Knight on the Children's Ward (9 page)

S
HE
flew through the rest of her shift.

There would be no words of wisdom from Elsie, though.

As Annika flooded the room with light at six the following morning, Elsie stared fixedly ahead, lost in her own little world. And though, as Elsie had revealed, she enjoyed being there, this morning Annika missed her. She would have loved some wise words from her favourite resident.

Instead she propped Elsie up in bed and chatted away to her as she sorted out clothes from Elsie's wardrobe, her stockings, slippers, soap and teeth. Then Annika frowned.

‘Drink your tea, Elsie.'

No matter Elsie's mood, no matter how lucid she was, every morning that Annika had worked there the old lady had gulped at her milky tea as Annika prepared her for her shower.

‘Do you want me to help you?'

She held the cup to her lips, but Elsie didn't drink. The tea was running down her chin.

‘Come on, Elsie.'

Worried, Annika went and found Dianne, the Registered Nurse.

‘Perhaps just leave her shower this morning,' Dianne said when she came at Annika's request and had a look at Elsie. Instead they changed her bed, combed her hair, and Annika chatted about Bertie and all the things that made Elsie smile—only they didn't this morning.

Annika checked her observations, which were okay. The routine here was different from a hospital: there was no doctor on hand. There was nothing to report, no emergency as such.

Elsie just didn't want her cup of tea.

It was such a small thing, but Annika knew that it was vital.

 

It felt strange, driving home to
someone
.

Strange, but nice.

Since her mother had refused to talk to her about her work since she had supposedly turned her back on her family to pursue a ‘senseless' career, Annika had felt like a ball-bearing, rattling around with no resting place, careering off corners and edges with no one to guide her, no one to ask where she was.

It felt different, driving to someone who knew where you had been.

Different letting herself in and knowing that, though he was asleep, if the key didn't go in the lock she would be missed.

She felt responsible, almost, but in the nicest way.

She dropped the bag she had packed on the bathroom floor, and then slipped out of her uniform and showered, using her own shampoo that she had brought from home. It felt nice to see it standing by his shampoo, to wrap herself in his towel and brush her hair and teeth, then put her toothbrush beside his.

The house was still and silent, and she had never felt peace like it.

Nothing like it.

She had never felt so sure that the choice she made now would be right, no matter what it was. The decision was hers.

She could step out of the bathroom and turn right for the spare room and that would be okay.

She could go downstairs and make breakfast and that would be fine too.

Or she could slip into bed beside him and ask for nothing more than his warmth, and that would be the right choice too.

It was her choice, and she was so grateful he was letting her make it.

 

His door
was
always open, and she stepped inside and stood a moment.

He needed to shave—his jaw was black and he looked like a bandit. His eyes were two slits and she knew he was deeply asleep. He was beautiful, dark and, no doubt—according to her mother—completely forbidden, but he was hers for the taking—and she wanted to take.

Annika slipped in bed beside him, her body cool and damp from the shower, and he stirred for a moment and pulled her in, spooned in beside her, awoke just enough to ask how her shift had been.

‘Good.'

And then she felt him fall back to sleep.

His body was warm and relaxed, and hers was cold, tired and weary, drawing warmth from him. She felt him unfurl, felt him harden against her, and then he turned onto his back. She lay there for a moment, till his breath
ing evened out again, and then she rested her wet hair on his chest and wrapped her cold foot between his warm calves. She slid her hand down to his hardening place, heard his breath held beneath her ear, and turned her head and kissed his flat nipple. Her hand stroked him boldly—because this was no sleepy mistake.

‘Annika…'

‘I know.' She did—she knew they were supposed to be taking it slow, knew he was going away, knew it was absolutely bad timing—but… ‘I want it to be you.'

‘What if…?'

‘Then I still want it to be you.'

Her virginity, in that moment, was more important to Ross than it was to her. To him it denoted a commitment that he thought he wasn't capable of making, yet he had never felt more sure in his life.

She traced his lovely length to the moist tip, and then he lifted her head, gently pulled at her hair so that he could kiss her. His hand was on her breast, warming it, holding its weight. Then he was stroking her inside, her warm centre was moist, and she was glad his mouth had left hers because she wanted to bite on her lip.

He kissed her low in the neck, a deep, slow kiss, and he was restraining himself in case he bruised her, but she wanted his bruise, so she pushed at his head, rocking a little against him as his lips softly branded her.

‘Put something on,' she begged, because she wanted to part her legs so badly.

‘Are you sure?' It was the right thing to say, but it seemed stupid, and Annika clearly thought the same.

‘Yes!' she begged. ‘Just put something on.'

He was nuzzling at her breasts now, as his fingers still slid inside her, and his erection was there too, heavy on
her inner thigh, teasing her as his other hand frantically patted at the bedside drawer.

She was desperate.

