Chapter 24 #2
His come. Fuck, she could feel it spilling within her with each throb.
Heat lapping at her from the inside, filling her, spreading between them in a slick wash of fire over her quivering vulva and stiff clit as she rocked desperately on his dick, and the sensation abruptly shoved her over the precipice into another climax.
She actually screamed against his palm, overcome by shocked pleasure.
His other hand clutched at her ass and ground her against him, and the direct, physical friction against her clit had her sobbing as her body spasmed endlessly around his still-throbbing, still-spurting cock planted deep inside her.
Her cheeks were wet with tears by the time she was done coming.
His unsteady thumbs wiped away the wetness as he kissed her and whispered to her about how much pleasure she’d given him, how pretty she was, how long he’d fantasized about having her in his arms this way.
She huddled against him, trembling and stunned and come-drunk, and soaked up all the open affection in his gravelly voice.
She was too tired to kiss him back. Too tired to move off his dick. Too tired to even open her eyes.
And that was the last thing she remembered before morning.
—
When Gwen blinked awake again, the fancy antique clock on the fireplace mantel indicated that it was past eight in the morning, Hugh was nowhere to be seen, and she really, really needed to pee. Something she definitely should have done last night before lapsing into orgasm-induced unconsciousness.
Hopefully that witch’s healing spell also prevented UTIs, because otherwise, she was probably screwed.
She threw on her nightgown, grabbed more of her new clothing, snuck down the thankfully empty hallway—apparently everyone was gathered in the kitchen, judging from the loud argument happening there—and took care of business, including a brief but hot shower.
When she returned to the library, a stack of tissue paper–wrapped items had appeared on the sofa.
Yours to open, Gwen, read the neat, slanted print on the notecard atop the pile.
Hugh must have gotten the presents last night, on the way back from his SERC interrogation. The green tissue paper crinkled as she carefully unfolded it to reveal the first gift, which was…oh, my goodness.
She had to laugh, even as her eyes prickled.
Baby clothes. He’d given her baby clothes, diminutive and perfect and…
well, startlingly business casual in appearance.
Miniature polished wing tips. The world’s most adorable dove-gray cable-knit cashmere sweater.
Little charcoal knit pants with cuffs and what appeared to be ironed-in, impressively crisp creases in front.
How had they labeled these in the bougie baby store? The Tiny Lawyer Collection?
There were organic cotton onesies too. Curved-front bibs imported from Sweden.
Sleep sacks made of silk and merino wool.
And when she unwrapped the final present—covered in yellow tissue paper and obviously purchased at a different store—her heart pinched in mingled gratitude and grief.
Gratitude to him. Grief for him, because she doubted he’d ever received anything like it from his own parents.
The stuffed giraffe was maybe six inches high and patterned with gentle pastel colors. Its neck flopped over because there was nothing under the fabric that would provide stiffness or structure. Its closed eyes were sweetly stitched curves, its minuscule ears fuzzy cups.
The giraffe didn’t teach anything. Didn’t play music or rattle.
Unlike the other gifts, it wasn’t even particularly fancy.
But it was the softest thing she’d ever felt against her stroking fingertips.
Pure comfort in stuffed animal form. An offering of tenderness, simply to bring her unborn child joy.
Her baby wasn’t biologically his. These presents were a message, though, delivered with his customary diplomacy: That fact didn’t bother him one bit.
And as she cradled that small, soft giraffe in her palm, she knew.
I want Hugh Blacke as my child’s father, and I want him as my partner.
Not because he wielded considerable political power and hobnobbed with other beings of international importance.
Not because he could afford baby-size wing tips so highly polished she could’ve used them for a darn mirror.
Not because he could rock smoky eyeliner and had an ass that begged for a nibble.
Not even because he’d given her the three best orgasms of her life last night, although they certainly didn’t hurt his cause.
His demon’s heart was true, and it was huge, and it had been neglected for far too long. She wanted that heart for her own, to care for and protect, even as he cared for and protected her and her baby in return.
She couldn’t offer him riches or influence.
But she could be his figurative giraffe, bringing him simple softness and comfort when his world grew confusing, cold, and hard.
She could offer him a community of well-intentioned, generous friends.
She could serve as his sounding board, reminding him of the human stakes in all his decisions when everyone around him pressured him toward expedience or self-interest.
She could love him unselfishly, the way he deserved. She could allow him to love her in return, because he clearly had untold amounts of frustrated, untapped affection overflowing his soul’s banks, and she was doing her best to believe that she deserved love too.
Yes, this was too soon. Yes, she was probably being foolish beyond words. Wouldn’t be the first time, although it might be her last, depending on what her immediate future held.
Didn’t matter. If she was going out, she was going out with love and in love.
Her fingers curled around the giraffe, holding it tight.
Her other hand curved protectively over her belly.
She stood straight and tall, strong and ready, and took her first vow since leaving her Girl Explorer troop and heading to Delphi Academy, where she’d learned to doubt the power of her own word and her own worth.
I’ll go out with love, in love—and fighting all the way down.