Expecting a Bolton Baby

by Sarah M. Anderson

  But she hadn’t ever slept a whole night with a man. And that alone made her nervous. About everything.

  For example, she was wearing a cami and a pair of knickers. That’s what she always slept in. But was that the right thing? What would he be wearing? She hadn’t actually seen him in the nude. She’d felt his muscles, had him inside her, but she couldn’t say what he actually looked like.

  For another, she wasn’t sure where she was supposed to be. The bed was quite large—should she be on the far side? Where did he normally sleep?

  She was going to stay awake for him, though. She wanted a whole night and a morning.

  She wanted him.

  You could marry him, said a small voice in the back of her mind that sounded a great deal like Mickey. You could take him up on his offer. It might work.

  She closed her eyes and tried to envision the perfect life with Bobby. She’d have a shop with a playroom in the back so she could be close to the baby. Bobby would stop by on his way home from work and collect them. Then the three of them would go home and cook dinner together. After the baby was tucked in for the night, she and Bobby would curl into each other the way they had this morning. She would go to sleep knowing he’d wake her with a kiss and a touch that would lead to so much more. She wanted that more—wanted it every day. They could be wonderful together.

  But it wouldn’t last. Beyond the fact that her vision was set in New York City, her world, and Bobby’s world—his plans, his family—was here, she knew it wouldn’t last. People didn’t get happily-ever-afters, not in the real world. People died, fell out of love, cheated. Bobby would grow tired of the relationship, the effort—of her. She couldn’t bear the rejection that was part and parcel of a divorce. She couldn’t bear to have another man she cared about grow to hate her.

  And she would not subject her child to that. Under any circumstances. No, she couldn’t marry him. She had to protect herself. She had to protect her baby.

  Her eyes were shut. She couldn’t tell if she’d fallen asleep or just blinked for an extended period of time, but the next thing she knew, the clock said eleven-thirty—and she was still alone in the bed.

  Something was off. How long did it take a man to get ready for bed? Surely not an entire hour.

  She slid out of bed, not bothering to get the plush robe from the bathroom. The air was cool in the bedroom and the chill bit into her bare legs, shocking her awake.

  She opened the door and listened. The flat was quiet, dark. Where was he?

  She found her answer on the floor of the living room. Bobby was flat on his back, mouth open, snoring lightly underneath a blanket that looked much too thin.

  Disappointment crashed through her. She’d so been looking forward to a night in his arms—and he’d chosen the floor.

  She knew she should get back to bed before she woke him, but he startled. His eyes popped open. “Stella? Everything okay?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He scrubbed a hand over his face as he yawned, seeming not sorry at all.

  The rejection stung. She’d sort of understood when he’d first refused the afternoon nap—he did have things to do, things she was disrupting. But she’d assumed that he would come to bed tonight. Come to her. They’d agreed on it this morning, after he’d made love to her.

  Hadn’t they? Or had he just said what she wanted to hear?

  “I thought you were going to sleep in your own bed.” She swallowed, terrified of continuing, terrified of not. “With me.”

  Bobby froze for a moment and then let his hand fall away from his face. “But that’s a problem, don’t you see?”

  No, she didn’t. But she didn’t want to hear how her need to be close to him was ridiculous. “Right, then. Sorry to have woken you.”

  She turned to go, but his hand on her ankle stopped her.

  “Stella, what do you want?”

  Such a simple question. Would she ever have a simple answer?

  “I ask because your words tell me one thing but your actions tell me something else.”

  He still had a hold on her, his palm raising and lowering over her ankle and calf, warming her skin.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know I’ve already broken my contract with FreeFall TV, right? By sleeping with you, getting you pregnant—your father could sue me for everything I’m worth and more, right?”

  “Yes.” She knew he wasn’t trying to blame her for getting pregnant, but his statement hurt nonetheless.

  “Just because I slipped up once—twice—doesn’t give me permission to keep slipping up.”

  Of course. She understood now. That call from her father this afternoon had served to remind Bobby that her father held all the cards.

  “The only thing that would negate the contract’s clauses would be if we got married. Which is an idea,” he added, sounding as if he was discussing the weather and not their lives, “you’ve already rejected. Twice.”

  It wasn’t until that last word that she thought she heard something else in his tone—something that sounded hurt. But she wasn’t sure.

  You could marry him, that little voice with an Irish accent said in her head again. But was she really so desperate that she would agree to something as permanent as marriage just so she could feel, well, loved?

  His hand was still running up and down her leg. “So tell me what you want. I feel like I’m doing a lousy job of guessing.”

  His eyes were still closed, but his touch—the warmth of the connection between them—had her kneeling next to him. His hand slid around her waist, sending heat through her body. What did she want?

  “I want to go to sleep in your arms. I want to wake up there. I want you to make love to me. I don’t want anyone or anything to say we shouldn’t, we can’t.” She wished he’d open his eyes and look at her. But he didn’t, so she touched his cheek. “I want to stay with you until we have the results. Just a few weeks. Can’t we be together for a few weeks?”

