But apparently, it was the sort of thing Samir Bianchi did. And it was the sort of thing she did when she was with him.
Oh, this was divine. Delicious. When she broke the kiss, blinking down at him in surprise, he gave her one of those wicked smiles and murmured, “Whatever you do, don’t start thinking.”
Which Laura thought was excellent advice.
He planted one of those big, bold hands on her arse, ran the other through her hair, and pulled her down to kiss him again. Just like that, the only thing in the world was his mouth licking and gasping against hers, and his greedy hands, and the lustful rhythm he drove through her veins. The only thing that mattered was having him.
That, and being had.
She felt the rigid outline of his erection beneath her, so she rolled her hips and shifted and fidgeted while he groaned—“Fuck, Laura, what are you—?”—until she found the perfect position. There. That thick, stiff pressure was flush against her aching pussy, her skirt gathered around her knees, his jeans rough against her underwear. Perfect. Perfect.
She rocked her swollen clit against his hardness and Samir hissed, hips jerking. “That’s it, angel,” he rasped, his eyes impossibly dark, inescapably hungry. “You look so beautiful, Laura. So beautiful right now, rubbing yourself all over my cock, blushing for me…” He ran one of those calloused palms over her throat, her chest, touching her as if he couldn’t stop. Then the hand moved lower, sliding beneath the neckline of her dress, cupping her aching breast. She released a jagged cry, and he smiled, too slow and fucking sexy to bear. “Sensitive, love?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Too much?”
“No, no, no, keep, fuck—”
“You are so turned on,” he murmured, almost talking to himself. He bit his lip as he kneaded her aching breast, just on the edge of roughness. “I want to keep you like this. Forever. Always.”
“Ohhh, God,” she moaned, her hips working faster, her breaths coming out in frantic whimpers, something impossibly hot and right and good swelling inside her.
“Why’d you have to be so fucking beautiful?” He sounded so genuinely put out, his voice hoarse and hopeless, that she almost laughed. But then his other hand—fuck, those hands were never still—snaked beneath the fabric of her skirt, and oh, she wasn’t laughing anymore.
He pushed her hips away from the delicious pressure of his dick, and she released a low, desperate whine. Then he kissed her hard and fast, a gunshot claiming of the lips, an electric thrust of his tongue against hers. “Shh,” he soothed, and she felt his palm, firm and hot over her pussy, searing through the fabric of her underwear. He pushed the heel of his hand tight against her aching clit, and she whimpered. “That’s better,” he murmured in her ear. “Yeah? That’s better, isn’t it, love?” But he already knew. His middle finger eased over her mound, spreading those pouting lips through the cotton, the sensation muffled and just short of perfect.
“Oh, please, more,” she gasped, rocking against him. “Touch me. I need—I need—”
Then he hooked a finger beneath the fabric of her knickers and pulled them aside. She felt cool air hit the wet heat of her pussy, and apparently, that was what she needed.
“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck.”
He slid one thick, blunt finger over her slippery flesh, circling her entrance, sending sparks through her body as if his touch contained lightning. “So fucking wet,” he muttered, his cheeks dark and flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded, his voice thick and low and decadent. “Like this, angel?”
“Inside me.”
“I fucking wish,” he gritted out, even as he eased two fingers into her. She whimpered at the slick stretch, that delicious glide as he filled her, the sound of her own wetness making her blush.
But it was hard to feel too embarrassed with the pressure of his hand firm against her clit, and the thick intrusion of his fingers spreading her open just right, and his heated gaze pinned to hers.
“You know how I’d fuck you?” he murmured. “I’d fuck you from behind. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He curved his fingers inside her, stroking her, until she moaned and sank her teeth into her lower lip. “I’d have you on your knees. On all fours. I’d spread you open with my fingers and watch my dick push deep into this hot, sweet cunt.” Oh, fuck.
