“Huzzah! Too right, princess!” he jumped away from me and grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter, kissing the label before lifting it over his head. “Thank you, Monsieur Petrus. Best four thousand dollars I ever spent!”
“I still can’t believe you opened that,” I said, laughing at his antics and shaking my head as I sipped more wine. “Way too much money to spend on me.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, setting the bottle on the counter. “That’s ridiculous. Nothing’s too good for you.”
“See,” I said, “That’s the Prince Charming stuff. You keep saying things like that, I’m likely to have sex with you again.”
“Falling right into my trap,” he said, smirking at me, “Come, princess, let us sit by the fire.” He extended his hand and I took it, letting him lead me across the room to the great stone fireplace. We placed our wine glasses on the hearth, and settled down beside each other on the rug in front of the fire, pulling overstuffed cushions from the sofa for comfort.
I arranged two pillows behind me and leaned back, stretching my arms and legs and snuggling into the plush carpet with a contented sigh.
“You called me Tom,” he said, a soft smile playing over his lips.
“I did?”
“Yes, just a moment ago.”
“Oh, I guess I did. Do you like it?”
“I do. Every boyfriend deserves a nickname.”
“Oh jeez,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Well, do I get one too?”
“Of course,” he said, lifting his wine glass.
“Don’t say ‘Janie’. I hate that.”
“I’ve already picked it out, and it’s not Janie.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Oh no—”
“I shall call you pinky,” he said with a smirk. “It suits you perfectly.”
“Oh my god,” I said, forcing a chuckle, hoping to disguise my anxiety. “This afternoon. Jeez, what a complete mess.”
“Nonsense.” He set down his wine glass, his expression growing serious. “Just ‘getting-to-know-you pains’. I thought we handled it well.”
“You handled it well,” I said. My stomach knotted, and I rubbed my hands over my belly to settle it, pretending that I was merely re-arranging the robe over my legs. I smoothed the pile back and forth with my palm and took a deep breath. This is it, I thought. Time to ruin our weekend. “Thank you,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He threaded his fingers through mine and smiled softly. “It’s alright, you know.”
“What is?” I asked, my eyes following the slow journey of his thumb over the back of my hand.
“Everything. I’m not expecting anything from you. I want you to know that. You needn’t tell me anything. Unless you want to. Do, or don’t. It won’t change how I feel about you.”
My heart fisted in my chest, a flash of emotion flooding my eyes and throat. Once again he’d read my mind, sensed the truth, and he’d given me a reprieve. And somehow, that permission strengthened me. It was time. I closed my eyes and gripped his hand tightly.
“High school was hard for me,” I said. “It was after our parents’ divorce and money was scarce for a while. Charlotte and I went from private dance lessons and designer clothes to shopping at thrift stores and getting free breakfasts at school. Mom was amazing, though. She got us back on track as fast as she could, and god knows plenty of people were far worse off than we were…”
“Still,” he said.
“Yeah, still. It’s a tough thing to go through at that time in your life. Kids are cruel and pretty much all of my old friends not only abandoned me, they basically decided it was their new mission in life to make mine a living hell.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I survived,” I said, shrugging. “It’s over now, and having less of social life meant I had more free time for books.” I laughed softly.
“Smart girl,” he said.
“In my junior year everything changed. Mom’s practice took off and people started talking to us again, the kids at school lightened up and…” I took a deep breath. “I met Brian Forrestor.” I glanced up at Tom, and then kept going, determined to get to the point before I lost my nerve. “Brian’s family is really wealthy and very snobby—one of those New England families that traces their roots back to the Pilgrims and think they’re better than everybody for it.”
“I know the type.” He nodded.
“Yeah, but they were good to me. At least at first. Of course I wasn’t good enough for their son. But no one was, really, and I guess they didn’t worry about it because we were in high school and nobody thought we were going to get married or anything.” I swallowed hard. “Except Brian and me. We thought we were in love. So…” I took another deep breath and steeled myself. I felt like I was sitting at the apex of a roller coaster, staring down the incline, knowing that the safety harness wouldn’t hold. “So, when I got pregnant…” my lip trembled and I clenched his hand tightly. “When I got pregnant, Brian asked me to marry him.”
Tom scooted closer to me, and drew my hand into his lap, cradling it in both of his. He didn’t say a word.
“Naturally all hell broke loose. Our parents were pretty mad at us. We’d been safe, actually,” I said, glancing up at him. “Or rather we’d tried to be. But there’s that small percentage, you know, and I guess we just got lucky.” I laughed cynically. “So, stupid doe-eyed teenagers that we were, we decided to have the baby, get married and live happily ever after.”
He still didn’t speak, just squeezed my hand, gentle pressure, reassuring me. But this was the hardest part, and there was no comfort for it. There was no nugget of wisdom or silver lining to be found in the most horrible year of my life. There had been no marriage, no happily ever after. Instead, everything had blown right the hell apart. There was so much, so many layers to the tragedy that had shaped me, that had sent shockwaves through my family and my life, the aftereffects of which I still felt to this day. I didn’t know where to begin, and if I did, I didn’t know if I could stop. I tried to picture the timeline in my head, to organize the jumble of events so that I might better explain to him what had happened. It was no use, though. Emotion, combined with the wine, was making it hard for me to think, so I cut through it all, and gave him the truth that was the most simple and the most painful:
“My baby died.”
