“Grace?” Jonathan pops his head around the bedroom door and looks at me in astonishment when he discovers me in bed. “What are you doing up here already?”
“I need to go through the Wentworth Project documents again and I thought I would make myself comfortable at the same time,” I explain. My smile is a little tentative; I can tell that myself, even though my heart is beating faster at the sight of him, as it always does.
I hear him coming up the stairs, but I feel different from usual today: a little self-conscious. So I stay seated and wait for him, instead of going up to greet him, as I usually do. It would have been difficult to get up anyway, because I’ve spread the papers I brought from the office out all around me, so, in fact, I can’t move a muscle without getting everything all jumbled up.
Jonathan enters the bedroom with a puzzled frown on his face. He comes over to bed.
“You don’t usually work in bed,” he says, astonished, and I swallow, torn between the need to tell him the news right away and the fear which is holding me back.
“There’s always a first time,” I reply, conscious of the statement’s double meaning.
Because the test was not a false positive. Dr Watkins confirmed the results: I really am pregnant, seven weeks. He took an ultrasound and examined me thoroughly, and then he explained that everything is just as it should be at this point in the pregnancy. That reassured me a lot, even though I’m still pretty shaken up.
Until I saw the tiny speck on the ultrasound monitor, the tiny living creature that is growing there inside me, I wasn’t sure myself how I would feel about having a child. But since then, I’ve felt completely different inside and it even outweighs the fear of how Jonathan will react.
I want this child, even though it seems completely abstract right now. I can’t quite imagine that the speck is going to turn into a real live baby. It’s my child with Jonathan, part of me and part of him, and I could never harm that. On the contrary, I feel a very strong protective instinct toward it; I feel the need to make sure that nothing happens to it.
But I really don’t know how I’m going to break it to Jonathan, and when he sits down on the edge of the bed — carefully, so as not to mess up the papers — I hug him a little tighter than usual and kiss him almost guiltily because it feels so strange to be keeping a secret from him. And he notices right away, because he frowns.
“Is everything OK?”
He knows me far too well, I think, as I melt into the bright blue eyes which are regarding me so penetratingly.
“I don’t know, you tell me,” I reply, to take the attention off me, stroking his chest and loving the feeling of his powerful muscles beneath the fabric of his black shirt, which he’s wearing open at the neck, without a tie, as always. “Did you get any further with things in Paris?”
He was in France to meet a business associate who apparently had some information about the troublemaker who’s been causing Huntington Ventures so many problems lately and sabotaging many important projects. It took a while for Jonathan to find out that it wasn’t just a series of coincidences, but rather deliberate, planned attempts to damage the company. Since then, he’s been investigating what they have in common — and searching for the culprit.
“Yes and no. Bernière really did have some interesting leads, but it will take a while for me to evaluate them all,” Jonathan explains and it sounds perfectly normal. But he avoids my eyes, for just a moment, and in a flash I get the feeling he’s hiding something. But that’s ridiculous. Or is it?
“And what took you so long to get home?” I ask, and it comes out more reproachfully than I intended. Because he was going to be here by early evening, which is long past. It’s almost eight o’clock.
He shrugs his shoulders. “It was snowing so hard in Paris that we had to take off later than planned. And things at the office also took a little longer.”
“At the office? I thought you had an appointment elsewhere?” At least, that’s what I understood when he said he still had something to take care of.
“No. I had to go over a few things with Catherine,” he replies, avoiding my gaze again. I feel a painful stab because this increases my fear that he’s keeping something from me. “I didn’t know your secretary worked today,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest and staring at him sternly.
“I asked her to come into the office. It was urgent,” Jonathan explains, visibly astonished by my irritated tone. “Grace, what’s wrong with you? I run an international organisation. That means that I can’t always take bank holidays off, you know that full well.”
Yes, I know, I think, feeling suddenly helpless and a little out of my depth. I suspect him of keeping something from me — but is it only because I’m not being completely open with him myself?
“I’m sorry, I … would have liked you to have been here just now. We have so little time for each other at the moment,” I interrupt. Jonathan smiles, which still makes me melt inside, even after a year of marriage.
Somehow, I hope that he’ll kiss me now and make me forget that things might get very difficult between us if he hasn’t yet changed his mind about children. But he gets up from the bed again, goes over to the closet, and hangs up his jacket. It’s black, like his shirt and his pants — he just loves that colour and it really suits him, which is why I’ve never made a serious attempt to change his way of dressing.
