by Poppy Parkes
“Want a massage?” Oliver asks. “There’s a button for that on your door.”
A massaging car seat?
Uh, yeah. This is not what I expected to find.
I glance at Oliver. Maybe the same goes for him too. Aside from being handsome enough to turn my insides to goo, he doesn’t stick out from the crowd. I hadn’t noticed him in class until he’d made the first move. And if I had noticed him, I would’ve assumed that he was just another typical guy.
But now that I’ve seen the man behind the strong jawline and perfectly rugged exterior, I realize what a kind, insightful gem he is. One in a million.
And us, together? That was a one in a million chance too, given that I was dead set against being with anyone ever.
We’ve already beaten the odds. There’s no telling what the future might bring, and the sky’s the limit.
Starting with tonight.
“So,” I say, pleasantly surprised at the unexpected purr in my voice, “what’s waiting for us at your house?”
Oliver reaches a hand across the central console and envelops my hand in his. “All of my hopes and dreams coming true.” His voice is light, joking, but I can tell from the set of his chin that he’s serious as hell about pleasing me — which is, frankly, a huge fucking turn-on.
“But,” he continues, squeezing my hand, “how does starting with dinner sound?”
“Perfect,” I answer. “It sounds absolutely perfect.”
Oliver
Folks never expect my home to be the way it is. All the people who have ever visited know I’m a killer lawyer, racking up more billable hours than they can count, but every one of them is always surprised at what they find when they come over.
Emmy is no exception.
And yet it’s a completely different experience watching her take in my home compared to the visitors who’ve come before her, usually fellow lawyers or business contacts come for a few fingers of bourbon and some shop talk.
She wanders from the garage through the mudroom that could serve as most people’s kitchen, setting her bag and the violets I gave her on the built-in bench there. She moves on into the foyer, eyes wide.
“You really are one in a million,” she breathes, taking in the crystal chandelier and the grand staircase that curves up to the house’s five bedrooms. She turns to look at me, humor glinting in those soft eyes, a teasing smirk twisting her lips. “A million dollars, at least according to the front desk clerk at the gym.” I love how the light from the chandelier kaleidoscopes in her dark eyes.
“Millions,” I correct with a smirk of my own, “but yes, I suppose you’re right.” I fiddle with the phone I have stuffed in my pocket along with my hands. “I hope you’re not upset that I didn’t tell you.”
She shakes her head, and my throat constricts at the sight of those thick curls dancing, catching the light from the chandelier in its lustrous waves. I long to wrap that silken hair around my hand and inhale its scent, committing the aroma of it to memory before I shower its owner with all that adoring kisses that I have within me, saved just for her.
“I don’t blame you for keeping your wealth a secret,” she says. “I imagine that it tends to complicate things.”
Damn. She has a unique ability to see right through me like no one else I’ve ever known.
“How is that you’re so aware — not just of yourself, but of others?”
She steps close, brushing light fingertips across my shoulders. “It’s my job.”
As quickly as she stepped into me, she spins away, tugging at my hand. “I want to see the rest of your place. Judging from this,” she gestures at the foyer, “it’s got to be spectacular.”
I’d like nothing more than to give her a tour of my home — starting with the master bedroom, where I claim her as my own and make such sweet love to her that it drives away all her self-doubt.
But instead I follow her lead as she pulls me away from the stairs and down the hall that leads to the rest of the main level.
I show her the great room with its views of the private pond next to the pastures, the kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art stainless steel everything, the sitting room that doubles as the office where I meet clients, and the first of the house’s six bathrooms.
Then, as a delicious aroma infiltrates my senses, I remember with a start — dinner.
Laurence would be horrified that I let it slip my mind even for a handful of minutes.
Although I’d like nothing more than to trail my eyes over Emmy’s delicious curves as I follow her from room to room, I clear my throat and gesture the way to the dining room. “Are you hungry? I thought you might be after class.”
She whirls on me, fingers playing in the fabric of my shirt. “I’m famished. Take me to the food.”
I lead her to the table that’s now laden with a variety of covered dishes. Not for the first time I find myself marveling at Laurence’s magic — I look under the lids to find it’s all still perfectly hot.
“Whoa,” Emmy says, taking in the scene before her eyes fly to my face, “did you do this?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I have something to confess.”
She cocks her head to one side. “Oh really?” Intuitive as she is, Emmy knows that I’m not being exactly serious.
“I am a terrible cook. Sorry.” I offer a pretend wince. “So I hire help. This is all Laurence’s doing, my chef.”
Her mouth dangles. “You have a personal chef?”
I shrug. “It sounds more impressive than it is. I’m just lucky that I don’t have to fend for myself because I’d certainly starve. Shall we see what he’s made for us?”
She answers by plunking herself into one of the upholstered chairs. I take the other, marveling at how comfortable this feels, sharing dinner like we’ve known each other far longer than a few days.
Together we remove the warming lids from the food, both of us voicing our appreciation for Laurence’s creations.
