Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) (33 page)

She moaned and writhed.

Drunk on her musky scent, he nipped.

She cried out.

He liked that.

He flicked the tips of his fingers against her hard little bud. She pumped her hips, and he
knew
she was teetering right on the brink. Which made it the perfect time to—

He thrust two fingers deep inside the hot silk of her body, catching her by surprise.

“Oh,
Justus
!”

And there she went, her tight inner muscles massaging him.

He
really
liked that.

And he was close himself. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose and onto the sheet, emphasizing the strain of keeping his own needs on lockdown.

But it wasn’t his turn. Not just yet.

“Is that the best you can do, Duchess?” he asked rhetorically. He raised his head, looked up her torso, and past her pointy nipples to see her weakly move her head.

Nod or shake?

Didn’t matter.

Returning to his work, he found her hard nub and rolled it between his fingers before lowering his head and licking.

Swirling.

Sucking.

Her fingernails scratched his scalp as she held him in place. Her thighs clamped down around his cheeks. He felt her body began to heave and realized she was sobbing quietly.

The sound thrilled him.

“Justus,” she said, choked. “You have to stop. I can’t—”

“Sure you can,” he said, replacing his mouth and tongue with his fingers again.

Her hips hitched up again, bucking so powerfully beneath him it was a wonder she didn’t hit his mouth and knock his front teeth out.

He’d meant to suckle her again and milk all the pleasure out of her body until she was dry as a bone, but this whole punishment business was more torture than his poor body could take. He was rock hard by then, so overwhelmed by lust that the need for a condom never crossed his mind.

Or hers.

Levering up on her elbows, she grabbed his upper arms and pulled him on top of her, spreading her legs and forming the perfect cradle to accommodate him. Panting and sweat-slicked, he gripped himself and drove home in a single exquisite thrust that had stars popping before his eyes. She held him closer, clamping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He slid his hands under her hips and scooped up her ass. Their mouths found each other, and they kissed as wild and deep as they fucked.

On any other night, he’d want to pitch a tent and hang out here for a good long time.

On this night, he didn’t have a chance.

The pleasure built. He pumped harder and faster. Sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, forcing him to screw up his face against the sting. His arms began to shake from the effort of supporting his weight.

The pleasure surged higher.

More pleasure. More intense pleasure. Unbearable pleasure.

Then Angela shifted her hips, just
enough
.

He came with a choked shout, tensing as his body rode it out. Until at last there was nothing left of him, physically or emotionally, that didn’t belong to her.

When it was over, his muscles gave way and he collapsed, limp as a threadbare dishrag, on top of her. Like a child, he pressed his face to her neck because he was afraid to see what was on her face and he damn sure didn’t want her to see what must be on his. For several long seconds, the only things he could hear were the pounding of his heart, the rush of his blood through his ears, and the harsh sounds of their mutual panting as they tried to catch their breath.

He held her the whole time, as tight as he could get her, because he knew what was coming, in one form or another.

She stirred and raised her hands, but not to pull him closer. Oh, no, not his Angela.

To push his shoulders and get him off her.

“Justus? Baby, I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, withdrawing from her body and rolling onto his back.

The sudden disconnection was like a fist to his gut.

That and the ongoing uncertainty about where he stood with her were enough to make a grown man cry.

Sighing, he covered his eyes with his arm and tried to keep it together.

She arranged the covers around them but said nothing. She didn’t even want to snuggle, which was one of the great ironies of his life. Janet had been a big snuggler. It was funny to think about it now. Janet would try to get close to him after sex, and the unwanted intimacy had made him scatter like a roach pelted with spray. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

But right now? With Angela? He’d sign his club over to the lowest bidder if only she’d roll on top of him and rest her head on his chest and her leg across his.

But she didn’t.

A thought hit him.

“I’ve never forgotten to use a condom in my life,” he told her. “Are you on the pill?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry.”

She sounded relieved. Which was what he should be.

Instead, he felt like those belly blows kept on coming.

Which was
crazy
, man. Fucking insane.

He already had one unexpected child in his life.

How many more did he think he needed?

