Expecting a Bolton Baby

by Sarah M. Anderson

  She just wanted assurances. Certain assurances. Whatever those were.

  Finally, he gave up on sleep and turned his attention to a problem he could actually solve. Stella was eating for two now. Sure, he’d cobbled together a decent meal late last night, but he didn’t have enough supplies on hand to get them through a weekend. So he got up, wrote out a list of things he hoped she’d like and left a note with his cell phone number next to the photo of them.

  The nice thing about shopping at six-thirty on a Saturday morning was that the store was essentially empty. He loaded his cart up with staples. The whole time, he thought. Easier to think when he was picking apples than when he was on the floor.

  Stella was pregnant. He was most likely the father. He needed to marry her. That was the only way to make it right—to make sure the baby was a Bolton. It was the only way to be sure Stella wouldn’t disappear with another “it’s better this way.”

  The specter of David Caine hovered at the edge of Bobby’s thoughts. Sooner or later, the owner of FreeFall TV would find out that his newest reality star had impregnated his only daughter. Sooner or later, the executive producer of The Bolton Biker Boys would know that Bobby had broken every known morals clause of a legally binding contract and possibly a few unknown ones.

  How was he supposed to make things right with Stella when her father would likely drag him to court for breaking his contract? How would he take care of his family—his father, his brothers and Stella and the baby—without the resort? To a certain point, he didn’t care about the reality show. It was just the vehicle to get him the financing to make the resort a success. Maybe the world wouldn’t end if Caine canceled the show—but if Caine pulled out of the resort, too?

  How would Bobby take care of his family then?

  Eventually, Bobby couldn’t fit anything else into the cart. In the check-out line, he spotted the floral displays. On impulse, he grabbed a mixed bouquet. He’d make French toast for breakfast. A quiche for lunch would be good, with some baked broccoli and a salad. Then for dinner—well, he’d wait to see what Stella wanted.

  He was aware he was avoiding the real issues, as if solving the food problem was the most important thing right now. But he couldn’t help it. Planning meals was a problem with a definable, achievable solution.

  He trucked hundreds of dollars’ worth of groceries home. Somehow, he got everything into the apartment without waking Stella. Eight came and went. Bobby made the quiche, then began marinating the filets, just in case she was in the mood for steak. He found a recipe for pumpkin muffins and roasted a pumpkin.

  Soon enough, the kitchen smelled fabulous, which buoyed his mood considerably. Cooking always made him feel better. The kitchen had been a quiet, warm place in his childhood. Dad and Billy—Ben, too—had always been out racing bikes or arguing or making a general mess of things, but the kitchen had been Mom’s domain. Hats off at the table, hands and faces washed, pleases and thank-yous all around—enforced with a wooden spoon. Even Dad, crusty old fart that he was, had bowed to these rules of civility. At the table, they were a family, no matter what else was happening outside. Bobby had learned how to get people to do what he wanted from his mother, no shouting required.

  Then a thought hit him. When was the last time he’d cooked for a woman? Hell—when was the last time he’d had a woman sleep the whole night in his bed?

  There’d been Marla, in Beverly Hills. She’d been fun and energetic and beautiful and very well connected. They’d made a habit of hooking up whenever he was in town, which had progressed to spending the whole night together. It had almost felt like a relationship.

  Then he’d made her breakfast one morning—at her place. Even put a rose on the tray. Hands down, it was the most romantic thing he’d ever done.

  And Marla had...well, not laughed at him. She would never be so tactless as that. But instead of being impressed, she’d been amused. Confused. Why would a man like Bobby make her breakfast? He thought he’d been doing something special for her, and she thought he’d been silly. He wouldn’t lie. It had stung like hell.

  The relationship ended fairly quickly after that. That had been four years ago. He hadn’t seen the same woman more than twice since then. He’d told himself he liked it that way. Everyone knew up front that things were a one-night-only special—a little fun, a little sex, no strings attached.

  Just as it had been with Stella.

  Except he’d asked her for her number. Bobby paused in the middle of chopping the broccoli. Now that he thought about it, when was the last time he’d asked a woman for something after sex? For something more?

  Not since Marla.

  Stella had said no then. No strings attached. That’s the way he’d always operated and it had always worked just fine. Of course, he’d never experienced this kind of connection with a woman before.

  Stella had been ghosting around the edge of his thoughts for months now, but he’d honored her wishes. He hadn’t contacted her. Even though she had driven him to distraction.

  Now the strings that bound them were most definitely attached.

  It was almost too much to think about. So he made French toast instead.

  Finally, breakfast was ready—and Stella had still not emerged. Bobby looked at the clock. Nine in the morning. He should wake her up.

  For a moment, he wanted to get the food plated up, put a stem or two in a small vase and bring her breakfast in bed. But the memory of Marla’s lip curling stopped him. He didn’t want another woman to look at him so dismissively.

  After he made sure all the burners on the stove were off, he knocked on the bedroom door. “Stella?”

  Nothing.

  He opened the door a crack. Even though the sun came up late, it was still plenty bright enough in the room. “Stella?”

