How Good It Was, page 3
He ran his hands down her spine, over the cheeks of her arse. Opening her to him so he could watch his dick slide in and out of her.
“Luke,” she gasped.
He lowered his chest over hers, gripped both of her wrists above her head with one hand, and slid the other beneath her to stroke her clit. When her hips began to move, backing into him so she took him deep, he felt a tingle trickle down his spine. Placing his lips to her skin, he kissed a trail along her shoulder until he reached her mouth. It was difficult to keep pace and own her mouth at the same time, but somehow, they managed.
He wasn’t close enough, deep enough. He wanted to be further inside her, to possess her in that moment as they both chased their pending release. He covered her, crowded her, as her hands fought to get free of his grip, before her nails clawed at the bedding.
“Luke, I’m going to come . . . again,” she gasped, moments before her body went rigid, short, punctuated breaths escaping her.
God, she squeezed him hard, torturously pushing him closer and closer to his own release.
His name falling from her lips had him gripping her hands tighter, allowing his hips to thrust hard against her, the steady slap of skin on skin teasing him.
He needed to come so badly his head pounded. The warmth of her, the scent of her, the way she drenched him. He couldn’t remember it ever feeling quite so . . . yeah, he couldn’t find the words.
“You want this?” he grunted before sucking in a gulp of air.
“Yes,” she cried.
“You feel this? It’s because of you.” His balls tightened as he came. Hard. “Willow. Fuck.”
Stars spun in his peripheral vision as she squeezed around him a second time. He slowed his roll, savouring the feeling of her around him, as he stroked her arms and back.
Finally, he pulled out slowly, lifted Willow onto the bed, and removed the condom before lying down next to her. “Enough evidence, yet?” he asked.
Willow placed her hand on his cheek. “One data point isn’t a trend.”
“No?” Unable to stop himself, he kissed her again.
“No,” she muttered against his lips.
He kissed the tip of her nose, her cheek, the line of her jaw. “In that case, you’ve got five minutes to refuel and hydrate.”
“And then what?”
He licked her nipple, then sucked it into his mouth firmly. “Then we do it all over again.”
Eight hours later, after three hours sleep, Luke quietly tugged on his stiffly dried concert clothes. He looked to where Willow lay with her head precariously close to the bottom of the bed. Pillows were strewn, the comforter on the floor, and a white sheet covering the curve of her arse.
Her lips, all soft and bruised after the lovemaking, were slightly open. The remains of their late-night pizza order sat on the desk, right next to the lamp they’d broken when he’d taken her on the flat surface. Towels were in a pile on the carpet after their four a.m. shower, where she’d gone down on him before he’d pushed her against the wall.
He was exhausted, invigorated, and two hundred pounds better off from his bet with Alex.
Yeah. He’d remember Willow Warner for a long fucking time.
He grabbed a napkin from the tray and a pen.
It’s definitely not you. Luke.
With one last stroke of her hair, he placed the napkin next to the pillow, and quietly left the room.
2
Ten weeks later.
Rain battered the window of the taxi, making it impossible to check out the streets of what Willow hoped would be her new hometown for the foreseeable future. Her whole career and, more importantly, her exit plan relied on it.
Her father turned manager, turned all-around, money-grabbing thief, had no idea how much she had already found out after accessing his private emails. And he certainly didn’t know she was pregnant. The message she’d left him had been vague. An unplanned trip, some downtime, that she’d be in touch.
She realized her mom had been letting her down by living a lifestyle funded by her father’s deceit and Willow’s own hard work. There was no possible way her mother couldn’t have known. The lifestyle was too extravagant and the lies too elaborate for her to have not been involved.
Her ex had even been complicit in her father’s greed. Ansel, a rom-com typecast actor, had done a private deal with her father. And she’d fallen for Ansel without knowing that everything from the setup to the split had been orchestrated between the two of them. Cheating on a former child-star sweetheart with a porn star turned punk singer had dirtied his edges and made him less of a romance leading man and more of an antihero.
Their plan had worked. He was off filming some three-part space alien trilogy, while she licked her wounds.
Finding the emails between her father and Ansel had turned her stomach. She’d never trust anyone, especially not a man, to take care of her ever again.
Which was why she hadn’t even felt safe to contact John and Kelly, the loving parents of her best friend, Riley. Much of Willow’s childhood had been spent at their home instead of the massive Malibu beachfront house her father had bought in his name, with her money. John would have wanted to mediate between Willow and her father. He was a fixer, when what she really needed was a lawyer with a passion for winning.
Willow glanced down at Sad Fridays’ social media page that showed photographs of a party currently underway. She’d checked the music studio they’d tagged, which not only confirmed the opening night was happening right now, but that Luke was there.
Initially, she’d planned to stay in a hotel, then contact Luke through his social media or through Cerys at the studio. But once she’d figured out where he’d be that evening, it had felt like a safer bet.