  A few weeks to pretend they were a happy family—happier than any she’d ever known. Surely he wouldn’t get tired of her in that short time, would he? They could part as fond friends.

  He put his other hand over hers, holding her palm to his cheek. He must have shaved after his shower. His skin was smooth.

  “You’re asking me to risk everything.” For the first time, she heard something in his voice that she’d never heard before—fear. “Everything.”

  Wasn’t that what she truly wanted—to be worth the risk?

  “You did ask what I wanted.”

  His face crooked into a smile. “I did, didn’t I?” Then his eyes opened, his beautiful eyes. There was no pain, no fear. He didn’t look as if she’d burdened him with an impossible weight. If anything, he looked...satisfied. “You know what my brother Ben would say?”

  She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She only cared what he would say. Would he send her away? Would he let her father and his damnable contracts rule him? Would he tell her that she couldn’t have it both ways—it was all or nothing?

  “What?”

  Bobby sat up, pulling her into his chest. His strong arms folded around her as he pressed his smooth cheek to hers. Yes, this was what she wanted.

  “He’d tell you that I always put the business at risk. I’m famous for thinking up the craziest thing in the world and then doing it.”

  She sagged against him in relief.

  She felt the planes of his chest press against her breasts, felt the warmth of his body surround her.

  “I suppose this is fairly crazy, isn’t it?”

  “The craziest. Hands down.” Somehow, he got to his feet whilst cradling her in his arms the whole time. “Just for a few weeks, right?”

  “Right.” He carried her back
to the bed and set her down. She slid over and held the blankets up for him and he climbed in after her.

  Then she was back in his arms, back where she wanted to be. The only place where she felt she belonged. She could rest now.

  “Stella.”

  She pushed back against the darkness of sleep. “Mmm?”

  His arms tightened around her. “I’m glad you came.”

  He’d be there in the morning. She wouldn’t wake up feeling hollow or tossed aside. For a little while more, at least, she could be content playing house with him.

  “Me, too.”

  Then she slept.

  Twelve

  Stella had to pee. Badly.

  This was not how she wanted to wake up with Bobby. True, she was in his arms—at some point, they’d rolled over and were now tucked together like spoons in a silverware drawer. It was lovely, really. If the pressure on her bladder weren’t so intense, she’d lie here and enjoy everything about his front pressed against her back. There was a lot to enjoy.

  But she couldn’t. She had to go. Now.

  Trying to move slowly so as not to wake him, she lifted one hand away. He didn’t really need to be fully aware of her using the loo, did he? No, he did not.

  With a hmmph, Bobby rolled free of her. It was something of a scramble, but Stella got out of the bed and into the bathroom with seconds to spare. She even got the door shut as she raced through it for a bonus.

  Maybe he’d gone back to sleep. She’d been quiet, after all. Yes. She’d just slide back under the sheets and they’d pretend that nothing had happened. It was a good plan. She opened the door as silently as possible and stepped back into the bedroom.

  Bobby was awake.

  Well, perhaps awake was too strong a word. He was reclined on the pillows, scrubbing his cheeks with his hand but his eyes were open—and fixed on her.

  He was looking at her. Intently.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  “Ah, hello.”

  He leveled that devastating smile at her. “Second thoughts about what you said last night?”

  She was envious of how cool he could sound about it, considering he’d just asked her if she’d changed her mind about sex. With him.

  But the thing of it was, she hadn’t.

  “No. You?”

  “Nope. But I kind of like it when you tell me exactly what you want. No confusion that way.”

  She took a step toward him. When she’d met him at that club, he’d made her feel fearless, unashamed to take what she wanted—which had been him.

  “I want...” A smile curled one corner of his mouth. Even with the scruff, he was still far too handsome for her own good. “I want you to compliment me.”

  He didn’t skip a beat, God bless him. “You are the most enchanting women I have ever met, Stella. An ethereal beauty.”

  She stopped and put her fingertips to her cheek, as if she was debating the merits of his statement—but mostly to disguise her grin. “And?”

  He arched one sly eyebrow, making it clear that he knew they were playing a game—and that he approved.

  “Your designs are brilliant. I’m constantly amazed at the work you create by hand.”

  She took another step toward the bed. “Is that so?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I marvel at the things you can do with your hands. It’s fascinating.”

  That made her giggle. “Do you, now?”

  His sly look got much more intent. “I think about it all the time.”

  Feeling emboldened, she said, “I want to see you in the nude.” She hadn’t, really. He’d always been at least partially clothed.

  A man should not look so sexy, she decided. It just wasn’t fair.

  “Would you like to undress me, or should I do it?”

  Oops—she hadn’t anticipated that question. Suddenly, she was nervous again. “I’ll, um, watch.”

  Bobby was out of bed in a flash, standing just within arm’s reach. First, he peeled off his tee, revealing a swath of skin and muscles that were so sculpted her breath caught in her throat. His chest was liberally sprinkled with golden-blond hairs that almost blended with his skin. She wanted to run her hands over his body. Several times.

