Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (6 page)

He rocked into my mouth with a punishing pace, and his body became taut and restless under my palms, his words turned more impatient, more filthy. There was nothing he wouldn't say when I was here, and I craved every growl and command like it was a favorite old song, one I knew by heart and that had my body swaying with the beat at the opening chords.

My fingertips moved over his muscular thighs and between his legs, back,
back
, stroking and teasing, and wringing another snap of pleasure from him. With a gasp, he released my hair and slowed his thrusts until he was lazily jabbing into my mouth. He was backing away from the brink.

"Oh, my pervy girl," he growled. "What am I going to do with you?"

I smiled up at him, leaning into the hand cradling my face, and offered a shrug packed with as much coquettishness as I could gather with a dick in my mouth. He responded in kind with a sharp jab into my mouth before pulling all the way out.

He liked to force me, just a bit and only when I liked it, too, and he stuttered out an obscene string of curse-laced groans when my lips stiffened, offering the thick head of his cock some resistance as he pushed into me.

"If you don't want me coming in your mouth, your ass needs to get on that bed and your legs need to be spread for me because I'm not interested in waiting." His fingers stroked over my hair, slow and gentle, as if he was trying to remind me that his sweetness was lurking in the background while his greediness took charge. "I love you," Sam whispered.

"The sheets," I said. "Let me put down a towel, or—"

"Don't care."

And with that, he pulled me onto the bed, wrenched my legs open, and sank inside me. The only response I could manage was a slurred, sloppy amalgam of incomplete words.

"What was that?" Sam asked, and the glint in his voice told me that he was fully aware of his cock's brain-scrambling powers.

The light, wiry hairs on his chest scraped over my breasts, taunting my nipples with not enough friction while he drove into me, his fingers digging into my thighs as he pinned my legs wide. His skin was hot to the touch, and his hold was nearly painful, but that bite of pain only accentuated the deep, drugging pleasure of his cock as it pounded into me. He shifted up on his knees, drew my legs back toward the mattress, and gazed at where we were joined.

This angle did
terrible
things to me. It always felt like a new depth, a territory previously uncharted, and the one word I could only ever manage to broadcast my praise was Sam's name, over and over again.

And I knew it was the same for him, too. The sweat beading on his forehead and sharp, determined set of his jaw told me he was working hard to prolong the moment, but his increasingly frenzied hums and groans told me it wasn't working.

Sam's breathing faltered, coming out in a choked huff before he was bringing his eyes up my body to meet mine. "
Get there
, Tiel," he said.

"I can't— I can't—"

"Yes, you can."

I was gasping, hiccupping when Sam's hand slid down the back of my thigh to caress my ass before winding up to deliver rapid-fire blows.

"I'm not waiting for you, drunk girl," he snarled.

That was a lie, but my orgasm didn't understand that—never did—and it uncoiled, slow like a summer sunset, then too fast and weighty for me to do anything but cry out as it engulfed me. I stayed lost in that fog as Sam cornered his own release and eventually dropped to the mattress.

"That was incredible. Really fucking incredible," he said. He reached out, blindly groping beside him before his hand connected with my belly. "Yeah?"

I hummed in agreement.

"I want to know exactly what you were drinking because I'm buying several cases of it tonight."

Covering my face with my hands, I laughed. "Oh no. I'm on the No-More-Mimosas plan."

"Not sure I can support that initiative," Sam said, his fingertips drawing circles between my belly button and bikini line. "It worked out favorably for me."

"If you want to get me drunk and silly, I'm willing to oblige you here, at home. Not at lunch with the girls. I really did fuck things up with Shannon," I said.

"My dick is still wet," Sam said, his face buried in the pillow as he groaned. "I don't want to talk about my sister right now. I just want to hold you for a little while and maybe rub your tits, and then, later,
much later
, we can sort out Shannon's issues."

"I should go clean up first," I said, sitting up and surveying the linens. They seemed fine, and that was a relief.

"We'll buy new sheets," Sam yelled into the pillow before flopping over to pull me down to the mattress. "Just cuddle me, woman."

My arms banded around his shoulders, he nestled his head between my breasts—the one spot he adored more than anywhere else on earth—and we stayed there, quietly breathless and unwilling to stop touching.

