The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (29 page)

“Well, I guess if you’re hungry,” she said reluctantly.

We sat at the table and ate, me in my suit and tie and her in her underpants. Regan had made a casserole that was quite good, and as soon as I took the first bite, I realized that I truly was as hungry as I’d claimed. I cleaned my plate and went for seconds, and Regan looked pleased despite herself. And it wasn’t every day that I got to eat dinner while viewing a beautiful woman’s cleavage, so it was all in all a memorable occasion.

After dinner, I carried Regan into the bedroom and carefully lay her down on the mattress. I turned on the bedside lamp, and her skin glowed golden in the warm light, like she was lit from within. She gazed up at me with so much trust in her eyes that I knew my only purpose in life, from that day until the second I drew my last breath, was to do everything I could to deserve and maintain that trust.

She was going to be my wife. I was the luckiest man on earth.

All I wanted, suddenly, was to make love to her. No games, no teasing, no waiting for her to break: just the two of us in bed, our bodies moving together, warm and close beneath the sheets.

“I love you,” I said, staring down at her.

“I love you, too,” she said.

I stripped out of my clothes in record time, letting my suit crumple onto the floor, heedless of any wrinkles. I lay down on the mattress beside Regan, turned on one side to face her, and tried to figure out where I wanted to touch her first.

I started with her shoulders. I bent to kiss the left one, then the right, and then slid her bra straps down. Her bra clasped in the front, which made removing it very easy: I simply spread the cups to the side, and her perfect breasts were exposed to me.

Like most men my age, I had seen my fair share of breasts, both in person and in pornography; and so I felt fairly confident in my assessment that Regan’s were among the nicest, full and round, with nipples that furled up so deliciously beneath my tongue and fingers. I bent and sucked one of her nipples into my mouth, using my teeth every so lightly. She arched up against me and gasped, and I felt my cock throb in response, full and heavy between my thighs.

Christ, I wanted her.

I slid one hand inside her panties. She was wet for me already, practically dripping with arousal. I wondered if she had been wet all through dinner, sitting there at the table soaking through her underpants, ready for me. I could have had here right there on the floor, fast and hard.

But I wanted her here, slow and sweet. This was better.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmured, leaning down to kiss her, my fingers moving gently between her legs.

“You,” she said. “I don’t know. Don’t make me talk, I just want to—to—”

“Shh, I know,” I said. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t I always?”

“Carter,” she said: one word, just my name, but with so much meaning packed into it.

I couldn’t wait. I needed to have her right then, that very moment, or I was going to explode. I wanted to draw it out, make it special for her, but the demands of my body were too urgent.

I tugged her panties down her thighs. She raised her knees to make it easier for me, and I drew them down over her feet and tossed them onto the floor. Her newly exposed flesh glistened, and I bent to kiss her there, chastely, reveling in her scent. She jerked slightly, startled or aroused, and I curled one hand over her hip to hold her in place.

She was ready for me, and I couldn’t wait. I fished a condom from the nightstand and rolled it onto my cock, hissing through my teeth at the touch of my own hands. Regan, watching me, spread her thighs and opened her arms, beckoning to me, and I didn’t need to be told twice.

I moved on top of her, bracing my weight on my elbows, her warm skin pressed against mine from chest to ankles. She was so soft and yielding, and then I positioned my cock at her entrance and pushed into her, and she was yielding there, too, and also hot and tight, and I had to pause for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply, in order to keep from embarrassing myself.

“Carter,” she said again. I opened my eyes and leaned down to kiss her, and stayed like that for a few minutes, motionless inside of her, trading slow kisses and trying to convince myself that this was real, that this incredible woman really had agreed to marry me.

“I can’t wait to put a ring on your finger,” I said, “so that everyone knows you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she said, and no words had ever sounded so sweet.

I began moving at last, very slowly, rocking my hips against her. She curled her legs around me and drew her hands up and down my back, both soothing and titillating. I kissed her face and neck, all the parts of her that I could reach, and we rocked together like the sea.

I lost track of time. It seemed to go on forever, our bodies moving as one, Regan meeting each thrust and moaning beneath me. Her cries became louder and more frequent, and as her body tensed, muscles drawing taut, I realized belatedly that she was about to come.

“Let go, my sweet one,” I told her, and she shuddered and clenched rhythmically around me.

Feeling her flutter around my cock was the last straw. I quickened the pace of my thrusts, my orgasm building swiftly, and within a few strokes I was in its grasp, helpless, shaken.

We came down together, slowly.

I stroked her sweaty hair back from her forehead and kissed her, our noses bumping together. She smiled at me and stretched, lithe and lovely.

“I feel like I need to smoke a cigarette after that,” I said.

She laughed. “Have you ever smoked in your life?”

“In college, a few times. I thought I was cool. I wasn’t.” I stroked her breasts, no longer sexually interested but still happy to touch them as long as they were exposed. “I have to go deal with this condom,” I said.

