by Stacey Lynn
“Your situation?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand down his face, back up and through his black hair. Tension radiates off him and I fight not to shrink away from the glare in his eyes. “You can’t go. I have an appointment I can’t change and there’s no way in hell I’m letting you be around them alone, so they can treat you like crap.”
His reaction is mostly why I’ve been avoiding this entire conversation. “The thing is, they specifically said they only want me to come.”
God, it sounds horrible, and it’s even worse I’ve been considering this. The hurt in Braxton’s face is clear and it makes me want to reach out to reassure him it’s just their same old crap. I lift a hand and he pushes it down, shoving off the couch. “I see.”
It’s the second time he’s said it. It hurts more this time.
“Braxton—”
“No.” He lifts a hand to stop me, and I move off the couch to go to him, but he takes a step back. “This pisses me off, Cara. Why do they want you alone? So they can manipulate you more? Twist your head about me? Why?”
“Because I don’t know!” I fly my hands out to my side and they smack my hips. “I don’t know, and I’m not looking forward to it, but there’s nothing they can say or do that changes how I feel about you and me raising this baby together.”
He takes a step back, skin paling, and just…stares at me.
“Raising this baby together,” he mutters. He spins around, putting his back to me, and brings his hand to his face so I can no longer see him, but I despise the slump of his shoulders as he turns back to me. “Right. That’s all we’re doing.”
“That’s not what I meant.” We’re not just raising a baby together. We are together, at least I’ve been thinking we are.
“It’s fine, I get it. Go to dinner. I’m going to go work out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Braxton—”
He doesn’t stop, he just lifts his hand in the air, giving me his back, and dropping his hand. Even Lucy flashes me a sad look and trots off after him.
Great, I’ve even hurt the dog’s feelings.
But mine are hurting too. It’s the first time we’ve fought since we tried to start dating, and this sick sensation in my stomach makes me want to go to him and tell him how I feel. That I think he’s amazing and I’m the luckiest girl in the world to be with a man like him.
I probably would have, if he would have let me finish a single sentence.
Maybe we just need some space. When I feel myself drifting off on the couch, I turn off the lights and television and head to what I’ve begun thinking of as our room, hearing the treadmill still whirring ever since he disappeared into the room he uses as a home gym as I pass it.
I pause at the threshold of his room, debating, but what the hell. The worst he can do is wake up and kick me out. I get ready for bed and slide into his sheets, pulling the covers to my chin. I have no idea how I’ll sleep, but somehow, I manage to drift off, only to be wakened later when the bed jostles me. Braxton rolls, slides his arm over my side, and rests his hand at my stomach, shifting until his chest is flush against my back.
His lips press against my temple, and he says nothing, so I don’t either, but at least, even upset with me, he still wants me.
I link my hand with his at my stomach, and hope we can resolve this in the morning.
* * *
—
A moan pushes past my lips, and it’s the sound I make coupled with the warmth pressing into my back that pulls my eyes open. Braxton is still behind me, his hand still at my stomach, but our hands are no longer interlocked like they were when we fell asleep. Instead, his hand is lower, his fingers even lower, and they’re brushing against my sex in soft, teasing movements.
“Oh,” I gasp, as he swirls a finger around my clit.
“Shh. I want to touch you.”
“Please” and “thank you” are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t speak. I can’t. I’m delirious with sleep and the anticipation of pleasure. My head rests against the pillow, against Braxton’s shoulder, as he presses against me. His erection is thick and hard, sliding along the crease of my backside.
He gathers moisture as he slides a finger inside of me, hooking it and rubbing along my sweet spot.
A shiver of delight rolls down my spine, making me arch into him, and it all feels so perfect. I could wake up like this every day for the rest of my life and never want for anything else.
“More,” I whimper, turning my head and shoving it into the crook of his neck. I kiss his throat, rolling to my back and spreading my legs. Morning sex is the best sex. Languid and slow, still warm from the bed. My mind runs away from me, thinking of what it will feel like as he shifts on top of me, slides deep inside. I want him.
I reach down and wrap his length in my hand, sliding down to cup his balls and stroke his shaft.
“Fuck,” he groans. His ab muscles tighten, his hips lift toward me. Mine arch into his hand and I look down at us, our sheets now pushed off, and I watch as we play with each other.
“Braxton.” I’m already trembling, heat building low in my back, spreading toward my hips. He moves suddenly, understanding the desperate plea in my voice, and he’s forcing my legs wider with his hips and dipping down, he takes a nipple into his mouth, rolls it with his tongue.
“Oh God.” They’re so sensitive. Sparks of pleasure ignite my senses, traveling through my nerves, and I’m breathless. “Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
“You. I want you.”
“Open your eyes.”
I haven’t realized I closed them, but I open them, stare directly into Braxton’s deep, dark eyes. His lids are half-lidded, mixed with sleep and desire and yet even as he continues teasing me, alternating between sliding his finger inside of me, rubbing it along my clit, he makes no effort to give me more.