  She was on her back, one arm dramatically thrown over her head and the covers all pushed down around her waist. Her hair was a tousled mass of black and she was wearing a thin little camisole.

  A thin little camisole that had shifted.

  The sight of her breast bared sent a spike of heat through Bobby. He’d seen her before, of course, but that was different. They’d been tipsy and turned on and she’d stripped her belted dress off as if she’d had something to prove.

  This was another thing entirely. How could she look so soft, so sweet?

  No. No. Bobby slammed the brakes on those thoughts. He was not the kind of guy who woke up a woman he barely knew by seducing her, even if she was in his bed and they had had sex once. Well, technically twice.

  “Stella?”

  She shifted, which only revealed more of her creamy skin—skin his hands were itching to touch.

  Memories of her body consuming his came crashing back through his mind. The power of her desire—the way she’d grabbed his hands and held him down—had been a kind of erotic that he never wanted to forget.

  A kind of erotic that he wanted to have again.

  “Stella.” It was more of a plea this time—he needed her to wake up, to cover up, to stop him before he did something incredibly stupid, like kiss her awake.

  “Hmm.” Her other arm flopped up, stretching her body out. And pulling the camisole even lower.

  Now both nipples were exposed to the morning light. Bobby closed his eyes.

  Then he became aware that his feet were moving, walking him toward the bed. Toward her. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. His feet knew the way. He didn’t need his eyes to find her.

  I’m in trouble.

  “Stella, darling,” he whispered as he knelt down beside the bed. He opened his eyes long enough to grab the comforter and pull it up over her chest. “It’s past nine. Time to get up.”

  “Mmph.” She shifted and suddenly they were face to face. Her eyes were the palest of greens in this light. He’d never seen eyes like
hers before. One of a kind. Just like Stella.

  “Oh,” she breathed as she blinked at him. “Hi.”

  “Morning.” Then he heard himself add, “Beautiful.”

  A sleepy smile curved her lips into a sweetheart bow—a kissable bow. Then one of the hands that had been flung over her head came down and she rested her palm on his cheek. He hadn’t shaved.

  Her touch was cool but it made his blood run hot. He was not touching her. That was final. He was a gentleman.

  “I made you breakfast.”

  Her fingers stiffened against his skin, but she wasn’t pushing him away. If anything, it felt as if she was tightening against him. “You made me...breakfast?”

  The way she said it—breathless and surprised and, underneath all of that, pleased—turned his temperature up another notch.

  “Yup. French toast.” Then a new thought occurred to him. “Is that okay? I didn’t think—with you being British...”

  She giggled, a small, delicate sound that danced like bells over Bobby’s ears. “You made breakfast. For me,” she repeated.

  As she said it, her hand slipped back through his hair until she was cupping the back of his head. Until she was pulling him forward.

  “Yeah.” All he could see was the breathless way she was looking at him. “I wanted to make it right. I want to make it right.” He’d sort of thought that he was talking about breakfast, but that last part? Not about food.

  The next thing Bobby knew, Stella was kissing him—not the kind of kiss that said “thank you for the meal.” Oh, no. This was the kind of kiss that had Bobby clutching the comforter, hanging on to his self-control by a thread. A fraying thread.

  That thread snapped when Stella’s tongue traced his lips. He’d behaved honorably here. He hadn’t started this.

  But he’d finish it, by God.

  He pulled the comforter back down, revealing her bare breasts. The sight of her body made him ache in ways he hadn’t known were possible. “Beautiful,” he breathed again, which made her gasp in surprise. Hadn’t anyone ever told her that before?

  Maybe they had. She had done some modeling, he knew. But maybe she’d never believed it.

  Keeping his eyes on hers—so wide with desire and need—he cupped her breast and stroked his way up from the side to the stiff peak of her nipple.

  It was so hard to go slow, to wait and see what her reaction would be. He was straining behind the half-undone zipper. He didn’t want slow and he wasn’t sold on gentle—he wanted the same frenzied sex they’d had last time.

  But it was worth the wait as she sucked in another hot breath, her fingers digging into the back of his head. Yeah, she liked that. He stroked her breast again. This time, he got a moan out of her. She was going to kill him, plain and simple, and he wanted nothing more than to die in her arms.

  He lowered his mouth onto her breast. He licked at the delicate underside, working his way up to what had become an incredibly pointed nipple. Stella had both hands buried in his hair, holding him to her as he focused on making this right.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her accent crisp even though she was now breathing heavily. He found the contrast amusing.

  “Mmm,” was all he said as he teased her nipple. Her skin tasted as creamy as it looked, with a hint of sweetness underneath. Peaches and cream, he thought as he slid his hands under the comforter, pushing it back until he revealed a thin pair of white panties, all silk and lace.

  So delicate, so feminine. So beautiful. He slipped his hands underneath the waist of her panties, palming her backside underneath the silk and tasting her other breast.

  He wanted to make this right for her.

  His hands were shaking with the effort of restraining himself. Normally, Bobby was able to remain above the intimacy of a sexual encounter—he enjoyed the women he slept with, but he never got attached, never lost his cool.

