by Pam Godwin
He rubs the sore spot, limited by the heavily-stitched pocket of my jeans. “Pick up the keyring.”
Hanging over the brace of his arm, I snatch the fob from the brick pavestones.
He grips my bicep and walks me toward the car. “I would redden your fucking ass if you weren’t about to show it to the doctor.” He stops at the driver’s door. “Hands on the roof.”
Shit. What now? I drop the fob on the seat and place my palms on the shiny white top, smudging the pristine paint job with sweat.
His fingers slide around my hips and release the button of my jeans. My heart kicks into a feverish crescendo. He unzips the fly and, in one shove, yanks everything to my feet.
Standing outside in the daylight, nude from the waist down… This is a first for me. I can’t decide if I’m shaking from the thrill of someone seeing, from the fear of inevitable pain, or from the burning anticipation of him touching me again. Probably all of the above.
“Bend down and grip the seat.”
As I follow his command, a sense of peace washes over me. Whatever he does next will make me feel a little less lost. Every time he takes me in hand, he opens another door that shows me more about myself. The person he reveals isn’t ashamed or weak. I’m finally figuring out what I want.
His Doc Martens scuff against the bricks as he lowers behind me. His hands wrap around my thighs, and in the next heartbeat, he buries his nose in my pussy.
A slap of embarrassment flushes my face. But it quickly transforms into a torrent of desire as his exhale brushes against my flesh. A deep inhale follows, and his fingers tighten against my legs.
He’s smelling me. Down there. Deeply and repeatedly. I never would’ve imagined being so wildly turned on by this, but I’m shaking and panting against the strange and incredible sensation. He’s shaking, too, and… Oh fuck, he’s licking me, kissing my pussy the way he kisses my mouth. Another—holy fucking shit—first.
I bite my lip to silence my cry as he stabs his tongue between my legs. He laves my folds, brutally bites sensitive skin, and scratches me with his stubble. It’s pain and pleasure, soprano and bass, and every octave in between. I’m going to come. I feel the pull, and I reach for that wondrous place, grinding my pussy against his face and digging my fingers into the leather seat. Almost there. Almost—
He steps back.
I straighten and twist around to grab him, but he’s right there, catching me in the tangle of my jeans with his hands on my hips and his tongue in my mouth. He slides his lips over mine in slippery strokes, spreading the tangy taste of my arousal between us.
He breaks the kiss and drags my panties up my trembling legs.
My insides throb, aching to finish what he started. “I didn’t come.”
“I know.” He pulls up my jeans and fastens them. Then he grabs my hand and presses it against the erection behind his zipper. “I’ll wait for you.”
“You’re not going to the appointment with me?”
Regret etches his face, and he releases my hand.
Of course, he can’t go. Someone might see us together. I mentally slap myself. “That’s why you gave me the car.”
He cups my face and kisses me.
“I’m sorry.” I lean back and peer up at him through my lashes. “I was kind of a brat about it.”
“The brattiest.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
A smile stretches his gorgeous face. “Where would the fun be in that?”
He likes me to act out so he can discipline me for it? Today’s lesson: the worst punishment is a denied orgasm.
When I’m settled in the driver’s seat, he leans into the open window and gives me a flinty glare. “Don’t argue with the doctor.”
“I won’t.”
“Get the blood work.”
“I will.”
“And the birth control he prescribes.”
My pulse leaps. “Of course.”
Those hard eyes soften into a look I’ve never seen on him before. “Come back to me.”
I reach up and stroke his shadowed jaw. “Count on it.”
Unease buzzes through me as I turn out of Emeric’s driveway. Maybe because I’m wearing designer clothes, driving an expensive car, and obsessing about a man with no idea where I’m headed. I know my way to the clinic, but after that? Months down the road? After I graduate? Where am I going and how will I get there?
