“Jesus Christ,” he panted. “I thought you passed out or something! I thought you were drowning.”
She paled. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“You’re too far out! You shouldn’t be so far out when no-one’s on the beach!”
“I’m a really good swimmer,” she said, her tone soothing. “Like, really, really good. I can swim anywhere.”
“I know that!” He was overreacting. He knew he was overreacting. She was pregnant, for God’s sake; she wouldn’t take on more than she could handle. She’d be careful.
But he wanted her to be more careful. With everything. Always. You know, just in case.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I… I just, I saw you and I thought you—”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m fine. See?” She smiled, and he felt her cheeks plump up beneath his hands—which reminded him that, oh, shit, he was still holding her face. He let go, but she put an arm around his shoulder and they floated there for a moment, alone in the ocean’s vast jaws. His heart, gradually, slowed.
“Let’s go back to the beach,” she said, and even though he’d come crashing to her rescuing, it felt like she was the one looking after him. He nodded, and her answering smile was gentle, soothing.
For once, he felt like being soothed.
She hadn’t lied about being a good swimmer. Hell, Samir was a good swimmer, but she cut through the waves ahead of him with effortless speed and strength, as if she belonged to the sea. When the shore grew close enough for her to stand, watching her emerge, dripping-wet, in her clinging, black dress was like watching a mermaid transform. Almost unnatural, but beautiful, too.
She sat on the sand and watched him come to join her with a smile, wringing out her hair. It was long enough that the action drew his eye towards her hips, and then, through the soaking-wet fabric of her clothes, to the prominent curve of her stomach.
The reminder of her pregnancy should’ve cooled the white-hot flame she ignited in him. It didn’t.
It did, however, piss him off.
He sat beside her and started scolding all over again, as if he’d never stopped. “You shouldn’t have gone out there alone. I don’t care how good a swimmer you are. You could—you could faint! Pregnant people faint all the time. And then you’d drown.”
He saw her lips twitch slightly, but she murmured, “You’re right.”
“Or you could get a cramp and… sink… or something.”
“I could.” She nodded solemnly.
He scowled. “For fuck’s sake. If you want to go floating off into the ocean, call me first, okay? Call me, and I’ll come and watch you.”
Her brows rose slightly. With her hair sleek and mirror-shiny, her cheeks whipped pink by the wind, and her lashes dripping salt-water crystals, she looked like a mermaid all over again.
Like a siren.
“You’d come just to watch me swim?” She asked.
“I’d come to keep you safe.”
Her smile faded. “I don’t need a keeper.”
He couldn’t hold back his snort at the idea. “Of course you don’t. But sometimes you might…” He trailed off, shrugging. “Sometimes you might want a partner.”
Her eyes widened slightly, as if she’d seen something she’d never seen before. Samir watched her lips part, then press together, then part again. Her fingers sank into the sand between them. She looked out to the sea, down at her lap—or rather, at her bump—and then back to him.
She started to speak.
And then, of course, the heavens opened.
Chapter Eleven
Running over sand in a thunderstorm would be easier if her stomach didn’t resemble an especially heavy beach ball. Laura was kind of struggling—until Samir put an arm around her, and caught her hand with his free one, and practically pushed her along. And just like that, they ran. She was barefoot and already drenched, and the wind dragged her hair across her face in a wet slap every chance it got. But despite all that, she laughed.
Maybe it was the memory of running across this very beach with Samir years ago, screaming with the pure joy of it—the pure joy of feeling. Maybe it was sheer disbelief at the fact that she was here, now, doing it all over again.
It must have taken them a while to reach the house’s back porch, but it felt like no time at all. She almost slipped as her feet met the cold tiles, but he caught her. His arm came around her from behind like a steel bar, somehow fitting into the non-existent space between her swollen belly and her equally swollen breasts, and then his other arm slid around her hips, and his hot breath ghosted over her cold neck…
“Alright?” He asked softly.
“Yes,” she said, sounding far too precise, way too sharp, to be believable. She should’ve been flustered or winded or panicked, because that would’ve made sense.
But she sounded perfect. And he would know exactly what that meant, by now. Somehow, over these past months, he’d learned her all over again.
So Laura didn’t look back as he released her slowly, his hands hovering inches from her hips. Instead, she kept her eyes on the door, fumbling with the unlocked latch like a ninny before pushing it open and stepping inside.
“I have some old clothes that should fit you,” she said, flicking on the hall light. “We’re about the same—” She turned in time to see Samir dragging his T-shirt up over his head. Her words died in her throat.
Oh. Oh, Lord. The cotton was so sodden, he had to peel it off in slow-motion—or at least, it felt like slow-motion. There was a moment when his arms were raised over his head, and the dark fabric covered his face, and she could just… stare without shame. So she did, of course. Ohhh, yes, she did.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t.