  She did this to him in a way that no other woman ever had.

  At this moment, more than anything, he just needed her.

  He pulled the pointless camisole off over her head as she fumbled with his jeans. Somehow, he wound up on the bed, half under the covers. Stella jerked at his shirt, which didn’t make it over his head. Even though he still had his pants down around his ankles—even though she still had on those lace panties—he couldn’t wait to kiss her again. He lowered himself onto her, loving the way her arms slipped around his waist, the way her nails dug into his back with just enough pressure to let him know that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  He took her mouth with a white-hot kiss, tasting the noises of need she made in the back of her throat. This is what had kept him up at night over the past two months—this feeling that something about Stella was different.

  She deserved his very best. It was his duty to give it to her.

  Her back arched into him, pushing the warmth of her center, barely contained by those damn panties, into him. Bobby groaned at the pressure that spiked through him.

  At the last possible second—as he pulled her panties aside—he remembered the condom. He always wore one. Out of habit, he leaned over and snagged one out of the drawer on his bedside table, rolled it on with expert precision and turned back to the woman in his bed. The whole process took seconds.

  Which was just long enough for a shadow of doubt to take up residence on Stella’s face.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  She bit her lip, which made it that much redder. Damn it, holding himself back when she was so beautiful, so open before him, was an agony unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He would stop, if she said to. But then he’d probably wind up punching a wall or something.

  Her hands against his chest went from pushing against him to pulling on him—pulling him down to her. Bobby let her. His erection found her wet center all on its own.

  As her body took him in, he leaned back so he could watch her. Her mouth opened, but no noise came out. Her eyes were closed, but once he was all the way in, her eyelids fluttered and she looked up at him through thick lashes.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured as he stared into the pale jade she called eyes. So cool on the surface, but so very much going on underneath.

  He sealed the deal with another kiss as he began to rock in and out of her. The way her body tightened around his—the way she dragged her nails down his back—everything about being with Stella was better.

  “Do you like it like this?”

  “Yes, quite— Oh!”

  Over and over, he thrust into her—over and over, she made that little oh! noise. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He kissed her, hard, swallowing up the sound of her pleasure as his body released the climax.

  She hadn’t come yet—damn it. He would not leave her behind. He grabbed her hands and held them against the pillow. Stella’s body tried to curl into a ball—the opposite of arching—as her wrists strained under his hands. He remembered that from the first time—it had surprised him the way her body had tensed and curled up as she’d climaxed on top of him.

  Then she unfurled, stretching out against his body as she moaned in pure pleasure. Bobby collapsed on top of her. He withdrew from her body and rolled onto his side, careful to pull the condom off and drop it in the trash can next to his bedside.

  Then he pulled Stella’s now-limp body into his arms. She made a noise that sounded like a feline purr as she nuzzled into his chest. Yeah, it had been hard to keep going, but it’d been worth it to take care of her.

  Because that’s what he was going to do.

  He was going to take care of Stella.

  Six

  Bobby’s arms tightened around Stella. His chest was warm and solid and very real. For a moment, she was afraid she’d dreamed waking up to find Bobby kneeling next to her. She had dreamed just such a thing, severa
l times over—but this time it had been real.

  He was really here. Making love to her in the morning. Making her breakfast, of all things.

  She sighed and snuggled into him, enjoying the sensation of just being. How lovely that the first time hadn’t just been the bubbly—that he really did make her feel this way.

  “Lovely.” She heard herself sigh.

  A low chuckle rumbled out of Bobby’s chest. “Can’t wait to see what you do when I tell you what we’re having for lunch.” Then he kissed the top of her head.

  Stella took stock of her stomach. So far, she didn’t feel nauseated. She took a deep breath, trying to catch the scent of breakfast. But all she could smell was Bobby—the trace of the Gucci cologne mixed in with his own clean musk. “We’ll start with breakfast.”

  “One meal at a time,” he agreed.

  She grinned up at him. He wasn’t clean-shaven the way he normally was. In fact, he didn’t look anything like the man she’d taken to her car. Everything that had formerly been smooth and polished about him was now rough.

  “How was the couch?”

  “Not good. The floor was only slightly better.”

  She feathered her hand over the fine smattering of blond hairs that covered his chest. His shirt was still partly on from their hurried lovemaking. “I do think it’s no longer presumptuous of you to sleep in your own bed tonight.”

  He stretched against her. “Only one problem with that scenario.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re assuming we’ll sleep.”

  Stella felt her face grow hot, which was somewhat ridiculous, given that they were already sharing said bed.

  Suddenly she wished that things were just like this. Him making her dinner, drawing her a bath, making love to her in the morning. Was it wrong to want that?

  Of course it was wrong, she scolded herself. She clung to him for a moment longer, trying to store this warm memory away for when she’d need it later. Disregarding the current physical closeness, they still barely knew each other. Bobby Bolton was still too smooth, too charming. What happened when he turned that off? Would he use their child as a bargaining chip to wring what he wanted out of David Caine? Or would he sever himself from her, from their child—as her father had?