Little flicks of electricity showered her body. She was wanton as he suckled at her breast and searched unseeing in the drawer. Then she held him again, because she wanted to. She took his tip and slid it over her, and he moaned in hungry regret because he wanted to dive in. Side by side they explored each other's bodies as still he searched for a condom.

‘Here…' He waved it as if he had found the golden ticket, his hand shaking as he wrestled with the foil.

Still she held him, slid him over and over the place he wanted to be till it was almost cruel. He was so hard, so close, and she didn't want him sheathed. She wanted to see and feel—but he had a shred of logic and he used it. He sheathed himself more quickly than he ever had, but he didn't dive in, because he didn't want to hurt her. He claimed her breast again with his mouth, and she cupped him and stroked him again. She teased him, but she could only tease for so long—and then she got her reaction: he was gently in. She was breaking every ingrained rule and it felt divine.

‘Did I hurt you?' he checked.

‘Not yet.'

And he swore to himself that he wouldn't.

Yes, he'd made that promise more than a few times before, but this time he hoped he meant it.

She wanted more, and he pushed so hard into her that she had to lie back. She wanted to accommodate him, to orientate herself to the new position. Those little flicks of electricity had merged into a surge—she couldn't breathe. He was bucking inside her and she was
frantic. She thought she might swear, or cry out his name, but she held back from that. She could feel his rip of release and she wanted to scream, but she wouldn't allow herself. She bit on his shoulder instead, sucked his lovely salty flesh and joined him—
almost
.

Not with total abandon, because she didn't yet know what that was, but she joined him with a rare freedom she had never envisaged.

Then, after, he waited.

As she fell asleep, still he waited.

For the thump of regret, the sting of shame, for him to convince himself that he was just a bastard—but it never came.

H
E WAS
a very patient teacher—and not just in the bedroom. Round and round the field she bobbed, trot, trot, and she even, to her glee, got to gallop. Then Ross showed her the sitting trot, in which her bottom wasn't to lift out of the seat. He did it with no hands, made it look so easy, but it was actually hard work.

Around Ross she was always starving.

‘It's all the exercise!'

She laughed at her own little joke and he kissed her. Then, when she wanted so much more than a kiss, very slowly he took off her boots and she lay back. She could feel the sun on her cheeks and the breeze in the trees, and life was, in that moment, perfect. He sorted out her zip and she let him. In everything she was inhibited—at work, with friends, with family—but not with Ross.

In this, with him, there was no fear or shame, just desire.

‘There,' she told him, because where he was kissing her now was perfect.

‘Again,' she said, when she wanted it there again.

‘More,' she said, when she wanted some more.

She pulled his T-shirt over his head, berating him the second his mouth stopped working so it resumed duty again.

She wanted more—and not just for herself, so she pulled at her own T-shirt till all she wore was a bra. Then she didn't care what she was wearing. She could feel his ragged breathing on her tender skin and sensed her pleasure was his.

He was unshaved, and she was tender, so she had to push him back, just once, and yet she so much wanted him to go on.

And he dived in again, but she was still too tender.

So she pulled at his jodhpurs and freed him instead.

He was divine, his black curls neat and manicured, the erection glorious and dark, so that she had to touch. Her fingers stroked, guided, and he was there at her entrance, moistening it a little. It was so fierce to look at, yet on contact more gentle than his lips.

‘Please…' She was so close to coming she lifted her hips.

‘They're in there…' He was gesturing to the backpack, a lifetime away, or more like ten metres, but it was a distance that was too far to fathom. He might just as well have left the condoms in the bathroom.

It was the most delicious tease of sex to come. He was stroking against her and she was purring, her hips rising, begging that he fill her and for it not to stop.

‘Just a little way…' Her voice was throaty, and he stared down at her, so pink and swollen. How could he not? He entered her just a little.

He was kneeling up, holding her buttocks, and his eyes roamed her body. He thought he would come. She was all blonde and tumbled, and in underwear that
would make working beside her now close to impossible, because if he even pictured her in that… He pushed it in just a little bit more as Annika—shy, guarded Annika—gave him a bold, wanton smile that had his heart hammering. He pulled down the straps on her bra and freed her breasts, and she boldly took his head and led him there. She kissed his temple as he suckled her. He moved within her till he wanted more than just a little way, and so too did she.

He leant back and guided her, up and down his length. She had never felt more pliant, moving as his hands guided her. She could see his dark skin against her paleness, and she felt as if she were climbing out of her mind and watching them, released from inhibition. She cried out, could see her thighs trembling, her back arching. Then she climbed back into her body and felt the deep throb of an orgasm that didn't abate. It swelled and rolled like an ocean, took away her breath and dragged her under, and she said his name, thought she swore. Still he was pounding within her, so fast and hard that even as her orgasm faded she thought it would happen again.

And it did—because he was mindful. Just as he satisfied her he gave in, pulled out of her warmth and shivered outside her. She watched. It was startling and beautiful and intimate.

