Chapter 39

~ BAILEY ~

He chuckles again, his breath blowing against my damp skin, which he keeps kissing. I grip his biceps. Writhe beneath him. Restlessly. Also…tauntingly.

“You do understand that’s only going to turn me on more.”

“Oh…do we have a problem with that?” I politely inquire.

“Such the smartass,” he retorts.

“I prefer spunky.”

“Whatever you want, babe…” He kisses his way down to my collarbone.

“You’re certainly headed in the right direction,” I assure him.

“Well, there’s ample bounty here.”

“Aren’t you the comedian today?”

His tongue flits over the top of one breast and it is literally all I can do not to immediately urge him lower. My breasts ache for him. My nipples are puckered and tingling.

But Nick sets his own pace. Usually a fervent one. However, he’s really taken to this more languid style he’s adopted of late and it’s so titillating, I can’t be bothered to make him hurry things along.

In fact, I systemically categorize all the zings, in their various capacities. My blood is sizzling. My pulse is jumping. But my insides are simmering at a more molten degree that is fantastically erotic. Liquid heat spreads through me. My folds are slick and my inner thighs are flaming. The overwhelming desire to clasp Nick’s hand and place it between my legs is just the extra scintillation to push me a bit higher.

I could easily direct him. Again, I choose not to. It’s been a while since we were together. I want to savor the moments. If I have to sleep through the lunch Claire is arranging, I can’t think of a single person who will call me out for it. Not even Claire, with her perfect manners and royal etiquette. She’d accept my absence with a coy fist pump in my favor. If they do that in this country.

A tiny laugh escapes me.

Nick’s head lifts. His brow crooks.

My teeth sink into my lip.

“Does this tickle?”

“Quite wickedly,” I tell him. “But, actually… I was just contemplating how skipping the luncheon entirely wouldn’t be a travesty for me.”

“Hmm. Someone else might feel differently about that.” His hand skims over my stomach.

It is such a warm and loving touch, more tears prickle the backs of my eyes. But I keep them at bay. And murmur, “We shared a feast this morning on the plane. Devoured crepes and eggs Benedict and fruit. I am pleased to report the peanut takes no exception to eggs Benedict.”

“Her keeping you from any kind of food is risky to her wellbeing,” he quips. “I know how much you like to eat.”

“Obviously, she doesn’t know this about me yet. And look… Here I am, willing to postpone a meal in lieu of hot sex.”

His fingertips glide south. I spread my legs for him.

“Mm,” he whispers, “you’re ready for me.”

“Since I arrived. Surely you know that.”

He gazes into my eyes again as his fingers stroke my slick folds. Tenderly and teasingly. I love it.

He says, “There’s really no denying you. Even when I should insist you sleep.”

“I’ll sleep later. Soundly. Contentedly.”

His tongue flirts with my nipple and I accept that as his concession.

“Finally…” I happily mutter.

Two fingers slip inside me. I faintly gasp. And squirm a bit more.

“Now, we’re getting somewhere…” I say.

And I don’t have a single regret about having dropped everything to be here.

With Nick.

He masters a steady, gradually building, demanding rhythm within me. It really shouldn’t be so perfectly honed because it’s a complete contradiction. Yet… Nick is fantastically attuned to my body and my condition—and I’m not just talking about being pregnant. He knows he sets me on fire and that I absolutely looove the slow burn. But conversely require more from him.

I can’t even describe how he delivers it all in tantalizing strokes that are mesmerizing, but at the same time, hitch my breath and make me grip his wrist, keeping him in place, keeping him at this enticing cadence.

His tongue curls around my pebbled nipple and I let out a soft moan.

He snickers. And says, “Baby, that is precisely the response I want to evoke from you.”

“You do such a nice job…” I whisper.

He crooks a brow. “Nice?”

I laugh. “Hot. Is that better?”

“Much.” Just to prove his point, he finds that magical spot within me and massages it with just the right amount of pressure. I sigh and writhe and that spurs him on. His tongue glances over my nipple, teasing it tighter. Then the other one. The heel of his hand rubs my clit as he so diligently strokes my pussy. While it’s really him I want inside me, this is all kinds of heaven. My molten blood feels thick and searing in my veins and I’m melting away.

