Unexpected Daddies

by Lively, R. S.

  Grant pulls back, and for a second, I fear it's all over as he starts to reassert that iron control of his. No. I'm not about to let it end so soon, not like this. Not this time. I kiss him again, shoving my tongue into his mouth forcefully. I hold his face in my hands, keeping him in place, pressed against me.

  He's not going anywhere this time.

  There's a warmth between my legs, and my insides cry out for him. I need him inside of me. God, I need him so badly. The heat in his kiss growing, Grant pushes me backward, further into the hotel room. He yanks the overcoat off my shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. Without saying a word, he pushes me down onto the couch, and we fall down upon it – his hands are on my waist in an instant, rolling me over and pulling me so that I'm on top of him, straddling him.

  “You and that damn dress,” he mumbles, his lips pressed against my neck. “You're going to be the death of me.”

  Speaking of the dress, Grant slowly works his hands underneath it, grabbing my ass and pulling me down against him. Rolling my hips, I rub myself against the bulge in his pants, annoyed at the thin pieces of fabric keeping us apart.

  As if sensing my frustration, Grant pulls at my panties, slipping them aside. With one hand, he grips my chin and forces me to stare into his hazel eyes. The other hand slides against me, rubbing my clit with his fingertips before sliding two fingers inside of me. I moan, trembling above him as he fingers me, his palm pressing against me, as his fingers rub against the walls of my pussy.

  I rock back and forth on his hand, biting my lip as he touches the deepest parts of me.

  “I need you,” I mutter, almost too softly.

  I fear he doesn't hear me, but he pulls his fingers from my wetness, bringing them to his lips and sucking them one-by-one as he stares deep into my eyes.

  “You have no idea how long I've waited to taste you,” he growls.

  With one quick movement, he unzips his pants and slides them down around his hips. Only his boxers are keeping me from the prize now. My fingers rake over the silky material until I find the slit in his shorts. Biting my lip, I wrap my hand around his thick, long shaft, feeling him grow even harder in my grasp, and guide it out over the waistband.

  I stroke him gently, leaning closer to kiss him as I hold his cock in my hand. Grant touches my body, moving from my waist up to my breasts, teasing my nipple through the dress. I let out a small gasp, my head moving back, and mutter just one word – “Please.”

  That one word is enough. Grant pulls his wallet out of his pants, and fumbles for a condom. He rips open the packaging with his teeth, handing it to me to put on him. I slide it down his length with a grin. As soon as he's covered, Grant lifts me by the hips, twists our bodies, and then throws me down onto the couch.

  He is hovering above me now, his mouth devouring me from my lips to my neck down to the bare cleavage showing in my dress. His teeth graze along my skin, and his rough hands lift up my dress, exposing the bottom half of my body. He removes my panties with a single quick pull. I feel the cool air in the room on my most sensitive parts and know there's nothing keeping us apart now.

  I can feel his hardness against my opening as he grinds himself against me. Grant lifts his head, grabs my chin in his hand and forces me to meet his gaze as he thrusts himself deep into me. My body yields for him, stretching around his member, and I cry out while I wrap my legs around his waist and arch my back upward, taking him deeper inside of me. After denying ourselves for as long as we did, the moment he enters me, I feel an overwhelming explosion of sensation go off inside of me, and I nearly come on the spot.

  Grant groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. His face is taut with intense pleasure. After denying ourselves for so long, our bodies are finally united, I reach out for him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. His face falls forward, and we kiss again. His tongue moves in and out of my mouth, just as his cock does the same down below. We find a perfect rhythm.

  Each thrust is hard and deep, making both of us moan loudly. Grant growls above me, sweat building along his brow as he fucks me with such intensity. We've both been yearning for this. Wanting this. Needing this. A spasm rips through me, causing me to tighten up around him. I squeeze his cock with the muscles inside of me, crying out as wave after wave of pleasure washes through me. My body feels like it’s on fire.