Yet there it was, right in front of him, dangling like a ripe peach that was close enough for him to see and want, but too far for him to reach:

Angela, pregnant with his kid.

Longing made his heart contract hard enough to make him wonder if he needed to get 9-1-1 on the line.

“Justus?”

The note in her voice—he’d call it hesitant, but determined—made all his hackles rise. So there it was. No wonder she didn’t want to snuggle. She couldn’t wait five fucking minutes to kick him out on account of “Maya.”

Yeah, whatever.

What a kick in the teeth.

“I know.” Fueled by his desire to spare himself from yet another of her endless rejections, he lowered his arm and quickly swung his feet to the floor without looking at her. “Don’t worry. I was just leaving.”

* * *

E
arly the next morning
, Angela marched into the kitchen hustling a bleary-eyed Maya in front of her like an Australian cattle dog with her herd and took a quick glance at the range clock: seven thirty. They were in great shape. She’d had the brilliant idea of letting Maya pick out her clothes last night, thus cutting about ten minutes off their morning routine. Maya’s little backpack sat on the table next to Angela’s briefcase and purse. Even better, she’d managed to do Maya’s hair without bloodshed. Heaving a great sigh of satisfaction, Angela surveyed her handiwork: a smoothly running household.

Forget about making partner at the firm. Angela had achieved her own personal best.

Wouldn’t Carolyn be proud of her now?

After a quick breakfast, they’d be on their way. Plunking Maya onto one of the barstools, she said, “What would you like for breakfast?”

Maya shrugged, yawning. “I dunno.”

Angela set the kettle on for her own tea and oatmeal, then turned back to Maya, her hands on her hips. “Frozen waffles?”

“No.”

“No, thanks?” Angela raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Maya’s jaw tightened into a sullen pout. “No, thanks.”

“Oatmeal?”

Maya slumped over on the counter, resting her chin on her arms so that only her huge, dark eyes were visible, and shook her head.

Angela felt the first stirrings of irritation. “Cereal? Cinnamon toast?”

But Maya’s attention was now riveted by the saltshaker and pepper mill. She sprinkled a few grains of salt on the counter, wet her finger, then licked it.

Frowning, Angela took the shaker away and quickly wiped up the salt with her sponge. “That’s not a toy, Maya.”

Maya didn’t answer.

Angela glanced at the clock. Seven thirty-four. There was still plenty of time to make her hearing. “So...cinnamon toast or cereal?”

Maya shook her head again.

The kettle whistled. Angela grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and quickly fixed her apple cinnamon oatmeal and tea. Just as she was about to take a bite, Maya raised her head.

“I want oatmeal, too.”

Angela rolled her eyes and lowered her spoon. Typical. “Did you say something? I don’t understand when people don’t use nice words.”

“I
said
I want oatmeal,” Maya said through clenched teeth. “
Please
.”

“Fine.” Angela slid the bowl across the counter to her. “You can have mine.”

Maya raised the spoon and stuck out her tongue to test the oatmeal’s temperature.

“You’re welcome,” Angela added.

“Thanks,” Maya said sullenly.

While Angela fixed another bowl, Maya sniffed and tongued the oatmeal without ever actually taking a bite. Finally she shoved the bowl away and crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s too hot,” she whined.

Angela shoveled two quick bites of oatmeal in her mouth and darted a glance at the clock: seven forty-five. Okay. Now they were into the yellow zone. Not time to panic yet, but time to get serious about getting out the door.

“What? Do you want me to put an ice cube in, or—”

“I don’t want it.”

“What the—?”

Angela had had it up to
here
with the little princess and the daily breakfast ordeal. Why couldn’t Maya just eat a bowl of cold cereal like every other American child? Why did they have to have this delicate negotiation, like they were engineering a plan for peace in the Middle East?

“Maya Robinson! I stood here and made that oatmeal—”

“I don’t want it!”

Angela finished her own oatmeal in two more gulps while she fumed and plotted. Normally, she’d take her mother’s approach and tell the little diva her behind would stay on the stool until the oatmeal was all gone and she didn’t care how long it took. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time for that this morning. They needed to leave and Maya needed to eat something—anything—before they did. Angela could not send a child to school on an empty stomach.