When he leaves feathery kisses over my skin, up my neck, against my lips, I instantly ignite.

“Nick,” I say on a rush of air. “Oh, God…” It is a beautiful, delicate, yet all-consuming climax. One that sends pleasure through me from head to toe. It’s warm and cozy, yet absolutely breath-stealing. I purr like a fat house cat as the languid sensations ooze through me. They’re luxurious and velvety, but with a notable sizzle.

My brain’s a bit foggy and I’m a little hypnotized by the golden glow seeping through me. Not to mention how Nick is grinning so knowingly, if not a tad triumphantly.

I let out another faint laugh. And tell him, “Yes, you do successfully liquify me. With barely any effort.”

“Oh, I intend to expend huge effort,” he assures me. “Once the peanut’s born and we can—”

I gasp, loudly.

I think he does too—mentally, as he catches himself.

“That was…” he starts to say. Then gives a shake of his head. “Fuck.”

My eyes widen.

“That was so fucking inappropriate.” He groans. He withdraws his fingers from me and flops onto his back. “Jesus, Bailey. I’m so sorry. I did it again.”

I know he’s immediately thinking about that debacle on the beach, when he asked what I’d name our baby. When I subsequently pushed him away.

I shove myself into a semi-sitting position—more like just balancing on a hip and holding myself up with a hand flattened on the mattress next to Nick.

I gaze down at him, hopefully demonstrating I’m not packing up my marbles and running to the airplane.

Granted, my heart’s performing some bizarre Big Top act and that is just… So not right.

So fucking inappropriate, as he’s stated.

Nick further contends, “I’ve almost instantly disassociated us from our agreement, from you being a surrogate. You’re here. As such, the baby is also here. You haven’t said how long you’ll be staying and I’m apparently already considering that if I can make you fall in love with this place… You won’t want to leave. Ever.”

Now I gape.

That is one hell of an admission.

He knows it.

He sits up as well. Throws his long legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet.

He stalks off.

I stare after him, shocked.

I’m still drowning in orgasmic bliss but am also experiencing powerful emotions that do not bode well for either of us. For any of us, because there is a child involved in this equation, who can’t be discounted.

Nick returns from the en suite, drying his hands. When he’s done, he slaps the towel over his shoulder and leans against the archway, folding his arms over his chest. I drape the bedding along my naked body. I’m feeling much too exposed. In every way imaginable, like even my insides have been laid bare.

I could so easily tell him, in this instance, that I’m in love with him. And I *think* he would be okay with my confession.

However, it would complicate matters more. Without doubt. It would add a fresh layer of conflict to our already precarious predicament. It would leave us at a painful crossroads.

These ruminations are basically how I talk myself out of broaching such a sensitive subject with him.

Instead, I say, “I guess I assumed that if the past week’s weirdness is, indeed, just a psychological manifestation, then a day or two here ought to settle me and we’ll travel back to California. Dr. Shaw has coverage for her other patients, but I’m sure she’d like to be available to them.”

“I’m paying her enough to—”

“Nick.” I don’t want to argue. I’m not even sure I have a valiant argument to pursue because, while it is important that I return to the restaurant, the idea of leaving Nick’s side—let alone his bed—isn’t exactly an appealing one.

“You’re tired, Bailey. You need to rest.” He pushes away from the wide molding and crosses the room—but only to adjust the sheet and comforter around me as I nestle against the pillows. He’s clearly not joining me.

He reaches for the remote on the nightstand and dims the lights. I get the sense he’s going to vanish, and we are going to pretend this conversation never happened.

I swipe at my tears. He hands over a tissue.

“Thanks.” I sniffle. And blot.

I’m waiting for him to just… Turn away.

But he’s rooted where he stands, alongside the bed. Staring down at me.

His jaw grinds and I can see in his eyes that his mind is doing the same.

I literally have nothing to say. This somehow became a volatile scenario. Any words seem as though they’ll be the wrong ones.

Evidently, he grasps this, concurs.

