Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cosette
I barely remember what happens next. I don’t know how we get to his apartment. All I remember is Lyam crossing the room to me, Montague forgotten. Mumbled words from Thayer about “cleaning up” and Lyam saying he’s taking me home.
I remember Lyam bending and lifting me, cradling me against him as if marching away from a bloody battle.
It’s time to go home.
Home.
We make it to Le Marquise. He carries me upstairs; it seems he can’t bear the little bit of distance we’d have between us if he were to let me walk.
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I nuzzle my head against his neck and loop my arms around him.
“Lyam,” I say in a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. So many times, I—”
“And I should have given you the benefit of the doubt,” he interrupts in a low, husky tone. “No more, Cosette. No. More.”
“No more what?” I ask, as he carries me past his staff who scurry like ants with one sharp look from him. Anyone that even glances our way gets the message loud and clear: Stay. Away.
“No more regrets. No more ‘should haves.’ No more apologies. We leave the past behind us right here, right now. All we have is this, right here, right now. Us.” And I know deep in my heart that he doesn’t mean just me and him, but our unborn child too.
Our family.
Lyam nearly kicks the damn door down.
We’re a mess. My hair’s all tangled and straggly, my clothes are torn and bloodied, and he looks like he’s just come back from hand-to-hand combat.
He stalks into the bathroom with me and slides my ass onto the vanity next to the sink. I know how rough he can be, so when he silently, gently removes my clothes, I get a little choked up.
“Pregnancy hormones,” I say, swiping at my cheeks.
“Then what’s my excuse?” he asks, his own eyes shining.
I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Perfection.”
When I’m naked and quivering, my breathing ragged and my need to be with him making my hands tremble, he stands still in front of me and lets me undress him.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, reaching to kiss the bruises on his neck.
I lift his shirt and stifle a moan at the utterly masculine breadth of his shoulders and chest, his inked pecs and biceps, the raised veins along his muscular arms, his washboard abs.
I’ve never understood how simply beautiful he was until now.
I’ve thought of him as hot, sexy, and masculine, but seeing him in his naked glory, he looks like a survivor. And God if that’s not sexy as fuck.
My man.
I moan and kiss, lick and stroke until he gathers my hair in his fists.
I still.
“Shower, baby. I want to wash off the memories of everything that happened and I want to make sure you’re okay before we make love.”
Make love.
He lifts me off the vanity and slides me to the floor. Reaches toward the shower and turns it on. When hot steam fills the bathroom, I step in first and he joins me.
I moan at the feel of the cleansing water on my back and lift my head to welcome a deluge of hot water.
He lifts a pearly white bottle of shampoo and pours some into the palm of his hand.
Without a word, he massages it into my hair and scalp, his strong fingers lathering my hair then finger-combing it, rinsing out the soap.
He kisses my temple. I take his hand and kiss his palm.
We take our time, kissing and embracing in between lather and bubbles, washing our battle-worn bodies and reconnecting.
I stand with my head on his chest as steam rises from our battered bodies. I cleanse the dirt and sweat off him, stifling a choking sound as I wash away the blood from his wounds, all thankfully shallow.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, wincing as I cup warm water in my hands and pour it over an angry-looking cut on his wrist.
“The only thing that hurt was being apart from you.”
I reach for his face and frame it in my hands. His beautiful eyes look down on me with such tenderness, I sigh. He kisses me.
Shuts off the shower.
Wraps us in towels and lifts me in his arms again.
“Is this our new thing?”
“Hush,” he says, laying me on the bed. Our towels fall to the floor, discarded. “I need you soft and gentle, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll take you hard later, but I want you soft and gentle right now.”
“Lyam,” I whisper on a broken sob. “Oh, God, Lyam.”
His fingers in my hair, his mouth on mine, I part my lips and welcome him in. Our tongues touch, and a surge of need and want and longing nearly chokes me. I want him in me so badly I can’t think beyond the need to be filled by him.
“Not yet,” he says in a low growl, before lowering his mouth to my nipple and licking the hardened, tender bud. I arch my back and cry out as he licks first one, then the other, then back again until I’m panting and so wet, my arousal coats my inner thighs.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers. “That’s my sweet, beautiful girl.”
I part my legs, a silent beckoning for him to fill me, and nearly groan from pleasure when I feel the silky head of his cock at my entrance. He looks into my eyes, and I stare into his, saying more with a mere look than spoken words could ever convey.