“Well, fine,” Angela snapped. “What do you want?”

Maya flopped against the back of her stool, staring at the ceiling. “I dunno.”

Something inside Angela snapped.

“Maya Robinson, I am going to fix you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—on
wheat
bread—and I want you to eat every single bite! Do you hear me?”

Nodding, Maya began to cry silently. To Angela’s everlasting dismay, they were not the crocodile tears she’d come to know and hate. They were genuine, heartbroken three-and-a-half-year-old tears.

Oh, God.

It crossed Angela’s mind to apologize, but she was still too pissed off to successfully manage a sincere apology, and they were almost out of time. Cursing under her breath—she felt like she’d kicked Bambi—she made a sloppy sandwich, threw it on a napkin, and slid it across the counter to Maya.

Maya swiped her hand across both of her eyes, sat up straight, and took a big bite.

Satisfied, Angela turned to soak the oatmeal bowls. She ran to the hall closet and got their jackets so they’d be ready. Jackets, backpack, briefcase—what was she forgetting? Oh, keys. She hurried back to the kitchen, swiped them off the wall hook, and put them in her pocket. Calmer now, she took a quick gulp of tea, scalding her mouth in the process. After dumping it out—there was no time to wait for it to cool down, anyway—she rinsed the mug. Now she’d just start the dishwasher, and—

Behind her, Maya made a broken wheezing sound unlike any human noise Angela had ever heard. Angela whirled, sending the mug crashing to the floor in her terror.

Maya was now unrecognizable. Angry red welts the size of grapes covered her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Her lips were swollen, her eyes panicked and wild.

What is happening?
Angela wondered, stupefied.

She watched in utter disbelief as Maya struggled to draw a breath, her little hands clawing at her throat as if she meant to tear open her airway. Then she made another harsh wheezing sound, as if air was being dragged, kicking and screaming, to her lungs, and her mouth convulsively opened and closed like the death throes of a fish out of water.

Do something, Angela! Do something!

Angela’s adrenalin finally surged. She lunged for the phone and called 9-1-1.

J
ustus looked
into Maya’s small room in the emergency section of the hospital and stared at Angela and Maya, his head still spinning with the medical jargon the nurse had just given him. The nurse, in her cheery blue-and-white puppy smock, had explained everything calmly and encouragingly, but his hearing had pretty much shut down after the words “acute respiratory problem.” She’d also mentioned peanut allergies, oxygen saturation levels, and epinephrine, but none of it meant a thing to him.

All he knew was that Maya almost died this morning.

It didn’t seem possible. She was resting quietly on the bed, her little dog tucked under the covers with her. She looked pretty much the same as she did every night at bedtime, except for the telltale oxygen mask on her face and some little plastic thing clipped to her index finger.

And her cheeks were still red and swollen.

Angela sat beside her in a chair, her elbow resting on the bed rail, staring as if she meant to personally count and verify every breath Maya took. Angela’s eyes looked huge and haunted in her drawn face, and she seemed to have aged ten years since he saw her several hours ago.

“Angela?”

Angela started and got up. He hurried forward and pulled her into his arms, desperate to comfort and be comforted. But she stiffened, submitting without participating. With a final glance at Maya, he led Angela to the doorway, where they hovered.

“She’s okay now,” Angela whispered. “When I called 9-1-1, they had me give her some Benadryl—thank God I still had some from when she had that cold the other week—and then when the paramedics came, they gave her a shot of epinephrine. She’s been breathing okay with the oxygen. They’ll check her oxygen levels again in a little while, and if they’re good, they’ll let us take her home.”

This clinical recitation of the facts was all well and good, but he still couldn’t make himself understand what’d happened. “She’s allergic to peanuts?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, but...” He struggled to think. “Hasn’t she had peanut butter before? All little kids eat peanut butter.”

“This is how it happens, I guess.” Angela shrugged. “The doctor thought maybe that time you saw that rash on her face was the beginning of it. She’d had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich then, too.”

“Oh,” he said faintly. “So what, exactly, happened?”

