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She watched the floors whisk past on the digital panel, trying not to stress about the press. Once she began to show, questions would be asked about who her baby’s father was—and hopefully she would be able to tell them, if everything went well tonight.
The elevator glided to a stop at the executive offices on the thirtieth floor and James stepped out.
‘Aren’t you coming up?’ she asked. James always accompanied her to the penthouse, before disappearing discreetly.
He shook his head. ‘Mr Blackstone told me to send you up alone.’
‘Oh, okay,’ she murmured as the doors closed, leaving her alone in the elevator.
The bubble of hope expanded like a balloon as the lift travelled up the final floor to Lukas’s penthouse.
He was keen to see her. She pressed her hand to her abdomen, let her palm slide across the black silk of the short shift dress she had worn especially for him. The flutter of nerves and the tangle of anxiety were joined by the low hum of awareness and the bubble of hope that was now the size of a hot-air balloon.
Please let him be happy. Or at least not mad at the news.
The doors opened and her eyes tracked to the man she’d come to see standing on the opposite side of the room. He stood silhouetted against the night sky, his broad back stretching the seams of a tailored linen shirt as he stared out of the window. He looked as tall and indomitable as always but also strangely isolated and alone. The pang of compassion and empathy—and love—felt almost painful.
Hadn’t they both been alone for too long? Protecting themselves from hurt. Surely this child could help bring them together instead of pulling them apart? Was it really too much to hope for?
‘Lukas?’ she said, hope thickening her voice.
He turned and she noticed he had a drink in his hand.
‘You’re late,’ he said, the tone flat.
‘I wanted to have a shower and change into something a bit more seductive.’
She stopped, feeling unsteady on the unaccustomed heels and stupidly shy as his gaze raked over her. Her pulse points jumped and jingled on cue.
‘Nice,’ he murmured, knocking back the liquor. He dropped the glass on a table. The loud crack made her jump.
Before she had a chance to catch her breath, he reached her. Plunging his fingers into her hair, he tilted her face up to his.
‘You look good enough to eat, Bronte. As always,’ he said, but there was something in his voice that felt sharp and brittle.
‘Lukas, I need to speak to you,’ she said, breathing heavily, the weight of arousal in her stomach joined by the renewed shimmer of anxiety. She could taste the liquor on his breath and see the glitter of temper in his eyes.
Was he angry with her for being twenty minutes late?
‘Let’s talk later,’ he said, pressing her back until she bumped against the wall of the apartment. ‘And screw first.’
The crudity shocked her, but not as much as the tidal wave of longing that slammed into her as his hand rode up her thigh under the short dress. His thumb settled on her clitoris, rubbing the swollen spot through the dampening gusset of her panties.
She jerked at the intimate touch, the devastatingly sure stroke.
‘Lukas?’ she said, desperately trying to grasp hold of what was wrong through the daze of passion. This didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like the man she had teased and joked with earlier in the day. The man she had finally admitted to herself moments ago she was falling hopelessly in love with.
His lips fastened on her neck, sending shivering sensation down to her core as he continued to caress and cajole the slick folds through the lace. The confusion and anxiety dissipated, driven into submission by desperate yearning. Her head fell back, giving him better access as her body arched into his caresses, begging for his touch.
The sound of ripping fabric jolted her brain out of the erotic fog. But then he hooked one of her legs over his hip, spreading her wide and bringing her swollen clitoris into intimate contact with the thick ridge in his pants.
‘Wait, Lukas... I...’ she managed, making one last desperate effort to focus her thoughts on something other than the driving needs of her body. She needed to slow him down. To tell him about the pregnancy before they made love again.
‘You’re soaking wet for me, baby,’ he said, the casual endearment one he’d never used before. Why did it sound vaguely insulting?
His face came up from her neck and his knuckles brushed against the hot flesh of her sex as he released his erection. ‘Do you really want me to wait? Tell me the truth?’
The hunger in his voice was tempered by something else, something both terrifying and exulting. And guilt burned under the pulsing need. ‘No,’ she said.
