Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(129)

He reaches out and pulls me gently backwards onto the pillow. ‘You were shouting.’

My skin is damp with sweat. I inhale deeply. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘It hurts to sleep.’ His voice is dry.

I rise up on one elbow. ‘Is the pain really bad?’

‘I’ll live. Are you all right, Lil?’

I take a deep, calming breath. ‘It was nothing. Just a nightmare.’

‘What was it about?’

The hole that cannot be filled yawns. I can’t tell him about Luke. There is only one way I know to distract him. I give a tiny laugh. ‘Do you still want to have sex?’

For a second he seems confused, and then I see that familiar gleam of sexual arousal flickering in the depths of his eyes. ‘What do you think?’

I lift the duvet off our bodies and then I place both my palms on either side of him, very, very gently lowering myself onto his erect cock, sighing with pleasure as that big cock invades, stretches and fills me.

‘God! I’ve missed your tight *,’ he groans.

Carefully, so my body never touches anything but his cock, I clench and tighten my muscles around him and drag myself up and down that deliciously thick shaft. The nightmare falls away in pieces like leaves in autumn and makes me forget the tide of emotion that was aching to come out.

I whimper with pure pleasure and feel him get harder and bigger deep inside me. I know he will soon be at the point of no return. I feel his fingers move and locate my moist, swollen clit straining and protruding from its hood.

As his seed rushes upwards through his shaft he firmly grasps the tight bud between his fingers and squeezes it hard. The sudden furious sensation is so different from my gentle manipulations that it triggers my climax. I try not to buck too violently as the blissful spasms of my orgasm shake me from head to foot, but with his own climax upon him he instinctively forces more of his shaft into me, causing my buttocks to land on his thighs.

His groan is one of explosive ecstasy tempered by pain. For some time I hold him trapped within my body until our bodies are finally quiet. I remember once reading that the heart is like a tendril—it cannot flourish alone. It will always lean toward the nearest and loveliest thing it can twine itself with and cling to it. When I try to gently lift my body away he makes a sound of protest.

‘What is it?’ I whisper, thinking I have hurt him.

‘I am so…’ He hesitates. ‘Proud of you.’





SEVENTEEN


A week after the fight, when only yellow bruises and unhealed ribs remain, we go to Jake’s mother’s house for lunch. She lives in a cottage with a charming English garden. English gardens are always best in spring but hers still looks good. There are hanging baskets of purple petunias by her front door. The door opens before we can knock and a surprisingly small woman, perhaps five feet three inches, with extraordinarily bright green eyes, smiles at us.

She kisses her son warmly on both his cheeks and formally extends her hand toward me. I am relieved by this show of formality. Her hands are small but strong—a gardener’s hands. Jake introduces us.

‘Nice to meet you, Lily,’ she says. Her voice is soft but her accent is more pronounced than her son’s.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mara,’ I reply.

She withdraws her hand rather quickly and clasps it along with the other close to her chest.

‘You better come in,’ she says, and leads us into her living room. It is exactly as I expected it to be. As clean as two new pins with net curtains, family photos galore, and dainty china figurines on the windowsill.


‘Take a seat,’ she invites, and hovering uncertainly at the door asks if we would like something to drink.

‘No, you sit down and I’ll fix us all a drink. What will you have, Mother?’

I take the sofa and she perches on the end of a velour-covered Queen Anne chair. ‘I’ll have a sherry,’ she says. I notice that her hands are tightly clenched in her lap.

‘Lily?’ Jake looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having then.’

Jake walks to the carved armoire and opens it. One shelf holds an impressive selection of alcohol.

‘So how did the two of you meet?’ Mara probes.

I return my gaze to her. She is smiling politely, but her eyes are sharp. ‘Shane introduced us,’ I reply.

She frowns. ‘Shane?’

‘Yes, I was working as a dancer at Eden.’

‘Dancer?’

Ah! Malice disguised as moral outrage. She just about stopped herself from crossing herself.

‘She was,’ Jake interrupts smoothly. ‘She doesn’t dance anymore.’

His mother turns to him. There is a puzzled, curious expression on her face. ‘Oh!’

‘Now she works for me.’

‘Really?’ she says softly, taking her glass of sherry from her son.

I have the urge to down the entire contents of my glass, but I don’t. Instead I hold the glass in my hand and endure fifteen minutes of interrogation disguised as polite chat.

Finally, his mother stands. ‘Please excuse me. I think lunch might be ready.’ She disappears into the kitchen and I feel the tenseness in my shoulders go.

‘I think she likes you,’ Jake whispers.