“I was an ass last night.”
It takes me a moment to remember our fight, and my body tenses, but he shakes his head, bends down, and sucks a nipple into his mouth.
“Oh God.” I arch into him. So freaking good.
“I want to be more than just the man you’re raising a child with.”
“You are.” The admission bursts through me, he’s making me drunk with pleasure, annihilating my senses, everything that generally screams at me to hold back. But everything he’s doing to me feels so good, I’m mindless. “You are more than that.”
He examines me, dark penetrating gaze bouncing back and forth between mine. “Good. I care about you, Cara. I don’t want your parents hurting you.”
“I really don’t want to talk about my parents right now.”
His lips tilt up and then he’s pulling his fingers from me, himself, rubbing the tip of him through my wetness and it’s so beautiful so see. His thick, perfect cock sends jolts of heat to my body as he rubs it against my clit, and then he’s there, pushing in slowly, dropping to his elbows and we’re connected—condoms kicked to the curb last week when his tests returned clean.
Every brush of his chest against mine causes friction on my nipples, and I’m already so close, and he’s moving so slowly, shoving a hand beneath my back to lift my hips.
“Oh God,” I moan against his throat. “So perfect. Faster.”
“No. Slow. I want it slow.”
I want him to have everything he wants. My hands move to his hips, his back. He’s hot, already slickened with sweat, good God, how long did he play with me before I woke up to have both of so close already.
It doesn’t even matter. He fills me completely, stretching me, hitting the end of me so deep inside, his pelvis putting the perfect pressure against my swollen bundled nerves it’s not long before I’m gasping.
“Braxton,”
I cry out, biting down on his shoulder as my orgasm heats my skin. I’m burning, and it’s beautiful, and he’s moving so slow, long measured strokes that make me reach for him, dig my hands in to speed him up, but he refuses.
The room fills with the sound of our flesh, the mingled groans from him and whimpers from me.
My body is so well primed, it doesn’t take much, I’m trembling, he shoves deep inside of me, throwing me over the edge of my orgasm. Bright lights spark behind my closed lids and my fingers are digging into his skin, holding him against me while my body falls apart beneath him and he’s grunting my name, cursing the heavens, and slams deep inside of me.
He pulses, emptying himself, and his teeth are at my shoulder, biting down as he groans out his own climax, immediately following mine that’s refusing to dissipate.
“Cara.” My name is a groan, ripped from deep in his throat and my hips are still shifting, riding the pleasurable wave and my God it’s insane how long it’s lasting but when he tries to pull off me, I arch into him. The friction is unending, the pleasure so intense I’m screaming his name and clawing at him.
“Oh my God,” I gasp as I finally feel my climax recede. “That’s insane.”
“That might be a world record in length.”
I laugh, kiss his throat down to his shoulder. I’m pulsing around him, my orgasm finally dissipating but lingering aftershocks roll through me.
“Crazy.” I can scarcely catch my breath, and his weight on top of me is divine.
I thrust my head back, away from his throat, until I can look into his eyes. “Good morning.”
A heat spreads on my cheeks, nothing to do with the orgasm or the slow, sleepy sex. Embarrassment at what he said, bringing up my parents, our fight last night slides into the forefront of my mind. “I’m sorry about last night too.”
“I want you,” he says. He’s still inside of me. This is the most ridiculous time to have this conversation, and yet every time he slides out, and pushes in, he’s drawing honesty out of me in a way I can’t hide. “I like you.”
He stresses “like,” giving me a hint he means more. I blink, unable to respond with anything less than the truth, but, good Lord, it’s terrifying.
I try anyway. “When I woke up that morning after the wedding, I’d just had the best weekend of my entire life with a guy, and I was utterly terrified that to you I’d been just a way to spend the weekend.”
“What?” His head jerks back. “Why would you think that?”
“Inexperience?” I shrug my shoulders. I’d told him part of the truth. I had felt like a disaster, but mostly it was just because I didn’t know how to do one-night stands, but also because what if he didn’t think of me the same way I had him? “I gave you more than just my body that weekend, Braxton. I was scared to risk getting hurt.”
My hand sweeps up and down his spine, hoping he understands.
His eyes soften in a way that tells me he gets it completely. He pulls out of me slowly, his dick still semihard, and even softening he’s still glorious. He pulls me with him as he sits back on his knees until I’m straddling him, my arms draping over his shoulders.
Then he does the sweetest thing I’ve ever experienced, perhaps far more intimate than what we just experienced together.
His hands slide to the back of my neck, up into my hair, and he massages my scalp.
“I will treasure every single part you give me, Cara, you have my word.”
My breath catches. There isn’t a hint of doubt in his voice or his expression, and my lips part, surprised at the depth of the emotion I see etched into his features.
It’s not an admission of love, it might be too soon even though I definitely feel myself falling in love with Braxton.
Before I can respond, he pulls me against him, my forehead to his shoulder, his hands at my head, and he holds me—hugs me.
