She loves me.
She loves me.
She fucking loves me.
When we finally still, I reluctantly slide out of her, watching as my cum drips between her thighs. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ There’s no disguising the awe in my voice. If I hadn’t already said those three little words, she would have guessed soon enough by the way she fucking mesmerises me.
She swipes a finger over the sticky mess between her legs, then pulls it up to her mouth. Our eyes lock as she sucks it slowly.
Yep. It’s official. I am head over fucking heels with Zara Beckett.
Chapter Forty
ZARA
‘Are you excited?’ I turn to Cole as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. We’re sitting in the back of the SUV with Tate, outside Dr Kensington’s clinic. It’s in an old Georgian house on a narrow, quiet street on the outskirts of the city.
We’re ridiculously early for our appointment, but Cole insisted. Gabriel went in ahead of us to sweep the place and to alert the receptionist to our arrival. The fewer people who see us here, the better. My pregnancy miraculously still hasn’t made the headlines yet, but given the size of my bump, it has to be my family’s influence rather than a fluke. Although if Cole and I were to be spotted together at Dublin’s top obstetrician’s office, a video like that would go viral in seconds. Which is why every day for the past week, he’s begged me to let him arrange a meeting with my family.
I will… just not yet.
This is the happiest I’ve been in,–well, ever, and I’d like to revel in it for a bit longer before burning my Beckett bridges. Cole’s new hotel plans for Barcelona are all over the financial news right now, and my brothers are freshly incensed. Caelon and Killian called to my office last week, and it was all Caeloncould talk about. Apparently Cole had been quoted in some article as calling Caelon’s hotel chains “Beckett’s Piss” instead of “Beckett’s Bliss”.
This stupid feud between my brothers and my boyfriend has to stop. It’s a glorified dick measuring competition.
‘Of course I’m excited.’ Cole beams at me—actually beams. ‘I’m about to see my baby boy.’
‘I’ve been thinking.’ I lean my cheek against his shoulder and twist my face to meet his eyes. ‘We should name him after your father.’
‘Finally.’ He throws his hand up in the air. ‘You’re finally agreeing to call him Hartmann.’
‘No,’ I scoff. ‘No way. Let’s not get carried away now. It’ll be Beckett Hartmann—if you’re lucky.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘I was suggesting we call him Tiernan. That way, even without the new hotel, your father’s legacy lives on in Dublin.’
Cole stares at me for a long silent beat, then cradles my face in his palm. ‘How is it possible that the sexiest woman on the planet is also the most thoughtful, giving, and frankly fucking amazing?’ He presses his lips to mine in a slow, lingering kiss. ‘I love you,’ he whispers, emotion crackling in his voice.
‘And I love you.’ I palm the nape of his neck, pulling his lips against mine again.
One swift rap on the window sets my blood pressure soaring. I’m jittery. Probably excitement rather than nerves, but the adrenaline is certainly pumping today.
‘It’s okay.’ Cole squeezes my bicep. ‘It’s Gabriel.’
Tate hits the button to open the window.
‘All clear. Dr Kensington is almost ready for you.’ Gabriel glances at the clinic’s entrance. A bronze plated plaque is mounted on the wall beside the black glossy wooden door.
A million butterflies soar through my stomach. Seemingto sense them, Cole drops a kiss to my temple. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re in this together now. Let’s go see our baby.’
Gabriel opens the door and offers a hand to help me out. My bump is growing bigger with every passing day. Thankfully, from the way Cole worships it, and the rest of my body, he finds my changing shape both beautiful and beguiling.
He’s right behind me, palm placed firmly on the base of my spine. I glance to my left, then to my right, looking for any paparazzi. You’d think growing up with five overprotective brothers would make me immune to paranoia, but no—not when I’m one snapshot away from becoming the centre of a full-blown Romeo and Juliet style scandal.
To my left, the narrow Georgian street stretches downhill, lined with tall townhouses comprised of redbrick, separated by wrought-iron railings. The soft June breeze carries the scent of cut grass from the little park at the end of the road. A cyclist whizzes past, humming to himself, completely oblivious to the fact a Beckett–Hartmann baby reveal hangs in the balance.
To my right, the row curves slightly, the pale limestone footpaths dappled with sunlight filtering through leafy plane trees. A woman in a lilac coat walks a miniature dachshund, her heels clicking a lazy rhythm against the cobblestones. She doesn’t even look our way.
Across the road, tucked into the shadow of a doorway, a homeless man sits on a folded blanket. I look away, then nearly give myself whiplash as I do a doubletake. Something nudges my memory.
I’ve seen that tatty blanket before.