He rubbed against a place inside her that made stars swirl before her eyes, and then he did it again and again, until pleasure swelled through her like a sunrise. The sensation pushed her beyond that pale thing called desire to something utterly mindless, painfully hedonistic, inhumanly raw. Laura licked at the thick, amber column of his throat, just because she needed to taste him, and he groaned, the sound hoarse and broken. So she followed the need, let it rule her, sucking and licking and biting at his neck until a slight bruise bloomed beneath his skin.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his expression almost pained, his fingers never faltering. “Keep doing that. Laura. Laura.” She licked a path up to his jaw, sucking and dragging her teeth along his stubbled skin, and his hand tightened in her hair as if he might restrain her. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. She felt the weight of his touch, his contained strength, and underneath it all, his adoration.
He pushed his hips up against hers, even with his hand trapped between their bodies, as if he couldn’t help it. “You’re gonna make me come,” he rasped out. “Laura. Stop.”
She hesitated. “Stop, stop?”
“No,” he groaned, rising up to catch her mouth with his. “No.” This time, there was no gentleness, no careful, tentative kisses—but she still felt just as revered when he licked into her, wild and reckless, as she had when he’d grazed her lips softly. His tongue thrust against hers as his fingers sped up inside her, and she felt that uncontrollable fluttering as her core tightened and her breaths became gasping sobs and—
Oh. Oh oh oh this…
She felt everything all at once, more than should be humanly possible, and heard him whispering “I have you,” and was grateful he’d said it because she felt like she was lost in an ocean of bliss that might never end. As if she’d eaten fairy fruit and was trapped in the kind of pure pleasure that simply couldn’t be good for her.
But it felt good, so good, the definition of fucking good, to cry out and stiffen and collapse against him. And after a second, when her breathing slowed and her swirling pleasure stilled enough to think, she realised that she wasn’t even lying down, exactly—he was holding her up, taking all of her weight so that the swell of her belly didn’t have to. Fuck. She’d forgotten about that.
She’d forgotten about that.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
Laura returned to earth with a sickening thud, her teeth and bones jarred, her afterglow snuffed out before it had a chance to breathe.
And he knew, of course. Instantly, he knew.
“Laura?” Samir looked up with so much softness in his gaze, so much care. She recognised it. He used to look at her like that before, when neither of them had fully understood what it meant.
What the fuck had she done?
“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice so strangled the words were barely intelligible.
But he heard. She knew he heard, because for a moment his expression was heartbreaking. Then that soul-deep sadness disappeared so fast, she might have imagined it. He frowned, an arrow forming between those sharp brows, his impossibly thick lashes sweeping down as he looked away. His eyelashes always had been ridiculous. His whole fucking face was ridiculous. He was beautiful.
Maybe that was why she’d lost all her good sense. Only, really, she knew it wasn’t. She knew exactly why her control had gone walkabout, and it wasn’t because Samir was too handsome to function.
It was because, even now, in this terrible, tense moment, he had the fucking temerity to help her up. To help her clamber off him—off the bloody kitchen table!—as if she weren’t ashamed enough. He was a wonderful, brilliant, bastard, and all of a sudden she couldn’t stand him.
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry,” she repeated, on her own two feet this time. Laura pulled up the neckline of her T-shirt, and rearranged her skirt, and wondered if she could subtly slide her knickers back into place or if she’d have to leave them wonky under her clothes.
“Sorry for what?” he asked, cutting through her frantically mundane thoughts.
“For—I—I shouldn’t have…” She cleared her throat. Pulled herself together. “That was a mistake. Obviously. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Ah,” he said. Just, Ah.
And then he was silent. Which, of course, made her say a thousand things she shouldn’t. “Samir, I can’t just—I have responsibilities now. Important responsibilities. And I came here to figure out how to do this—how to be a mother—without complications. And sleeping with you, or whatever this is, it can’t go anywhere—”
His cool gaze sharpened. “Why not?”
Why not? “Samir, I’m having a baby. I’m not just me anymore. I’m me, plus. You get that, right?”
His jaw tightened. “Of course. Of course I do.”