“And what did you do today?” he asks. Luckily, he’s standing with his back to me. Because otherwise I’m pretty sure he’d be able to tell that something isn’t right. Tell him, Grace, I attempt to urge myself. You’ll have to do it at some point, so you might as well get it over and done with. But then he seems so tense, I think, and suddenly I’m afraid that it might be a bad time. If there is a good time to tell him a piece of news of this kind.
Jonathan turns around toward me because I’ve been silent for so long. He raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“Sarah was here,” I explain to him hurriedly. “And we … went into town.” That’s more or less true, but it’s still a lie, and I’m a little ashamed because I don’t have the guts to tell him the truth.
Maybe I would have, if he’d been behaving normally. But he’s dealing with something himself, I can feel it, and that makes me nervous. We look at each other for a moment, each trying to interpret the other’s look.
“Are you really OK, Grace? You look so pale,” Jonathan says, indicating the papers spread out around me. “If the Wentworth Project is too much for you, I can transfer an assistant to the project.”
“No way.” I shake my head vigorously, offended that he doesn’t trust me to do it myself. “I feel fantastic and I’ve got everything under control.” As if to prove it, I sweep the papers together again. I can’t concentrate on them anymore anyway.
Jonathan comes back over to me, sits down on the edge of the bed again, and places his hand on my cheek, stroking my lips with his thumb — a gesture I love. It sends a shudder of pleasure down my spine.
“What can I do for you then?” he asks and I have to smile despite myself because the answer is pretty simple.
“Kiss me,” I say, and he bends forward and does. As always, as soon as his lips touch mine, every thought is erased from my head. Works every time. And suddenly that’s exactly what I need. I definitely don’t want to think anymore, I don’t want to worry. So I return his kiss, surrendering myself to it completely, and when I throw my arms around his neck to pull him down onto the bed with me, the papers slide down off my lap.
But at that moment I couldn’t care less, I just want Jonathan close to me. I tug at his shirt and impatiently try to undo his pants. He helps me, gets rid of the annoying garment, and undresses me too — he’s an old hand at that. Then he takes me in his arms again and kisses me more intensely. But the way he does so is almost too tender for me, too considerate. I need more, so I take the lead, thrusting my hand downward, and grasping his bulging member, which makes him pant.
I hold it tightly, smiling, and at the same time I trace a line of little kisses over his hard, muscular stomach and then I slip my leg on top of his, getting myself into position so that I can crouch on top of him and touch the broad tip of his penis with my lips, as it strains up toward me, greedily.
“Grace,” Jonathan groans in a raw voice. His cock is twitching expectantly and I smile and then enclose it firmly in my mouth and begin to suck in a slow rhythm. His earthy, masculine scent is intoxicating and familiar at once, and I feel myself getting wet as I slide my tongue over him gently, tasting the first salty drops of his semen.
He was a good teacher, so I know exactly what he likes. I hold his scrotum and up the tempo until I feel his hands on the back of my head and feel him moving toward me in small thrusts.
I’m sure that this is an incredible turn-on for him; I can feel it in his tense muscles. But he’s still in control of himself, he won’t let go, almost as if he’s fighting against his feelings — which I find pretty frustrating.
When I pause for a moment, Jonathan immediately takes the opportunity to pull me up toward him, turn onto his side with me and take control. He kisses me again in that seductively intimate way that we’ve only been able to do since we confessed our feelings for each other — gently and unhurriedly. And, of course, I enjoy that too. But now I simply need to feel that I can drive him crazy, that he can lose himself completely in me. Maybe then I can get through to him again, I think, returning his kiss fiercely, unsatisfied with what he’s offering me.
It takes a moment or two but then — at last — I can tell from the way Jonathan takes hold of me and returns my kiss that his self-control is crumbling. His fingers confidently find their way to my hot slit, which is longing for his touch, and I groan throatily as he strokes it possessively and stimulates my clit, while at the same time enclosing one of my nipples in his mouth and sucking on it fiercely and almost painfully.
“Take me, Jonathan,” I breathe into his ear, stretching my arms above my head and delivering myself up to him completely. A shudder of anticipation runs through me. “Do anything you want with me.”
I’m rewarded by a growl and the self-control has disappeared from his eyes. Instead, I can see only unfeigned, hot lust. Good, I think, throwing my head back, exposing my throat, and moaning, as he runs his tongue up my neck to my ear, while he thrusts his hands under my butt and grabs me hard, pulling me right up against him, so that his penis is pressing against my tummy, hot and hard. He keeps on kneading my flesh and kissing me as if he wanted to devour me; till I’m so turned on I can hardly stand it. “Please, Jonathan.” I plead with him, as I have done so often in the past two years — because I desire the man so much it makes me helpless. “Please, fuck me.”