It’s the least sexual thing we’ve done, but it’s the most tender, the most loving.
I close my eyes, feel the rhythm of my heart beating against my chest, and I realize I’m wrong.
I’m not falling for Braxton Henley.
I’ve already landed.
Chapter 23
Braxton
I didn’t expect this morning to happen. When I woke up and Cara was pressed against my body, I reacted instinctively. I went to bed pissed last night, but not entirely at her.
It seems as if every time I try to move us closer, I get the sense she’s got one hand up, holding me back.
It’s frustrating as hell. I figured falling in love with a woman would feel more like parasailing, happening softly and brilliantly, like you know everything in the world is right.
It feels like plummeting to my death, skydiving without a parachute. It has to be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done, yet there’s no way I can stop it.
I love her. I want her in my life. I want her to look at me and only want me. When she told me she was terrified I’d hurt her, it took everything in me not to blurt it out. But even I know telling her now is too soon. She’s still too damn skittish. So I hold her and let her feel me, let her feel secure in my arms, hoping like hell my silence says enough.
I’m still pissed at her parents, though, and we need to talk about it, about tonight.
Her going to dinner with people who could ship her off to a hospital and have her “situation” taken care of without me knowing scares the shit out of me. It’s far-fetched, granted, but I’ve been looking into Cara Thompson’s parents. They’re fucking loaded. They could easily do it with the connections they have.
My stomach rolls. If I could change my appointment, I would, or demand dinner another night.
The other part of me knows Cara needs this. She needs to be with them, stand up for herself and what she wants without someone there.
I need to make sure she knows I’m at her back, even if I’m not in the room.
I get up to shower, and she rolls over. By the time I’m out of the bathroom, she’s woken up.
My room is now littered with clothes and shoes she kicks off and flings, letting them stay wherever they land. Pink cotton panties are in a pile at the corner of the bed, a gray sweatshirt pooled on the floor. Her black yoga pants are hanging off the edge of the dresser.
She’s the messiest woman I’ve ever spent time with, and yet her mess only makes me smile. It means she’s here, in my space, and I really fucking like the idea of that. And I don’t even clean the place myself, so, really, who gives a shit?
I find her in the kitchen, swallowing down a glass of orange juice, which means she’s taken her medicine. She hasn’t puked in weeks, although she still periodically turns green. It’s not the only change I’ve noticed in her.
Her breasts are growing, swollen and shoving against the thin shirt…my shirt…she must have thrown on when she rolled out of bed. I’ve noticed when we have sex over the last couple of weeks, that not only is her appetite for food increasing again, but her appetite for sex is too, and when I play with her nipples, she practically comes from the slightest touch.
It’s fucking sexy as hell, and so is seeing her stomach press against my T-shirt, our baby now making itself known in the morning where she used to show only at night. We went shopping last week and she bought a bunch of maternity clothes, but the sight of her in my shirt is so much better than the few dresses and tops and pants she purchased.
She has her profile to me, standing at the counter when I enter the room, and I stop, watching her. All parts of her are filling out, her hips a bit wider, her ass a bit thicker. It’s not just her stomach and breasts that are changing, it’s all of her.
She’s beautiful, and the minuscule ways she’s changing every day make me glad I’m not missing a moment of this.
Thank God for food trucks and morning sickne
ss creating a nasty combination.
“Hey,” she says, jumping as she notices me probably staring at her like a stalker. “You okay?”
“You’re beautiful.” The admission tumbles out of me.
A blush hits her cheeks and she looks away, glancing down at the counter. She does this often when I compliment her, as if she’s not used to receiving them, but fuck that.
It’s now mission one for me to make her know how beautiful she is, inside and out, every day. I go to her, unhesitating when I reach her, and lift her by the waist, setting her on the counter. Her knees widen and I step in, pressing myself against her body, my hand to her stomach.
“How’s Squirt?”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “That sounds gross.”
“Bean?”
“Not really a fan.”
“We have to think of something.” “It” makes me think of Stephen King or the Addams Family. Not the cutest name for a baby.
“Pumpkin?”
I flash her a feigned, mock look. “You think our baby will be orange?”
She slaps my hand away. “It’s a nickname, not a prophecy. Besides, two more weeks and we’ll know what we’re having.”
“Yeah.” Jesus. She’s turning me into a sap. I press my forehead to hers, staring down at my hand as I move it back to her stomach. She thinks she felt “Pumpkin” move the other day, then thought it was gas. I’d laughed so hard I snorted. According to the book she finally bought where we have dog-eared pages all over the place, it’s still early. But God, I want to feel that. That first kick, that first proof that there really is something inside her, something we created. “What do you think?”
“Girl.”
“Yeah?” I glance up. It could be her mother’s intuition. I picture bows and ribbons and dance classes and boys…oh shit, the boys. The teenage little fuckers. “No. It has to be a boy.”
That way I only have to think about one penis. Not everyone else’s. Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.
“You okay?” Cara asks, her hand at my cheek.
