hoarse. “Please. Let me?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cassie
Of course, I say yes. I want Marco to touch me.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
Before I can blink, he’s maneuvering me onto my back and lifting one of my legs onto the sofa to make room for his lower body. Under the expensive material of his pants, he’s incredibly hard, like a steel pipe pressing against the mound of my pussy.
I expect him to slide his hands under my dress—I want him to—but he doesn’t. Instead, he tugs my dress off my shoulder, exposing the lacy strap of my pale-yellow bra, and braces himself above me.
When he drops his head, I arch my neck to the side so he can nuzzle the crook where it and my shoulder meet. He breathes deeply.
“Mmm. I love the way you smell.” His lips caress my skin as he talks, sending goose bumps skittering over my torso and down my arms. “Like vanilla custard in an éclair.”
He licks a circle on the side of my neck, just a couple of inches from where my pulse throbs. “I’ve always loved those pastries. Crisp on the outside but soft on the inside.”
Gliding his mouth over my collarbone, he pauses to nip and suck it. “You’re like an éclair, aren’t you?”
I hope he’s not expecting a reply. The feel of his lips and tongue have stolen my voice.
“You’re soft on the inside,” he says, answering his own question.
He presses open-mouthed kisses across the slope of my breast and stops with his face deep in my cleavage. He dips his tongue into the valley between my breasts, licking up and down. My nipples tighten into hard little nubs, and my clit pulses with my heartbeat.
Reaching between us, he grasps my bra and my dress in his fist and pulls until my breast bounces free. He swipes his tongue over my nipple, darkened from pregnancy, and then blows on it.
I shiver as the swollen tip puckers tightly, almost painful now. Needing his mouth on me, I palm his head and bring it to my nipple.
“What do you want?” he whispers against me. “You want me to suck you?”
“Yes,” I moan. “Please. Now.”
The feel of his hot mouth covering my taut nipple makes me cry out. He starts off gently, with just a bit of suction, but then he increases the pressure, pulling so strongly that I feel it reverberating in my clit. When he releases my nipple from his mouth, I’m shaking.
He bares my other breast and focuses his attention on that nipple. Drawing it into his mouth, he brings his teeth together in gentle, rhythmic bites that make my legs stiffen with arousal.
“Oh, my God. Marco.”
I don’t know if it’s him or if it’s pregnancy, but I think I might come just from him playing with my nipples. The ache in my pussy is so sharp now I can barely think.
“Do you want more?” he asks, his voice as smoky as an old-time jazz club.
A memory tickles the back of my mind—another voice asking if I want more. Marco’s question reminds me of Wolf and our fast fuck in the folly.
“Cassie?”
Marco’s voice brings me back to the present. “More?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe, letting Wolf hide in the shadows of my mind.
Marco bunches my dress in his hand and drags it up my thighs. With it pooled around my waist, he shifts us so we’re lying on our sides, facing each other.
He curves his palm over the swell of my abdomen for a moment before cupping my mound. It’s a possessive move, a silent way of saying, This pussy is mine. He’s right. It was his even when Wolf was inside me.
Marco doesn’t move for several seconds, letting the heat of his hand seep through the thin material covering me. I’m breathing in little gasps now, and when he eases his fingers into my panties, my lungs seize up.
He smooths the strip of hair on my pussy before nudging his fingers into my slit. They slide through my wetness to graze my clit. Energy zings down my spine, lighting up my nervous system.
He touches my clit again with featherlight pressure before sliding lower and finding my opening. He circles it, spreading the slickness of my arousal around, and then pushes one thick finger inside me, so slowly I can feel the bump of his knuckle.
He withdraws, and with the next deliciously slow thrust, he adds another finger and rubs against a sensitive spot inside me. My pussy flutters, sending a stream of arousal over his hand.