“You’re mine, Cosette. I won’t ever let you go.”
I wrap my arms around him and hold him to me, cherishing this moment that I’ll keep with me for the rest of my life. We look into each other’s eyes before he runs his fingers through my hair and kisses me. I close my eyes and lose myself to the kiss.
The hot length of his cock presses closer.
“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. “God, I love you so much.”
His large, warm, rough hand caresses my hip with a sense of ownership that makes my heart pound harder, as he puts his mouth to my ear.
“Give me that pussy, Cosette. You belong to me. All of you.”
“All of me,” I agree, as he glides the head of his cock inside me. I groan at the perfect feel of his hardened length stretching me, filling me, completing me. My voice is choked with tears. “All of me. I’m so sorry, Lyam.”
He growls, and it does deliciously wonderful things to my body. My pussy clenches around him and my heart beats faster. “Somebody’s gonna earn herself a spanking.”
God how I love when he goes all alpha dom on me.
I give him a pout.
“I’ll be good,” I say demurely.
His grin nearly stops my heart. “That’s my girl.”
My heart beats faster with every perfect thrust, with the way he builds a rhythm and makes me feel.
Nuzzling my temple, his voice is choked as he says, “I love you, Cosette. When I saw him hurting you…” He can’t talk for a minute, then he takes a shuddering breath.
“Before that, I was going to let him live, for you.”
“And I love you for that,” I whisper into his ear. “I know you wanted revenge. I know you wanted him to be punished for what he’s done to your family. For what he planned to do. But you were willing to let him go… for me.”
We don’t talk for long moments. I wrap my ankles around his muscled, inked body.
His tats are irresistible, and I can’t help tracing them with my fingers while he weaves his fingers through my hair, keeping the steady tempo of perfect ecstasy going.
We roll so I’m on top and he’s below me, never losing the perfect rhythm of our lovemaking.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “And I love you. I won’t ever doubt you again, I promise.”
I give him my own brand of a growl. “Now who needs a spanking?” I tease.
And that’s when the sweet part of our lovemaking ends.
He rolls and pins me beneath him, under his full weight. My wrists are captured in his hands, my body pressed to the bed as he lifts his hips and thrusts so deeply I gasp for air. Pulling his cock out nearly completely, he returns with a perfect thrust.
“Okay, okay, I get the point,” I groan, breathless.
He slows our rhythm. We make love slowly and tenderly, savoring every moment.
It feels so perfect, it’s like the first time.
“I love you,” he whispers as my body arches and the first spasm of pleasure spirals through me.
“I love you,” I echo, as he groans in ecstasy, on the cusp of climaxing.
“Come with me,” he whispers in my ear. “I want us to remember this. I don’t want to forget.”
I close my eyes and nod.
He holds me against him.
My eyes fly open when another thrust nearly threatens to split me apart.
Another makes me moan for him, and his final thrust pushes me right off the edge of oblivion as he whispers words of love and devotion.
His body shudders with pleasure, and with a groan of ecstasy, he empties himself inside me.
We collapse in each other’s arms, exhausted and content. I think we doze a little. Opening my eyes, I find him half on me, half sprawled on the bed, his perfect body like a carved statue of a god.
It already looks like his wounds are healing.
“Are you Superman?” I ask.
“If I am,” he says with a wry smile, “you’re my kryptonite.”
“I’m honored, kind sir.”
He chuckles. “There she goes again. Are you hungry, baby?”
“Only for you.”
We make love again, joined in our mutual apology.
And then we sleep. Actually sleep. It’s long and blissful and restful.
We wake up the next morning ready to talk.
I thread my fingers through his.
“So what exactly does groveling look like?” I ask in a sweet voice, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “You’ve already killed the corrupt politician who wanted to kill me, so it can’t be that…”
News stations all over the country are up in arms over the story of Montague’s “suicide.” I’m not sure what kind of strings Thayer pulled for that one, but it’s poetic justice after what Montague did to Rousseau.
I had no relationship with Francois Montague. He might as well have been a sperm donor for all I cared. The pain of his rejection is something I may deal with for the rest of my life, but I’ll make peace with it.
Still, I appreciated Lyam’s deferring to me just as I appreciated him saving my life in the end.
We have his confession and have made it public, and now it’s clear to the citizens that Montague couldn’t handle the public shame of his illicit affair and illegitimate daughter.
They’ll talk about it for weeks.