But she still felt the need to explain. “I think I forgot, for a moment, that I can’t just… act on whatever I feel. I have to consider my little family, now. And you know you don’t want—”
“I understand,” he said abruptly, as if to cut her off. She didn’t blame him. He stood, and for a second the air around him seemed to spark with tension. But then the moment passed, and his easy charm returned. He smiled at her, same as always. He said, “So… Not to nag, but you did mention something about jelly and a box.”
It was an effort not to let her jaw drop. It was an effort not to laugh and cry at the same time. It was an effort not to get down on her fucking knees and thank him for being so him when she had no idea exactly who she was right now.
Instead, she offered her best approximation of a smile in return, and she put the jelly in the damn box.
By the time she opened the front door to let him out, she almost felt like herself again. She’d managed to manoeuvre her underwear back into place without him noticing—she hoped. She’d even met his eyes as they chattered about nothing—though at one point she’d imagined the phantom pressure of his lips on hers and stuttered a little.
But she was okay, by the time she opened the door. The cool evening air soothed her feverish skin, and he was going now, leaving her safely alone with all this confusion and regret. She was okay.
Until he turned to her on the doorstep and said, “I’m not sorry.”
She tried to wet her lips, but her tongue felt thick and dry and foreign in her mouth. “I—what?”
“You said you were sorry.” Gently, he pushed her hair behind her ear. “I’m not.”
Oh. Oh dear. Laura said something very intelligent and helpful in response, something that sounded like “Ack—ugg—wha—?”
He smiled. “Goodnight, angel.”
She stood there, on the doorstep, her thoughts buzzing like a hive, long after his headlights faded from view.
Chapter Nine
Daniel was going to kill her.
That was Laura’s first thought when his eyes found hers. His green gaze was searing, venomous. His jaw was set, the tick of a leaping muscle spelling out his fury. His full lips pressed into a thin, pale line, and his alabaster skin flushed hot scarlet.
Such a handsome man, her red-headed husband. Everyone said so. They whispered behind Laura’s back about how lucky she was, landing a guy like him, with his money and his looks.
Perhaps they’d have all changed their minds if they could see him like this, just once.
“You did this on purpose,” he gritted out.
She wanted to shout out her indignation. She wanted to remind him that she hadn’t even wanted to have sex, never mind get pregnant—that she hadn’t wanted to touch him for months, that he’d insisted every time. More than insisted.
But she was already humiliated enough, sitting here relying on her father-in-law to protect her. Trevor didn’t need to know the terrible details of their marriage.
He probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him, anyway. He’d only agreed to all this—agreed to be there when she told Daniel, agreed to let her stay with him—because she had his grandchild in her belly.
“Daniel,” Trevor was saying. “Control your temper—”
“What the fuck are you on her side for?” Daniel spat. “You don’t know how she is. She’s a manipulative, money-grabbing, false little bitch. I bet this is all a scam anyway.”
“Daniel!” Trevor sounded shocked, which was rich. Didn’t he know his own son by now? “Laura is your wife.”
Laura was Daniel’s verbal punching bag, actually. She could feel herself shrinking already, wilting, becoming nothing. And beneath the familiar nothingness was dread, heavy and nauseating, dragging her down towards her grave. She’d made a mistake, thinking Trevor’s presence would help. She saw murder in Daniel’s eyes. The hot flash of his temper couldn’t be controlled. He wouldn’t limit himself to lashing that barbed wire tongue. He wouldn’t even be satisfied with bruising her hips and her wrists as he forced himself between her legs. Not this time.
This time, the pinches where no-one could see and the strands of her hair he pulled out would not be enough.
“You’ll have an abortion,” he said, his voice cold steel.
“Now, wait a minute,” Trevor began gruffly.
But Daniel’s monstrous temper didn’t know, or perhaps didn’t care, that his father held the purse strings. “Shut up!” He roared. And then, standing to his full menacing height, he turned back to Laura. And he said again, “You will have an abortion.”
