Slave to the Rhythm (32 page)

“Why?” I said sharply. “You’ve already made up your mind, so why should I listen to you?”

She only hesitated for a second. “Because I’m your mother.”

“And Ash is my husband, so be
very
careful what you say.”

Her eyes widened, then she did pause. “Do you love this boy?” she asked quietly.

“He’s not a boy.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. “He’s amazing, Mom, if you could just give him a chance. He’s kind and sweet, really funny. He works hard and he’s so talented. I’m really proud of him.”

She sat on the bed next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulders.

“Do you love him?”

Ash had come into my world through rage and violence, but every time I saw him, I smiled; when he walked into a room, he lit it up. The way he’d kissed me, twice, my skin sizzled under his touch.

But I couldn’t lie to my mom. I tried to find the right words and swallowed nervously.

Mom studied my face, then kissed me on the cheek.

“That’s all I needed to know.”

What?

After she’d gone, I lay on the bed, replaying our conversation, wondering what she meant. What had she seen in my face that had made her smile like that?

I woke when the door opened and light from the hallway streamed into the bedroom.

“Laylay?”

“I’m awake,” I coughed, my voice hoarse.

Ash sat on the bed, his thigh pressed against my back, his hand rubbing my shoulder gently.

“They’re getting ready to eat.”

“Already?”

I glanced at my watch, surprised to see that I’d napped for over an hour.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t mean to sleep for so long. I’m sorry I left you alone. Was it okay?”

He laughed quietly.

“Your family is nice. They’re not monsters, Laney. I’m fine.”

“I know, but they can be full on sometimes.”

We walked down the stairs together and at the bottom Ash took my hand and kissed it. I glanced around expecting to see someone watching us, but it was just us.

My bewildered heart gave a happy jolt and I threw him a questioning look, but the only answer was a slight curve to his full lips. I wanted to ask him what it meant. Everyone was being so confusing this evening.

But voices were calling us, and we headed into the lion’s den.

It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. I guess my earlier hissy fit had gotten the desired result. Either that or Mom had laid down the law. Everyone was friendly, although Dad was still throwing loaded glances at Ash.

But they stared. They kept on staring at Ash, stealing furtive glances, as if he was a flamingo who’d accidentally landed on a duck pond, foreign, fascinating, but in the wrong place.

He looked so different from the men in my family, darker, more exotic. His accent had a strange slur to it so the words rolled into each other, especially when he talked quickly.

But they were trying. We were all trying.

I was surprised when Eric and Ash struck up a conversation about soccer, and Ash revealed that he was a supporter of the Spanish team Barcelona. I asked if there were any famous soccer teams in Slovenia, but he and Eric laughed at my ignorance, so I butted out. Ash was doing fine without me.

I started to relax for the first time since Collin had opened his big mouth. I think I knew how he’d found out: one of his college friends worked at the clerk’s office where we were married. I didn’t know they were close friends, but I suppose the circumstances were unusual enough for Andy to get in touch with Collin. Not that it made a difference now.

Ash was right about one thing: it was more of a relief than I’d expected now that my family knew. I watched him talking with animation, energy pouring from him; so different from the angry, volatile man he’d been earlier. It reminded me that I didn’t know him,
my husband
, that well. I had time to find out—except that our marriage had a two-year expiration date.

After more food and more drink, Ash’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. He grinned at me, leaning in to kiss my neck. And despite the warmth of the crowded kitchen, a small shiver raced under my skin.

How good of an actor was he? It felt real, but was it?

Then from the living room, the sound of cèilidh music floated into the kitchen.

“Come on,” Paddy laughed. “Let’s show Ash some real dancing!”

My family was so Irish it was almost cliché: music, dancing, Guinness. I really thought I must be a throwback because I was the only person in my family who hadn’t inherited the tall, red-haired genes; the only one who couldn’t dance or carry a tune; and I never drank Guinness.

Ash followed the stampede next door, then suddenly realized I wasn’t with him, turned back and pulled me up from the table.

“Come!”

“Ash, no!” I wailed. “Everyone knows I can’t dance!”

“Yes, you can,” he laughed happily.

He dragged me into the living room, ignoring the smirks. My whole family knew I was hopeless—totally rhythm-proof. But Ash simply lifted me up and whirled me around so my feet didn’t even touch the floor. I locked my arms around his neck, laughing at his mischievous smile as we danced around the room, my feet swinging somewhere around his shins.

We were dancing, together, our rhythm matching perfectly, because I was moving to
his
rhythm. His strong arms were wrapped around my waist, and my cheek rested softly against his. With Ash, I could dance.

We spent the rest of the evening with my family, and it felt good. I could see the questions in their eyes, but they let us just . . . be.

It was only slightly awkward when we went to bed. After all, it wasn’t the first time Ash and I had shared a bed, only this one didn’t leave much space between us. I was hanging onto the edge, trying not to fall off, but however I angled myself, some part of me was touching Ash. In the end, after several minutes of both of us failing to get comfortable, he grunted with frustration, rolled me onto my side, and wound his long body behind me, so his chest was pressed against my back.

“Sleep,” he said, his warm breath blowing across the back of my neck.

