by Ana Sparks
I arch into his touch, tingles shooting through my body just from the attention to my breasts. Every other encounter we’ve had has felt hurried, but there’s something about the patient attention he lavishes upon my breasts that has me aching for more. Carson draws away slightly, exhaling a breath of hot air against my already hard nipple. He flicks his tongue against it a final time before switching off, taking his hand to the right and moving his mouth to the left.
My hips are already rolling against him, desperate for contact. I drag my nails up his back, hissing in pleasure as he grazes his teeth against the sensitive flesh of my nipple. I jerk my hips up, giving him a rather obvious look. He seems to take the hint, slipping his member free from the confines of his briefs. He presses against my slit through my underwear, and I let out a needy moan.
“Please, Carson. I lov—I need you,” I gasp, managing to catch myself.
He considers me rather strangely for a moment before pulling my panties down, then positions himself quickly, and I can feel his eyes watching every slight movement of my face. He gauges my expressions for what I like, pressing into me slowly and sweetly. I moan, a long and guttural sound, as he fills me completely.
“You’re beautiful. I love you so much,” he whispers, almost too softly for me to hear. Though he already confessed his feelings on the plane, it still startles me to hear the words.
He presses his lips to mine, and I allow my eyes to flutter shut as he begins to move inside me. Breathy gasps spill past my lips, and I find myself babbling incoherently from how damn good it is. I brace against him, pressing my face against his shoulder as he continues to thrust.
Hips moving erratically, it’s obvious that he’s nearing his peak. It strikes me to tell him to pull out, but something stops me. I want to feel him come inside me. I want him to fill me to the brim. I clench my muscles around him and he groans haggardly as he orgasms. I reach my own climax mere seconds later, and my inner walls work to milk him for every drop.
If he realizes what’s just happened, he gives no indication. He simply slumps against me, nestling his face between my breasts.
“I love you, too,” I say quietly. “I know it means very little, when you already have so much, but…you have me, as well,” I continue nervously.
His breathing is soft, and I wonder if he’s already gone to sleep. However, he shifts beside me, tugging me on my side so that he can remain sheathed inside me.
“With you, I’m richer than I ever dreamed,” he murmurs.
We share an adoring smile, and in spite of my scratchy sheets and lumpy mattress, I drift into a sleep that’s more peaceful than any I’ve had prior. I know in my heart—somehow, someway—that this love we share will withstand the ages.
What good is money, without love in your heart? It seems that neither of us will ever have to ponder that question again.
Epilogue
Aimee
Wow. What can I say? Life really has a way of turning you upside-down, doesn’t it? It’s been six months since the Russian incident, and Carson has managed to put the fiasco behind him. It’s a good thing, because we’ve had our share of exotic offers from worldwide.
I like to think I play a part in landing his deals, however small. Then again, marketing is a pretty big deal in the real estate industry. While I certainly don’t run the marketing department, it feels like it sometimes. Jack keeps me on a short leash when it comes to work tasks, though Carson makes time to pay a visit to the department every day at lunch.
Things couldn’t be better, really. We may be moving a bit fast, but Carson asked me to move in with him a few months ago, and I couldn’t be happier. Though I was proud of my first Seattle apartment, I’m even more proud to spend every night beside the man I love.
Speaking of which, what Carson doesn’t know yet is that our near-constant lovemaking has had a somewhat predictable result, as I found out just a few days ago that I’m carrying his child. Our child!
I’m still not sure how to break the news to my beloved. While I like to think I know the man like the back of my hand by now, it’s hard to tell if he wants to be a father. I honestly think he’s at an age where he’s put the possibility behind him.
Then again, I have a way of changing things in his life. What can I say—I snared the playboy in more ways than one. I know I have to tell him, but how do you tell the man who has everything that he’ll be a father in a matter of months?
I suppose that’s part of why I’ve been putting it off; I’ve been trying to get a gauge on how he might feel about expanding our family, and while I’ve learned he’s never expressed a real interest in children, I know it’s not entirely out of the question that he’ll be excited.
Without a doubt, I know Carson will be a wonderful father. He has the kindest heart of any man I’ve ever met. I haven’t wanted for anything in the time we’ve been together, and I know he wouldn’t allow his child to live any life except the best one. The entire world will be at his or her fingertips.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as my beloved steps through the front door, carrying a bag full of Chinese takeout. I grin; the pregnancy cravings have already hit me full force.
“Honey, I’m home,” he announces, carrying the food into the dining area and setting a plate down for each of us.
I trail behind him, biting my lip and contemplating if this is the right time to tell him. It’s sudden, but is there ever really a perfect time to tell your boyfriend that you’re pregnant?
Distracted by the scent of the takeout, I take a seat at the table, and begin to pile food on my plate. He watches with a curious, almost amused expression, taking a quarter of the serving for himself. I dig in, my appetite voracious. He continues to watch me, his head tilted to the side as if he’s trying to get a read on me.
