15. Impossibly Possible
15
Impossibly Possible
LEIGHTON
“I’d tell you there’s not a fucking chance. We do this my way this time.”
Before I could reply, he surged forward, scooped me into his arms, and pivoted toward his bedroom.
“Ollie!” I squeaked—right before his mouth crashed into mine, urgent and ravenous, licking deep until every painstaking hour of education melted into a slick puddle of brain-goop.
All sense? Gone.
Independence? Haven’t seen her.
I was waist-deep in a rush of heat, thighs squeezing together as he carried us somewhere—who cared where? Oliver Hart was kissing me.
And he kissed like I’d starved him of oxygen, like the world began and ended right here beneath the sure command of his mouth and the possessive grip of his hands. I looped my arms around his neck, tugging him closer, shuddering when he bit my lower lip in invitation. My fingers buried in his hair.
“What are you doing?” I breathed.
“Taking my time.” His words brushed my lips before he dove back in. “I was going to do this the right way, Leighton. I was going to date you. ”
“You’re my best friend in this city, and I’ve already sucked your dick, so that’s wildly unnecessary.”
“Jesus Christ, Trouble.”
“That’s two.”
He clamped his teeth down on my lip and growled, “So bull-headed.”
“Since when do men complain about women wanting sex?”
“Since I wanted to be a gentleman and show you the goddamn world first.”
“That was adorably optimistic.” I scattered kisses across his chest as he kicked the bedroom door shut.
“Stubborn woman—won’t even let me woo her properly.”
“Consider me thoroughly wooed.”
“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?”
“You’ve got no idea.”
“I’m beginning to.” He tossed me onto the bed, and I landed with a bounce, squeaking as he followed and—oh my God—his towel was gone. Every bronzed inch of him draped over me. I couldn’t decide whether to ogle the tattoos or the delicious muscles running down his back.
His Monday confession slammed into me, short-circuiting logic while his lips and teeth found my neck. The man didn’t need a Hollywood spectacle—he already had me. But damn, it felt incredible to be wanted like this, by a man confident enough to take the shot.
To kiss, taste, and touch like his life depended on it. And maybe it did, because every glide of his hands and bruising press of his lips said he needed this as desperately as I did.
But I needed more.
Needed him everywhere.
I hooked my legs around his waist and yanked him flush against me. He rocked his hips, grinding against me like I drove him just as wild. He did it again, sliding a knee between my thighs; his thick cock pressed against my center, separated only by the tiniest scrap of lace I owned.
“ Fuuuck .” He scraped his palms up my ribs, stripping me of my tee the instant I arched for him. It hit the floor as his gaze dropped to my bare breasts; he pinched a hard nipple, and pleasure detonated, arching me off the mattress as he rutted again. “You came over wearing just that? ”
My God, the sting of pleasure and pain was so fucking delicious. When he abandoned my breast I whimpered, but his hand slid down my torso, cupping my pussy through the damp fabric; a groan lodged in his chest as he pressed our foreheads together.
“Dammit, Leigh.”
“Never met a man who complains ab—” The words died in a gasp when he shoved the thong aside and sank a finger deep into my center. He curled it, finding a spot no toy could reach.
“I love how responsive you are,” he growled, “but you’re gonna make me blow way before I’m ready.”
“You say that like I’m not already planning round two.”
“That so?” That smile could incinerate me. Heat flooded my chest as my slick walls clenched around his finger. Some primal part of me begged him to take what he wanted, to come inside me?—
“Whatever’s running through that mind, don’t stop ,” he breathed, licking down my neck, sucking a nipple into his mouth until it ached. I didn’t remember them feeling bruised like that last time, but I didn’t have long to think about it; the sight of him worshipping me shoved me over the edge. He withdrew and returned with two fingers, popping off my breast.
“So fucking stunning. So damn wet for me. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
A generous exaggeration, considering his supermodel track record, but the thought evaporated when he caged my head with his arms, eyes burning.