  Even as I flail underneath him, Grant continues thrusting into me. Harder and faster. His grunts are louder, more animalistic. His breathing growing ragged and desperate. He holds me down now, keeping me still as he forces himself in and out of me. With wide eyes, I watch his body move above me, holding on for dear life as he fucks me.

  With one last thrust, Grant freezes inside me with a cry that rumbles like thunder. His eyes are shut tight, but there's a look of pure bliss on his face as he comes. I hold onto him, whimpering as another orgasm hits me hard. We come together, our bodies writhing in pleasure with one another, until Grant collapses on top of me.

  We lay there for a while, neither one of us able to speak. He dots tiny kisses along my jawline. Sweet, gentle kisses.

  He slips himself out of me and rolls over to his side, tossing the spent condom into a nearby trashcan. The couch isn't very big, but we manage to make it work. He holds me close, and I'm able to forget about everything and just sleep, feeling safe and warm in his big, strong arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Grant

  Her dark hair falls around her like a halo, a stark contrast to the white leather couch and her cool, pale skin. I woke up feeling a little stiff and cramped and realized there was hardly any room for the two of us on that damn couch. So, I slipped away, allowing her to have the couch to herself. Now I’m standing, looking down at her, and simply admiring her beauty. I grab a blanket from the bedroom and cover her with it. She curls up into it, oblivious to the world around her.

  She's perfectly at peace, and I can't stop looking at her.

  I know what we did is wrong. I feel like I took advantage of a woman in a vulnerable situation. Yes, she seemed to want it too, but how can I be sure she won't regret it when her memory comes back? What if she's got a family? A boyfriend? Someone to go back to? What if she has a husband – what's it going to be like for her, knowing that she just fucked a complete stranger while her husband might think she’s missing or dead?

  She's literally stripped of everything, laying bare before me. Not literally, of course, but emotionally. She has no memories, no baggage that often comes along with starting a new love affair. But I know that once those memories come back, she might not be the same person. She might be someone entirely different.

  And she might be very upset by what we did tonight.

  For now, I'm happy to revel in not just her beauty, but who she is at her core. I know there's no way we can truly be together – not until she remembers everything about herself and about her life. Not until we find out who she really is. Then, maybe, if she's willing, we can try things out. But only if she still wants to. Even if it takes years, I'm willing to wait and see. I have nobody else in my life, and Celeste is the light I've needed in the darkness that's enveloped me and my world for a long, long time.

  Leaning down, I kiss her gently on the forehead, and I consider my options. I can sleep in my bedroom, tucked away from her, but that makes me uneasy. I don't want to leave her out here exposed and unprotected, just in case. I could carry her into her bedroom, but I don't want to wake her up. After a little thought, I take the chair nearby instead. It reclines, and even though I'm several inches too tall for it, I manage to make it work.

  I'm not tired anymore though, and sleep is hard to come by. I steal glances over at Celeste as I sit in the darkness, checking on her as if she were a child. I know she's not, but in my mind, she's still that fragile, hurt woman I found on the side of the road. So much has changed in the short time since then, but I feel the overwhelming urge to protect her at all costs.

  I close my eyes and try to get some rest. It's going to be a
busy day in the city, trying to dig up everything we can on Celeste's past, and I need to be sharp. Focused. After all, the digging may lead us to dangerous people and places, and I need to be aware of everything going on around us. I need to be able to focus and weed out the threats where they pop up. Which means I need to be well-rested.

  Ever since Sam was murdered, sleep has been elusive for me. I guess it goes back even further than that. After seeing what I did during the war – what we did – and seeing people who lost everything they own, women and children, people who lost limbs or lives, I often have nightmares.

  Those nightmares persisted for quite a long time, but they eventually began to fade. They never went away entirely, of course, but the edges dulled. I still get nightmares, but now they’re different. Ever since Sam's death, whenever I try to sleep, my head is usually filled with images of him.

  Tonight is no different.

