Chapter 6 The Quickening #2
She looked at him. This man. This soldier. This stepbrother, who had kissed her in a hallway and fathered her child during a storm, stood in a doctor's office with tears on his face, listening to a heartbeat. He stood in a doctor's office with tears on his face, listening to a heartbeat.
"I am falling in love with you," she said. "And it terrifies me. You are the one person I cannot have. You are my stepbrother. Our parents are married. This baby. This whole situation. It is forbidden. It is wrong. It could destroy both our families."
"I do not care about the families."
"I know you do not. That is one of the things I love about you."
He reached for her, pulling her across the console. She went. His arms wrapped around her, tight and desperate. She pressed her face against his neck, feeling his fast, hard pulse.
"I love you," he said, his words rough, as if dragged from him. "I have loved you since the hallway. Since the green dress. Since you tasted like cheap wine and looked at me like I was the only person in the room."
"You did not know me."
"I knew enough. I knew your eyes, your mouth, and the way you felt against me. I spent six years searching for you. I did not know I searched, but I did. Every woman was a comparison. Every night was a question. Then you walked into my father's wedding, and the world stopped."
She pulled back, looking at him. His face was close, wet, and open.
"You are impossible," she said.
"I know."
"We are impossible."
"I know."
"What do we do?"
He kissed her. Not with hunger or desperation, but softly, slowly. The kiss felt like a vow. His mouth moved gently against hers. His tongue touched her lips, and she opened to him. He tasted like salt, like tears, like surrender.
"We love each other," he said against her mouth. "We'll figure out the rest."
"The rest is complicated."
"The rest is always complicated. This part, right now, this is simple."
She kissed him again. Her hand found the back of his neck and held him. His hands moved to her waist, careful and gentle, as if she were made of glass.
"I am not going to break," she said again.
"I know. But I will treat you like you might. I cannot help it. The thought of anything happening to you makes me insane."
"That is not healthy."
"No, but it is honest."
She laughed, a wet, broken sound. "I love you. You impossible, overprotective, controlling man."
"I love you. You stubborn, beautiful, terrifying woman."
They sat in the car. The ocean lay below; the wind blew outside. Ultrasound photos rested on the dashboard—a blob on a gray screen, a heartbeat, a life.
They drove back to the estate in silence. It was not a heavy silence, but a full one. It held everything said, needing no repetition.
He carried her inside, not because she asked, but because he wanted to. She let him because she wanted him to. He set her on the couch in the cottage and made her tea—the herbal kind that tasted like grass. She drank it.
He sat beside her, his hand on her stomach, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. The photos lay on the coffee table: the blob, the heartbeat, and their child.
"We have to tell them," she said.
"Not yet."
"Cillian, my mother will figure it out. I will start showing; she'll ask questions."
"Then we tell her on our terms, not hers."
"She'll be furious."
"She'll be surprised. There is a difference."
"She married your father six weeks ago. If I tell her I am pregnant with her stepson's baby, furious is the minimum."
He remained quiet, his thumb still tracing circles. "What do you want to tell her?"
"The truth. That we are together. That we are having a baby. That it was not planned, but it is wanted."
"It was planned. Eleanor planned it."
"Eleanor planned the opportunity. She did not plan us. She did not plan the storm. She did not plan the way you look at me or the way I feel about you."
He looked at her. "How do you feel about me?"
"I cannot breathe without you in the room. My body does not work right unless you touch me. Every time you leave, I count the minutes until you return."
"That is not healthy either."
"No. But it is honest."
He kissed her forehead, her nose, and her mouth. Soft. Gentle. She leaned into him and felt his body. Warm. Solid. Hers.
"Stay tonight," she said. "In the cottage. Not the east wing. Here."
"I have stayed here for three weeks."
"I know. But tonight I want you in the bed. Not on the couch."
"I have been in the bed."
"I know. But tonight I want you inside me."
His eyes darkened. Hunger flickered. "The doctor said it is safe. But I should be careful."
"Be careful. Be gentle. Be inside me."
He lifted her and carried her to the bedroom. The cottage bedroom. Their bedroom now. He laid her on the bed and came over her. His body. His weight. His warmth.
He undressed her slowly. The shirt. The bra. The jeans. Each piece of clothing was removed with care. His hands traced her skin. When she was bare, he sat back and looked at her.
"You are beautiful," he said. The same words every time, but his voice broke on them.
Her body was changing. Breasts fuller. Hips are softer. A slight swell below her navel was not yet visible, but she felt it. The beginning of a curve. The first sign of the child growing inside.
He bent his head and kissed her stomach. Soft. Gentle. His lips on her skin. She felt her chest crack open.
He kissed the scars below her navel. The marks from surgeries. These were reminders of what the doctors had said. He kissed each one. Then he pressed his mouth against the place where their child grew.
"I am here," he said. To the baby. To her. To both of them.
He moved up her body, his mouth finding hers. Soft. Slow. His tongue touched her lips. She opened and tasted him. Salt and warmth and love.
His hands moved over her. Careful. Gentle. Cupping her breasts. Squeezing. Her nipples were sensitive. Tender. She gasped when he touched them.
"Too much?" he asked.
"No. Do not stop."
He bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth. Sucking. Gentle. Licking. Swirling his tongue. She arched into him. The sensation shot through her body, down her stomach, between her thighs.
His hand moved down between her legs. His fingers found her slit. Wet. Ready. He groaned against her breast.
"You are so wet," he said.
"I am always wet around you."
He pressed a finger inside. Stroking. Slow. Gentle. She gasped. Her hips rose. He added a second finger, pressed deeper, and found the spot. She trembled.
"I want you inside me," she said.
"Slowly."
"Slowly."
He removed his clothes. Lamplight illuminated his body: the scar, the tattoo, the muscle, and his hard, thick cock. She reached for him, wrapped her hand around the shaft, and stroked. He groaned.
"Not too hard," she said. "Let me."