“She took a bite of her sandwich, got hives, her mouth swelled, and she couldn’t breathe,” Angela said dispassionately, as if she was reciting entries in the phone book.

Justus’s sense of unease grew. Angela was so disconnected and cool it was starting to freak him out. Was this shock? He touched her shoulder.

“Are
you
okay?”

She moved away. “I’m fine. The important thing is that Maya’s fine and she’ll have a full recovery. We’ll have to learn about her new diet, of course. But everything’s fine.”

If she said
fine
one more time he felt like he’d kick the nearest wall. Anyone who’d just witnessed the near death of a child she loved could not, by definition, be
fine
. But he should’ve known it would take more than a crisis for Angela to open up and lean on him.

He shoved his fists in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for her again and making matters worse. “What happened with your big hearing this morning? Did you reschedule?”

She stared at the floor and rubbed her forehead. “I forgot about the hearing. I didn’t think to call until after they’d stabilized her. The client was furious. So was my boss.”

“Ah, shit.”

“I can forget about becoming partner now.” She shrugged and scraped together a lopsided smile that never reached her eyes. “I’ll be lucky if they don’t fire me.”

* * *

T
hat night
, Vincent surged into Angela’s apartment as if he’d used a tank to weaken a gate and had finally broken through to the keep. It felt weird seeing him here, at her humble abode. The mountain had definitely come to Muhammad.

“Where is she?” he demanded by way of greeting.

Angela shut the door behind him and tried to keep it together despite her exhaustion. She’d survived Justus’s sympathetic concern when he should have been furious that Angela had almost killed Maya, but she didn’t know if she could also survive an interrogation from Vincent.

“Please keep your voice down,” she told him. “I just put her in bed. She’s wiped out.”

Nostrils flaring, Vincent snatched off his coat and scarf and thrust them at her. “What happened?”

Angela told him as calmly as she could.

“How could you feed her peanut butter?” Vincent asked incredulously, making it sound like she’d force-fed the child a plate of scrambled dragon’s eggs. “How could you not know she was allergic to peanut butter?”

“Did
you
know?” Angela asked.

That shut him up. All the air whooshed out of him as he turned to go sit on one of the barstools. He collapsed his head in his hands and sat quietly for several minutes, looking like the tired old man he was rather than a formidable opponent.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Angela said quickly, resisting the urge to hang her head.

Why didn’t lightning strike her dead on the spot? She should be apologizing to him, not the other way around. Because even though she hadn’t known Maya was allergic to peanuts, the real issue was whether she
should’ve
known.

And the answer to that question was an unequivocal
yes
.

Today, when she’d sat staring at Maya’s disfigured little face, Angela had faced the ugly truth about herself and the kind of aunt she was.

And what kind was that?

A bad one.

The kind who fed a small child a peanut butter sandwich and then didn’t notice that the child’s face was covered with hives. The kind who refused to get medical treatment for the child because it was inconvenient. The kind who shouted at the child, then didn’t apologize. The kind who was more concerned about her career than she was about the child’s needs. The kind who, prior to the accident, hadn’t even bothered to get to know her niece.

Worst of all, Angela was the kind of aunt who tried to atone for her sins by adopting the child when it was painfully obvious to anyone with half a functioning brain that she wasn’t the best person for the job.

Peanut butter
, for God’s sake! Every idiot who’d ever watched half an hour of primetime TV knew what the symptoms of a peanut allergy were!

Trying not to cry, her throat burning with the effort of holding back her emotion, she collapsed on the sofa.

“Where’s Justus?” Vincent asked.

“He dropped us off, then went to the pharmacy to get Maya’s prescription filled. She’ll need an EpiPen with her everywhere she goes. And I guess we should see about getting her one of those medical ID bracelets.”

Vincent nodded approvingly. “You’re a good aunt, Angela. She’s lucky to have you.”

Angela turned away, unable to hold his gaze.