Her stomach roiled; this could be a terrible idea. All she knew for sure was from the moment two lines had appeared on that test, she’d vowed to protect her baby more than anything else in the world. Protect her own child in a way nobody had ever protected her. She placed her hand on her still flat stomach and vowed silently to break free of her family once and for all.
For too many years, she’d let someone else set her direction and manage her affairs. She’d been naive, but no more. Fear filled her at the thought of managing her own business, but it was time to take control . . . of every part of her life.
And that had begun with hiring Sasha Serrano. Her own lawyer. Picked by her. Hired by her. Paid for by her.
The same lawyer who’d advised her that the contract she was drawing up was a bad idea, but hadn’t been able to suggest an alternative.
Then Willow had bought books on female empowerment and entrepreneurial guides and had listened to podcasts of the same on the flight. Skilling-up needed to happen quickly.
“It’s here,” the driver said, ending the trip.
Matt Palmer stood on the pavement in the pouring rain, waving someone off in a cab. “Hey, Willow. Good to see you,” he said as she climbed out.
“Hey, Matt.”
“Let me help you.” He took her cases from the driver, and they dashed inside the old warehouse lobby. Matt pressed the elevator button. “I didn’t realise you were coming. Cerys never mentioned it,” he said.
“She doesn’t know.”
“How come you’re here?”
She hadn’t considered what would happen if she saw anyone before she actually made contact with Luke, which was stupid really. “Just some business. I saw on your profile you were here. I’d like to see Luke.” Which was perhaps the biggest understatement in the history of the world.
When the elevator came to a halt, the door slid open, and she tugged her tote firmly onto her shoulder. Why hadn’t she changed at the airport? Everyone was ready for a party, and she looked as though she was about to hit the gym in sweats and a hoodie.
“Let me go get him for you,” he said.
When he reappeared, Matt muttered something to Luke, but then stepped back into the recording studio.
“Hey, Luke,” Willow said. If it was even possible, he was even more handsome than she remembered. Hair in seventeen different shades of blond and brown. Dimples that popped when he smiled, when he spoke, when he came. Broad shoulders with the lean muscular physique of a drummer.
He studied her for a moment, then grinned. The air crackled, and she was reminded how good it had been in Detroit when she’d felt the spark between them fiercer than she’d ever known. It had felt glorious to let him sink into her, knowing they’d never be anything more to each other than an incredible night.
“Hello, Willow Warner,” he said, stepping toward her. He was drunk. She could tell from the glassy eyes and animated welcome.
She slipped the hood from her head and his look changed to one of concern.
Yes, she knew she looked a mess. Dark circles ringed her eyes, her cheeks a little more sunken than he likely remembered. Nothing like the playful woman she’d been in bed that night.
Because that night had consequences.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Willow glanced around them, concerned about who might hear. “I need your help, Luke. You were the only person I could come to. And it’s been an ordeal of a trip. Can I come stay with you for a little while?”
“Another night? For sure. Today just got a whole lot better.”
She looked around, and then met his eyes. “No. A bit longer, maybe. You left something behind in Detroit.” She’d had a whole spiel planned but was now too tired to deliver it. “I’m pregnant.”
Luke’s face changed from concern to shock. He tugged his fingers through his hair, all the while with his mouth making like a goldfish. “You’re pregnant?”
“I don’t need you to marry me or anything stupid,” she said, leading with the decision she’d already made for herself. “But if this gets out that I got knocked up by a one-night stand, I’ll lose everything. Followers. Sponsors who invest in my wholesome platform. Income. I have a deal for you. One million dollars and twelve months of your time to pretend I’m the centre of your world. Make them believe we are in love and want this baby, then we’ll realise we aren’t meant to be, and I’ll go back to LA. I helped put your band on the map which has skyrocketed your career, now I need your help to save mine. It seems fair, don’t you think?”
“Fair? Holy fuck, Willow. Can we process one thing at a time? You’re pregnant?”
“I am.”
He took her tote off her shoulder, grabbed her cases, and tipped his chin in the direction of the elevator she’d only just arrived in. “Let’s go. And give me a fucking minute to sober up.”
She did as he asked because she knew firsthand how much of a shock the whole pregnancy thing was. As he bundled them both into a cab, she remembered the conversation they had on the way to her hotel in Detroit. This time there was no flicker of mischief in his eyes. No flirtation. No meaningful questions.
Clearly, he wasn’t enraptured by her return, and certainly hadn’t pulled her into his arms to tell her everything would be okay. Not that she would have believed him if he had.
“We’re here,” he said eventually, reaching for the door handle as soon as the car pulled up to the kerb outside a utilitarian Manchester apartment building, a million miles from her Malibu home. “I’ll get your things.”
The rain pelted her hoodie as she hurried under the open-sided awning and the wind whipped along the street.
How could the weather be this dire? In April. She’d left warm and sunny spring weather behind. This felt like a dark and dreary November evening.
Luke opened the door for her before dragging her cases inside. They’d been so overweight; she’d paid a fortune in excess baggage. But she’d not had time to overthink her plan. Her parents had gone out for an afternoon of shopping and on to a Lakers game, and feigning a headache, she’d waited until they’d left to put her plan into action.