“Is there something on my face?” I inquire teasingly, wiping a bit of sweet and sour sauce off of my lips.
“Oh, no. You look beautiful. Absolutely radiant, actually. It’s just a bit strange; you seem like you’re absolutely starving. Have you not been eating lunch?” he murmurs, concern etched in his face.
I hesitate, bringing an egg roll to my lips. I meet his gaze, seeing nothing but love and understanding.
Admittedly, I do have some misgivings about ripping his normally extravagant lifestyle out from under him. While I know we won’t be like some parents who struggle to pay for diapers or formula, it will be a stark shift from our carefree nights spent watching over-the-top action movies and making love until the break of dawn. Gone will be the peaceful nights, replaced with long hours of staying up and seeing that the baby is fed, that the baby is changed, that the baby isn’t crying.
Without realizing I’ve been crying, I reach up to wipe a tear from my cheek. Damn pregnancy hormones. Carson is staring at me through wide, concerned eyes, and he reaches out to take my hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt abruptly. He hesitates for a moment before stroking his thumb along the back of my hand, moving in gentle circles.
“Sorry for what, my sweet?” he inquires nervously, but his lovingness just makes me cry more. His face twists in anguish for a moment, but he tightens his grip on my hand. “Just tell me what’s going on, my dear Aimee. I love you. You can tell me anything,” he soothes.
“Well, I found out a few days ago that…I’m pregnant. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I didn’t know how to—”
“You…you’re pregnant. You’re having a baby?” Carson interrupts. He stares at me, as if he can’t comprehend the words coming out of my mouth. “We’re having a baby?” he asks, awe tinging his voice.
I nod, and he takes me into his arms. His body quakes, and after a moment, I realize he’s crying as well.
“My sweet Aimee, why would you apologize? This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of,” he manages to get out in his sudden fit of joy, drawing away and peppering my face with kisses.
He picks me up and spins me around in a circle. I giggle happily, pressing
my forehead against his as he lowers me back to the ground.
“I’m going to be a daddy,” he whispers, overcome with happiness and amazement.
“You are. We’re going to be a family,” I reply, pressing my cheek against his chest.
“My love, we’re already a family. We’re simply…adding on. And I couldn’t be happier about it,” he says sweetly. He cups my face in his hands, kissing me tenderly.
Somehow, I managed to win the heart of my billionaire boss. Next on the agenda is a billionaire baby, and though I don’t think our first vacation will involve Russia, I imagine raising him or her with Carson will be just as exciting and crazy as a car chase.
Somehow, though, I think we can handle it. With Carson by my side, I can do anything.
The End
Take Me
Layla Valentine
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Copyright 2017 by Layla Valentine
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Alice
I have never been happier.
As my head was tugged, prodded, and pulled from all sides, I repeated the words to myself. It had to be true. Everyone seemed to believe it. And yet, my gaze was set longingly out the window.
“Miss Pryce, please keep your head straight,” Melinda snapped, shoving my head so it was facing forward.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
But she was out of earshot already, halfway across the room, dealing with a flower catastrophe—pale blue ones had been ordered but navy blue ones had arrived. The color scheme was ruined.
While she yelled at the cowering delivery boy, I tried to calm myself down. Just be cool, Alice. Just be cool, and by the end of today, this will all be over.
My reflection was glaring at me from the gilded mirror. She was beautiful and aloof—her mahogany brown hair pulled into a slick bun, her blue eyes lined and highlighted. I almost wanted to reach out to the mirror and touch her, like one of those 3D images, to prove she wasn’t real. The woman in the mirror, the one who looked like me, knew what I was supposed to do.
Hell, even the team of makeup artists and hair design specialists and other strangers knew better than me what I was supposed to be doing and how I was supposed to be feeling.
“You must be sooo excited” was the refrain I heard every five minutes—the one that was becoming increasingly hard to make myself smile gaily in response to.
Yeah, I should’ve been “sooo excited,” so why was I feeling like I wanted to throw up my breakfast all over my sparkling, gem-encrusted shoes?
I looked away from my reflection’s icy glare. It was Lux’s fault really. This morning when I’d confessed my nerves, instead of her usual, infuriatingly accurate, “You sure you really want to do this?” my blue-haired friend had grabbed my arm, kidnapped me, and taken me to a run-down diner for an early breakfast.
That had caused a minor catastrophe with Melinda, the wedding planner chosen by Papa, whose 10 a.m. “brunch with the girls” had been replaced by “FIND THE RUNAWAY BRIDE AND GET HER BACK.” And get me back she had.