Their intimacy shocked her.

It shocked her that this was okay, that
they
were okay, that they could do all that and afterwards he could just pull her to him.

They lay for a long time in delicious silence, and all Ross knew was that they had completely crossed a
line—it wasn't about condoms, or trips to Spain, or families, or all things confusing.

It was, in that moment, incredibly simple.

They were both home.

‘Y
OU
might want to get dressed…' They were both half dozing when Ross heard the crunch of tyres. ‘I think we've got visitors.'

And, though they were miles from being seen, Annika was horrified. As she dressed quickly Ross took his time and laughed. She tripped over herself pulling on her jodhpurs.

‘No one can see,' he assured her.

‘Who is it?'

‘My family, probably…' Ross said, and then there were four blasts of a horn, which must have confirmed his assumption because he nodded. ‘There's no rush; they'll wait.'

‘I'll go home.' Annika was dressed now. The horses were close by, and she would put up with
any
pain just to make it to the safety of her car. ‘I'll just say a quick hello and then go.'

‘Don't rush off.' For the first time ever he looked uncomfortable.

‘What will they think, though?' Annika asked, because if
her
mother had turned up suddenly on a
Sunday evening to find a man at her home she would think plenty—and no doubt say it too.

‘That I've got a friend over for the afternoon,' Ross said, but she knew he was uncomfortable.

As they rode back her heart was hammering in her chest—especially when another car pulled up and several more Wyatt family members piled out. His father was very formal, his sisters both much paler in colouring than Ross, and his mother, Estella, was raven-haired and glamorous. Grandchildren were unloaded from the car. His sisters said hi and bye, and relieved them of their horses before heading out for a ride in what was left of the sun.

‘Hi, Imelda!'

The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because it was decidedly chilly.

‘This is Annika,' Ross said evenly. ‘She's a friend from the hospital. Iosef's sister…'

‘Oh, my mistake.' His mother gave a grim smile. ‘It's just with the blonde hair, and given that she's wearing Imelda's things, you'll forgive me for being confused.'

Ross's brain lurched, because never before had his mother shown her claws.

She had never been anything other than a friend to him, but now she was stomping inside. A row that had never before happened between them was about to start—and it was terrible timing, because he had to deal with Annika as well.

‘Imelda?'

‘My ex,' Ross said.

‘How ex?'

‘A few weeks.'

And she wasn't happy with that, so she demanded dates and he told her.

‘Was there time to change the sheets?'

‘Annika, I never said I didn't have a past.'

‘And I'm standing here dressed in her things!'

‘It's not as bad as it sounds…'

‘It's worse,' Annika said. ‘Can you get my keys?'

‘Don't go.'

‘What—do you expect me to go in and make small talk with your family? Can you please go and get my things?'

It was like two patients collapsing simultaneously at work. Two blistering things he had to deal with.

Annika refused to bend—she wanted her keys and no more.

Ross stomped into the house.

‘What the hell?' His voice was a roar. ‘How
dare
you do that to her?'

‘She'll thank me!' Estella shouted. ‘And don't, Reyes—don't even try to justify it to me. “I've got to sort myself out.” “I want to find myself.” “I'm not getting involved with anyone…”' She hurled back everything he had said, and then she called him a
cabrón
too! He vaguely remembered it meant a bastard. ‘I had Imelda on the phone last night, and again this morning. You shred these girls' hearts and we're supposed to say
nothing
?'

‘Annika's different!'

‘Oh, it's
different
this time, is it?' Estella shouted, and the windows were open, so Ross knew Annika could hear. ‘Because apparently you said that to Imelda too!'

And then she really let him have it.

Really!

She called him every name she could think of. Later, Ross would realise that she had probably been talking to Reyes senior. Every bit of hurt his biological father
had caused his mother, all the shame, anger and fury that had never come out, had chosen that afternoon to do so.

And his time was up. Annika was storming through the house, finding her keys for herself as his mother continued unabated.

Ross raced out behind her to the car.

‘It's not that bad…'

‘Really?' Annika gave him a wide-eyed look as she turned the key in the ignition. ‘From the sounds inside your home, you're the only who thinks that way.'

‘You're just going to drive off…?' He couldn't believe it. He didn't like rows, but he didn't walk away from them either. ‘All that's happened between us and you'll just let it go…?'

‘Watch me!' Annika said, and she did just that. She gunned the car down his drive, still dressed in Imelda's things. His mother's words about her own son still ringing in her ears.

It was only when she went into her flat, kicked off her boots and ripped off those clothes that she calmed down.

Well, she didn't calm down, exactly, but she realised it wasn't that she had been wearing Imelda's things, or what his mother had said, or anything straightforward that had made her so angry. It was that, just like her family, he had fed her a half-truth.

And, as she had with her family, she had been foolish enough to trust him.