“I’m all in, Leigh. This isn’t just physical for me. I need you to know that.”
I nodded. Good. I could still move. That was something. Now if I could just find words…
“Show me,” I whispered. “ Here . Now.”
His grin turned wolfish. “Oh, you’re not ready for that, baby.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m ready for— show me. ”
He captured my mouth, hand slipping between us to notch his cock at my slick entrance. He dragged his crown through my wetness, swiping over my clit, and I bucked, desperate for more.
His head dropped as pre-cum gleamed on his tip, and he ran a thumb over the pearl of liquid. Lust hooded brown eyes lifted to my mouth as he palmed his thick crown. “Open, beautiful.”
I parted my lips, heat blooming as he cupped my cheek and slid that thumb between my lips. I sucked the salty trace of him, filthy and delicious.
“Good fucking girl.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then stretched over me for the bedside drawer. Ink shifted on his chest—a pocket watch cradled in laurel leaves, frozen at 7:03—before he pressed a condom into my hand and shoved my thong down my legs like its existence offended him.
“Lift.”
I obeyed, and the torn lace vanished.
Tearing open the foil with my teeth, I slipped out the slick rubber and smiled up at him as he straightened above me, his hand grazing over my face with so much adoration it nearly sent a chill down my spine. He stroked himself, and another drop pearled, my pulse spiking.
“Put it on me.” His voice was pure command, and the throb between my legs answered yes, sir . He knew it, too.
Holding his gaze, I nudged his hand aside and fisted that glorious, veiny length. He moaned, head tipping back. I slid the condom down, cupping his balls; his eyes snapped open, ravenous.
He was going to devour me.
“Turn over, Leigh.” He eased back. “All fours.” I scrambled into position—anything but graceful, yet his grin said it was perfect.
Rough palms closed over my hips.
“My little Aphrodite is quite eager to please.”
I nodded. What was a mortal supposed to say to that ? The goddess of love? Holy shit.
“I fucking knew it.” He folded his body over mine, one hand clamping my hip while the other skimmed up my side, raising goosebumps until his fingers curled at my neck. Ollie turned my face, stealing a kiss so primal it bordered on worship. “Remind me—didn’t you beg for my handprint on this pretty ass?”
I nodded—desperate.
The crack rang out a beat before the sting bloomed. A gasp tore free, my pussy clenching as my mouth fell open.
Polite, respectful Oliver was gone. This version—feral and commanding—lit me up.
Another nod, another slap, another quiver of anticipation rippled through my core as I arched back into him.
“You like that,” he rasped.
I nodded again. A third smack sent a helpless moan spiraling from my throat; I braced on my forearms, pressing my ass into his palm.
“Good.” He soothed the sting with a slow rub, then lined his cock at my entrance, sliding the swollen tip through my slick folds. “I need you, Leighton—more than you can imagine.”
“Then take me.”
He did—no warning, no preamble, no hesitation. One brutal, beautiful thrust filled me to the hilt. The stretch bordered on pain, pleasure spiking so sharp my legs trembled.
So.
Fucking.
Full.
Holy hell, the man just got inside me and my body was shuddering around him.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “You’ve got all of me, baby.”
I sucked in a breath and arched, drawing him somehow deeper. He chuckled.
“Feeling needy?”
“Seven weeks,” I panted into the crook of my arm. “You ruined Obi, asshole.”
He laughed, gave my backside a playful clap. “Be mine and you’ll never be left wanting again. I’m at your disposal.”
“ Ten out of ten ,” I shot back, breathless.
His husky laughter was wickedly erotic , especially as his hands raked along my sides. “What were you thinking earlier—when my fingers were buried in that pretty pussy?”
I hummed—or maybe squeaked—but couldn’t put words to the filthy images in my brain, my neck flushing hot as he chuckled knowingly.
“Tell me, Leighton. What had you clenching around me?”
“You?”
