Brenda Joyce (42 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“You will have a nurse and a nanny. Bring the baby to work with you. You could certainly make one of the back rooms into a nursery. I will loan you the money, Violette, in order to get started, with interest, but with very favorable terms.”
She was speechless.
“Are you going to cry?” He would not allow his gaze to wander now. Her wrapper had begun to stick to her flesh in tantalizing places.
She shook her head, fighting tears. When she could finally speak, she said, “It is the baby. Dr. Aubigner says most women get very emotional when in this state.”
“So I have heard,” he said wryly.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, folding her arms-above her abdomen and under her breasts.
He stared, averted his eyes. “I think I have imposed on you long enough,” he said roughly. Suddenly he was standing. “Thank you for
le petit déjeuner
.” He strode out of the kitchen, knowing if he did not leave now his self-control might snap. And then what? They were divorced; he could not stand another rejection. And he was engaged to Catherine.
She raced after him. “Blake, you did not eat a thing. You did not even finish your coffee.”
He halted at the front door, his hand on the knob, shifting to face her. His gaze roamed over her delicate features.
She stared into his eyes, her pupils dilated. “And what about the nurses?” she whispered.
“The nurses,” he repeated. He clenched the doorknob. “The nurses.”
“Let me dress quickly, and then we can begin interviewing them together this afternoon,” she said in a rush of words.
He could not reply. He found himself staring at her mouth, which was just slightly parted, and at her ripe breasts. The wrapper she wore, clinging damply to her flesh, had parted. Blake was frozen. It was clear that she was not wearing a single thing beneath it.
“Blake?” She suddenly realized why he was staring and she jerked the thin satin robe together, flushing. “It was so hot last night,” she began.
Blake met her eyes. “Nothing has changed,” he heard himself say roughly. “Nothing.”
Her mouth parted, trembling.
“God,” Blake said, and his palms closed on her shoulders, the satin wet beneath his hands. She moaned, immediately swaying toward him—but he had already stepped forward unthinkingly. Her swollen belly pushed into his. He was fully erect.
Violette reached up and covered one of his hands with hers. Holding his gaze, she moved it down, to where he’d ached to place it all that morning, on her wonderfully huge, hard stomach. “Feel our baby,” she whispered.
And Blake caressed the mound that contained their child, eyes squeezed shut, tenderly. She stood utterly still.
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, especially now, he wanted to tell her how much he needed her, and how much he loved her, but he could not speak. He pressed his mouth against the side of her throat, a single small kiss, still exploring her belly, aching now to slide his hands even lower, to touch her sex. Instead he kissed the spot where her neck joined her shoulder. She whimpered, covered his hand with hers, and moved his palm up and over one breast.
Blake choked on a groan, cupping both of her breasts now, inside of the wrapper. A red haze filled his mind, wiping out almost all coherent thought. He wanted this woman so badly, in spite of how much she had hurt him.
The wrapper fell open. Blake, rolling her large, erect nipples between his fingertips, paused. Violette’s eyes opened, their gazes locked. “You are so beautiful like this,” he said.
She reached forward, gripped his hips, pulling him toward her until his hard arousal pressed into her own loins.
And he knew. This, today, was inevitable. Their gazes locked. They meshed. She in his embrace and his mouth on hers, hard and hot and hungry. She clung to his shoulders,
pressing her body against his. His thigh jammed between hers, until she rode him.
It was a long, hungry, passionate kiss, one filled with nine endless months of separation, desperation, and a desire for one another that had not died, but somehow, instead, had inexplicably grown.
They sank to the floor. Braced on his hands and knees above her, Blake covered her face with kisses while she delved into his trousers, stroking deep and deeper still. He rained kisses on her throat and chest. He took one large nipple into his mouth and suckled on it. He reached down and cupped her sex, not roughly, but possessively. Violette gasped.
And thrashing, she finally touched his massive, rock-hard organ. Her hand closed around him.
His mind snapped. He arched into her palm, nearly insane with wanting this woman whom he had missed so much, so long. Violette pulled him toward her and he understood completely. For one instant he straightened and kicked off his trousers and drawers.
Yet with the back of his mind he was vaguely aware of the limiting factors in their lives, which he did not want to think about now—factors like the divorce, like Catherine, like Farrow.
Violette whispered his name, slid her hand down his belly, touched him, then suddenly slid down beneath him on her back. She kissed his abdomen just above his raging sex, again and again. Then her lips somehow pressed against him.
Blake cried out, all thoughts forgotten. He reared up over her, distended as never before. He had only one concern now. He did not want to hurt her or the child.
“Blake,” she called, rubbing his shoulders urgently.
“Violette. Are you certain? I don’t want to hurt you,” he said thickly, ready to explode.
“You won’t hurt me,” she cried, her nails suddenly raking down his arms. “Blake, please!”
He rolled her onto her side and moved behind her, taking her into his arms, his phallus pressed up hard against her buttocks. He shifted, pressing himself between her warm, soft thighs. Blake caressed her belly, her breasts, then her thighs and finally her hot, wet sex. Violette bent one knee, moaning, an invitation he could not refuse.
He was there, poised against her entrance. Holding her hips,
he tested her, using every ounce of self-control he had ever possessed. She cried out as he slowly, inch by inch, pressed his long, thick length inside of her. And then their union was complete.
He moved, thrusting rapidly, Violette meeting him as wildly. She panted, gasped, took his hands and placed them on her breasts. “Oh, God,” she said, the sound strangled. “God, Blake, God!”
He felt her explosion. His hands slid to her abdomen and he thrust harder, deeper, as she continued to cry his name. He felt the peak approaching. A whirlwind of ecstasy, mind-numbing, cresting, explosive. His arms tightened around her. This extraordinary woman, a Venus, the mother of his child, whom he had missed so much, would always miss. “Violette!” he gasped.
And it was there in his mind, on the tip of his tongue, as he came.
I love you, I need you, come back.
But he did not say the words aloud.
 