There were so many things that I loved about Sam, and our relationship, but they always seemed to crystallize when we were skin to skin and bathed in post-orgasmic bliss. Everything that existed around us, before us, beyond us, faded. It was in these moments that he wasn't merely a good, caring man who also happened to be a fucking beast in bed, but he was
my
man.

"All right, that's long enough," he said eventually. He rolled over and sat up, stretching his arms over his head. "Next round in the shower?"

N
ovember

T
he drive
to New Jersey was long and uneventful, save for the tension radiating off Tiel. She chattered all the way through Massachusetts and Connecticut, barely pausing from sharing the gory details of the college’s latest scandal to take a breath. It seemed a professor was caught in a
delicate
situation with one of his students. Since that story broke, Tiel and the rest of the college personnel were required to attend several hours of refresher trainings on sexual harassment, fraternization, and ethics policies.

There was no clean opening to press on whether working in higher education was bringing her the fulfillment and purpose she craved. It wasn't, but I couldn't force her into that realization. And maybe this wasn't the weekend for all the realizations to detonate at once.

Lingering over a late lunch outside New York City, Tiel ranked her top Broadway shows (
Rent
,
Avenue Q
,
The Book of Mormon
,
Les Misérables
,
The Phantom of the Opera
,
Wicked
,
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
, and
The Lion King
; she was obsessed with the soundtrack but was withholding full judgment on
Hamilton
until we saw the show). In her mind, musical theater was the
only
theater.

We agreed we were due for a trip to Manhattan, and that set her off on a tangent about her favorite New York hole-in-the-wall music venues. She didn't talk about her Juilliard years often, and I liked hearing her account of these events without the shadow of her ex-husband looming large. I hated the guy for the way he threw Tiel away when he was done with her, but based on what I knew of her family, it was clear he wasn't the only one.

When we crossed into New Jersey, Tiel's stories slowed, and she turned her attention to commenting on Spotify playlists. They all got the Goldilocks treatment—too long, too short, too boring, too random—but I loved her noise. She viewed the world through a lens that fascinated and confused me, and I was crazy for it. I wanted to know everything, all of her.

After we passed Newark, she stopped talking altogether. She twisted her fingers in her necklaces as she stared out the window, and she was changing before my eyes.

Her near-constant tapping, swaying, and humming along with the music shifted to erratic finger-drumming. The bright, easy smile that was never far from her face transformed into a hard line, and her warmth dimmed by degrees.

Hours separated us from visiting Tiel's parents tomorrow, and I was hoping the hotel I'd chosen had an above-average selection of adult entertainment. I wasn't about to let this anxiety claim her, not when I could throw her legs over my shoulders and fuck the stress right out of her while she watched some high-quality girl-on-girl.

And it wasn't like that would be a hardship for me to endure, either.

T
iel's mother
held the wine bottle at an arm's length and peered at the label as if it was a foreign object.

"That's so…nice," she murmured before glancing up at us. "Is this popular in Boston?"

"Yes, Mom, it's a very cosmopolitan wine," Tiel said dryly, "but you're a fan of red wine. I think you'll like this."

"Well, I don't drink nearly as much as you do," she said, her forced smile wavering into a grimace. "We'll save it for a special occasion."

Two things were noteworthy.

One, Mrs. Desai could throw shade at a sunflower. Her expression upon opening the door was a mixture of contempt and grudging acceptance, as if she'd lost a bet on whether we'd show up, and it hadn't gotten any better.

Two, we'd been clustered in the doorway for fifteen fucking uncomfortable minutes. There was a stiff embrace between Tiel and her mother followed by a handshake for me, and then long, silent moments where she stared at us with a smile so fake it belonged on a Botox ad. It was unclear whether we'd be invited in past the foyer.

In the absence of anything else to discuss, Tiel drew her mother's attention to the gift basket I was still clutching.

"Yeah, maybe we could put this down," Tiel said, glancing at the basket.

She was wearing a dark green wrap dress with a hot pink quatrefoil print from a legendary designer, one that I'd insisted on purchasing when she helped me pick out new Oxford shirts and ties last month. It did amazing things for her body, and she knew it, too. She wasn't comfortable with me spending money on her—that needed to change
real
soon—but she liked to call this her power dress. It was the one that made her feel every ounce of the goddess she was, and I knew she was wearing it because she required that boost today.

