Breathless (52 page)

I rested my hands on the steering wheel and faced her. “It’s like this: I have everyone I love tattooed somewhere on me.” I leaned in close to her, caught her tantalizing sent and pushed a lock of red hair out of her eyes. “It’s past time I added you.”

Big pause and then, “You mean it?”

I nodded.

“So what are you getting…more importantly…where?” Her eyes strayed to the crotch of my jeans. “It’s not a piercing, it is?”

I grinned. “I love you, but I’m never getting
that
done. Let’s go in and I’ll show you.”

Shayla met us at the door with a wide smile. “I was wondering if you’d chickened out.” That wasn’t going to happen. I’d been coming by for a month or more working with her on the perfect sketch. There’s no way I wasn’t showing up. This tat was destined.

“It took a little more coaxing that I’d planned to get her here,” I joked, nodding back at Nora who had her keen eyes trained on me. I knew that look.

I leaned over and gave her a peck. “Stop trying to get in my head and figure this out. Relax.”

She grasped my hand and squeezed. “Just surprised you went to so much trouble for me. That you kept it such a secret.”

“I’d go to the ends of the earth for you. To make you happy. Never doubt it.”

We followed Shayla back to one of the rooms where she opened up the sketch book. Nora gazed it for a long time—forever it seemed like—until she smiled.

“You like?” I murmured in her ear. This whole idea had been mine and the image of the tat was the cornerstone of the way I’d proposed to her. I peered at the celestial drawing and then moved my hot gaze to hers. “You’ll always be my star, Nora. Some stars aren’t meant to be in the sky, and you’re one of them. You belong to
me
.”

Her green eyes gleamed, probably at the possessiveness she heard in my voice, making goose bumps tingle down my spine at how she got me. I’m demanding and cocky and liked my control. And she loved it. Scanning her gaze over the drawing of the Orion constellation, she gave me a shy smile. Pleased.

The shoulders of the warrior would be at my shoulders, his feet at my lower-back, and the belt and sword in the middle. But instead of stars—or nebulas—in the hunter’s sword, there would be a line of four hearts, each one with a letter from Nora’s name. I took the tat in, a kaleidoscope of varying emotions shimmering in me. Those hearts represented Nora and how everlasting she was, how she shined brighter than anything in the sky.

Memories of the night I’d fallen to my knees and asked her to be mine colored my thoughts.

“Forever,” I’d promised her.

“Forever,” she’d vowed.

“So where is this mighty warrior going?” Nora asked, her voice soft and hushed.

I came up behind her, running my fingers over the shape of the wings I knew she wore under her shirt. “On my back. You’ll have your wings, and I’ll have my universe. This tat is my poetry for you. My declaration that you’ll always be with me, even when we are no more on this earth.”

She leaned back into my arms, and the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her, the essence of her made me content. Stilled my erratic heart. “It’s gorgeous and beautiful. You’ve already proved your love to me a long time ago. But this…it’s
us
.” Her head rested on my shoulder until our eyes met, our connection electric. She pulled my head down and brushed my lips.

Relief and a deep satisfaction filled me. I turned her to face me and kissed her like I wanted, openmouthed, taking her lips desperately, like I needed her to breathe, like I’d never need oxygen again to keep my heart pumping. Just her. She returned my intensity with a fire of her own. She was absolutely and categorically
mine.

Shayla squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, muttered, “Newlyweds,” and then slipped out the door. Not that we noticed.

“I have a surprise too,” Nora whispered against my mouth. “You’ll need to save a little space for at least one more person.”

I stood there for a second, blinking, not comprehending until…holy shit, it dawned on me what she meant. Placing unsteady hands her belly, I managed to mumble, “You mean…?” I swallowed, not able to say the word, scared.

She nodded, her eyes searching, lingering on my face. “Eight weeks. I found out Friday…and I wanted to tell you then…but you said you had a surprise for me, and well, I couldn’t resist surprising you, too.” She cupped my face, her thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Are you okay? You look like you might throw-up. Tell me you’re good with this, Leo.”

Fear hit me, but not for what she thought. “But today we got kinda crazy…on the butterfly press and other places. Shit, shit, shit.” I shifted, my hands tightening on her hips. “Are you feeling alright? Did I hurt you? Do you need to sit down? Do I need to take you to the doctor?” I sounded a bit off.

She laughed. “Leo Jamison Tate, I’m perfectly fine. I can do all those things. Being pregnant doesn’t make someone an invalid.” She bit her lip. “It’s…simply amazing to think of it, to think that I’m nurturing
life
within my womb. That I’m going to have a
baby
. Your baby.”

I fumbled around behind me, grabbed a chair and sat down. I looked around the room, wondering when it would stop spinning. “Fuck…oh wait…I have to stop cussing, don’t I? I need to set up a college fund. I need to call Sebastian and Teddy. I need to buy us a house and a minivan. I need to…”

Nora sat in my lap, ran her fingers through my hair and spoke, her voice a soothing balm to my scattered thoughts. “All is well. Fate is on our side, my love. You have to remember…we’re like a real storybook romance. Not everyone gets what we have. We’re living a happily-ever-after.”

And that’s when I realized what a miracle this was, my brain allowing the dawning excitement to overtake the fear. This baby was
us;
we’d created something good, something magical.

I cupped her face. “You’re so perfect,” I said with truth, my eyes caressing the softness of her face, the gentleness in her gaze. I kissed her ring finger, the one with the same platinum matching band that I wore.

“Okay, know I know you’re freaking out. I am most definitely
not
perfect.” She nuzzled her nose into mine in the way that had become our little trademark.

