He raises his head so that our eyes meet, and his lips brush my nipple as he speaks. “Hush, baby. Let me take care of you.”
I whimper, knowing that begging will do me no good whatsoever—and also knowing that even though he’s left me hanging, the ultimate explosion will be that much more intense. After all, he knows my body intimately, and he knows how to play me to perfection.
Slowly, he starts to kiss his way down, his tongue tracing the curve of my breast, his lips brushing my ribs.
He trails delicate kisses down my midline. And with each touch of his lips against my overheated skin, I feel a corresponding ache in my core, my body clenching with an urgent desire to have my husband inside me.
As his mouth moves lower, so do his hands, until he’s peeled my pants down below my knees, leaving me bare. Slowly, he eases his hand up, his fingers moving slowly over the most violent of the scars that mar my inner thighs even as his lips trace the surgical scar from Anne’s birth.
I’m a cutter. It started when I was a teen, trying to escape from a life that had me trapped, the blade acting as an outlet, the pain centering me. I don’t cut anymore—not now that I have Damien. But I know that it’s still inside me and that it will always be a part of me.
Now, I bite my lower lip, feeling strangely self-conscious as he traces those two very different scars. Damien knows I used to cut, of course. But my self-inflicted scars feel shamefully shallow and weak compared to the one that brought our daughter into this world. “It’s nice to finally have a scar that’s a reminder of joy,” I say softly. “Not pain.”
Damien tilts his head up, and I see nothing but fervent support and love. “You know how I feel, baby. Every one of your scars reflects strength. But yes,” he adds, brushing his lips over the C-section scar. “This one is definitely my favorite.”
I smile, his heartfelt answer erasing my lingering discomfort. “That’s because you claim part ownership.”
“Do I?” He chuckles, his mouth dipping lower until his tongue flicks over my clit and a flurry of sparks ripple through me, a promise of fireworks to come. “Of what? The scar? The baby?”
“All of that,” I say. “And all of me.” I shift my hips in a silent demand. “Damien, please.”
He brushes his lips lightly over my pubic bone as his hands move to my inner thighs, stroking up—but not far enough. I’m burning with anticipation. Craving his hands, his mouth, his cock. I want all of him. I want everything. I want—
“Mama? Baba?”
The little voice makes me yelp, and Damien slides down the bed as I draw the covers up over me. He’s shirtless but still wearing his jeans, and now he fastens the top button before holding out his hand to call her over. “Hey, Snuggles. You can’t sleep?”
We have the third floor thoroughly baby-proofed, which is a good thing as Lara has taken to wandering now that she’s in her toddler bed instead of a crib. Usually we hear her through the baby monitor. Tonight, she was apparently using stealth tactics.
“Come on, then,” Damien says, lifting her up. “Let’s get you tucked back in.”
He glances at me and I grin, loving the way he looks holding his little girl in his arms. “Back soon,” he whispers. “Don’t go away.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, then stretch out as soon as they’ve left the room, imagining he’s still beside me. The brush of his breath. The heat of his touch.
A moment later, I hear them through the monitor. Soft footsteps. The low timbre of Damien’s voice as he urges Lara back to bed. Then gentle, rhythmic words as he reads her a Sandra Boynton bedtime story.
I close my eyes, letting the words drift over me, the sweet sound of Damien reading to our daughter. The soothing tone of his voice.
And the last thing I remember thinking is how much I love that man, and what an incredible father he’s proven to be.
The next time I open my eyes, the room is bright with sunshine. For a moment, I’m confused. Then I get it, and I sit bolt upright.
It’s tomorrow.
And although I feel pretty damn well-rested, I don’t feel well-fucked. And since I know that Damien is in his home office this morning on an international video conference, that situation isn’t going to be remedied anytime soon.
I sigh.
Because right then, I really, really want a do-over.
Chapter 3
My morning is spent feeding Anne, settling in for some quick emails while she goes back to sleep, and then taking a quick shower.
When I get out, I pull on my robe and head to her bassinet. She’s not there, though, and I know that she must be with Bree.
I head for the kitchen to get the scoop on my family and hear Bree’s voice urging Lara to eat her yogurt and Cheerios. “How do you expect to grow up to be strong and smart if you throw your food on the floor instead of eating it?”
As I round the corner, I see her standing with her hands on her hips, her head cocked as she stares my daughter down. According to Bree, her mother is a full-blooded Cherokee and her father grew up in Brooklyn, where his Jewish parents landed after escaping from the Warsaw Ghetto.
“I’m not sure what that makes me,” she told me during her first day on the job, when we’d sat together drinking coffee and watching Lara.
I don’t know either, other than that it makes her stunning, with sharply cut cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and long dark hair that gives her an air of both sophistication and ethereal sweetness.
She’s in her early twenties and is taking a year off from college, and she decided that being a nanny made the most sense while she figured out what she wanted to do next. We hired her when I was on bedrest, but after Anne was born, I took over, wanting to be the girls’ full-time mommy. At least as much as I could.
Whenever I had phone meetings or had to run to my office, Bree would come over from the guest house and take over. These last few days, though, she’s been working full time since we want the kids to be used to having her around all day once I go back to work.
“Come on, Lara,” she urges now, taking the spoon herself and dabbing a bit on Lara’s lower lip. “Just a little taste.”
Lara, howev
er, is having none of it.
Bree’s about to try again when Anne starts to fuss.
“I’ll get her,” I say, and poor Bree actually jumps.
“I didn’t see you there, Mrs. Stark.”
“I just came in, and you can call me Nikki. Remember?”
“Sure, Mrs. Stark,” she says, and grins. We’ve had this conversation already, so I just roll my eyes and move on.
“Oh, good girl,” she says a few moments later, then claps when Lara takes a full bite.
Then she looks over her shoulder to where I’m holding Anne against my shoulder. “You must be excited about tomorrow,” she says. “And today. A party to send you back to work with a smile on. I just love that.”
I shift Anne so that I can see her precious little face. “Well, it’s not really a party, is it?” I coo to her. “But Auntie Sylvia and Uncle Jackson are coming, and so are Aunt Jamie and Uncle Ryan.” Jamie and Ryan aren’t technically related, but since Jamie’s my absolute BFF, I figure they deserve the title.
“See-vee?” Lara says, waving her spoon and flinging Cheerios. “Jay Me?”
“Yup,” I say, moving to give her a kiss on the head. “And as soon as you finish eating, Miss Bree’s going to put you in one of your pretty dresses.”
My oldest daughter is a born Fashionista, and this is apparently serious incentive, as the cereal and yogurt start actually making it past her lips.
Bree catches my eye, and I wink. “And to answer your question, yes. I really am excited. But it’s bittersweet, too.”
“Bittersweet?”
I only shrug. How do I explain the flurry of conflicting emotions that are raging inside me, determined to pull me in opposing directions?
Because the truth is that I love my work, and I’ve genuinely missed it. But I also love my girls, and know I’ll miss them, too.
I feel like I’m split down the middle, and it’s not a feeling I like. On top of that, my emotional turmoil is underscored by a legitimate ache in my breasts, which have started to leak simply from being near my baby, who isn’t the least bit hungry at the moment.