The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(46)

“I want to taste these…”

Instead of murmuring a “yes,” he pulls himself up, half-sitting, his eyes glazed over as he reaches for my shoulder.

“Mar…” He shifts his legs, but doesn’t move his cock as I continue jerking him off. “I need to be inside you.”

“Yeah?” I up my hand game.

Gabe nods, closing his eyes as his head drops back.

“Yeah…”

But I don’t want to end this just yet. I lean down, sucking his head into my mouth as his hands grip my shoulders.

“Marley…”

I can feel him shaking as he struggles not to shove into my throat. I take him deeper, deeper, swallowing to take as much as I can; it’s still not all of him. I wrap my hand around his base and stroke him while I struggle with his girth. I swallow once again and feel his head against the back of my throat. With my free hand, I grab his balls and rub my thumb between them, kneading as I deep-throat him, and Gabe starts panting like he’s running.

He wants to fuck my throat. I know he does. But he won’t, not until I get him started.

I start to take him in and out, and he lets out a desperate-sounding groan.

“Ahh, fuck.” He pushes in just slightly. “Marley…”

I can feel him trying not to move, can feel his hand on my head, shaking. I can feel the moment that he can’t control his need. He grabs my head, and for a second, thrusts into my throat. I choke. Then he’s pulling out, snatching me up, tossing me down on all fours. He jerks my panties off, then smacks me hard.

“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

“I liked it, and you did, too.”

“I like this more,” he says, dipping two fingers into where I’m hot and sopping for him. “Nothing like this pussy…”

I clench around his fingers, and he drags them out. I feel delicious pressure as him as teases at my entrance…then pushes his tip inside.

“Oh God!” It’s not enough. I wiggle back against him, frantic. I’m so wet, he fills me in a breath, and then we’re both groaning. Our bodies shake as I take and he gives…oh God, he gives so good, my arms can barely hold me as he pounds me.

“This is mine—” his hand squeezes my ass— “and when I put a baby in you, it will still be mine.”

I can’t breathe to speak, can only grip the duvet while I cry his name, and Gabe fucks me with the fury of a lover scorned.

When we finish, he dresses without a word, murmuring a gruff, “goodnight, Marley” as he stalks out of my room.





12





Marley





I stare down at my phone, jumping when the metal cabinet in the wall beside me clicks—a lab tech on the other side of the bathroom wall grabbing pee cups for analysis.

Is it too early for pregnancy nausea? Because I feel like I might get sick in this work bathroom. I swallow as I read his message one more time.

‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’

I keep blinking down at it, as if that might change the words.

He can’t come.

He can’t come.

So what?

Something must have come up. Isn’t that what he said?

‘Something came up. Can’t make it today. Sorry.’

See—he’s sorry. It says so right there.

Someone knocks on the door. I jump again, and then stand up and flush the toilet for effect.

I turn on the sink and text: ‘That’s okay. Take care.’



*

In medical school, I learned a lot about trauma. Then I started treating real kids, and realized I didn’t know anything about anything. Last year for Christmas, one of my Chicago friends—a pediatric psychologist—gave me this nonfiction book called The Body Keeps The Score.

Really great book about how the brain and body work, and how experiences shape us. And when I read it, I realized I had issues over my dad’s death. I mean, of course. Of course I would. He got pancreatic cancer when I was five, and he was gone before I turned six. Looking back on it, I could even see when maybe I would have decided to be a pediatrician. Dad died in December, and that spring of my kindergarten year, I had a lot of tummy trouble. I remember I went to the doctor lots of times.

I close my eyes and rest my head against my bath pillow, and let my mind drift. Retrospectively, I can see one of the reasons I went for Corey was his age. The feeling I got when I was near him, like I was safe and protected. Daddy Issues are a thing—they really are. And, so what, right? So I’m a normal person.

But I try to think about these things now. If I find myself really upset, having to jerk my car onto a side street and hop out and put my hands on the warm car hood to avoid having a panic attack…I try to think of why.

So here I am in my bath, my foot curled around a fizzing bath bomb, my phone on a table in the den, so I won’t keep on checking it.

I think about my future baby, about Gabe, about our past. I think of whether I can do this if there’s any chance he’s going to be hot and cold, and on and off. I tell myself that while I’m in the bath, I’ll consider not pursuing this plan thing any further.

And by the time I get out, I’ve decided I’m okay. I’m doing me, and I can choose to not be thrown off by Gabe.