His body wasn’t the sort of thing you saw on TV. It wasn’t the sort of thing heartthrobs posted on Instagram, either, and it certainly didn’t resemble her husband’s carefully maintained six pack. Samir looked like a guy who just happened to be built on a large scale. He was solid—that was the word that dominated her mind. Thick-waisted, barrel-chested, biceps bulging. His torso was covered in dark hair that trailed like an arrow down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Oh, the jeans were wet too. And his thighs were just as solid as the rest of him. And between those thighs—
Good Lord. Her mouth went dry. All the moisture that belonged to her lips appeared to have relocated. South.
“Laura?”
Fuck. He sounded surprised enough that she had no doubt: he’d caught her staring. Staring was probably too tame a word, actually. She could feel the heavy rise and fall of her own chest as her breath quickened, and she knew she was blushing. She had to be. Her skin felt hot and cold all at once.
Had she always had a heartbeat between her legs?
She should probably tear her eyes away from the outline of his dick. Yeah. That was a great idea.
She looked up, but not at him. God, she couldn’t look at him. Laura focused her gaze on the door behind his head and babbled, “I have clothes you can wear bathroom’s upstairs on the right spare towels in—”
“Laura.” He stepped towards her, and then hesitated because—oh, God, had she just squeaked? Like a mouse? A perverted, guilty mouse?
“I’m pregnant!” She blurted.
“So I hear.” He had the audacity to sound amused. She had a feeling that, if she looked at his face, he’d be smiling. He was probably laughing at her. Of course he was laughing at her.
“I just meant—pregnant people do… odd things…”
“It’s kind of funny how you use pregnancy as an excuse for everything you do.”
“What?”
“Also, when you say odd things, do you mean staring at my crotch? Because—”
She had died. She had died of embarrassment and this conversation was hell.
“Because I wasn’t entirely sure that you were staring at my crotch, but now I am. Next time, I’d advise silence or
denial.”
Her gaze flew to his without permission from her brain. He was, as she’d expected, smiling. But it wasn’t the smile she was used to.
No—it was. It was exactly the smile she was used to from Samir. Genuine, and real, and wonderful. But she’d been expecting someone else’s, harsh and mocking and cruel.
“God, you’re such a fucking idiot, Laura. I really don’t know why I’m with you.”
She swallowed hard, sucking in a breath. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“You know you sound different when you apologise?”
She bit her lip. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.” Before she could even begin to understand that, he spoke again. “You’re shivering. I don’t like that either. Let’s go upstairs.”
The words traced mockingly over her skin, like a touch she couldn’t quite feel. If she hadn’t had goosebumps already, they’d have appeared everywhere. Which was ridiculous, because by Let’s go upstairs, he meant Let’s get dry. Not, I’m going to ravish you now. This wasn’t a bloody romance novel. They had both agreed that there would be absolutely no more ravishing.
But he didn’t really agree at all, did he?
“Come on. You need a hot shower at least.” He twisted his T-shirt into a loose, thick sort of rope, then slung it around his shoulders. His bare shoulders. His bare, broad shoulders.
Concentrate!
“You go,” she said stiffly, sweeping scraps of dignity about her like a patchwork cloak. She couldn’t be around him right now, that much was clear. “I need to dry the floor so the wood doesn’t lift.”
“Fuck that. If you get pneumonia, the baby gets pneumonia.”
Laura opened her mouth to argue, but then remembered that he was actually right. She did not want her baby to get pneumonia. Even if she wasn’t entirely sure that pneumonia worked that way.
But then, what did she know about pneumonia? Nothing. Literally nothing. Could she even spell pneumonia? Had she ever tried? No. And now her baby was going to get pneumonia because she’d wasted time staring at Samir Bianchi’s dick. Daniel had been right about one thing; she’d make a terrible mother.
“Hey,” Samir said, and she jerked back to reality as he reached for her. He brushed his knuckles over her cheek, slow and soft. It should be comforting. It shouldn’t feel like he was sending surges of electricity through her nerve-endings, and it shouldn’t cause her nipples to tingle in a way that had nothing to do with pregnancy. But it really, really did. “You okay?” He asked gently.
“I’m fine,” she lied. It sounded like a lie, too. She’d never been so obvious before. But when he touched her like this, and when he looked at her with so much tenderness… well, how could she not sound a little breathless?
“You sure?” He seemed kind of breathless too. Which was… interesting. His tongue slid out to wet his lower lip, and she followed the glide of that pink tip over his soft, full mouth the way she might watch an oasis in a drought.
She’d read about this online. Pregnancy hormones. Hyper-sexuality, or whatever. She was just generally horny. It had nothing to do with him specifically. That was what she told herself, even as her eyes devoured every inch of his exposed skin.
Then the hand stroking her cheek moved, and suddenly he was cupping the back of her neck with one big, warm palm. He groaned, and his eyes slid shut as he said, “Oh, Laura. Don’t look at me like that.”
She stiffened and stepped back, ignoring the fact that it was almost painful to break that perfect contact. He felt natural. He felt comforting. He felt divine. But she felt… fuck.
Don’t look at me like that. Jesus, how embarrassing. She opened her mouth to let him know that she wasn’t looking at him at all, thank you very much, because why would she, as if he was something special—
Only she couldn’t. And not just because that was old Laura, Daniel’s Laura, and she was all new and entirely herself. Not even because anything she said right now, other than Holy shit, I want you on my kitchen table again, would be a lie. No. She couldn’t do it because, even in that instinctive, mortified moment when all she wanted to do was lash out, she couldn’t bring herself to slice him open and watch him bleed.