But based on Mrs. Desai's expression, Tiel might as well have been wearing a potato sack.

I didn't understand how anyone could look at her without being bowled over by her untamed, unabashed beauty. Sure, she was wearing four amber necklaces and silver mermaid earrings, but that was Tiel and she made it look damn good.

"Oh, hello! Tiel!" A barrel-chested man came around the corner, a dish towel draped over his shoulder, and held his arms out. He brought Tiel in for a firm hug, and then extended his hand to me. "You must be Sam."

We shook, and he insisted that I call him Vikram, and things didn't seem too bad.

Then, a gaggle of women descended upon us. They all bore a striking resemblance to each other and spoke with New Jersey accents thick enough to resemble a foreign tongue. One plucked the basket from my hold, another took Tiel by the hand and pulled her into the living room, and another deposited an infant in my arms.

Despite having an urgent desire to start a family with Tiel, I couldn't remember the last time I'd held a baby. It was like having a soft-yet-solid sack of wiggling sugar in my arms, and that sack of sugar had no problem curling her chubby fingers around my linen pocket square and tugging it free.

"Do you have a name?" I asked. She responded by rapping her socked feet on my arm.

"That's Angelina," Vikram said from behind me. "She's Demitria's youngest. She'll be six months next week." He gestured to the women surrounding Tiel, but I couldn't tell them apart.

"Hi, Angelina," I said. "You're a cutie."

Her face broke into a wide smile, and her legs never ceased kicking. She chomped on my pocket square, and something inside me stirred. I didn't even know this kid and I was melting for her.

"You're just a precious little package, aren't you, Angelina?" I asked her. She giggled around the pocket square, her bright eyes twinkling.

Behind me, Tiel's parents were carrying on a conversation in what I could only assume was Greek. The words were hushed but the tone was tense.

"Oh, no. She'll ruin that," Mrs. Desai said. She stepped closer and gestured toward Angelina and the pocket square she was slobbering all over.

I shook my head, unconcerned. "I don't mind," I said. "She can keep it."

Mrs. Desai—she hadn't invited me to call her Ilonna yet—loosened the cloth from the baby's hold. After scraping her gaze over my blue Helmut Lang suit, she frowned. "Tiel's never mentioned you before this…announcement. Have you been seeing each other long?"

There wasn't a right answer here. If I admitted we'd been together for more than a year, Tiel was getting hammered for withholding information. If I shaved some time off that figure, Tiel was getting hammered for being impetuous.

"Long enough to know she's the only one for me," I said.

I found myself rocking from side to side, and patting the baby's diapered bottom. I couldn't stop looking at this giggly, drooly, tiny human, and it felt…natural.

For the second time this afternoon, Mrs. Desai forced an uncomfortable smile and said, "That's so…nice." She reached for Angelina. "I'll take her now."

Without an infant to dominate my attention, I was suddenly aware of the noise around me. The women who dragged Tiel into the living room were talking, all at once.

"Your mother said you were engaged, but I didn't believe her."

"I thought you were moving home to help your sister with the baby."

"You're
engaged
? Since when?"

"Someone get a corkscrew. I'm drinkin' this wine, it looks fancy."

"Oh my God, let me see your ring!"

"Is that him? You're engaged to
him
? He's a piece of somethin' nice."

"Your mother said you're teaching kindergarten but also waitressing to make ends meet. Does your fiancé approve of that? When I got engaged, Stav
insisted
that I stay home."

"That's just like
Pretty Woman
! I love that movie so much."

"
Pretty Woman
was a hooker. Waitressing is horrendous, but it's not hooking unless you're waitressing in a sex club."

"Hold up. Did you meet him at a sex club? I read a book about a sex club, I swear to you, I thought it was going to be all smut but they fell in love and I cried. It was an ugly, ugly cry. I couldn't help it."

"Why is it pink? It's not supposed to be pink. Real diamonds are
not
pink. I know my four Cs."

"I don't know how you do it. I couldn't get married at your age. I wouldn't even want to be pregnant at your age."

"If Costas gave me a pink diamond, I'd hand it back and say, try again, sir."

