against the curve of her neck opened her eyes. A chill rippled over her. “Sorry?”
“I…” He stopped, his arms holding her, his lips on her neck, his body tense. Still.
“Why are you sorry, Nick?” Her mouth went dry. The reality of the situation hit her. The cold fact. She’d just had unprotected sex with Nick Blackthorne. A man she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. A man who, according to every gossip and celebrity magazine the world over, never spent a night in his bed alone. A whirlwind of disconnected words lashed through her head, words no careful, intelligent woman should ever think about. Words connected to doctors and clinics and shame.
But you weren’t careful. You never were with Nick. And any intelligence you have is destroyed the second he kisses you.
She pushed at his chest, forcing him off her. He complied, but only a little, staring down at her with haunted eyes. His hands still cupped the back of her neck, his fingers still on her jaw. A numb pressure settled against her ears. Her lips tingled. “Did you just give me a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Pained anger etched his face. “I would never give you a sexually transmitted disease, Lauren. I’ve been a bastard to you, I know, but I’m not a prick. I’m clean. 100%.”
“So why are you sorry?”
“I should have stopped. I should have put on a condom. So there’s no chance of me getting you pregnant.”
Her mouth went dry.“Why do you think I’d get pregnant, Nick? I told you I was on the pill.”
“You were on the pill before.”
The simple response made Lauren’s throat slam shut. Her stomach tried to leap up through it. Her breath choked her.
He didn’t blink. Nor did he let her go. “Why didn’t you tell me, Lauren? Why didn’t you tell me fifteen years ago you were pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me I had a son?”
Oh God. She stared at him. No words came. None. Just a deafening roar in her ears and a cold in her soul. Oh God. He knows. He knows and you should have told him fifteen years ago.
He studied her, brushing the fingertips on one hand over her bottom lip. “Why didn’t you tell me, babe?” he whispered. “Why?”
Someone thumped on the door. A steady rapping of knuckles. The vibrations shot through Lauren like a spray of bullets. She let out a startled cry, every muscle in her body locking.
Nick’s nostrils flared. He stepped backward, his hands sliding from her face, his jaw clenched. She watched him move away, wanting nothing more than to throw herself at him, wrap her arms around his waist and cling to him. Feel his heat seep into her body. Feel it melt away the chilled emptiness spreading through her. Hold him, be held by him. It was where she was meant to be.
It was the farthest place she wanted to be.
He’d hurt her. He’d rejected her. He’d left her.
And she’d hurt him back. By denying him his son.
“Nick,” she began, watching him tuck himself back into his jeans.
The knock rapped on the door again. Just as quick. Just as expectant.
She turned away from him, unable to see the pain, the betrayal in his eyes anymore. Snatching up her pyjama shirt, she pulled it on and buttoned it with fingers that seemed to refuse her brain’s commands. Fingers that fumbled and shook. Damn it, where were her pyjama pants?
The knock came again. “Ms. Robbins?” a male voice called from the other side.
She looked for her pants. Where the hell were her pants?
Fuck it. You don’t need them. Your shirt’s long enough. Just answer the door, get rid of whoever is on the other side and then tell Nick you’re sorry. Tell him you still love him. Tell him you were wrong. Tell him everything.
She shot Nick a look over her shoulder. He stood a few steps behind her, half-dressed, his upper body naked and still slicked in a fine sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling with each steadying breath he pulled, his lean muscles sculpted and defined with the exertion of their fucking. His
“I…” He stopped, his arms holding her, his lips on her neck, his body tense. Still.
“Why are you sorry, Nick?” Her mouth went dry. The reality of the situation hit her. The cold fact. She’d just had unprotected sex with Nick Blackthorne. A man she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. A man who, according to every gossip and celebrity magazine the world over, never spent a night in his bed alone. A whirlwind of disconnected words lashed through her head, words no careful, intelligent woman should ever think about. Words connected to doctors and clinics and shame.
But you weren’t careful. You never were with Nick. And any intelligence you have is destroyed the second he kisses you.
She pushed at his chest, forcing him off her. He complied, but only a little, staring down at her with haunted eyes. His hands still cupped the back of her neck, his fingers still on her jaw. A numb pressure settled against her ears. Her lips tingled. “Did you just give me a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Pained anger etched his face. “I would never give you a sexually transmitted disease, Lauren. I’ve been a bastard to you, I know, but I’m not a prick. I’m clean. 100%.”
“So why are you sorry?”
“I should have stopped. I should have put on a condom. So there’s no chance of me getting you pregnant.”
Her mouth went dry.“Why do you think I’d get pregnant, Nick? I told you I was on the pill.”
“You were on the pill before.”
The simple response made Lauren’s throat slam shut. Her stomach tried to leap up through it. Her breath choked her.
He didn’t blink. Nor did he let her go. “Why didn’t you tell me, Lauren? Why didn’t you tell me fifteen years ago you were pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me I had a son?”
Oh God. She stared at him. No words came. None. Just a deafening roar in her ears and a cold in her soul. Oh God. He knows. He knows and you should have told him fifteen years ago.
He studied her, brushing the fingertips on one hand over her bottom lip. “Why didn’t you tell me, babe?” he whispered. “Why?”
Someone thumped on the door. A steady rapping of knuckles. The vibrations shot through Lauren like a spray of bullets. She let out a startled cry, every muscle in her body locking.
Nick’s nostrils flared. He stepped backward, his hands sliding from her face, his jaw clenched. She watched him move away, wanting nothing more than to throw herself at him, wrap her arms around his waist and cling to him. Feel his heat seep into her body. Feel it melt away the chilled emptiness spreading through her. Hold him, be held by him. It was where she was meant to be.
It was the farthest place she wanted to be.
He’d hurt her. He’d rejected her. He’d left her.
And she’d hurt him back. By denying him his son.
“Nick,” she began, watching him tuck himself back into his jeans.
The knock rapped on the door again. Just as quick. Just as expectant.
She turned away from him, unable to see the pain, the betrayal in his eyes anymore. Snatching up her pyjama shirt, she pulled it on and buttoned it with fingers that seemed to refuse her brain’s commands. Fingers that fumbled and shook. Damn it, where were her pyjama pants?
The knock came again. “Ms. Robbins?” a male voice called from the other side.
She looked for her pants. Where the hell were her pants?
Fuck it. You don’t need them. Your shirt’s long enough. Just answer the door, get rid of whoever is on the other side and then tell Nick you’re sorry. Tell him you still love him. Tell him you were wrong. Tell him everything.
She shot Nick a look over her shoulder. He stood a few steps behind her, half-dressed, his upper body naked and still slicked in a fine sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling with each steadying breath he pulled, his lean muscles sculpted and defined with the exertion of their fucking. His
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