I’d opted instead to protect myself. To protect Esme.
I saw that photo. The beautiful woman. The child. The happy little family picnic. And I assumed the worst.
I thought I was saving Esme from being“the child on the side.”
Thought I was saving myself from being“the woman on the side.”
From being the mistake. The scandal. The problem that showed up with a baby bump and a broken heart.
But now? Now I know.
He’s not married. He doesn’t have children. He saved my damned note for two years. He remembered the line in French that I used to sign.
I toss and turn until the sheets are twisted and the blankets are on the floor.
What if I believe him, and this weekend ends in radio silence, too?
What if I tell him now, and he thinks I’m just angling for something?
What if he wants nothing to do with being a father?
What if he resents me for not telling him sooner?
What if he tries to take Esme from me because he can give her things I can’t?
The last thought sends a tremor through me so sharp I curl in on myself.
And still, I don’t sleep.
Not until sometime after 3 a.m. When exhaustion finally wins. And when it does, it drags me down into a dream I don’t want to leave.
“Rhea…”
In the dream, his voice is barely a whisper, but I feel it in every inch of my body.
“Come to bed,” he murmurs, arms open, sheets pulled back, his dark eyes warm and steady. “Get some rest.”
I go to him. Without hesitation. I climb into the bed, into the quiet safety of his chest.
One arm wraps around me. The other strokes my hair as his voice brushes my temple:
“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to figure this out.”
And then I’m kissing him—like I’ve waited years to do. Like my whole future depends on the way he kisses me back.
He does. Fully. Desperately.
His tongue slides against mine, drinking me in, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.
I feel his hardness pressingagainst my thigh, and I trace a line from his dimpled chin to the curve of his neck, down the smooth plane of his chest, his firm, perfect stomach.
My hand finds him, hot and throbbing, and I straddle him slowly, holding him at my entrance. My body aches with need, wet and ready, every cell begging for him.
But I don’t let him in. Not yet. Instead, I draw slow, teasing circles with my hips, feeling the thick, perfect pressure of him poised right there.
So close.
And then?—