Jonathan’s eyes light up as I spur him on and I recognise the wild spark in them I’ve missed so much. It makes me smile happily.
“Turn round,” he orders and I do it willingly, feeling him immediately lie down right behind me. And then the broad tip of his penis parts my labia and I pant as he penetrates me with a slow but irresistibly powerful thrust, stretching me in a delicious way, until he’s completely inside me.
Jonathan doesn’t move, he just slips his hand between my legs and touches my clit, which sends an arousing bolt of lightning shooting through my lower body, making me even wetter. “Can you feel me?” His voice in my ear sounds hoarse and excited.
“Yes,” I breathe, consciously enclosing him with my internal muscles, enjoying the feeling as he fills me up completely. He’s so big and hard and I can already feel the first tremors of desire running through me in an expectant tremble.
When he begins to move, these tremors get stronger and take over my whole body. Jonathan holds me tightly in his arms as he keeps on penetrating me from behind, and every stroke is a little deeper, a little harder than the last. “You’re mine, Grace. All mine. Don’t forget that.”
He presses his lips to the nape of my neck and I feel his teeth against my skin as he ups the tempo and takes me as wildly and unrestrainedly as I’ve always wanted him to. But when I can already feel everything inside me contracting and announcing the arrival of a powerful orgasm, he suddenly stops and pulls out of me again.
“No,” I protest, groaning, but I’m powerless to stop him. So I let him turn me onto my back and spread my legs wide. Almost immediately, he’s inside me again and I sigh with contentment, squirming beneath him, because I want him right there, because I need him. And he needs me too. He takes me with almost painful force. But it’s what I wanted, so I’m rejoicing inside, clawing at his shoulders with my hands, scratching his back, as I arch up toward him lasciviously.
“Yes, yes.” My cries mingle with his and I feel him growing inside me and perceive the signs that he’s about to come. And then I lose myself, pulled under by my orgasm, washed away by an all-encompassing feeling of release that makes me sob aloud. Jonathan follows me with a loud groan, pouring himself out into me in several powerful thrusts and, with every twitch of his member, pulling me further into the abyss of desire, prolonging the tremors that are running through my body without stopping as we cling to each other tightly. It takes a long time till we calm down again and Jonathan releases himself from me. He pulls me into his arms and I snuggle up to him, listening to his heavy breathing which, like my own, takes a while to become regular again. Our union was exactly as I dreamed it would be — uninhibited, wild, and all-consuming, and I smile happily because I feel close to him again. It’s all going to be OK, I think, to calm myself, and I’m just about to tell him about the baby.
But Jonathan anticipates me.
“We could invite your family to stay with us again,” he says into the silence, and I raise my head in surprise and stare at him.
“Why? They were just here at Christmas — barely five weeks ago.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I just thought that perhaps you missed them,” he explains, which I find pretty confusing.
Of course, I’d love to have my family here often, especially my sister Hope. Right now I could really use her advice. But she wouldn’t have time to make the long journey from America to England again so soon.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, because I really am confused, and he smiles, almost apologetically.
“They were a big part of your life before you came here. It wouldn’t surprise me if you missed them a lot,” he says.
I let my head sink onto his chest pensively and look at the wall because I’ve suddenly thought of something and I don’t like it at all.
“Do you miss your old life?” I ask carefully. After all, a lot of things have changed for him, too, since our wedding.
“I was talking about you, not about me,” he says, kissing me briefly when I look up at him. Then he swings himself out of bed and gets up. “How about I make us a quick snack? I haven’t had a chance to eat, and I could really do with something right now.” He’s already on his way to the bathroom but he stops at the door and looks at me questioningly, because I still haven’t answered him.
“Yes, that would be great,” I say, smiling. But I grow serious again as soon as he has closed the door behind him. I sink back down onto the pillows with a sigh.
That was a clear no, I think, feeling a new anxiety growing inside me. Jonathan was much freer without me and he made full use of those freedoms before we met. That’s changed since we’ve been together, and until recently I was pretty sure he didn’t regret having given all that up — because he never gave me reason to doubt it. And, in fact, I can’t really imagine it even now, not right after making love to each other so passionately. But he has been behaving differently from usual somehow, and it makes me uneasy to think that now, of all times, my pregnancy might be about to put our relationship to the test.
It’s gonna be OK, I tell myself, trying to ignore the fear creeping up in me with icy fingers, as I stare at the ceiling. Because the thought that I might lose Jonathan is simply too terrible to imagine.