  It's always the same dream. The moment I walked in and found my best friend dead, his lifeless body filled with bullet holes. I remember those wide, unseeing eyes, staring off into nothing, but seeing everything. At least, everything in the world beyond ours. His eyes stay with me the most. They haunt me.

  We'd been through so much over the years. We grew up together. Went to school together. Survived war and bombings together. We'd cheated death on a number of occasions. But not even his strength, or his Corps training, could prevent him from being killed. He was a goddamn war hero who served this country with honor and distinction. And yet, in the end, he was treated worse than an animal in a shelter. Like he meant nothing.

  And the Chicago PD looked the other way. Which is why I no longer trust the police department.

  Only one person stepped up and actually cares about finding out who killed Sam. One man. Special Agent Derek Hartford. I'll never forget him. I have his personal cell phone number memorized. He's part of the Bureau's Organized Crime Division, and while we never could find substantial proof, he was convinced the Mafia was behind my best friend's death.

  Not that it made any sense. Sam wasn't Italian, or Irish, or whatever the fuck you had to be to be part of the Mafia. He wasn't associated with any crime family of any heritage. I know that for a goddamn fact. He was a good, all-American boy from Chicago. He spent most of his teenage years playing football, not getting into trouble. His adult life was dedicated to college, the Marines, and later our business. We did nothing the Mafia would give a shit about, as far as I was concerned. Agent Hartford thought otherwise.

  A hunch isn't enough for a murder conviction, though, and the trail eventually went dead. Not even Hartford, who's been dedicated to solving the case from day one, has been able to dig anything up. We still keep in touch, mainly to talk about the case, but there's not a whole lot to talk about anymore. But I trust him. I know that if anything new does come up, he'll let me know. And he knows I'll do the same for him.

  Celeste mumbles and stirs in her sleep, which draws my attention to her. The sky beyond the large picture windows is filled with brilliant hues of orange and red, and it's simply breathtaking over the lake. When I’d stayed here in the past, I'd only ever see the sunrise if I'd stayed up all night partying.

  I sit up and take in the view, as if seeing a sunrise for the first time, completely mesmerized by the beauty of Mother Nature.

  “What time is it?” Celeste grumbles, which tears my attention away from the view outside the window.

  Celeste's beauty rivals that of the view outside. In a way, it's actually much more breathtaking.

  “Almost seven,” I say softly.

  She yawns and stretches as she sits up on the couch. I watch her every movement, drinking in the view of her body. She notices the blanket and gives me a sweet, sleepy little smile. She lifts her arms up over her head and stretches out her back like a cat. I can't keep my gaze from sliding up and down her entire body, taking her in. I think back to the taste of her lips and skin, the way her body felt underneath me, the sounds of her whimpers as we came together.

  My jeans grow tighter as the blood flows south, but thankfully Celeste isn't looking at me anymore.

  She's turned her attention to the view outside the window. She stands up and walks over there, her hips swishing the skirt around her thighs. I can't stop staring at her figure, admiring the way the dress clings to her waist and flares around her hips. She's got curves that just beg to be touched.

  If last night is the only time we have sex, I realize that I missed out on seeing her naked – and it's a crushing realization for me. I may never see her fully bare, get to run my fingers along the curves of her body, or to taste her most intimate parts. I got a taste last night, sure, but it's not nearly enough. I need more. I want to bury my tongue inside of her and feel her orgasm around it.

  I had the chance to do all those things and more, but I went straight for the sex. I wasn't thinking clearly – obviously – or else we wouldn't have had sex to begin with. I would have put a stop to it. I hadn't thought – at least, not with the head on my shoulders – and she hadn't either. It was over so quickly, but the truth of the matter is, I still want so much more from her.

  The sunlight illuminates her, framing her in a soft, golden light that makes her look absolutely ethereal. I remain seated, just taking in her beauty. She glances over her shoulder at me and gives me a soft smile that only makes her all the more stunning.

  “It's beautiful, isn't it?” she asks.