Ah yes, Melinda had been quite the sight, her false-lashed eyes bugging out and her lips so snarled it looked like she had none. When she had found me sitting in the corner booth of the diner, Melinda had handcuffed me with her magenta talons and steered me out of there, Lux laughing protests.
It was only once we’d been safely inside the white stretch limo that Melinda had delivered her beady-eyed rebuke: “What were you thinking?”
Instead of answering her, I had adjusted my 40-carat ring so it was sitting straight. I hadn’t answered her then, hadn’t even really thought about it then. Now, however, I knew. My reflection was glaring at me with the same disdain, with the same realization of my answer: I had been thinking I’d miss it. I’d been thinking, somehow, if I just sat in the diner long enough, if Lux rubbed my shoulders and I didn’t say anything, if we ordered enough blueberry pancakes and drowned them in enough maple syrup, the whole wedding would just happen without me. Then everyone could get their way.
My phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was Papa.
“How’s it going, kid?”
I took a deep breath as someone attacked the back of my head with hairspray. Then I gazed at my reflection, which looked every bit as beautifully desolate as I felt.
“Papa, I…”
“Eh, nerves are normal. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ve already got the paparazzi here, ready to go. Everything’s going to be perfect. I have everything handled.”
And then, before I could get another “but Papa” in, he hung up on me.
Now my reflection’s blue eyes were bluer with tears.
I should’ve known. Papa hadn’t been calling to see how I was feeling; he had been calling to make sure I was there, that things were going according to his plan. It was his plan after all.
Over a month ago, I’d gone to him, teary and breathless, sobbing about my doubts, about my uncertain gut feeling about Paul, about the need to call off the wedding or at least postpone it—anything to buy me some time.
But Papa’s bristly gray mustache only lowered in displeasure while his eyes became hooded. When his wrinkle-creased fingers had reached for mine, I had known it was over.
“Alice,” he had said, “let me tell you something.”
“Papa, I know what you’re going to say, but please, listen to me. I’m begging you.”
He had nodded as if he’d heard what I’d said, but then continued saying the words that proved he hadn’t listened to me at all.
“Alice, when I was your age, I was marrying your mother. And you want to know something? I was scared shitless. And you want to know something else? It was the best choice I ever made.”
At the mention of my mother, a light film of tears had misted over his brown eyes.
“Your mother…well, your mother would be so proud, Alice. So proud to see you married to such a fine man as Paul.”
I had kept my gaze on the thick fingers atop mine, each hair on them dark and well defined. Certain. That was what Papa was about this whole thing. And yet, for all I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have made his certainty my own.
“But Papa, I hardly know him!” I had protested, and then his mustache had trembled.
“Alice, now is not the time for some teenage crisis. You’ve always been indecisive—in college, in boyfriends, in everything. I’ve already paid tens of thousands of dollars for this wedding. The Van Pattens are a powerful family, and this union will mean great things for the both of us. Paul is a good man—kind, generous, good looking. You’d be a fool to let him go. I’m not going to let your indecisiveness ruin this for me, or for you.”
When I had said nothing, he had continued.
“I mean it, Alice. I have supported you indiscriminately up until now—paid for your education, your clothes, hell, who has been footing your phone bill all these years? But I am not about to sit by and watch you ruin your life without saying something about it. Nor am I prepared to support a deadbeat daughter who can’t decide on anything. If you don’t marry Paul now, then you leave me no choice but to write you out of your inheritance.”
I had gaped at my father, at his face which was incongruously cool, as if he hadn
’t just mentioned that he was ripping a billion dollars out of my hands.
“Papa, you said…”
“I don’t care what I said,” he had snapped, slamming his hand down so hard on the marble tabletop that his wedding ring had hit with a sound that had clanged throughout the room.
Leaping up, he had looked down his nose at me, his mustache quivering.
“Your mother always wanted you to be successful, to get into business, meet a nice man. She didn’t want you gallivanting off to Africa with a bunch of hippies and fleeing the best suitors in Denver!”
He had taken a step toward me and, towering over me, his brown eyes alight, delivered his ultimatum.
“Either you marry Paul and get your inheritance, or you are left without a penny.”
And, just like that, my indecisiveness had been swept aside. My choice had been made for me.
I had walked out of there with tears streaming out of my eyes. And as I’d collapsed onto the silk sheets on my bed, in my head a resigned voice had said, Well, there are worse ways to make a billion dollars.
After all, I could finally open up the charity I had always wanted to. Go back to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and continue the work I had started.
My phone had buzzed; a text from Paul that was all hearts and, at the bottom, I love you.
As I’d stared at the message, tears had welled up in my eyes, obscuring it into a white blur. Even now I believed it as little as when we had been dating. I’d only known him for five months, and we’d never had a deep conversation. How could he love me when he didn’t even know me?
“You must be sooo excited,” Melinda, back from her flower brawl, said icily, smirking her blood-red lips victoriously.
