Shotgun Wedding (Sidelined #4)

by Ainslie Paton

  “Are you trying to kill me?” she gasped, as he reached for her favorite wand.

  “You die so goddamn beautifully, Starburst.”

  She could stop him. She could leave the bed. She could claim hunger or exhaustion, back pain or a sewing injury. He’d cool it. He’d settle for caresses and kisses and cuddling her to sleep without a complaint. Really she should, it was greedy to want what he could do with that wand after what he’d already done to her; taken the reins to make her body spin and jerk and tumble without leaving his embrace.

  He brought the toy to her hip flexor, that tender spot where her leg joined her body and set it to pulse. It was too far away from where she wanted it, but close enough to make her twist against him.

  “Why not?” he said, lips moving on her throat.

  “Because we’re too new.”

  “You think the longer we go on the less likely we’ll want to be together?”

  She didn’t think anything much because he moved the wand to her pubic mound and made it buzz in erratic patterns. “I don’t know.” It came out a wail.

  He took the wand away. “Let me know when you do.”

  She groaned. What were they talking about? She only knew she wanted the wand back or his fingers or his mouth, or that very fine erection it had taken him a while to get but was now pressed tight to her hip.

  She turned her head and found his lips and for the longest time he stole her breath with the thrust and suck and drag of his tongue until the wand was back. He buzzed it lightly over her nipple and then followed there with his mouth, flicking tongue, while he traveled the wand down her middle, sat it over her belly button and then down, down, over her bucking hips to her entrance.

  And then he shut it off.

  She yelped in frustration and he closed his mouth over her nipple and sucked hard.

  She pushed his face away. “Were you so mean before you were broken?” Before his ability to get hard and orgasm had been stripped from him in a pile up of crunched metal and crushed vertebrae.

  “It’s a newly acquired core competency,” he said, rolling his hips so his dick ground against her hipbone. Some nights he couldn’t get hard. If his back gave him pain, if he was overtired, but it didn’t matter to either of them.

  She’d had about a thousand orgasms since the first one tonight, fully clothed on the kitchen counter, and he’d had none. Eventually he’d have enough of tormenting her so brilliantly and give in, and then they’d both be ecstatic, but for now she squirmed against the smooth rubber of the toy, getting it all slippery, making herself twitchy.

  “I want to call your dad and ask. Marry me.”

  “Screw a sequin. Don’t mention my dad in bed. Turn that thing on and fuck me.”

  His teeth in her shoulder. “Please.”

  She stilled. That please was out of place. He wasn’t asking her to be polite. She turned her face and opened her eyes to see him staring down at her. The vibrator pulsed, he had it on the setting that would increase in ferocity until it peaked, stopped suddenly and started the cycle again. Her mouth dropped open as he dragged it through her wetness, her hips jerking, settling to accept the pressure, the sudden groan-making electric-like shocks. She could look at his face forever except she was being tortured by a million erotic bolts and couldn’t keep her eyes open. Everything about Owen had shocked her. His drug addiction, his willingness to accept responsibility for his shit, his humility and his ability to rebuild his life, to stand back and let her build hers her own way.

  “We’re still new.” There was a moan at the start of that sentence and a grunt at end. But it made sense. They began badly, mega-distrust and get me outta here awkwardness, stuck despite the can’t have what I want complexity of that, and then broke up because he’d lied and shut her out, and now they were sharing an address.

  “Not so new we don’t know how good this is.”

  Too true. Everything about Owen made her love him, from the casual way he dealt with being born wealthy and having made his own money as a cherry on top, to Sammy who he’d gotten from a shelter because he knew she loved dogs, when he was iffy about them with good reason.

  And then there was the fact he’d come to accept new ways to feel desire instead of raging at the world for the injury he’d carried, and he’d practiced them on her. Over and over and—oh—oh—that felt good. “I’m not saying no.”

  He changed the setting on the wand to a fast consistent rev, her favorite, and pushed it inside her on with a single firm thrust. “I’m only interested in yes.”

  She might’ve said yes then. She spoke in about fifteen foreign languages at hearing-impaired volume, as he took her apart with the angle of the wand thrusts, a well-placed thumb and his lips behind her ear. She came down to his soft huff of laughter. “What?”

  “For a little freckled thing, you sure are noisy.”

  Sweaty too. Smelling of them. “You love it.”

  He took her mouth so all her next noises were swallowed up and she gripped him tightly so he knew not saying yes didn’t mean no.

  He’d already gotten a lot of yes. Yes to moving in with him. Yes to sharing his dog and his house, his bed and his life. And not yet wasn’t no. Not yet was next week instead of today. It was imminent, just not right now. It was a promise and a hope and marrying Owen was the best thing she was ever going to do. Or the worst.

  What if they ultimately wanted different things? What if this gooey in the center good stuff got too sweet and sickly? What if he lied again? If he didn’t keep on top of his addiction. That happened to the best relationships. It had already happened to them once.

  But she’d never loved him more than when he’d asked her for permission to father Sarina’s baby. That wasn’t a conversation she’d ever expected to have in her life. Honey, do you mind if I father a kid with my business partner? It ranked up there with the one where she’d said, I badly want your rigid cock in my virgin vagina, and he’d said, I’d fucking love to, but I can’t get hard.