Instead, she found herself whispering, “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a ghost of itself, cracked and shrunken.
He came towards her again, closing the gap she’d just created, and pulled her back into his arms—much more firmly, this time. She felt his fingers slide into her hair, angling her head until she was forced to look up at him.
What she saw was… surprising. Dark eyes burning and melting all at once, brow pleated into a frown, cheeks flushed.
“Don’t,” he murmured. “You don’t need to apologise with me.”
Laura had a feeling that if she spoke right now, something ridiculous would come out. So she kept her mouth shut.
Which turned out to be a good decision, because he added, “You know, it’s hard enough not to want you when you’re sitting in the cafe, minding your fucking business, barely remembering that I exist. But when you look at me like that, Laura…”
“Like what?” She whispered.
“Like you’re hungry.” He closed his eyes, looking almost pained for a moment. Then he muttered, “Fuck it,” and dragged her even closer, until she could count each of his long, dark lashes and see her own reflection in his eyes.
She should’ve felt conscious of her belly jutting between them, but all she could feel was her own pounding heart, and the unapologetic heat of his hands. His chest felt like a melting slab of ice, rain-wetness soaking through the fabric of her equally drenched dress. Laura’s enormous bra was thick as cardboard, and yet her nipples tightened as if she’d brushed them directly over the rough whorls of his chest hair.
Which she kind of desperately wished she could do. Could she take her bra off without him noticing? …Probably not. Definitely not.
“I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. His eyes closed with a sweep of those impossible lashes, and then he was too close for her to really see—she only felt him, his nose brushing hers, his words dancing over her lips, an inch away. “I’m going to kiss you. Tell me not to.”
She didn’t.
His mouth took hers with the same easy confidence she always felt in his touch. But if she’d expected him to lick and bite and suck and own her, she was mistaken. Instead, he pressed his lips against hers as if he wanted to sink into her bones, to imprint himself on her in every possible way. No heat, no tongue, just the soft, cool comfort of his rain-wet mouth, lush and full and heart-stoppingly him.
He pulled back enough to repeat, “Tell me.” Then there was another kiss, and her blood became too warm for her icy skin. She shivered, but it wasn’t the temperature. He cradled her skull as if she were a precious, fragile thing he’d waited centuries to hold. He kissed her as if he loved her.
Fuck. He kissed her as if he loved her.
She remembered, all at once, how he’d kissed her years ago, and she wanted to cry because she’d missed him. She hadn’t even realised until this very second how much she’d missed him.
Oh, she was in trouble. She was in so much trouble, and she wouldn’t change a thing.
“I’m letting you go now,” he murmured.
Don’t you dare.
“I am,” he repeated, though she hadn’t spoken aloud. “I’m letting you go.” What he actually did was pull her into a hug, all warm and firm, but loose enough that she could push him away. Which would be the sensible option, of course. But she wasn’t sensible—was, in fact, utterly without sense, since he’d kissed it all away—so she let her head fall against his shoulder instead. Why? She had no idea. Maybe because the tears pricking her eyelids were fading, and breathing him in—the scent of cool salt, and skin, and Samir— helped speed up the process.
He rubbed one broad palm over her back in soothing circles and said, “Go upstairs, ange
l. Please?”
“I can’t.”
He took a deep breath before speaking again. “Why not?”
“Well, you’re… holding on to me.”
Just like that, the tension in his hard body dissolved. He released her, his face splitting into that familiar grin. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He was still smiling, but something about him seemed serious again. “Go on. Go and get warmed up.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Um… towels are in the airing cupboard on the landing. Just help yourself. I’ll lay out some clothes in my room for you.”
He grunted in response, which was slightly alarming, because Samir wasn’t a grunting kind of guy.
She watched as he turned and wandered away from her, running a hand through his hair. His back, unfortunately, wasn’t any less appealing than his chest. She’d never thought of backs as particularly interesting but… the play of muscle beneath skin, the expanse of pure, uninterrupted nakedness, was making her decidedly warm.
And now she was lusting over his poor, innocent back while he stood around muttering to himself. She’d apparently broken Samir and she barely even felt bad about it. Oh dear.
It was definitely time to go upstairs.
Chapter Twelve
Laura wouldn’t have picked up the phone, only she thought it was Ruth.
Which was, in hindsight, ridiculous. Ruth never called. Ruth hated phone conversations. She was a text-only kind of girl.
But Ruth also had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly when Laura was having an emotional wobble, and sending a perfect… what did she call them? Memes? A perfect meme, or whatever, to make Laura smile.
So when Laura got out of the shower, and put on her pyjamas in the en-suite, and tried not to think about Samir showering somewhere in her house, or Samir kissing her, or what all of these feelings meant, the trill of her phone should’ve been Ruth. It should’ve been Ruth coming to rescue her from emotional free-fall.
It wasn’t.
“Why aren’t you answering my texts?”
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