There’s a beet salad with goat cheese and prosciutto-wrapped shrimp as the starters. Then comes a main dish of seared salmon with a garnish of tomato jam and a side of buttery roasted asparagus that almost literally melts in our mouths. Apparently Laurence thought we’d be extra ravenous, because there’s a second main course, this one a bacon and butternut squash risotto. For dessert we feast on cheesecake.
Laurence always makes a mean meal. But he must have had an inkling that I wasn’t having just anyone over for dinner, because he’s outdone himself.
“Well,” Emmy says when she’s had the final bite of her cheesecake. She sets down her fork and rocks back in her chair, hands on her belly. “That was incredible. And now I may never move again.”
“I’ll definitely never need to eat again,” I nod, weighing how uncouth it might be to loosen my belt before deciding against it.
“Why would you want to, after that amazingness?” She reaches a hand for me and I take it, our fingers interlacing. “Thank you.”
“Thank Laurence, this is all him.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to make love to Laurence.” She leans over, taking my face in her palms and giving me light kisses that taste of sugar and cream.
“Thank goodness,” I murmur, tangling my hands in her hair and turning her feathery kisses as hard as my dick.
“Will you let me?” Emmy whispers, exploring my face with her fingertips. I shiver under her touch.
“Let you what?” I ask, distracted and confused.
Her lips curve into a smile that drips lascivious promises. “Make love to you.”
I shake my head and she pouts, which possibly only makes her more beautiful. “No,” I say, a teasing lilt entering my voice, “let’s make love to each other.”
Emmy
If you’d asked me three days ago if I thought a life-long relationship was in the cards for me, I wouldn’t have answered.
I would have laughed.
And now here I am, naked in the four-poster bed of a man who should
be a stranger but instead is everything I never thought love could be, his fingers thrusting inside me while his thumb circles my clit.
Our first time was deliciously rough and wanton. This time, we tried to take our time.
Really. We did.
But it didn’t take long for us to peel the clothes off each other after the foreplay that was Laurence’s sumptuous cooking and fall into each other’s arms.
Now we’re tangled in Oliver’s sheets, my hand wrapped around his eager cock, both of us voicing our pleasure in the master bedroom that rivals the size of my entire apartment.
It’s tempting to compare myself to Cinderella, but I’m really Princess Aurora. I didn’t need to be rescued from my life, I needed to be awakened.
Oliver has opened my eyes to how much I’ve been missing — and how much I truly wanted it, despite everything I ever said to the contrary.
And sure, his financial situation is a shock that I’m still wrestling with, and probably will for some time. But I know one thing for damn sure — that the real prize hidden within these walls is Oliver himself.
He shifts his position on the wide mattress, tugging his length from my hand as he moves lower, fingers still sending pleasure rippling through me in ever stronger waves.
Resettling, he rests his head on my lower belly, just above my thatch. His eyes rove between my face and the sight of his fingers pumping in and out of me, my nether lips grasping at his digits as if begging them to stay.
“Beautiful, love,” he murmurs as his fingertips nudge a particularly sensitive place within me, sending my head thrashing from side to side as I moan. I feel my orgasm building, and my hips dance as Oliver increases his pace.
“That feels so good,” I croon, barely able to utter the words with anything resembling coherency.
I feel his eyes on my face and raise my head to meet his face. Those slat orbs turn hard as he speaks. “Come for me, darling woman.”
I open my mouth to say that I can’t, that I’m not ready — only to gasp as my interior walls clamp, obeying his command, and my pelvis rolls like the turbulent ocean. I fist the sheets at my sides and hold on for dear life, sounds pouring from my mouth that I did not realize I was capable of making.
“Good girl,” Oliver croons, tilting his head to take in the sight of my spasming labia. His head feels somehow heavier at this angle and it escalates my orgasm so shockingly, so exquisitely, that my head spins.
I never want this moment to end.
Unless it means that I get to have his cock inside me.
I’m still convulsing with the aftershocks of my climax, but I sit up, reaching for Oliver with shaking hands.
“I need you,” I gasp. “Now. Please.”
His grin is iron as he instantly withdraws his touch from within me only to replace it with a new kind of contact — his shaft aligning with my opening, hard and angry and looking like everything I need.
I arch my hips off the bed, inviting him to come inside me. “Please,” I say again, but this time it’s a dare.
Oliver rises to the challenge and, with a decisive advance that I feel reverberate through my belly and down my legs, he is inside me.
My knees find my ears as he takes a few long strokes to wet himself with my juices, his breath heavy in my ear.
“More,” I growl, lifting my pelvis again.
Fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips, it’s his turn to follow my command. He pounds me with aggressive, adamantine thrusts that set my core aflame. I clutch at his low back, crying out, demanding more closeness, more friction, more of everything he has for me.
He lowers his torso to be nearer to mine. Oliver slides his arms beneath me, fingers gripping at my shoulders, embracing me as he plunges into me again and again.
I feel cherished.
I feel thoroughly fucked.