"Are you on prenatal vitamins? Do it, your hair and nails will thank me. And it's good for the baby, too."

"You're gonna need hair extensions. This is not bride hair."

"He looks like a lawyer. Are you a lawyer? A banker? What d'you do, honey?"

"Jennifer Lopez had a pink diamond when she was engaged to Ben Affleck."

"Is that his Range Rover outside? That's special."

"And that marriage did
not
occur. Look at the bullet she dodged."

"Where is that corkscrew? It's two o'clock on a
holiday
and I don't have a glass of wine. This is why I like screw caps."

"You need a shellac manicure. Tell your boyfriend to get you one, it looks like he can afford it."

"You know who he looks like? That one that I like from that show, you know which one."

"Oh, yeah, I like that one, too. But I think he's married. Or gay. Or gay married."

"What kind of cut is this? It's not princess and it's not brilliant."

"Maybe it was an accident. It's supposed to be one cut or another, not round
and
square."

"We don't say gay married anymore. It's just married. It's not politically correct."

"Who can keep up with politically correct? My God, it's a nightmare."

"Are those real Tory Burch flats or the knockoffs?"

"Oh my God, I love your dress. Can I try it on? My boobs are obviously bigger but that's not a problem. I like them to be out there and all
hello
!"

"You should see my Louis Vuitton knockoff. It's amazing. You'd never know."

Now, with voices spinning around Tiel like an estrogen-fueled tornado, I understood why she struggled with big, noisy families. Hell, I was ready for a stiff drink and a quiet corner, and I wasn't the one stuck in the eye of the storm.

"Irene, Demitria, Nicki, Nikki, Penny, Agapi," Vikram called. "Your mothers need your help in the kitchen."

The women continued talking, lapsing into intermittent Greek as they filed out, and Tiel followed. Pulling her close to me when she passed, I said, "Where are you going?"

"Kitchen," she whispered. She leaned her head against my chest and her shoulders dropped. "They're going to keep speculating on whether my shoes are authentic and diamonds can be pink, and at least one of them is going to have something to say about you being a piece of something nice. They're also going to talk about me being a spoiled brat if I don't help, so…"

"My goal in life is to spoil you, so wear it well." I kissed her temple and inhaled her sweet scent. "You got this, Sunshine."

"Go find another baby to hold. There are at least four or five of them crawling around," she said, laughing. "It was precious. My ovaries exploded."

I dipped my head to catch her eyes. "Do I want your ovaries to explode?"

"Uh, yeah, you do," she said. "Much more of that and I'm going to be pregnant before we walk out of here."

"
N
ow
, Sam," one of Tiel's cousins—or maybe her sister? they really
did
look alike—said. "What do you do?"

We were seated at a long, makeshift table, surrounded by two dozen of Tiel's family members. "I'm an architect," I said, accepting a plate loaded with lamb, vegetables, and rice from Tiel.

She offered a quick nod, and I knew she'd weeded out anything that would trigger my food allergies.

This
was what it meant to be spoiled. I fucking loved this girl.

"Really?" the sister-cousin asked. "Like, construction? No offense, but I know construction and you don't look like construction to me."

There was an insult hiding in there, but I wasn't about to go find it.

"Sam designs multimillion dollar homes and supervises the construction, Agapi," Tiel said. Ah. That
was
her sister. "One of his houses was featured in
Vogue
last month."

To be fair, it was the internet start-up billionaire whose home I restored that was featured in
Vogue
in last month. The accompanying photo shoot took place at the Manchester-by-the-Sea home, and there was a brief reference to our restoration of the property.

But I knew what Tiel was doing. I liked seeing her step up to the plate for me.

Agapi nodded, taking this in, and pointed at Tiel with her glass. "What are you doing now? I know you said you had
things going on
and that was why you
didn't want to
mind Anatola while I was at the restaurant, so…did you find work? Or are you just focused on wedding planning now?"

Okay, my turn. This bitch was going down.

"Tiel has quite a bit
going on
. She's one of the top music therapy professors in Boston," I said, "and her research has been used as the gold standard in early intervention for children on the autism spectrum. There aren't enough hours in the day for all the private therapy and consulting requests she gets."