With a groan, he pushes deeper before slipping his fingers from my body and bringing them to his mouth. They’re shiny and wet with my—
“I love when an éclair overflows with cream, and I get to suck it out.” His eyes catch mine as he licks my juice from his fingers, groaning with each flick of his tongue. “Oh, yeah. Sweetest I’ve ever had. Fucking delicious. I want to eat you until your cream is all over my face, and you’re begging me to make you come.”
His sex talk spreads heat across my chest and over my stomach to coalesce in my pelvis. As if he could read my mind, he says, “You like that, don’t you? My sweet girl likes it when I’m dirty.”
I can’t do anything except nod because he’s right. I like him dirty, and I want to know how dirty he can get. I want to know how dirty I can get with him.
“You want that, Cassie? You want me to make you come?”
I lick my lips. “Yes.”
“Tell me how.” His voice deepens. “Do you want me to use my fingers? My mouth? My cock?”
“Everything you’ve got,” I whisper.
His lust-hazed eyes widen before his lids drop lower, giving him a drowsy look. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties and strips them down my legs and over my feet with no trouble since my sandals fell off a few minutes ago.
Staring at my bare pussy, he says, “Definitely an éclair.” He tugs on the thin strip of dark hair above my slit. “Look at this chocolate icing.”
I laugh breathlessly, but it dies on my lips when he curves his hands over my hips and pulls me to the edge of the cushions. I can feel my pulse thrumming in my neck, between my legs, the backs of my knees. It’s roaring in my ears too, like Rhine Falls in Switzerland.
He leans forward until his face hovers above my pussy. When he sniffs at it like an animal scenting its mate, I moan from a combination of excitement and embarrassment.
His eyes shoot to mine. “Yes?”
I swallow thickly, hardly able to believe that Marco is about to go down on me. “Yes,” I whisper.
“I’ve thought about this at least a thousand times.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “I can’t believe it’s really happening.”
Taking my hands in his, he brings them between my legs. “Show me that creamy cunt.”
“Oh,” I gasp, shocked and turned on by his words. But I do what he says, sliding my thumbs into my slit and opening myself for him.
A noise erupts from his throat, reminding me of a wolf’s feral snarl. Shoving his face into my spread pussy, he devours me, licking me up and d
own and circling my clit. It’s glorious and filthy, and within seconds, I’m teetering on the edge.
“Yes,” I moan.
He growls against my slippery folds, sucking hard on my clit. I’m grinding my pussy against his face now, desperate to come. He pushes two fingers inside me and pumps them in and out.
“Close,” I gasp. “So close.”
A shrill beeping interrupts my bliss, and I jolt in surprise. Marco jerks his head up, swiveling it from side to side.
“What the hell is that?” he asks, pulling his fingers from my body.
It takes a second for my brain to connect to my mouth. “The oven timer. The osso buco is probably burning.”
He closes his eyes for a long blink. “You have to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.
Taking a deep breath, he rises in a lithe move and stalks into the kitchen. As I scramble into a sitting position, I hear the oven door open followed by the scrape of the pan against the rack and a clang as he slides the osso buco onto a burner on the stove.
By the time Marco returns to the living room, my undergarments are back where they belong, and my dress covers everything he uncovered earlier. I’m sitting with my knees pressed together, not out of modesty, but to relieve the unbearable ache between my legs.
To my surprise, he sits on the ottoman in front of me instead of on the cushion beside me. Clasping his hands between his spread knees, he leans forward. As his gaze roams over my face, a self-conscious blush sweeps across my chest and up my face, leaving my cheeks burning.
“I need to tell you something.”
His serious tone makes my muscles tense up. “Okay,” I say, wariness threaded through my voice.
“I know this is going to surprise you, and you’re probably not going to believe me at first, but I want you to ... have an open mind. Can you do that for me?”
I give him a brief nod, wondering what he could possibly say that would be more surprising and unbelievable than what just happened between us. He clears his throat roughly, obviously nervous. I’ve never seen him so ill at ease.
His gaze captures mine. “I love you, Cassie.”