  He’d explained what Sarina wanted to do and why and then asked if Cara was creeped out by the idea, as if it was anything to do with her when Owen had known Sarina since college and it was no secret he loved and respected her dearly.

  She wasn’t creeped out, but she’d had a sudden fit of irrational jealousy that’d made her want to take scissors to silk for the pleasure of hearing it shred, until he’d made sure she understood there’d be no actual live insertion of any of his tenderly working body parts into any of Sarina’s.

  It was all about the test tube, baby.

  How could anyone say no to a man like that?

  She would marry Owen, but not yet. She had things she wanted to do first and no need to rush this chewy, gooey chocolate-box wonderful thing they had together now.

  She was more than ready for Owen to rearrange her limbs, to center his body over hers and press himself inside with the weather warning in his eyes that told her to batten down against the storm. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips and when he eased an arm under her back she was suspended over the rumpled bedclothes, arching against his thrusts, her face tucked into his neck.

  Yes, yes, yes. Yes.

  Both of them saying it. Ping-ponging the word between them. Owen shaking and rocking, panting and then dropping them to the bed, ramming his hips forward one last time and tensing all over, mouth dropped open on a silent cry, before shuddering through his sweet release.

  They lay in a tangled, steamy knot as their breathing eased. Sarina was pregnant, but not to Owen and part of Cara was disappointed. She wasn’t sure about having kids, didn’t feel that maternal kick Sarina had spoken of. Didn’t know whether being a mom would give her the same kind of satisfaction as Owen got from Plus, as she got from building her own business stitch by stitch.

  She daydreamed about her costumes on a stage, not changing nappies and cleaning up sick. She wanted to create, but send her work out into the world to be cared for by others, not be respons
ible for tending to a world for babies to grow up in. Did that make her selfish? Did men feel that same tension when they planned their careers? Did Owen?

  She raked her fingers through his damp hair. “How do you feel about Sarina’s baby?”

  “Best possible outcome,” he murmured against her neck, and then he rolled them so they were side by side, legs entwined, arms draped over each other. He wanted a family and there was no reason he couldn’t have one now. But that was a big freaking imposition. He could plant that seed and stand around while it sprouted. She had to be the garden bed, do the sprouting and be forever changed by that.

  She stopped a bead of sweat on his chest with her finger. “Dev and Sarina, huh.”

  “That took forever to gel.”

  “How come?”

  His hand played over her scar, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth across its raised surface. “Let’s never be too busy being friends we forget to be lovers.”

  Impossible to imagine. Cara had wanted Owen as a lover before she’d considered the value of his friendship. “Is that what happened with them?”

  “Two people who never stopped talking, but somehow never said the things that mattered to them most.”

  “Epic fail.” Elephant in the room.

  “Almost.”

  “Anyone could fumble that.” Tripping was a gymnast’s hazard. No one tripped and lived to score well. “Would you really have been happy if I’d said no to you being Sarina’s donor?”

  He stalled by coming in for a kiss that she let go lush and deep because they were both anxious about his answer. She hadn’t hesitated to say yes at the time, didn’t think she had the right, to say no, especially if it turned out she didn’t want to carry his baby herself.

  When he pulled back, he brought his hand to her face and cupped her cheek, his expression solemn. “No.”

  Honest was best. Rip the tape off. “Can you be happy if I don’t want kids?” They’d promised each other honest after what happened in Vegas and she didn’t want to trip over that elephant and face plant the truth.

  He sighed. “That’s why you’re not saying yes.”

  Honest was hard. Too hard for actual words. She nodded, the movement turning into a catlike roll of her head against his palm. That was the down deep, black heart of it. Just because she could didn’t mean she wanted to, even if that put her at odds with a world that generally thought that’s what being a woman was about.

  “I see,” he said softly, like he hadn’t meant to say anything at all.

  It wasn’t news. They’d had this discussion, but back when Owen couldn’t get hard and it wasn’t a possibility for them, back when he might have thought she was only saying she didn’t think about having kids to make things easy between them. She had said it to placate him then, because the fact he couldn’t father a kid without some whizz-bang medical intervention, meant she didn’t have to be the one who said no to a family. Since then, he’d recovered, been seduced to the baby-maker dark side by watching her with Gavin’s kids, by whatever Dad had said to him, and Sarina’s plan, and she’d been fumbling, tripping, losing her grip.

  She had to bite her lip to stop herself backtracking, saying something to soften her nod, because the disappointment in him had a weight that settled over them like a too heavy blanket on a sticky hot summer night when you knew it would be hard to sleep.

  “It’s okay, darlin’.”

  But it wasn’t. It was enough of an issue to wipe out all the accumulated points scored between them, and the heat glow in her chest was a heat-bead of anger. Why did she have to feel this way? Different to other women. Selfish. Not living up to her potential as a breeder. Unless it was some super screwed-up conspiracy where no one with a womb was brave enough to shout I don’t want kids. Why did she have to trash her own happiness?