“What about me?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “You. Filling me with cum.”
“Fuuuck.” The growl rolled through him—and me. “Leaking down your thighs after?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Jesus Christ, Trouble.”
“That’s three,” I taunted.
He exhaled a ragged breath. “Hang on, baby. I’m going to ruin you tonight.”
“I dare you to try.”
His grip tightened; he pulled almost free, then slammed home. My world detonated.
“Yes!” I cried.
Ollie settled into a punishing rhythm—harder, deeper—hands roaming as if he couldn’t touch enough. Fingers fisted in my hair; he shoved my head down, looped an arm under my hips, angling impossibly deeper.
“Oh, my fucking— Ollie —oh god—fuck, fuck, fuck ?—”
“You’re doing so good, Leigh.” Thrust . “Take my cock like such a good girl.” Thrust . Each guttural word arrowed straight to my core. He pounded into me like he meant to split me in two, and I devoured every ecstatic second, surrendering to the mattress, ass up, body his to command.
“Your pretty pink pussy looks gorgeous wrapped around me.” My walls fluttered; sweat beaded over my skin as he drove me to the brink. “Who’s going to make you come?”
“You are.”
“Damn straight. Who owns your pleasure, Leighton?”
“You do.” No contest. Not even a question.
“Good. Say my name.”
“ Ollie! ”
“Fuck, yes. Now give me what I want—come for me, beautiful.”
“I— need ?—”
“I know. Be my good girl and come all over my cock.”
Praise and demand. Apparently that was the recipe for mind-blowing, earth-shattering, leg shaking orgasms. I came so hard my abs cramped. I convulsed around him, crying out as the orgasm shattered every nerve.
He rode me through it, then pressed a hand between my shoulder blades, grinding deep once, twice, before freezing with a guttural, “Fuuuuck.”
We collapsed in a sweaty heap, his face buried in my neck.
“So,” I panted, “ that’s what it’s like to get fucked by Oliver Hart.” No spanking the first time; he’d promised gentle, and I’d had no idea what the alternative was. Holy hell.
His laugh was ragged, satisfied, and impossibly bright. A woman could live off that sound.
“Yeah, baby.”
“You held out on me the first time.”
“Because you weren’t mine on Halloween.”
Jiminy. Fucking. Cricket.
I was toast—and I couldn’t even pretend to be mad about it.
* * *
Golden sunlight crept across the bed, and every muscle ached as I rolled over, reaching for Ollie—only empty sheets greeted my fingertips. I blinked into the warmth, stomach pitching as I propped myself on one elbow.
Before I could sit up, cheerful whistling floated in. The door swung open, and Ollie danced inside to Van Morrison’s Days Like This .
His carefree grin made me beam almost as wide as last night’s rose-oil bath had. As if half a dozen orgasms weren’t enough to liquefy a woman, he’d pampered me with an Epsom-salt soak and a slow, oil-slick massage. What dumb bitch died and made me queen of Emerald Bay?
Still grooving, he balanced a huge breakfast tray on one palm.
“Hungry, Trouble?”
“Starving.” I tried to stifle the ear-to-ear grin threatening to split my face. “We must’ve burned a million calories, because I’m nauseously hungry.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
“Have I?” I scooted against the headboard, dragging the comforter with me. “Don't hold out on me.”
“Eggs benny and turkey bacon—you're gonna love it.” He edged closer, tray held high while he moon-walked around the foot of the bed.
“Asshole,” I laughed, cheeks aching as he broke into some head-bob-Egyptian strut. “Ollie!” I complained, stretching grabby hands toward him.
“Okay, okay.”
“Someone is looking outrageously smug,” I observed.
“Yes, well—Leighton Rhodes came on my cock last night. Forgive the swagger.”
I snorted, biting my lip as he presented the tray with a flourish. Thick hollandaise glossed two poached eggs, dusted with cayenne and tucked against a juicy tomato slice and two asparagus spears. Turkey bacon lined the side; orange wedges rimmed the plate. Two glasses of juice wore matching citrus crescents, and coffee steamed beside a silver creamer and a tiny bowl of sweeteners—topped with a single pink blossom.