I squeezed her tight, vowing to never let her go. “As perfect as it gets, Buttercup.”

THE END

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Chapter One

Alix

I blow air out of my cheeks. It’s just another day at work, a typical, quiet Monday night with nothing to do. I inch up my black skirt and adjust my thigh-highs. Had I known they were going to roll down my legs all night, I would have worn full pantyhose. It’s not all bad, working at the lavish Tempt Hotel in California, but on Monday nights, it sucks. I glance at the clock and I’m unable to help the wide grin that spreads over my lips. Eleven p.m.

Knock off time!

“I’m outta here!” I shout to the new girl who’s working behind the bar.

I don’t know her name, which is really slack on my part. I’ve been at work with her since three p.m. and not once have I asked for her name. It’s just one of those days. You know, the ones where you don’t care quite enough to do anything other than what you normally do, even if that means getting to know the new employee?

Yep. One of those.

I bend low and pull my hand bag out from underneath the bar. We’re not allowed handbags by the bar or register, but when I get really bored, I like to play games on my phone. I turn to the new girl who watches me with that ‘we’re not allowed to do that’ look and I press my index finger to my lips. I hope she doesn’t tell my boss—then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Mr. O’Ryan is never around.
Ever.
I’ve worked here for two years and only once have I caught a glimpse of him—or more accurately—the back of his bald head.

As fast as my fingers will let me, I undo the buttons of my black and red blouse and stuff my work shirt into my handbag. The air-conditioning blows across the skin my tank top exposes, leaving goosebumps in its wake. With a shiver, I drag out my small, white coat and pull it on over my shoulders.

“See you,” the new girl mutters, twirling her blonde ponytail around her index finger.

I give her a quick wave and then stop in my tracks as the urge for a nice cold, strong beverage tickles my tongue. I’m catching a taxi home so I’m sure it won’t hurt to have a quick drink before I leave. Maybe it’ll help me sleep when I get home to my empty apartment. It wasn’t always empty. A month ago, I lived with my boyfriend. A month ago, I’d go home to a cooked meal, a good book and awesome orgasms. A month ago, my boyfriend told me to quit my job so we could settle down and get married and have children. A month ago… I broke up with him and kicked him out because he wanted all of the things I didn’t—all of the things I couldn’t give him. I’m not the settle down type. I never have been and I doubt I ever will be. I like my job. I like working late and drinking when my day is over. I like not having to worry about my weight just so that I can fit into a dress I’m only going to wear once. And I like not having to worry about stretching my vagina or baby proofing my house. It’s not who I am.

I turn back to the bar. “Can I get a vodka on ice?”

She blinks her big blue eyes and glances over her shoulder. “Straight?”

“Is there any other way?” I smile and lean lazily against the bar surface made of Agarwood.

I’m ashamed I know that. A few weeks back, I had sex with a guy who spent the evening telling me about the expensive timber. He claimed ‘wood was his thing’ and that was enough foreplay for me. In my defense, he had really nice eyes, but he was a really lousy lay. I think I’ve had sneezes longer than the one night in hell with that guy.

With a tight, judgy smile, she turns and prepares my drink. While I wait, I tap my fingers against the surface and glance around the room. Maybe I don’t want to go straight after my drink, either. There’s nothing for me there, so I might as well have a little fun here before I go. The alcohol is needed because no fun adventure starts off with me being sober.

Ever.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I can stumble home not believing that, a month ago, I made a horrible mistake.

The girl comes back with my drink and slides it across the bar. “That’ll be—”

“On the house,” I tell her with a wink. I don’t think I’ve ever paid for a drink here. Not in the last month anyway.

She glances around the bar again. “Are you sure?”

I remember when I had the ‘new employee’ fear. I shrug and draw the glass to my mouth. “No, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

I turn away from the new girl and head for the lounge bar. They have TV’s in there—with cable too—and at this time of night on a weekday, only young, young girls and rich, lonely men hang out in the lounge. Oh, and me, I suppose. A twenty nine year old bartender with no college qualifications, no husband, no kids and nothing better to do on a Monday night after her shift. With a heavy sigh, I drop into a soft, low seat by a small round table and begin people watching. Almost immediately, I can tell who is here to relax and who is on the prowl.

Am I on the prowl?
I frown. I don’t know… am I? Not going home alone is always nice. I glance around the room once again, but no one in here peaks my interest—except the pretty blonde sitting at the end of the bar, but I’m not into women.

Then I see
him.

He walks through the door, raking his long, thick hands through his dark hair, as his black two button suit tightens around the arms. My stare sticks to him like superglue and trying to separate them is physically painful. Of its own accord, my spine straightens and I inch forward in my seat. He walks in my direction, his long purposeful legs stretching out in front of him, each step seeming more powerful than the last. My throat dries so I take an anxious sip of my vodka to quench it, but it only sets my throat on fire, matching the temperature between my legs. I see men in suits come in and out of this place all day, every day, but none that look like him. I’ve never really been into taut business men in expensive, fitted suits. I’ve always wondered if they were actually rich or if they’re just trying to jump on the Christian Grey express straight into naïve pussy town. This man, however, has no false bravado in his steps. He
is
rich, he
is
hot, and he probably has no idea who the fuck Christian Grey is. I inhale another mouthful of vodka and swallow hard before gritting my teeth. Maybe I read too many fucking novels. I snort. As if there’s such a thing.

As he rests against the lounge bar, the bar I work in on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I push out of my seat. I’m not beneath going after what I want, and what I want at this very moment is this man’s face between my legs. As I approach, I shrug out of my coat and toss it over the stool next to him. Up close, his shoulders are broad and thick—perfect.