Blake held her in his arms, sanity returning to him. She was warm and wonderful in his embrace, a part of him never wanted to let her go, to have this moment end, but he was in a state of growing disbelief. She was about to deliver a child, for God’s sake. Had he hurt her?
And they were divorced. He was engaged to another woman. She was in love with another man. What had they done?
He knew she was suddenly as shocked and stunned as he. Her relaxed body stiffened. Her tension felt as if it matched his exactly.
There was so much that he wanted to say that he did not know where to start, or if he could even speak. He swallowed, violent emotions warring with one another within him. “Violette, I beg your forgiveness. Have I hurt you?” He was more than anxious.
She shook her head.
He sat up and, looking down, saw her eyes squeezed shut. He reached for his pants. “Please do not cry now,” he begged.
She shook her head again, gulped air. When she opened her eyes and their gazes met, he saw how upset she was. He helped her to sit up and slid her wrapper up over her shoulders. He pulled it closed, belting the sash. As he reached for his trousers, he heard her choke on a sob.
“I am terribly sorry,” he began, and stopped. She was absolutely
pale, except for her eyes, which were red. And in a way he wasn’t sorry at all. Being with Violette was heaven on earth, and he was experienced enough to know that it would never be this way again with another woman. But she was not his for the taking. Their paths, once converged, had forked. Soon she would marry someone else.
He almost doubled over with the stabbing pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked again, huskily.
Her tone was unnaturally high. “You do not … have to apologize.”
He was about to argue, but sensed that if he did she would burst abruptly into tears, and he nodded instead. “Very well,” he said cautiously.
“It takes two,” she said hoarsely. Tears filled her eyes.
“Please,” he said, touching one tear with the tip of one finger.
Do not hate me
, he wanted to say. He remained silent.
She brushed his hand away. “I am fine. You did not hurt me. Or the baby.” She got to her knees and he realized she was trying to get up, no easy task in her awkward state.
Immediately Blake put his arm around her and helped her to stand upright. “Shall I run you a bath?” he asked quickly. He was wishing, desperately, that she had a maid. And almost wishing, as desperately, that this had not just happened.
“I can manage myself,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed. Her expression was strained with anguish. He could not look away.
He knew he had to speak. But say what? Everything had become so complicated, so confused, beyond repair and solving, it seemed. Anguish overwhelmed him, too. Was she regretting their passion—because she loved Farrow? “You need a maid now,” he said grimly. “And I want to take you to see Aubigner immediately.”
“My appointment with the doctor is next week.” She turned her back on him, hugging herself. And then she gasped, staring down at the floor.
“Violette? What is it?” he cried.
And he saw where she was looking, at the puddle of clear fluid on the floor, her body’s water streaming down her legs.
For one moment he did not understand. But she whispered, swaying against him, gripping his arm, “My water has broken. Blake, Dr. Aubigner told me when this happens the baby will come very soon!”
When he realized what she said, he was terrified.
And her eyes were wide with sudden, uncontrollable excitement.
 
Violette was covered with sweat, her pale cotton gown sticking to her body like a second skin, so exhausted that she could not move, but she was beaming, her arms somehow outstretched, as Dr. Aubigner handed her the tiny, swaddled baby girl she had spent eight hours delivering. From across the private hospital room, one Blake had insisted upon, Blake stood, staring at them, his face drawn.
“You have a beautiful daughter, madame,” the smiling, dark-haired doctor said. “A job very well done.”
Violette felt her heart turn over as she felt her baby in her arms for the very first time. She brought the tiny child against her body and gazed down in rapture at her. The baby’s blue eyes were wide open and seemed focused, although Violette was not sure that was the case. She had a chubby face, one blotchy in places with redness, but her eyes were wide and almond-shaped, and she had a tiny nose and a perfect pink rosebud mouth. Although her head seemed a funny shape, pointy in places and indented elsewhere, Violette thought she was the most beautiful child she had ever seen, the most beautiful child, surely, in the entire world. “Welcome to the world, darling,” she whispered.
The baby stared unblinkingly up at Violette.
Violette laughed and hugged her gently, aware of an intense feeling of completion in her heart, her body, and her soul. How she loved this tiny human being. In that moment, she had never loved anyone or anything as much as she did sweet, sweet Susan, her daughter.
She became aware of murmured male voices and looked up to see Blake and Aubigner in a quiet conversation on the other side of the small room. From Blake’s grim expression she knew he was asking about the child’s health—did she have ten fingers and ten toes, her eyesight and her hearing? Violette laughed to herself. How silly men could be. Susan was perfect, just perfect, and she knew it without having to be told.
She gazed from her tiny, cherubic daughter to her child’s father and felt her heart swell even more, impossibly so. How she loved Blake. All that had happened had changed everything, she realized. Not only had their lovemaking been glorious, in spite of her fears of his leaving her afterward, but he
had stayed with her through the entire birthing, an exhausting and painful ordeal that had lasted eight long, at times agonizing, hours. Violette remembered holding Blake’s hand so hard that he had actually gasped. He had not left her side even once, not until after Susan was born and in Aubigner’s hands.
And she was naming the little girl Susan, after Blake’s mother. Had it been a boy, she would have named it Richard, after Blake’s father.

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