Tears pricking at my eyes, I am equally grateful for both.
His movements turn shorter, more desperate. His gravelly cries join mine. I sense that he’s close, but I am too.
Slipping a hand between us, I finger myself, tracing hungry designs on my clit while he plunders me. Inside me his cock twitches, just once. He groans through gritted teeth and pummels me all the harder, balls slapping my behind.
“Yes,” I hiss, the utterance more of an exhalation than a word. My eyes roll back in my head as my other hand massages his ass. Between us, I swirl my clit, full of need.
My tunnel caves in on itself with my release. It’s not only my insides that spasm with this orgasm, but the whole of my being. Every synapse and nerve ending is alight, opening and clamping shut in glorious ecstasy that makes my ears ring.
Oliver is right there with me, urged over the cliff of his climax by my own. He buries himself to the hilt in my warm folds, jaw tight, cock dancing within me. I lift my hips and grind into the sensation, feeling it stoke my fires.
He gives me all his weight just like he’s given me all of his heart. How can I do anything but give him mine? I knot my arms around the expanse of him and press him to me.
And then we are mortals again, all sweat and bone and spent fluid, bodies limp with the happiest kind of exhaustion. Neither of us moving except for the rise and fall of our chests, he quietly turns soft and slides out of me.
I don’t know how much time passes, or even if we slip in and out of slumber as the evening turns to darkness. But at some point Oliver raises his head to look at me through the night, eyes shining with the light coming in through the windows.
“I love you, Emilia Romano,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “Be mine?”
I grasp his head in both hands, feeling my own tears rise once again. “Always,” I answer, happy to find myself so wrong about such a terribly beautiful thing as love.
Epilogue
Emmy
When I finally receive the text we’ve all been waiting for for weeks, I can’t stop myself from giving a little squee and jumping up and down on the spot as I read it.
Oliver hears me happy dancing in the great room because he emerges from his study, eyebrows raised. “Is it happening?” he asks, just as invested as me and the rest of my friends in the most eagerly anticipated event in our shared lives.
I feel like I can’t move my lips fast enough to emit the words at the speed they wish to explode from my mouth. “It’s happened!” I give a little shiver of delight. “And they’re ready for us to meet him.”
“Wow, that was fast,” he says, both of us heading to the mudroom. “Did you even know Amelia was in labor?”
I shake my head. “When she texted a few hours ago, she said she thought she might be having mild contractions, but nothing exciting.”
He grabs the car keys, knowing I’ll be too excited to drive. I grab the present I’ve had wrapped and waiting for Amelia, Tatum, and their newborn son for weeks, then we both load into the SUV.
We ride in silence, taking in the cloudless morning sky. I ponder all the ways my life has changed in the last handful of weeks. I’ve moved in with Oliver and am working on letting him into my heart more and more each day. It’s not always easy to let my past beliefs go, but it’s definitely worth it. The fear still rears its head at times, but now I know how to better defeat it.
The most surprising thing about joining my life with Oliver’s is how natural it all feels. I thought it might be jarring, but mostly it’s just so normal — like it’s meant to be.
I love it. I love him. And I know how damn lucky I am to be able to share my life with this man.
We turn into the hospital lot and Oliver steers the car into a parking space. I’ve got my hand on the door handle before he’s even killed the engine, but the weight of his hand on my forearm makes me pause.
“Em,” he says, voice strangely somber given the situation, “before we go in, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
I lean back in my seat, trying not to let my impatience show. I have no idea what could be so important when there’s a brand new human to meet
, but I keep that to myself.
“I love you,” he says, tangling his fingers with mine.
I smile back, confused about what could be coming next. “I love you too.”
“I know things have moved fast with us, but it feels right, you know?” He ducks his head and I realize with a shock that he’s nervous, practically squirming in his seat. The fact that something’s got my badass prosecutor of a lover concerned earns him my full attention.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply, squeezing his hand.
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his gray eyes. “I don’t want to rush you, or push you into anything you’re not ready for.”
“I don’t feel that way in the least.” I lean closer. “What’s this about?”
Oliver continues as if he hasn’t heard me, almost like he’s reciting a speech he rehearsed. “I’m not a young man — well,” he amends, seeing my look of protest, “not as young as I once was. When I know what I want, I don’t like to waste time.”
I nod. I’ve seen his decisiveness in action. For someone who can overthink just about everything, it’s both comforting and exhilarating to witness.
He dips his opposite hand into the pocket of his charcoal slacks. Without letting me see what he’s withdrawn, he folds it into my hand and closes my fingers over it. “So,” he says, a shaky smile playing across his lips, “would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
It’s as if we’re suddenly moving through water. When I peel my fingers back and look down to see what’s in my palm, my movements feel so slow, but in a dreamy sort of way, free of frustration. We are suspended in time — in one of the most important moments of my life.
The sleek platinum curve of a ring gleams up at me. The bright sunlight refracts in the solitaire Tiffany cut diamond.