I know Emeric intends to keep me around. That both delights me and troubles me. Part of the reason I want to go to Leopold is to get out of Treme. Well, I did, and here I am with an address even Ann would envy. But I yearn to continue practicing piano, and not just under any instructor. The very best instructors Leopold has to offer. How could I throw away my dream for a man and forgive myself? How could Emeric respect me if I did that?
He wouldn’t. Of all the lessons he’s taught me in and out of the classroom, the most profound is how to recognize my own strength and go after what I want.
Amid my churning thoughts, I wonder about Mom and Shane. Do they question where I am? Emeric keeps the bills current, so maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they’re too strung out to even notice my absence. I try not to dwell on that. The things I want from them, their interest and concern, died with my dad. My family is broken, a harrowing truth I accepted a long time ago.
A couple of minutes from his house, I park the Porsche in front of Southern Family Health. Tucking the phone in my back pocket, I head inside the modern one-story building.
A few people fill the waiting room, but none of them look up from their phones when I enter. I check in, fill out the forms, and return them to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
“Take a seat.” She brushes her frizzy brown hair behind her ear. “Dr. Marceaux will see you shortly.”
I stiffen, my attention darting over the rack of pamphlets, searching for something to validate what I just heard. “Did you say Marceaux?”
“Is that not…” She glances at the computer monitor. “Says here you requested Marceaux.”
My veins turn to ice. Emeric mentioned his father’s a physician, but I assumed the man worked at a fancy hospital or something. For fuck’s sake, why would he send me to his dad to have my vagina examined? Maybe this doctor is a different Marceaux? Is it a common last name?
“Does he…” Is it too risky to ask this? Fuck it. “Does Dr. Marceaux have a son? A teacher?”
“Oh, yes.” The woman cracks a huge smile and leans back in the chair, regarding me. “From the look on your face, I’m guessing he’s got you under his spell, too.”
“No. I…” My cheeks burn. “What do you mean?”
“Every time that fine-looking man comes in here, he gets all the girls in a tizzy.” She laughs. “Take a number, honey. There’s a long line of women waiting for a piece of that.”
Did she seriously just say that? Grinding my teeth, I find a seat and pull out the phone. I have two names in my contact list. Stogie and LordandMaster. The latter was Emeric’s attempt at humor when he set up the phone. I haven’t had the heart to change it.
I launch a text window.
Me: U sent me to ur dad??? To get birth control? R u crazy?
The front door opens, and a very pregnant woman sashays toward the counter. She’s all belly. Skinny and petite everywhere else. How the hell does she walk so gracefully in those sky-high heels?
The vibration of an incoming text draws my attention back to the phone.
LordandMaster: He’ll do everything but the Pap test. Don’t question me.
But he’ll see me in a thin gown and check me for STDs? I feel sick.
Me: Does he know about us?
LordandMaster: Yes
Yes? That’s all he’s going to say?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, debating the wisdom in storming out.
“I need to see him right now.” The pregnant woman’s rising voice brings my eyes up.
She gathers her long blonde hair and holds it away fro
m her pale complexion, her tense posture screaming with frustration.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist says sternly, “if you give me your information, I’ll set up—”
“Go back there and tell him Joanne is here.”
My stomach drops as my entire world narrows to her belly. She can’t be his Joanne. This…this woman is pregnant. A lot pregnant. Like easily seven or eight months along.
Emeric said he hasn’t seen her in six months.
My chest clenches. No. No, no, no. Emeric would’ve told me.
The receptionist stands. “Is Dr. Marceaux expecting you?”
“I’m expecting his grandson.” She points at her stomach. “VIP pass. I need to see him. Now.”
Nausea barrels through my gut, doubling me over. It’s not true. I must’ve misheard.
The receptionist widens her eyes then slips down the hall toward the back.
Relaxing against the counter, Joanne rests her phone on the ledge of her baby belly. Emeric’s baby.
My insides roil with bile. I scan the waiting room for a bathroom, and my gaze catches and locks on hers. She gives me a tight smile and moves on, taking in the people sitting near me.