  “Very much so,” I say.

  And of course, I'm not talking about the sunrise over the lake. The view of the sunrise outside is nothing compared to her. She turns and glides over to me. Not walk, glides. Her footsteps are light, and she seems to float above the ground as she moves, smiling brightly.

  Celeste surprises me by curling up in the chair with me, straddling me like she did last night, and kisses my lips softly. My body aches for her again, my spirit yearns to have her, and I'm growing harder by the second. But this can't happen again. Not until we know who she is and the particulars of her life – like if she's married. I place my hands on her chest and gently nudge her face away from me.

  Her smile fades, and I can't handle the hurt look on her face. She may not want to understand it right now, but I know it's for the best.

  “Last night shouldn't have happened, Celeste,” I say as gently as possible. “Not because I don't find you attractive, and not because I don't want you – you know I do, but –”

  “No, I understand,” she says, unwinding her body from mine as she stands, the hurt and disappointment on her face more than clear. “I knew this would happen.”

  She looks away from me quickly, wiping at her eyes. My heart sinks. Did I really just make her cry? This is exactly why I didn't want to sleep with her – I didn't want to hurt her. And yet, here she is, in tears over me. Over something we did that we had no business doing.

  I stand up and go to her, wrapping my arms around her. This time, she's the one to pull away. Her eyes are clear of any signs of tears. Maybe I imagined it. A small sense of relief washes over me. The very idea of making her cry hurts me more than I ever thought possible. But still, there's a stiffness to her body. A sudden air of cold detachment.

  “What's the plan for today?” she asks, her expression now blank.

  “We'll play it by ear. As soon as Francelli's opens, we'll head over there and see what we can find out,” I say.

  She nods, still not looking directly at me. Her head is high and defiant, her jaw tight. She picks up her coat, bags and panties from the floor, doing everything she can to not make eye contact with me, then heads into the bedroom.

  “I'm going to sleep a bit longer,” she says before shutting the door behind her.

  Yeah, that's probably a good idea for both us. Though, I have no idea if I'll actually be able to sleep.

  * * *

  Francelli's serves lunch every day. We arrive, I guess, just as they are opening up. At the time we walk up, there's not a soul sitting outside the quaint, Italian re
staurant. The patio is completely empty, and I start to wonder if I read the hours of operation correctly. The sign on the door clearly states the hours – and I find myself checking my watch several time, just to be sure I'm reading it right, before we walk up to the front doors.

  “Anything feel familiar?” I ask her.

  She hasn't said much of anything since we got up, which isn't like her. The normally bubbly, talkative woman has been mostly silent all morning. She gets even quieter – if that's even possible – as we stand outside the one place she seems to remember.

  Honestly, it's a place I was surprised to find out even existed anywhere but in her own mind – at least, in Chicago. The idea that she's from here still strikes me as strange, and oddly coincidental, but I can't put my finger on why exactly. It's like fate is giving me a chance to save one person, when I couldn't save the other. As if Celeste – or anybody, really – can make up for what I lost when I lost Sam.

  She stares up at the sign, then reaches out and runs her hand along the ivy-covered trellises.

  “It feels familiar, but it's really nothing more than a feeling,” she says. “Maybe if we go inside, it will trigger something.”

  I open the large wooden door, and motion for her to step inside first. Celeste walks past me, her posture stiff and uneasy. I'm not sure if it's because of what happened between us, or because of the restaurant, but she's not comfortable, and I can tell. That discomfort borders on hostility, and it radiates from her every pore.

  “Good afternoon, welcome to Francelli's,” a cheerful voice calls out.

  We hear the voice before we ever see the person it belongs to. The place is dark, almost too dark for it being the middle of the day. Cherry wood tables and a bar are backlit with very soft lighting, making it feel more intimate. It's almost as if the entire place is lit by candles, instead of modern electricity. The walls are red brick, and except for the front entrance, there are no windows. At least, in the front of the house.