Everything I Need, page 3
He left her feeling so raw and vulnerable.
And so exquisitely undone.
It didn’t take long for his face to turn red with exertion or for a sheen of perspiration to cover his forehead. It took even less time for her abandoned cries, punctuated by his sharp grunts of exertion, to reach a helpless crescendo.
The mirror showed her everything. The wild glitter in her eyes and satisfied Mona Lisa smile on her lips, both of which were partially hidden by her spiraling curls. The way his face twisted and then slackened into rapture as he pressed his face to the side of her neck. The way his lips moved as he murmured sweet words to her that she couldn’t quite hear.
She could have stayed like that all night.
She could have died like that.
But time was not their friend and Anthony knew it. So he surged those hips a little harder. Stopped pressing her clit and began rubbing it. Over and over again. Unblinkingly held her gaze in the mirror and watched as she blew apart in his arms, shouting his name as she let her head fall back and came and came and came.
He quickly followed with a ragged groan, turning to stone as his muscles clenched in a final thrust.
They were still panting, all four of their hands braced on the counter as they leaned into it and tried to catch their breath, when Anthony’s phone buzzed. Buzzed again.
Anthony raised his head and met her eye again as he pulled the phone out of his back pocket, his expression full of unmistakable regret.
He hit a button and held the phone to his ear.
“One minute,” he said, and no one hearing that polished voice, so deep and resonant, would suspect that he was still buried to the hilt inside her.
Or that he’d just taken her perfectly serviceable woman’s body, turned it inside out, upside down and sideways, thereby ruining her for anything less with anyone else, ever again.
He hung up and put his phone away. Withdrew and left an even sweeter ache between her legs. Stooped to pull her panties and yoga pants back up, nipping her ass and nuzzling the small of her back under her top as he came back up. Hugged her from behind as she grinned and squirmed. Squeezed all the breath out of her body as they swayed together for a minute, his lips resting on her temple. Left her standing there, dazed and undone, while he got rid of the condom and came back to wash his hands and splash water on his face.
Then he grabbed her hand towel, dried his face and rested his palms on the counter, matching her stance as he leaned into it again.
They stared at each other in the mirror, neither smiling.
Nor was there anything to say. The moment was too heavy for that. Far too important.
This was it, then. The moment of truth, arriving much too soon.
So they thought they wanted a long-distance relationship? Thought they were up for the challenge of trying to see each other as often as they could when they lived on opposite sides of an ocean that was nearly thirty-five hundred miles wide? Thought that maybe the grandson of the Queen of England could make a go of it with a black woman who lived in Upstate New York? A woman who had an unsightly burn scar on one side of her face? Oh, and they wanted to do it all without the press finding out?
Yeah. Good luck with that.
She could almost hear God’s raucous laughter.
Well, they’d soon see, wouldn’t they?
One way or the other, they’d soon see.
At last, after a long pause, during which he catalogued her features and focused on her eyes before dropping to her lips, he opened his mouth.
Her entire body waited on high alert.
“Friday,” he said.
She barely heard his hoarse voice over the relentless thumping of her pulse in her ears.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
Lobbying a final pointed look at her, he walked out without another word.
She heard his footsteps echo through her apartment and stop in the foyer. The creak of leather as he grabbed his overnight bag. A long pause. And then the quiet opening and closing of her front door as he returned to his regularly scheduled life without her in London.
“Friday,” she told her reflection in the mirror, trying both to sound upbeat and to ignore her trembling chin.
3
What the fuck am I going to do now? Anthony wondered half an hour later, staring blankly out at the rain as it streamed past his window on Baptiste’s private plane and ignoring the book about the Nuremberg Trials open on his lap. Excess energy made him feel wired and jumpy. He wished he could jog for an hour or so or, better yet, spend some time doing the butterfly in the pool at his gym back home. Twenty laps should do it. But since he was pent up on the plane for the rest of the night, he had to satisfy himself with cracking his knuckles. One at a time. The ritual had always calmed him back when he served in Afghanistan.
Crack. Crack-crack.
He heard the exaggerated clearing of a male throat and glanced around. A frowning Baptiste sat facing him across the aisle, his paperwork and a glass of wine sitting on the table in front of him.
“That’s very annoying,” Baptiste told him in his French accent. “How many more knuckles do you have?”
Anthony grimaced and dropped his hands. As this was Baptiste’s plane and his mate was kindly giving him a ride back home to London on his way to Paris, he couldn’t very well tell him to fuck off. Well, he could, but it would probably end badly for Anthony, who had no real desire to descend the thirty thousand feet without a parachute.
But his overflowing energy was still there.
It made his leg jiggle. When he realized what he was doing and forced himself to stop, the energy zinged back to his hands. So he ran them over the top of his head, back and forth, back and forth. He tried his best to erase all the simmering anxieties from his brain, but that was the thing about simmering anxieties, wasn’t it? They simmered.
As did the unanswerable question.
What. The fuck. Am I going. To do now?