Her small nose, smooth flat features, and close-set eyes give her a tiny pixie look, one that works well for her. Really well. She’s painfully beautiful, like a perfect mix of Kristen Bell and Keira Knightley.
No wonder he loves her.
The mother of his child.
I ball my hands to stop the trembling. Why didn’t he tell me? Is he trying to resolve things with her? So they can be a happy family?
Tears sneak up, burning my eyes, and a horrible ache seals my throat. I spring from the seat and walk as calmly as I can into the single-person bathroom. As soon as the door shuts, I drag in loud, ragged breaths and hit the last call dialed on my phone.
Emeric’s gravelly voice scrapes against my eardrum. “Ivory.”
“Your pregnant girlfriend is here.”
Please tell me I’m mistaken. My chest hurts so badly I can’t breathe.
The line goes silent for a weighted moment. Then a flurry of sounds rushes through. His exhales, the slam of a door, the roar of a motor. “I’ll be there in three minutes.”
So it’s true. The gravity of that steals the strength from my legs. I slide down the door, drop to the floor, and try to keep the tears from wobbling my voice. “You lied to me.”
“Bull—”
“Omitting is the same as lying.” I squeeze the phone. “Your words.”
His heavy breaths rasp through the receiver. “Tell me you didn’t talk to her.”
“Why?” My chin quivers. “Because I’m your dirty secret? Your side piece while you work on your relationship—”
“So help me God…” His voice is so cold it lifts the hairs on my neck. “I’m going to break my fucking belt on your ass.”
I lower the phone, take a huge calming breath, then lift it back to my ear. “You’re a bastard.”
“Keep going, Ivory. You’re not going to walk for a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A loud thump vibrates through the phone, at odds with the silkiness in his tone. “This is my problem, one that’s going to go away very soon.”
“What?” Outrage pitches my volume. “You don’t just make a baby go away!”
“Lower your fucking voice. Where are you?”
“In hell.”
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you.”
I punch a pathetic fist against the tiled wall. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you for making assumptions about shit you know nothing about!” he roars.
“Is the baby yours?”
“I asked you a question!” he shouts then reins in his tone. “You’re making me wait.”
“Good.” Sitting against the door on the bathroom floor, I kick my legs out in front me. “You can go fuck yourself while you wait.”
“I’m outside.” The grating of his breaths strains the silence, followed by the bang of a car door. “Listen closely. I know you’re hurt, and I caused that. But you’re going to get the fuck over it and trust me.”
He can’t be serious. I don’t bother responding.
“I’ll deal with Joanne,” he says, “and you will get that fucking check-up.”
He ends the call, and I stare at the screen in disbelief. I remain on the floor, grinding my molars and cursing the creation of the opposite sex.
Men who praise and promise are the ones who hurt the most. They coerce and bribe and fuck with my head. Then they fuck my body and leave the kind of scarring fear that no one can see.
I thought he was different. Now I’m not sure.
But I do know he’s not the type to get a woman pregnant and bail. He’s too controlling and obsessive to not be fully invested in his child’s life.
That’s why he took the deal with the dean rather than moving out-of-state.
I love that about him. But I hate it, too. Because I’m jealous and selfish. I hug the pain twisting in my mid-section. God, this fucking hurts.
A fist knocks on the door. “Ivory Westbrook?”
The unfamiliar voice is deeply masculine. Probably the nurse or Emeric’s dad. So what do I do? I dread seeing Emeric with Joanne, but I can’t stay in here forever.
I climb to my feet, wipe away stray tears, and open the door.
The man on the other side stands a foot taller than me. Frank Marceaux, M.D. is embroidered on his white coat, but there’s nothing familiar in his handsome features. Wrinkles line his brow, though not many. He’s probably in his fifties? Reddish-brown hair combs back from a severe widow’s peak. Thick eyebrows curve over green eyes, and a small gold ring cuffs his earlobe.