  Over one shoulder came a massive dragon’s head. But it wasn’t a black marking. The whole beast was rendered in vivid greens and golds, with streams of red fire breathing down onto the left side of his chest. It wasn’t a hard, scary tattoo designed to instill fear—not like other biker tattoos she’d seen—but something else. Something artistic. Beautiful, even. He’d been hiding more than just muscles under his clothes.

  Bobby hadn’t noticed she was staring at the ink. “Like this?” He had the drawstring of his waistband in his hands and was undoing the tie.

  “Yes, quite.”

  He managed to get the bottoms over a rather impressive erection. Stella was sure that the rest of him was now also bare, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away from that one particular part.

  He seemed quite...large. But perfectly balanced. Of course he was—everything about him was measured out in perfect symmetry, cut from the finest cloth. If she wasn’t fully aware that they’d already had sex—really good sex—three times before, she might be nervous about being able to take all of him in. As it was, however, she felt her body tighten at the sight of him. Because that was for her—because she was enchanting and ethereal and brilliant and so good with her hands.

  That was what she wanted—the feeling of desire building low and spreading through her body with a languorous heat. He turned her on, and she him. It was brilliant in its simple clarity.

  If it had been her, standing there in her birthday suit for his inspection, she would have been nervous. Heavens, she was nervous and she still had on her knickers. But not Bobby. Instead, he worked through a variety of poses, trying to find the one that put his assets to the best advantage.

  “Yes?” he asked, not even a little mortified by her humor.

  “And you’ve never modeled,” she said in awe.

  “Nope.” He struck a particularly garish pose. “Am I doing it wrong?”

  Everything about him put her at ease. Well, everything except perhaps his jutting erection. That did other things to her. Her nipples—so much more sensitive these days—firmed up beneath her cami, which had the delightful effect of causing him to freeze, his gaze trained on her body. The need to have him went from languorous to heated.

  But he didn’t come to her. “What else do you want?” His voice was thick with strain and, as he lowered his arms to his sides, she saw him shake.

  He was holding himself back, waiting for her to make the call. Amidst the desire that grew with each heartbeat, a second emotion gained a foothold. He was doing this for her. Because he cared about her.

  “I want...” She stepped into him. His arms went around her waist. “No, not yet. I want to touch you.”

  “You are killing me, woman,” he got out in a pained growl.

  “Patience is a virtue,” she replied as she let her hands move over him, starting at the wrists and working her way up his arms.

  “Virtue may work for you, but not for me.” But he lowered his arms. And shut his eyes.

  She tsked him as she felt her way up to his shoulders and down his chest. His muscles were all but carved from stone—so hard beneath her hands. But she remembered how he’d felt when she’d curled into his body after her father’s cutting words. A soft place when she’d needed one.

  She didn’t touch his erection as her hands skimmed over his thighs. He groaned, a noise of pain and frustration.

  “Turn around,” she ordered.

  He complied, making the action sound as disgruntled as possible.

  His back was a symphony of muscles, many
of which twitched in appreciation as she touched him, storing his shape away in her memory as if she were measuring him for a new suit. The dragon took up most of his back, his front legs digging into Bobby’s shoulder blade, his back legs pressed against Bobby’s backbone and his tail curled low, right where Bobby’s waistband would sit. She traced the dragon.

  “Any particular meaning for this?”

  His head hung. “Well, dragons are good luck.”

  “But?”

  “My brothers told me it was stupid.”

  The detailing was exquisite. It had to have taken forever to complete. “So you did it to spite them?”

  “No.” Which he quickly amended with, “Not really. I’ve always had...big dreams. Crazy dreams. I wanted to own this town—this state. My dad never thought beyond the next bike, the next payday—but Mom...” His voice trailed off. “She told me all I needed was a little bit of luck.”

  “So you got a dragon.”

  “It’s one of a kind. I destroyed the drawing after it was done. I wanted something no one else had.”

  “It’s a work of art. Truly.”

  “Thanks.” He sounded relieved, as if he might have been worried that she would agree with his brothers.

  Her hands left the tattoo behind. When she got to his buttocks, she did more than run her hands over them. She gripped them, feeling how his firm muscles filled her palms. He had an impeccably fine arse. She’d never done menswear, but for a backside that fine she might just have to try a pair of trousers.

  “I’d love to measure you.”

  He groaned, a sound of pure agony. “You are going to be the death of me, Stella.”

  “Is that so?” Then, stepping into him so that her body pressed against his, she moved her hands around to his front and gripped his erection.

  “Yes,” he hissed out. But he kept his arms clamped at his sides.

  With her face pressed between his shoulder blades, she slid her hands up and down his length. Yes, quite large. Warm and hard and quivering because of her touch.

  As she stroked him—slowly—she breathed in his scent. The Gucci cologne was much fainter now. Instead, he smelled of clean linen, with a measure of something she could only call desire building underneath.