“Okay. Then come back and cuddle with me,” she said.

I grinned, and pulled out of her carefully. “Your wish is my command,” I said. I padded into the bathroom, turning in the doorway to look back at her. “And tomorrow we’ll go buy rings.”

“And then what?” she asked. “What comes next, after that?”

“After that, we’ll just be happy,” I said. “We’ll keep on being happy. For the rest of our lives, I guess.”

She smiled at me like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“N
icholas Brandon!”

“Chizoma Buhari!”

I waited.

“Phuoc Bui!”

Regan’s mother leaned over. “She next?”

I nodded. “I think so,” I whispered back.

The man at the podium looked down at his list. “Regan Cabatu!”

Rubylyn squeezed my arm so tightly that it hurt, but I didn’t mind. I felt the same way.

Regan, beaming, climbed the steps onto the stage. Her black gown was too large, and her mortarboard was slightly askew, but she looked beautiful: glowing, triumphant. She crossed to the man at the podium, who shook her hand and gave her the blue tube containing her hard-won diploma.

Beside me, Regan’s mother used a crumpled tissue to wipe away her tears.

“Joanna Canter!” the man called, already on to the next graduate, and Regan sailed off the stage and disappeared down the steps at the other side.

We wouldn’t see her until after the ceremony. I settled in to wait. I had my phone with me, of course, but I thought it would be rude to start replying to work emails while other families were still waiting for their loved one’s name to be called. Regan’s mother pulled out her knitting and continued work on an unidentifiable tube of yarn.

When the commencement ended at last, we fought our way outside through the crowds to the corner of 34th Street, where Regan and I had agreed to meet. She was waiting there already, holding her cap and diploma in one hand and shading her eyes with the other, searching for me in the crowd.

I nudged Regan’s mother. “There she is,” I said, pointing.

Rubylyn shoved her tote bag at me and hustled down the sidewalk, calling Regan’s name. Regan, hearing her, turned toward us, and I saw the exact moment that she realized who was calling to her, because an expression of shock and joy came over her face.

By the time I reached Regan’s side, she and her mother were hugging and crying. I slung Rubylyn’s bag over my shoulder and watched them, my heart so full I felt like it might burst.

They disentangled after several minutes, and Regan turned to me, her face streaked with tears. “You didn’t tell me,” she wailed.

“Surprise,” I said, and she launched herself at me. I caught her, laughing, and spun her in a circle, kissing her wet face. I set her down and said, “I’m so proud of you.” I bent to kiss her: Regan, my lovely wife.

“You flew my mother out here?” she asked. “How did you—how long have you been planning this?”

“Months,” I said. “And you told me I’m terrible at keeping secrets! Eat your words, Cabatu.” She had, of course, refused to change her name when she married me. I had been a little hurt when we first discussed it, but she explained that she felt that changing her name would mean denying her heritage, and then I understood. I never wanted her to feel invisible, or erased.

“I’m eating them,” she said, eyes crinkling with her smile. She turned to her mother and said something in Tagalog, and Rubylyn laughed and nodded.

“Are you ladies hungry?” I asked. “Late lunch? We don’t need to be at my mother’s until 7:00, and I imagine we’ll all be starving by then.”

“I could eat,” Regan said, taking my hand, and I smiled at her. She was always hungry, lately.

Well. It made sense. She was, after all, eating for two.

Her mother didn’t know yet. We were planning to break the news at dinner that night. I was eagerly anticipating my mother’s protestations that she couldn’t
possibly
be old enough to become a grandmother.

We walked south on 11th, toward Chelsea. It was a lovely spring day, not too hot. As we strolled along, I slung one arm around Regan’s shoulders and said, “So what happens next?”

“Well, law school,” she said. “And, you know.” She glanced at her mother, who was gawking at her surroundings and didn’t appear to be paying attention. “Children.”

“More than one?” I asked, faking horror. “Do you really think that two only children can successfully raise a brood of offspring?”

“We’ll start with one, and see how it goes,” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “And then what?”

“And then we’ll be happy,” she said firmly.

I squeezed her shoulders. “I think we already are.”

She looked up at me and smiled, and said, “I know. We really are.”

<<<<>>>>

––––––––

I
f you liked this book, please consider
leaving a review
! As an indie author, word of mouth is very important to me, and I greatly appreciate any and all reviews.

––––––––

S
ign up for my newsletter
to be the first to find out about new releases, or
visit my website
for updates.

––––––––

I
always welcome email from readers:
[email protected]

M
any thanks to the Sunday afternoon crew for their input, both insightful and absurd; to my focus group of one, for explaining the appeal of “The Bachelor”; and to Mr. Linder, without whose unwavering support and helpful suggestions this book would never have been written.

And special thanks to everyone who read the first one and asked for a sequel. I hope it was worth the wait!

© 2
014 Bec Linder, all rights reserved.

––––––––

T
his is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

––––––––

C
over design © Bec Linder. Cover photograph Canstockphoto.com