Secretly she’d been packing up the guesthouse she lived in on their property for weeks.
Riley had helped her pack the basics. Some of her things were in boxes in Riley’s dad’s garage. Some to be shipped once she was settled, the rest to be stored. What was left in her parents’—no, her guest house, she could forfeit.
Willow followed him to the apartment, then yawned as she glanced around the open plan space. One exposed brick wall, three white, no artwork. Various drum equipment sat in the hall and living room. A round table with four chairs was pushed against the wall and piled with so much junk, it was clear it went unused. There was a stack of beer bottles on the table, along with two pizza boxes.
And the air, rich with the scent of leftovers and yeast turned her already exhausted and fragile stomach to mush.
“Bathroom,” she managed to say before covering her mouth.
“Second door,” Luke said, grabbing her wrist and leading her to a small, white-and-grey room.
She kicked the door closed behind her and made it to the toilet before she retched.
Goddamn morning sickness, that could last all day sickness, especially if she smelled something funky sickness.
It had shown signs of stopping for a few days, but the travel and stress must have gotten to her.
She retched again.
Finally, Willow leaned back against the wall and breathed shakily. “Just get through tonight, Will,” she muttered.
There was a knock on the door, and it opened slightly. Without stepping inside, Luke offered her a glass of water. “Thought you might need this,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Willow wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “Sure.”
Luke sat down on the side of the bathtub. It was his hands she’d remembered, with a tattoo of a large black bee on one hand, a moth with a skull on its back on the other. The wings spanned the width of his hands. His long fingers took her back to their single night in her Detroit hotel room. When she’d learned the difference between clinical sex and fucking, between feeling like a girl and being a woman. When she’d realised she needed a man like Luke to feel the heady rush of falling headfirst into bad decisions and liberation.
“Rough day?” he asked.
She took a sip of the cool refreshing water. “Rough couple of months.”
He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. “I’ve got questions. Lots of them. I’m not sure asking them all when I’m eight beers and two lines of coke in is a smart move. And I’m not so much of a dick that I’ll grill you while you’re sick. But do you feel up to answering the basics right now?”
Willow ran her fingers over her swollen and puffy eyes. She needed a shower. Sleep. Her eye masks with gold flakes in them. Anything so she didn’t look as feeble as she felt. She’d intended to be strong.
Unbreakable.
Impervious.
“I’ll answer as many as I can, but you should know I’m pretty exhausted. It was a long trip to get here.”
“Fair enough. Don’t get offended by this, but I think we should start with the obvious. How do you know it’s mine?”
She’d braced herself for that very question, knowing it would hurt when he asked it. First, she would have preferred to not look a mess and smell like eau de long haul. Second, she’d hoped he’d trust her, would somehow magically know she was telling the truth.
“It’s yours. There are some things about my life I don’t want to get into the press.”
Luke looked up around the bathroom. “Nobody in here but me and you. Think that’s as private as you can get.”
She wanted to tell him everything, but words stuck in her throat. Plus, he hadn’t agreed to the contract yet. And without it, she’d have to take him at his word, so she stuck to the basics. “I haven’t slept with many men, and I split with the guy I made the video about using your song in September last year. That’s seven months ago. He cheated on me, so there was definitely no contact between us after that.”
Nor would there ever be. She held back from telling Luke about the arrangement her father and Ansel had concocted.
“The only person I’ve slept with since then is you in February. Contrary to my behaviour that night, I don’t treat sex casually as I think my answers to your questions showed at the time. Unless this is the second coming of the baby Jesus, it’s definitely yours.” Their night had been a precious memory. One she’d tucked away in a corner of her mind, when the pressure all felt too much. Luke didn’t care about her followers or likes or what she could do for him. Just that her father had hurt her wrist. He’d asked for nothing. He’d not even left a number she could reach him on. Just a scribbled note on a water-ring-stained napkin.
Luke rubbed his hands over his face. The silence was deafening.
Yup.
Definitely zero excitement about it. She placed her hands on her stomach instinctively. If she was the only person in the world happy about her baby, she’d love the shit out of it so hard to make up for everyone else who didn’t.
In fact, it made it easier if he didn’t want it. There would be no long-distance custody fights or co-parenting agreements. Just her and her child.
Luke drew in a deep breath and stood, resting his hands on the counter either side of the sink, studying himself in the mirror. “How far along does that make you?”
“Technically ten weeks, but they call it twelve weeks because they date back to the date of your last period.”
“When did you find out?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention to my periods, but it was five weeks ago when the sickness really stepped up. I blamed food poisoning, but then I thought about my last period and you. I did a test the next day. Stewed about it, saw the ob-gyn that week.”
“But it’s fair to say you’ve had five weeks to get your head around this, right?” He glanced at her. “I’ve had an hour. You’ve probably thought through all the scenarios. What it means to you, to your career, your life. You’ve spoken to a doctor. You’ve had time to make plans. You need to give me time to do the same.”