Laura was supposed to thank God, and count her blessings, and bow and scrape and say, Of course I will. He was going to let her do it properly. He was going to take her to a hospital or something, and let a doctor fix her, instead of beating her until she bled. This was a gift.
But she must’ve been possessed that day, because when she opened her mouth to agree, what came out was, “I will not.”
She didn’t know who was more shocked—him or her. He gaped, his rage replaced for a second by utter astonishment. He forgot himself entirely and deigned to argue with her. He spluttered, “Laura—you’ll ruin yourself. You want to be even fatter? You want to be ugly? Don’t you want to keep me happy?”
Beside her, Trevor blanched. And then his face hardened, and he stood too. He might be older than his son, but he was still a formidable man.
“Is this how you treat her?” He demanded. “Is this how you speak to your wife?”
As though she hadn’t tried to tell him.
But then, Laura supposed, she shouldn’t be bitter. She’d tried to tell her sister, too, and even her mother, and they’d laughed in her face. Trevor, bless him, had at least humoured her.
Perversely, she was glad that Daniel was losing control.
Trevor’s outrage—the fact that finally, finally, she had a witness—gave Laura something that felt like strength. It must have been strength, in fact, because it let her stand, too, and rest a hand over her still-flat belly. It let her say, “I don’t give a fuck about you. I don’t give a fuck about your happiness. I’m going to your father’s house, and you’re going to let me. I want a divorce.”
Watching Daniel’s anger return was like watching one of those stop-motion captures of a garden bursting into bloom. In a matter of seconds, the seeds of his rage grew overripe fruit, flesh bursting through the skin, quicker than she could track. His gaze glittered, slithering over her like a snake over water. “If you think I’m letting you out of that door,” he said softly, “you don’t me at all.”
“I do know you,” she murmured. “I wish I’d known you before I married you, but I know you now. I wish I’d believed in Ruth—”
“Don’t say her name!” He exploded.
Because the sorry truth was that Laura hadn’t even been her husband’s first choice of captive. The victim he really wanted
had escaped.
And Laura, under Daniel’s spell, had believed Ruth to be the problem. Oh, if only she’d known.
“You can’t hurt me,” she whispered.
A sick smile stretched her husband’s lips. “I’m Daniel Burne. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Oh, she remembered this. This was the part where Trevor told Daniel how things would be: “You’ll see Laura under my supervision. No-one can know about the separation. We’ll keep up appearances, and she’ll stay with me until you can see sense…”
This was the part where Daniel ranted and raved and rammed his fist through the wall’s fucking plasterboard.
This was the part where she escaped the gilded mausoleum they called home, Trevor silent and disbelieving and guilty by her side.
But for some reason, this time, it didn’t happen that way. Instead, Daniel came towards her, and Trevor didn’t stop him, and she couldn’t move, she couldn’t move—her limbs were trapped by invisible, cooling concrete. She couldn’t even protect her stomach as he drew back his fist. She couldn’t—she couldn’t—
She woke up.
If it hadn’t been for her screaming bladder, Laura might have stayed frozen in bed, cold sweat sliding over her face to mingle with hot tears.
But if she didn’t get up, she’d piss herself. So she got up.
As she sat on the toilet staring at nothing, Laura reminded herself how it had really happened. How Daniel’s fist had met nothing but a wall. How Trevor had protected her, and taken her, and let her stay in his home—even if he hadn’t wanted to hear about his son’s abuse, or see her bruises.
Yet. He hadn’t wanted to hear yet. But he had, eventually. Ruth had helped with that.
It took a long, hot shower and several cups of tea for Laura’s hands to stop shaking. Even then, she felt like a toddler’s Lego tower; like something that might collapse at any moment, something that made no pretence of stability.
Something could be smashed to pieces with no effort whatsoever.
So she should’ve been happy when her sister called, right? Relieved, maybe. Comforted, perhaps.
Damaged Goods: A Small Town Romance (Ravenswood) Page 6