He makes no attempt to reconcile the situation either. Just toes off his shoes and stretches out alongside me. He pulls his phone from his pants pocket and starts tapping the screen, obviously checking emails. Going about his daily business. Though he’s doing it from here, rather than returning to his office. That offers me a measure of comfort.

He’s not angry. He’s as trapped in uncertainty as I am.

Luckily, I truly am exhausted. Also, mellowed out from the wonderful release he gave me. Even if there is tension lingering between us, I can at least close my eyes, knowing he’s not going anywhere.

I’m incredibly relieved by this.

And am able to sleep…

~ NICK ~

I believe Bailey and I have neared a breaking point. As in… Something’s got to give.

I can’t keep biting my tongue. It’s not the way I operate in business or in life. I go after what I want.

Problem is, I’m hitting roadblocks. I’m ready to plow through them as it pertains to creating a more well-defined national identity. Now I’m at the juncture with Bailey where I’m close to doing the same—define what’s really happening between us.

I know she’s in love with me.

Yes, the most obvious signs are in her eyes when she looks at me, in her sweet sighs when I touch her, in the soft lilting of her voice when we’re in private. I can also sense it by the way she naturally gravitates toward me, always liking and wanting to be as close to me as possible. And we don’t even have to be in private for that.

I also know it because she shares everything with me, even if she doesn’t use words to express her feelings. Above all that, she absolutely would not have come here if she didn’t truly need to be with me.

Sure, I can buy into her perception of some oddities with the baby, which convinced her they both required in-person time with me. Of course, I’m buying into that. What expecting father wouldn’t? Especially when he’s as in love as I am.

For as much as I’m reaching a level of frustration at Bailey’s overly logical and rational approach to maintaining a degree of separation between us by not telling me her deepest thoughts, I’m frustrated with myself for perpetuating this one necessity. For not saying what’s first and foremost on my mind.

Problem is, it’s my goddamn contract that serves as the hinderance. I had it drawn up. I presented it to her—logically and rationally, thank you very much. I took the professional high road. Well, up until the very first time I saw her at the beach house. And the first time she wore one of those satiny nightgowns I’d bought for her. And the first time I touched her. The first time I kissed her. Most definitely, the first time I made love to her.

With each of those things came a proverbial tear in the contract. Today, for me, it is nothing but shredded ribbons of paper.

And…

Here’s my most difficult, challenging, tormenting truth:

I can’t take Bailey’s baby away from her.

My, God, why would I?

Not even to raise her in a palace, as a legitimate princess.

The fact is, she doesn’t have to be raised here to be treated like a fucking queen from Day One. I can ensure she has everything she needs—and everything her heart desires—whether she’s here… Or there. In California. With her mother.

So, yes, I’ve painted myself into a corner. One that seems inescapable.

I can’t move to the States and leave my country behind.

Bailey can’t leave all she knows and loves and is comfortable with—she wasn’t even planning on staying here for more than a day or two. She didn’t pack as though she might give life here an earnest run. This was only meant to be a quick trip, to calm her insides, soothe her soul.

Maybe that’s what our future is destined to be. Visits when we can manage them.

Naturally, this concept does not sit well with me. Even with having staff to help with the baby, I never intended to be an absentee father, in any fashion. I’ve planned from the beginning to be an active, dedicated parent. Hell, I’ll bake five-dozen cookies for her at midnight if she forgets until then to tell me that she has to have them in the morning for a school bake sale. If she hates field hockey, I’ll suggest she try volleyball. If she can’t master Calculus, well… Okay, in that instance, I’ll refer her to a tutor.

Christ, I’m getting off track. She’s not even born.

Point being, I want to be a part of her everyday life. Right now, that looks like it’ll equate to relying on video calls, texts, and emails.

Not exactly how I’d considered rearing my kid.

But again… I can’t take her away from Bailey.

For Bailey’s sake, absolutely. Also for the peanut’s sake. She’s going to need a mom like Bailey. She deserves a mom like Bailey. One who’ll fly to another continent, a foreign country, just to appease an inkling that the baby in her tummy wants to be closer to her father.

Jesus, of course I can’t take her away.

So now… Wow. I’m stumped.

What the fuck kind of disaster did I create for us?