He pulled my arm over his shoulder, dragging my body into his lap, holding me, rocking me like you would a child. He smoothed my hair away from my face and gently held my head to his chest while I cried.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling. “I’m ruining your shirt.”
“I can get another shirt,” he said, kissing my hair. “I can’t get another you.”
I crushed him to me, pressing frantic kisses up the column of his neck. He met me halfway, cupping my chin as his lips ghosted over mine, soft and sweet, brushing over my cheeks and my eyelids.
“Thank you for telling me,” he whispered against my ear. “I feel honored that you trusted me with that.”
I nodded and twisted my head, trying to capture his lips again. I wanted to kiss him, to let the heat between us distract me from my memories, to numb the pain and chase it all away. But he stopped me, stilling my head in his hands. His gaze found mine, eyes brimming with compassion.
“I have to tell you something now,” he said. “Something that I hope doesn’t break that trust.”
My stomach plummeted and I swallowed hard. “What?” I whispered, the sound barely audible to my ears.
“I already knew.”
* * *
“What do you mean?” I sat bolt upright in his lap, my fingers digging into his biceps. All trace of the wine buzz was gone now. He had my full attention. “Tom, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Let me explain.”
“Explain fast,” I said, wiggling out of his lap to kneel on the floor beside him, “because you’re freaking me out.”
�
��Your medical records,” he said simply.
I shook my head. “What about them?”
“We exchanged medical records. My stupid idea,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for that. It was ridiculous, and mind-bogglingly insensitive of me. Of course I didn’t know that at the time,” he said. Reaching for his wine, he drained the glass. “That’s no excuse, though, really. And I kept it from you. I’ve known for ages, since you sent the records. I didn’t know how to tell you. I hope you can forgive me.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I said, panic bubbling in my chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your pregnancy, and the um, the result,” he said quietly. “It was noted on the copy of the records you sent me. It was the first thing I saw the night you emailed them to me.”
“Oh my god,” I said, folding my arms over my stomach. I hung my head and stared at the rug. “Oh my god.”
“I’m so sorry, Jane. I felt like such an ass when I saw it. Clearly you didn’t realize that information was on there.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, remembering that night, how happy I’d felt. My heart had been light and flush with the excitement of a new relationship.
“I wasn’t sure how to handle it,” he said. “It’s been weighing on me, that I knew something you were unaware of. I didn’t know if I should say something, or stay quiet and let you tell me in your own time. I hope I did the right thing.”
I could feel his eyes on me, could hear the pleading undertone in his voice. Realization dawned and I felt my fear and anxiety dissipate with the thought. “That’s why you called me,” I said, looking up at him. You called me that night—you broke one of your rules to call me. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes bright in the firelight, his expression full of concern. “I was worried that I’d pressured you into something that you didn’t want.”
“You didn’t,” I said, shaking my head. “Really. I haven’t done anything I haven’t wanted to.” I smiled softly. He’d been caring for me from the very start, thinking of my wellbeing, and that touched me. That he’d known already, well, it felt like a relief.
“I’m so glad to hear it. And again, I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, shrugging. “It was my mistake. And you know what?” I sat back on my heels and folded my hands in my lap. “I think I actually feel okay about it. It’s weird, but it's okay. You know, when I started to tell you about it, I felt like I was going to vomit on your shoes. But now I feel, strangely…relaxed. I feel alright. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “And I’m glad to hear that your urge to vomit has passed, because dinner is ready, and I’m not wearing shoes.”
* * *
We had our picnic after all. Dining on the carpet in front of the fire, we sat cross-legged, knee to knee, another bottle of wine, this one slightly less than four thousand dollars, decanting on the hearth.
“I wish I had known you in high school,” he said, taking a bite of steak pie, sucking air in through his teeth and waving at his mouth.
“I know.” I laughed. “It’s really hot. Delicious, but hot.”
“Vewwy hawt.”
“Why do you wish you’d known me then?”
He chewed and swallowed, took a sip of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I would have been your friend,” he said simply, glancing up at me. “I would have liked to have been there for you, during that time.”
“Ha.” I laughed. “If I’d known you in high school, none of that would have ever happened. I’d have jumped your bones and run off to England with you to play Lady of the Manor.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He forked up a bite of pie. “I was not terribly impressive back then.”
“I refuse to believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “Dimples, curly hair, that accent and the glasses. Irresistible.”
“Well no one ever told that to Jennifer Chaudhry.”
“Oh no. Unrequited love? Sounds serious.”
“Nearly life-threatening.” He nodded. “I was besotted. Completely. And she didn’t even know I existed.”
“Poor boy.”
“I used to have fantasies, about proving my worthiness to her through some gesture of masculine heroics. Saving her from a bully, or a runaway train or something.”
