Could God have made a more perfect man?
I reached for him and he closed his eyes as my hand wrapped itself around his girth, a moan slipping from between those perfect lips that made my juices run that much more freely. And then he positioned himself at my opening, sliding carefully inside, his movements controlled as he slowly—painfully slowly—buried himself as deeply as he physically could. I lifted my hips, welcoming him. And then we moved into a perfect rhythm, rocking together as though we’d done this a million times before, our bodies just instinctively aware of one another and the way in which we needed to be touched.
I wanted it to last forever. I buried my fingers in his flesh, held him tight against me even as he reached underneath me and lifted my hips to his. I must have cried out over and over because my throat was raw later, but I barely remember it. All I remember is how good it felt, how quick the tingle of orgasm built, how excruciating the pleasure truly was. And I remember the rawness of his screams, buried in my pillow, as he reached his climax.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember lying with my head on his chest, listening to his heavy breathing slowing, remember the smell of him filling my every pore. I can still smell him as I lay here now, aware that morning has arrived, that he’s gone. But I don’t want to open my eyes. I’m not ready to face the reality of what I’ve done.
Reality, however, wasn’t going to let me ignore it for long. The doorbell rang. It was an innocent sound, at first. But then it came over and again, like someone was leaning on it.
I reluctantly climbed out of bed and tugged my bathrobe over my nakedness, pulling it modestly against my curves.
“Can I help you?” I asked the bored looking man who stood on my front doorstep.
“Penelope Monroe?”
I nodded, glancing past him out into the street, trying to figure out what time it was by the number of cars in my neighbor’s driveways. After eight, at least.
“You’ve been served,” the man said, shoving an envelope into my hands. “Would you sign here?”
“What do you mean, served?” I asked, my attention drawn back to the stranger on my doorstep.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just deliver them. But my guess is, you’re being sued.”
I managed to sign his paper and close the door despite the rising panic in my chest. The only thing I could think it might be was a creditor my parents left unpaid that I’d missed in all the mess they’d left behind. I took the envelope into the kitchen and sliced it open with a steak knife, pouring the contents out onto the counter next to the scotch glass Harrison had slipped from my hand last night as he began to…
Harrison. His name was all over these papers. But not his name. Harrison Philips.
The name set off a bell in my mind. I knew that name, but I wasn’t sure how.
Harrison James Philips it said toward the bottom of one of the pages. It was a court order stating that he was to take custody of one Jonathon Tyler Monroe.
My head was spinning. I didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” a voice said behind me. “I tried to stop them.”
I couldn’t even turn. I couldn’t pull my eyes from those words.
“I don’t understand,” I somehow managed to whisper.
“I tried to tell you last night.”
I did turn then. It was a feat of pure will that forced my eyes from those papers - that forced me to look at the man who shared my bed just hours ago, to look at Harrison.
“Tell me what?”
“He’s my son, Penny.” There was something like regret in his eyes. But I had to be imagining it, didn’t I?
“JT is my biological son. And I want him back.”
Chapter 8
Harrison
I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been comfortable enough in a woman’s bed to sleep. But I did. And when I woke—thank God for phone alarms—I had to rush out in order to get ready for work in time.
Penelope was curled up on her side, her back pressed against me, her hands curled under her cheek. I brushed my fingertip carefully against her face, pulling a piece of thick, mahogany hair away so that I could see her more clearly. She was so beautiful! And she was even more so like this, with all the tension and worry gone from her face. I wanted to wake her, make love to her sleek, warm body. But she was so peaceful, and my phone kept reminding me that I’ll be late for first period if I don’t get going. And, for the moment, I needed to keep my cover in place.