Some sort of delayed reaction had settled in, frying his brain and leaving him shell-shocked and stuck. A bomb seemed to have gone off and he had more of an idea about how to handle a wildebeest stampede in Botswana than he did the shrapnel generated in the middle of his life by one Dr. Melody Harrison.
What the fuck. Am I going. To do now?
Now, suddenly, he was in a relationship. One that felt like the most important of his life.
Just like that—boom! A fully formed relationship.
A few short weeks ago, he’d been minding his own business, happily single and doing his best to fend off the blue-blooded matchmaking mamas of the world, like Mrs. Carmichael, who tried to pawn off her daughter Annabella on him every chance she got. Had he known Melody Harrison existed? No, he had not. Had he felt that his life was missing anything? No, he had not.
Yet one look at Melody’s picture…
He turned away from the window and glared at the top of Baptiste’s head.
“This is your fault, you duplicitous foreigner.”
Baptiste idly flipped a page in his file and scribbled something, never bothering to look up.
“And what have I allegedly done this time?”
“You sent me that link to Melody’s bio.”
Baptiste shrugged and scribbled again.
“I wanted you to have another pediatric surgeon for your medical foundation. Where is the harm?”
Where was the—?
“A woman like that?” Anthony said, incredulous. “You introduce me to a woman like that, a brilliant and beautiful Harvard-trained pediatric surgeon who has a mouth on her and isn’t afraid to stand up to me and my bullshit, and you don’t expect me to have a violent reaction to her? Why don’t you French ever think?” He tapped his own temple. “You know your actions have consequences. You know I’m susceptible. You know my game isn’t up to scratch.”
“Eh.” Baptiste sipped his wine, still poring over his paperwork. “Your game is adequate enough, judging from the mark on Melody’s neck earlier.”
Anthony’s lips twitched at this unexpected reminder that he had, in fact, made a few inroads with Melody. Just like that, his brain shifted to some of the thrilling moments they’d shared over the weekend. Moments when she’d been hot and wild in his arms, her skin flushed and dewy and her long curls damp as they trailed across his chest and lower. Moments when her face had twisted, her eyes had rolled closed, her back had arched and her delicious musk had saturated his senses.
Moments when he’d lost his bloody mind and left it back in Journey’s End, a town he hadn’t even known existed several short days ago.
Maybe his game was a bit better than he gave himself credit for. But his unexpected success with Melody over the weekend only intensified his misery now.
“I don’t want to leave her,” he said, slumping back against his seat as the growing ache of loss and longing took hold in his gut. He rubbed his face, trying to put his fears into words. “What if she forgets me when I’m gone? What if she decides I’m not worth the risk? What if someone more suitable swoops in and steals her away before we can get this relationship on solid footing?”
He dropped his hands in time to see Baptiste look up and gape at him.
“The Queen is your grandmother. You’re a prince of England. Your father is a billionaire. You are a baby billionaire. Who the fuck is more suitable than you? I’d really like to know.”
“Don’t you get it?” Anthony said, aghast that he had to bother explaining his situation to Baptiste, of all people. The man had been through every major milestone with him since boarding school. He knew the score. “My position is a liability. Not an asset.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Baptiste deadpanned. “The luxury. The adulation. The connections.”
“Yes, and also the press intrusion, security issues and lack of privacy.”
“You’ve done all right so far,” Baptiste noted mildly. “I don’t see any paparazzi or burly bodyguards. Your face hasn’t been splashed on any tabloids lately.”
“The clock is running out on that, I’m afraid. When I get my title and/or when the paps get wind of Melody, all bets are off.”
Baptiste didn’t say anything to this, but his expression fell.
That was agreement enough, as far as Anthony was concerned.
They sat in a pensive silence for several beats.
Then the flight attendant appeared.
“Did you gentlemen decide on whether you’d like the filet mignon or the mahi-mahi?”
“I’ll have the filet. Medium-rare, please,” Baptiste said.
“Not really hungry,” Anthony said glumly.
Baptiste gave him a withering look of absolute disdain before focusing on the flight attendant.
“He’ll have the same. And bring him some of the stout. He’ll like that.”
Anthony doubted he’d be able to choke it down right now. “Not thirst—”
“Melody likes this particular stout,” Baptiste added.
Wait, she did? Anthony perked up.
“Worth a try, I suppose.”
The flight attendant and Baptiste both stifled a laugh at his expense, which did nothing to boost Anthony’s flagging morale. He watched the flight attendant head back to the galley, his mind shifting to other concerns.
“The thing is,” he said quietly, “Melody has a life. A growing career. I want her to thrive. Whatever she does. How can I subject her to my world?”
“Ah. So you make Melody’s decisions for her now? She has no say?”
Anthony had to snort at that unlikely image.
“Of course not. But how could she possibly know what she’s getting into with me? I’m positive she’s never had photographers lurk in the bushes to ambush her or rummage through her rubbish to see what they can discover about her. Or a friend sell a fun childhood story to a tabloid and destroy a lifelong relationship for five thousand pounds.”