* * *

W
hen Angela opened
the door for him after he got back from the pharmacy, Justus was not happy to see his father embedded at the kitchen table eating pizza. In fact, his father’s presence was a direct and material breach of the unwritten armistice they’d developed over the years, namely that they stayed the hell out of each other’s way. It was petty of him, sure, to feel having his father here somehow contaminated the one little corner of heaven on earth he’d managed to eke out for himself, but that was how he felt. Still, Vincent was probably as concerned as the rest of them about Maya’s condition, so he tried to be polite.

“Hey, Vincent,” he murmured.

Vincent dabbed at his mouth with a white paper napkin. “Justus.”

Bemused, Justus stared at his father for a minute. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the man eat something as lowly as pizza before, and watching him finish his slice was as strange as watching a tiger eat a salad.

Then he went to Angela and kissed her. On the mouth. Because he’d meant it last night when he told her nothing would come between them, and that
nothing
included his father. Maybe it was a little soon to let Vincent know about their relationship, but Justus had nothing to hide.

Angela, on the other hand, quickly stepped back, her lids lowered. Without a word, she hurried off to reclaim her seat at the table.

Irritated, Justus jerked off his jacket and tossed it on top of a chair on his way to the table.

“She’s still asleep,” Angela told him, picking up a fresh paper plate and tossing several slices on it. “I didn’t bother waking her up for dinner. I think rest is more important than food right now. Are you hungry? Here you go.”

Justus took the plate and sat, taken aback by her chattering. He wanted to ask how she was doing, but he didn’t think he could tolerate another recitation of how
fine
she was without vomiting.

“Did you talk to anyone at the office again?” he asked instead.

“Larry wants to speak with me first thing in the morning,” she said.

Vincent cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”

Angela got up, found her sponge, and came back to wipe the table even though the men were still eating. “I was so upset about Maya this morning I forgot to call the office.” She hesitated, her jaw tightening. “I missed a final pretrial hearing.”

“Oh.” Vincent frowned thoughtfully. “Larry’s a golf buddy of mine. If you think it would help, I could call and—”

“
No
.” Straightening, Angela rolled her eyes. If Justus didn’t know better, he’d almost think there was some affection for Vincent in her tired smile. “I know you don’t believe it, Vincent,” she continued, patting the old man’s hand condescendingly, “but there are some things in life even
you
can’t control.”

Uh-oh. Justus braced himself. Better women than Angela had received a tongue lashing for less impertinence than this. But to his astonishment, Vincent just laughed.

“That doesn’t seem possible, dear,” Vincent said.

Justus’s irritation grew. What the hell was going on here? When had Angela and his father gotten so buddy-buddy? And why? This whole cozy dinner scene set his teeth on edge and made him lose his appetite. He pushed his pizza away.

Angela frowned at him. “You okay? I’ve never seen you push food away.”

Well, at least she’d remembered he was still there, Justus thought sourly. He opened his mouth to tell her he’d eat later, but Vincent spoke first.

“It’s me he objects to, not the food.”

Vincent’s tragic, resigned tone—
woe is me, my irrational son hates me
—rubbed Justus the wrong way. Itching for a fight, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned his elbows on the table, and glared at his father.

“Don’t start, Vincent,” he snapped.

Angela materialized on Justus’s side of the table, sponge still in hand. The warning smile she directed at him—
him
!—sent a chill down Justus’s spine.

“No one will be starting anything,” she said in a voice like a bullet dipped in honey. “Not tonight. Not in my house.”

Justus slouched, sulking, against the back of his chair. Angela made him feel like an immature seven-year-old for picking a fight with his father, a trick no one had managed since his mother died. He glanced at Vincent, half expecting to see the old man smirking at him.

But Vincent just stared, and if Justus had to name his expression he’d call it...sad.

Not reproachful. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just sad.

Justus suddenly felt small and petty. Worse, he felt an emotion he’d never felt before, no matter how badly he treated his father: shame.

“Aunt Ang-la?”

At the sound of Maya’s tiny voice from down the hallway, Angela dropped the sponge and ran off, disappearing around the corner.

Justus picked up a slice of pizza and, refusing to meet his father’s gaze, took a big bite.

“I was just trying to think when we last sat down to a meal together, other than Christmas Day,” Vincent said softly.

Justus froze and kept his head down.

“Been a while,” he said out of the side of his mouth.