But the smell —was that butter in his hollandaise off?
Hot saliva flooded my mouth. Panic crawled up my throat. “Not good.” I bolted.
“Leigh?!” Glasses clinked behind me as I sprinted to the bathroom.
Knees cracked against tile right as my stomach heaved—nothing but bile. I barely caught a breath before another wave forced me over the mercifully polished porcelain throne. Ollie’s bare feet bracketed mine; he gathered my hair off my shoulders.
Fully naked.
Dry-heaving.
With Oliver Hart holding my hair. Perfect.
Fuck. My life.
When the spasms eased, I collapsed back on my heels, trembling. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” He flushed for me, then helped me lean against the wall.
“I just—you made breakfast—what the fuck?”
“You good for a second?”
I nodded, mortified. He returned with water, crouching as I swished and spit.
“You okay?”
“I think so. Must be the tail end of that bug. Have you heard from Emma—are the kids alright?”
“They’re at the zoo,” he said, some unreadable warmth in his eyes. “Nobody’s sick, baby.”
He cocked his head, studying me. “Leigh, it’s almost Christmas.”
“Hey, left field called—they want their ball back.”
He chuckled, then sat, peeling off his T-shirt in one smooth move before tugging it over my head. The humiliation eased the second the cotton fell to mid-thigh.
But my brain buzzed through worst-case scenarios.
Fatigue. Light-headedness. Now puking and shaking? The old fear of my heart condition slithered free. Not again. My pulse felt steady, but dread wound up my spine. God, not again.
“Leigh, did you hear me?”
I blinked up at him; the crease between his brows had deepened.
“It’s late December. You haven’t been down for the count once. You’ve never called in sick for cramps. When was your last cycle, baby?”
“What?”
“You said your cycles vary but never go longer than ninety days. When was your last period?”
October. The beginning of October. The answer crashed through me, silent and horrifying.
“Impossible,” I whispered.
“Condoms break. We went through, what, six?”
“I can’t get pregnant, Ollie.”
Terror iced his features. “What do you mean, Trouble? Unsafe for your heart?” He glanced at the scars he’d worshipped but never questioned. “I know the best doctors in the city—say the word.”
“Ollie, they told me I was sterile. PCOS, no ovulation, ‘inhospitable environment.’”
Agony flickered across his face, but his hand cupped my arm. “Just to be safe, let me order a test.”
I shook my head, finding my feet as the bridge of my nose burned. Terror turned my breaths shallow, and I fought to control them as every shaking muscle in my body begged me to run —to go anywhere but here. Anywhere I could actually let the tears roll without the world’s most amazing man watching me crumble like a poorly-constructed house of cards.
Fuck, I needed my mom. Great . Twenty-three, and I needed my fucking mommy. Pathetic .
But as the echo of monitors rang in my skull, I realized I didn’t care if that made me pitiful.
“Shit—I have yoga with the girls. What time is it?”
“Just after nine.”
“Okay. I’m late.” Literally and figuratively.
“Don’t go—tell them you’re sick.”
“It’s fine. I need to clear my head. I’ll come back after, and we’ll talk. I don’t want them to be worried.”
“Leighton, I’m worried.”
“I’ll take a test after class, and call my doctor either way.”
“I’ll drive?—”
“You’ve got the kids waiting.” My voice miraculously stayed level while I shattered inside. “I’m okay. Promise.”
He didn’t buy it, shadowed eyes following me while I gathered clothes, but he let me go. Tears hit the moment I slid into California traffic.
Two hours, one unfocused yoga class, and three pregnancy tests later, I sat on a different bathroom floor, staring at three sets of unmistakable double pink lines.
A knock at the door had me jumping out of my skin.
Kaia . “Leigh? You okay?”