“So let her go, then,” Baptiste said. “Set her free to find, I don’t know, another doctor like her. Think of all they’d have in common. She’d be much happier, I’m sure.”
Anthony knew his mate was just having a go at him. But the banked amusement in Baptiste’s voice, his friend’s shrewd assessment of Anthony’s worst fears and his own sudden flare of jealousy at the idea that Melody might yet take up with someone else all formed a toxic combination that threatened to transform Anthony into a pale and scrawny British version of The Incredible Hulk, rampaging around the cabin and causing destruction and chaos.
He thought of all the things he had in common with Melody. Their shared traumas and desire to help people. Their laughter, quiet understanding and the occasional exhilarating flares of disagreement.
The passion.
His skin tightened with renewed longing. Worse, his leg jiggled anew with a fresh adrenaline surge.
Let Melody go? When he felt more of a connection with her than with the last dozen women he’d dated combined?
“No,” he said flatly, glaring at Baptiste for having the temerity to raise the topic.
“Then your choice is made. You should be happy you’ve met her.” Baptiste said with a disbelieving laugh, having made his point in spectacular fashion. “Why so morose?”
What a stupid question.
“It’s what I do best. I’m happiest when I’m miserable. You know that.”
“Enjoy this time with her,” Baptiste said, still laughing. “You’re under the radar for now. See what happens. Why make more of it than that until you have to?”
Anthony resisted a strong desire to lunge across the cabin and throttle his best friend into oblivion. Something about his glowing face and pending parental happiness set Anthony’s teeth on edge, especially when juxtaposed with his own looming uncertainty about whether Melody—or, indeed, any woman—could handle a relationship with him and his teetering tower of baggage.
“Says the man who took one look at Samira and abandoned his entire life in France, refusing to go home for weeks, “Anthony said sourly. “The man who, if I recall correctly, called me on more than one memorable recent occasion and had to be talked down from a very high ledge because he was unsure about where his relationship was going. Two months ago, you didn’t believe in love or long-term relationships, yet now you’re so syrupy sweet you should sign up to write greeting cards for the lovesick.”
Beaming and incandescent with happiness, Baptiste raised his wine and toasted him.
“C’est la vie.”
Disgusted, Anthony gave him the finger before slumping back in his seat.
Chuckle of amusement from Baptiste.
“Your grandmother is lovely and the rest of your family isn’t so bad. Not even Tony.”
Anthony snorted.
“It’s true. I like your father very much.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you should see about him adopting you. I’m sure he’d love having a son who actually wanted to spend time in his presence.”
“You should give him more of a chance.”
Anthony scowled at him as the flight attendant returned and distributed their drinks.
“I don’t want your advice about my father. Tell me how you’re making things work so well with a decent person like Samira. You’re no catch. Everyone knows that. You go through women the way babies go through nappies.”
“Went through women,” Baptiste clarified. “And I’m going to tell you what my buddy Daniel recently told me: you have to figure out your own shit and suffer the way the rest of us have suffered. You don’t get to weasel out of it by copying what worked for someone else.”
“Fucking brilliant,” Anthony said bitterly. “Why do I bother with you at all, then?”
“Because of the plane,” Baptiste said, chuckling.
“It is a very fine plane,” Anthony said, raising his glass to him. “Cheers.”
Baptiste grinned and toasted him. “Santé. To your health.”
They sipped appreciatively. Anthony silently put another ten thousand or so points into Melody’s growing pro column for her taste in stout; this one was quite good.
“I think you need to chill down,” Baptiste finally said.
Anthony blinked. “Chill down? What does that mean?”
“Relax. Don’t worry so much.”
“Chill out. Or maybe just chill. Actually, I don’t think people say that much anymore.”
“Yes, chill. That’s what I said.”
“Easy for you to say. Your life is all settled now, isn’t it?”
“It will all work out for you if it’s meant to be,” Baptiste said. “My history isn’t the greatest, God knows. And my parents were horrible. No question. Yet Samira got over all that. She still wants me. Perhaps you should view this period as a test to see how suited Melody is to your situation? If not? Bid her adieu.”
“I’ve already told you, I’m not bloody bidding her anything,” Anthony said. “And you’re minimizing my dilemma. The troublesome members of my family are all still alive and kicking. While yours are all conveniently dead and therefore unable to complicate your life.”
“Not necessarily.” Baptiste shuddered dramatically. “You’d be surprised how long a shadow my mother casts from her grave.”
Having met Baptiste’s mother, an unlamented woman who’d showed as much warmth to her son as five-star restaurants showed to rats in their kitchens, Anthony had to agree. He laughed.
His amusement didn’t last long, though. Not with the physical distance opening up between him and Melody and the uncertainties growing. And that had led him to his temporary loss of sanity this evening.
There was no other way to describe it, was there? All he’d known was that he’d felt the slow creep of dread up his throat as he watched the clock and realized that zero hour had arrived.
And then when she’d tried to give him back his belongings…