But it’s his presence that denotes the family resemblance. Hands behind his back, feet planted in a wide stance, he studies me with too much focus. A shiver trills up my spine.
He raises an auburn brow. “Are you ready?”
No, definitely not. I slide the phone in my back pocket. “Yeah.”
As I follow him through the waiting room, my gaze locks on the wall of windows and the scene playing out in the parking lot. My shoes stick to the floor, and every cell in my body zeroes in on Emeric.
He paces a circle around Joanne. His mouth moves, his eyes blaze, but his overall posture conveys calm confidence.
She stares at her hands where they rub her belly, head lowered, and lips in a thin line. Probably the way I look when he’s teaching me a lesson.
Jealousy burns hot and fierce in my chest.
“Ivory,” Dr. Marceaux says.
I step forward to follow then pause.
Emeric stops just behind Joanne, breathing down her neck. With his fists on his hips, no part of him touches her, but he’s so close. The kind of closeness two people share when they’ve spent a lot of time together. When they’re familiar and intimate.
My heart squeezes and shrivels. She knows him better than I do. He’s been inside her, put a baby in her, and I’m… I don’t know what I am to him. We haven’t even had sex.
“Ivory.” Dr. Marceaux steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Follow me.”
I can’t seem to make my feet move, but my eyes work just fine, burning images of Emeric and Joanne into my brain and leaking tears all over my damn face.
Dr. Marceaux gently grips my elbow and leads me to an exam room. The moment he shuts the door, he stabs a finger toward the exam table. “Sit.”
I jump at the command in his voice and hurry to the table, crinkling the paper against the vinyl as I hop up.
He sets a box of tissues beside my hip, which makes me feel like an emotional little girl. I grab one anyway and wipe my face.
Lowering onto the stool, he rolls it across the floor until he’s sitting right in front of me. “He didn’t tell you about her?”
I wad the tissue in my fist and square my shoulders. “Not about the pregnancy.”
A muscle tics in his jaw, and his hard eyes crease,
fanning wrinkles from the corners.
“Is it his?” I ask.
“He doesn’t know.”
My breath hitches. “He doesn’t…? She was with someone else? Did she cheat on him?”
“He has no proof of that.”
“Oh.” My chest deflates. “She told the receptionist she’s carrying your grandson.”
He swivels toward the drawers behind him and removes equipment and supplies, giving me a momentary reprieve from his stony gaze.
“I know you’re living with him.” He rips open packages of instruments. “I’m not going to lecture you on the risks you and he are taking. I gave him my opinion on the phone last night.” He turns back to me, his expression pensive. “Emeric is hardheaded and unstoppable when his passion is provoked.”
I disagree with the unstoppable part. At least when it comes to my limits. Where his passion is concerned, I’ve been on the receiving end of that for two months. I guess that’s why this secret he’s kept from me feels like a blade in my chest.
Dr. Marceaux slides on reading glasses and grabs the blood pressure monitor. Without asking me to change clothes, he begins an above-the-waist exam. For the next ten minutes, he pokes, prods, and draws blood while I answer his medical questions, including the embarrassing ones about my sexual history and mishaps with protection.
He maintains a professional demeanor, but I wonder if he thinks I’m just a money-grubbing whore.
While he makes notations on his tablet, the door opens.
Emeric slips in, shuts the door, and his frosty eyes find and imprison mine.
Chills sweep over me, and I find it difficult to look away.
Dr. Marceaux stands, his voice clipped. “What are you doing in here?”
Emeric doesn’t break eye contact with me. There are so many emotions seeping from him, I don’t know how to sort them. Anger is the easiest to recognize, locking his jaw and engorging the veins in his tense forearms. But there’s an undercurrent of something more vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides, and tendons stand out in his neck. Is he scared? Afraid I’ll leave? Or is that my wishful thinking?