“Aw, see? You’ve always had those Prince Charming tendencies.”
He laughed. “It comes from having sisters, I think.”
“It comes from having a good heart,” I said, smiling at him. “Thanks for being there for me today.”
He stroked my knee and smiled back. “As I recall, you were there for me first.”
“Okay then we’ll call it even.”
He beamed. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this time. Your company.”
“Me too.” I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “And all the mind-blowing sex—can’t forget that.”
“I couldn’t if I tried. You’ve marked me,” he said. “Indelibly.”
“This whole weekend has been like a beautiful dream,” I said. “Like we’ve been living in this parallel universe, away from everything and everyone. I hate that it has to end.”
“I should’ve never answered my phone.” He ran a palm over his face and groaned. “God, what was I thinking? We’d have another whole day if I’d just said no to that imbecile.”
“No, I’m looking forward to the party,” I said. “I want to get dressed up for you. And I can’t wait to see you in a tux. I just wish we didn’t have to go back to the real world after.”
“The dream has to end sometime, I suppose,” he said, taking my empty plate from me and stacking it with his on the hearth.
“Maybe not,” I said, reaching up to stroke his cheek as he turned back and hovered over me.
“How’s that?” he asked. His hands released the belt to my robe, and slipped inside to caress my bare skin.
“Well,” I said hesitantly, “I had planned to go to my mom’s house on Monday, just to get out of town, take some time off. She’s on a cruise right now, with her boyfriend. She won’t be back till Christmas Eve. But even then, I mean, you could stay and celebrate with us. I just thought you might…” I got my answer before I’d finished speaking. A sly smile was slowly spreading across Thomas’s face as his hands crept along my hips. He threw a knee over my legs and straddled me, caging me with his body.
“Are you asking me to go home with you for Christmas Holiday?”
“Only if you say yes.” I laughed. “If you say no, then this conversation was just a misunderstanding and you presume far too much, sir.”
“I’m going to say yes,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “I’d be delighted to go home with you. But I think I’m also going to presume far too much, because that sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.” He caught my lower lip between his teeth and nipped it.
“Ow!” I squealed, smacking his chest. “Brute! You think that if you buy a girl a four thousand dollar bottle of wine you can just have your wicked way with her?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, his lips burning a hot trail over my throat to the hollow of my neck. He pushed the robe from my shoulders, his hands gliding down to my waist, urging me back against the rug. “The wine has nothing to do with it.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stood, removing his trousers. He towered over me, our gazes traveling hungrily over the other’s naked body. “I can have my wicked way with you because that’s exactly what you want.”
“God help me, that’s true,” I said, raising my hand to beckon him.
He lowered over me. Kicking my legs wide, he knelt between my thighs, his palms stroking, kneading their way up. Both hands glided over my skin, meeting at my core. His fingers splayed, framing my sex between his hands. “I can have my wicked way with you…” he said again, his fingers brushing over my curls, so tantali
zing close, his gaze locked hotly on my sex, “pinky…” He glanced up, smirking at me. I felt the color in my cheeks deepen at the use of the nickname. “…Because that’s exactly what you need.”
My breath hitched and I bit my lip, my imagination reeling at the thought of what he might have planned.
He curled a hand under my waist, and flipped me over, yanking my hips up high so that I was on all fours, kneeling in front of him. I felt his breath on my neck as he loomed over me, his lips tickling my ear as he spoke.
“I can have you, every wicked, nasty, way I like, because that’s exactly what you crave.”
His hand cupped my sex, the heel blunt hard pressure against my core as his fingers feathered through my cleft. “Isn’t it?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I whispered, nodding my head as my arms shook under the weight of my arousal.
“But not tonight,” he said casually, his voice gentle and low. His hands urged me over, guiding me down to the rug, until I was laid out for him again, on display. “That’s not what you need tonight,” he said, brushing the hair from my forehead. He lay down next to me, our bodies parallel, and pulled me into him, weaving our limbs together.
“I swear you know what I’m thinking before I even know myself,” I said, stroking his cheek, my eyes searching his. “How do you do that?”
“Because I see you, inamorata,” he said. Capturing my hand, he laced our fingers, and pressed his mouth to mine, speaking against my lips. “We’ll do ‘wicked’ tomorrow. Tonight is for dreams.” He kissed me, our tongues tangling as his length notched against my core, hard and insistent. He slammed into me and I cried out, my teeth grazing over his lips, biting gently, trying to seize a piece of him, to claim him, as he laid claim to me. He laughed, soft and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest, into mine. Teasing his lip from my teeth with his tongue, he kissed me hard, and rolled, trapping me beneath him, pinning my hands with his, he plundered, fucking me into the floor, and I felt my body melt around him, surrendering.
6
The breeze that wafted over the beach smelled of sugar and cream. I stretched, fingers and toes leaving long trails in the sand, the last linger of stiffness in my muscles giving way. I dipped a toe in the water, it was warm and inviting, the scent of cinnamon and coffee floating up from its foamy surface as gentle waves broke over my ankles.
Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) Page 8