  “It’s that it’s a big deal being a mother and I don’t know if I want to do it.”

  “Is it because you don’t think you’d be a good mom?” He smoothed a hand over her forehead as if he was trying to clear a way to see inside her head.

  Owen had barely seen his mom growing up and Cara’s memories of her own were stunted, but she had more examples of motherhood in action from her years billeting with host families than most people had toes. It wasn’t about that.

  “If I want it, I’ll go after it. I’m not scared of it. I’m not scared of anything I can learn.” She was no less capable than the next woman. That’s not what it was about.

  He smiled and she put her fingertips to his mouth. “But it’s this very definite fork in the road.” He took her hand away as the smile left his eyes. “It’s large, so large and a commitment for life, and kids are awful. You don’t know how awful they can be, because they’re learning and testing and becoming people, and as a parent you’re supposed to put them first and organize around them and love doing that most of the time. I don’t know how people make the decision to have kids, but I know for me it’s this big pit of nope right now.”

  “Right now.”

  Right now could turn into forever. “What if I don’t ever feel differently?”

  “I’d be disappointed.”

  Honest was a landing on your head after a triple twist and wondering if your lungs will ever work again, right before you black out.

  They both moved. Foreheads coming together, hands searching and finding their mates, fingers locking. “I hate that I feel this way,” her voice shook. “That it might mean—”

  “It doesn’t.”

  How could it not? “I love you.” But maybe not enough to give him babies. He couldn’t still want her yes, when yes meant the possibility it was no to his own family.

  “We don’t need to do all this now.”

  The thought of doing it anytime, when they weren’t in bed, when they weren’t wrapped so tight in each other there was no desire for separation made her eyes go watery.

  “You can’t bet the house I’ll change my mind when I’m Sarina’s age.” She wouldn’t let him keep loving her if it meant he missed out on family, but letting him go was . . . was . . .

  “Don’t cry, Starburst. It’s not that bad.”

  “I’m not. It is.” So was on both counts. He made her get like this when he orgasmed her to death, as if her outer shell dissolved and all her freaky inner fears tweaked all over her skin. “It’s your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “You make me want things so badly and I want them for you.”

  “I have everything I need, and right now I don’t want anything more than eight hours of uninterrupted sleep with you by my side.”

  Needle stick. You could just slap him. “What if—”

  He groaned, grabbed and rolled her so she was propped on his chest. “We’ll work it out.”

  “What if—”

  He slapped a hand down on her ass. “Christ almighty. How do you have any energy to argue?”

  That stung and knocked a gasp out of her. Oh, he would pay for that. She used what little energy she had to rock her hips, to go for his mouth, to straddle him, to kiss him like she believed she could change her mind; that they would work it out.

  Because she loved him and she simply had to believe that would be enough.

  THREE

  Dev

  They had to tell people. And by people, Dev meant family. His and Sarina’s. Only Reid and Owen, and by extension Zarley and Cara, knew about them. It was the most delicious secret and Dev was reluctant to break out of the bubble yet. It had only been two days since he’d known he was going to be a father, two days since Sarina proposed. Two days since he’d had his ass kicked by the life he wanted but was too much of a damn fool to understand was his for the taking.

  He was taking. With great greedy handfuls. He’d fight for them now. Become some kind of love warrior, an avenger of everything casually careless he’d been before.

  But before all the chest beating, macho stuff, there was all the sex.

  With Sarina.

  Who
had skin that he could not get enough of touching. Who had a new way of looking at him, as if she’d found the place she could rest.

  Not that they’d done much resting.

  The sex. Holy shit, a guy could only die and be reborn so many times.

  They’d had each other in this new relationship for two days, and they’d both had to work and Sarina had morning sickness but they’d still managed to make each other hot and bothered with hands and lips; to fall into bed and cause earthquakes in far-off places because they were that fucking great together.

  But two days wasn’t quite enough time for the shock to wear off. They both wore what just happened expressions. He kept wanting to laugh at inappropriate moments, and in her arms that first night together while they made slow, haltingly tender love, he’d wept.

  He might’ve fucked this up. His life, hers, theirs. Got so close to misinterpreting everything, taking what was most precious to him for granted and ignoring all the system alarms. He’d almost let her go into another man’s bed, have a baby on her own.

  She’d come with a breathy song and he followed her, his tears raining down on her chest and neck. He sobbed for the near miss of a tragedy, for the luck that put her in his arms, put his child in her belly.

  The inappropriate laughter was better for his ego, but the tears had won him kisses like he’d never experienced before. They were truth and trust and forgiveness and joy, and with each tongue flick, lip suck, there was a taste of the future.

  He’d fight for that. He’d be undefeated.

  But after he watched Sarina vomit up salty crackers.

  She sat back on her heels on the bathroom tiles and he held out a glass of water, not sure if it was a good idea. “Do you want to get up?”

  She still had a grip on the toilet bowl. “I want to die.”

  “Right, well, maybe try standing.”

  “We can’t both be late for work.”

  He laughed, a little untimely, given the whole she wanted to die thing. “No one cares if we’re late.”