I jerked awake as Ash’s elbow crashed into my ribs and he cried out. Then some garbled words in a long moan as his body thrashed around.

I struggled to free myself from his arms and roll over, but when I did, I saw that his eyes were tightly shut and a thin layer of sweat made his skin glisten in the scattered moonlight.

“Ash, wake up!”

He yelled again, then sat bolt upright, his eyes wild, panic turning them into black pools.

He reacted suddenly, but it wasn’t what I expected.

His lips crashed down on mine with bruising force and I gasped as his heavy body pressed me into the mattress. Shocked, I pushed hard on his shoulders, but he lifted only slightly, moving his mouth to my neck, his hands tightly gripping my waist.

“Laney,” he muttered hoarsely. “My wife.”

Was it a statement, a question, an invitation? I couldn’t tell, but I did hear the need in his voice, and as one hand brushed against my hip and squeezed hard, my body leapt.

This was weeks of pretending I didn’t want him. This was two months of ignoring our mutual attraction. This was the man who had crashed into my life and painted it with color. This was the missing piece.

“Ash, I want . . .”

“Laney, I need . . .”

We spoke at the same time, but his mouth slid to my throat, to my breastbone, and whatever words he was going to say were lost. Then his teeth bit through the material of my pajamas, fastening around the hard nipple, and I gasped.

He knelt up, ripping his sweat soaked t-shirt from his body while my hungry hands pushed the waistband of his shorts over his hips and the curve of his ass. He kicked them off impatiently and his whole long, lean body was revealed briefly, his thighs solid, his cock rigid. He braced himself over me, then his head dipped and he dragged my shirt up with his teeth and ripped my pajama pants from my legs with one hand.

A second later he was inside me, my body barely prepared.

I cried out as he pushed my knees up, sinking deeper, and this time a zing of pleasure ran up my spine, then settled low in my belly.

Ash’s eyes were closed, his forehead lined with a deep frown, his dark head bent.

Then he buried his face in my neck, pumping so hard the bed shook and creaked. I was right: he fucked like he danced—intense and full of passion, utterly focused.

I felt wanted, needed, all woman, desirable and desired.

It was so sudden and furious, so urgent, answering a craving I hadn’t acknowledged, so surprising, so shocking, so intoxicating. One hit and I was hooked.

I hung onto his shoulders as he pounded into me, trying to lock my legs around his waist, but the chaotic, thrusting force of his dick ramming into me shook me loose. All I could do was hold him against me.

Sweat slicked our chests together, my breasts flattened almost painfully.

He came suddenly with a growl and I felt the pulse of hot cum inside me, making me cry out.

“Ash!”

Hearing my voice, he froze, then lifted his head slowly, a sort of wide-eyed wonder on his face.

“Laney?”

He stared at me, shock and disbelief clear on his beautiful face. I gasped, my clit shooting bolts of pleasure through my body.

“I was dreaming,” he whispered. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“Feels real to me,” I whispered, loosening my fierce grip on his shoulders.

He pulled out abruptly, making me wince, and as his cum leaked out of me, the level of embarrassment for both of us was painful.

He swung his long legs so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

“God, I’m so sorry, Laylay,” he said, his body trembling. “
Moj sonček
, I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t know how to respond. My body was warm and satiated, but my mind was traveling a million miles an hour.

“I . . . um . . . I’d better go clean up,” I muttered.

I grabbed my robe from the floor and hurried to the bathroom, feeling moist and uncomfortable as semen continued to trickle down my thighs.

I cleaned up quickly then took a deep breath, trying to process what had happened, or rather, what it meant for me, for Ash, for us.

He so obviously regretted what had happened. I ought to—God, he hadn’t even known it was me, had he? But somehow, I couldn’t regret it. I wanted him. From the first time I’d seen him, the attraction had been intense, but so much had come between us. Life had been cruel.

When I opened the bedroom door, he looked up. He was in the same position, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I hurt you.”

His sharp cheekbones threw shadows across his face, and his eyes were clouded.

“I was surprised,” I said quietly, sitting next to him.

He searched my face for any trace of a lie, or pain, or fear, but seemed satisfied as I watched him steadily.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to his empty hands.

“For what?”

His gaze shot up to meet mine, questions in his dark eyes.

“I think I went a little crazy,” he said, his words bumping together as his body worked through a long shudder.

“I think we both did,” I said, taking one of his hands in mine.

Our fingers wove together and he studied our joined hands before speaking again.

“You’re really okay?”

“Ash, if you buy me daisies instead of tulips, I will lie and say I love them; if you eat the last cookie and leave the jar empty, I’ll lie and say I wasn’t hungry; if you wear socks with sandals, I’ll lie and say I don’t care—but I promise, I’m not lying about this.”

I leaned forward and kissed his bare shoulder, his skin cool and satin smooth.

“You’re cold. Come back to bed.”

He sighed and his shoulders lifted a little as if a great weight had been released.

He was still naked, but unembarrassed by his body. Unlike me. Despite what we’d just done, I slipped my pajamas back on before sliding into bed.

He pulled me against him immediately, shivering only slightly when our legs tangled and my cold feet pressed against his calves.

He shifted, his body tense.

“Laney,” he said, his voice still uncertain. “I didn’t use a condom.”