“You, Alistair Connor, only you,” she promised.

“Hard and fast?” he asked.

“Yes. Now!” Her heels pressed down on his buttocks.

His hands cupped her bottom and his thumbs parted her. A groan rumbled low in his throat as he shoved hard in one thrust.

A throaty scream escaped Sophia as he burrowed himself until the hilt.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gasped. Pulling out, he repeated the sharp movement.

“Ah,” Sophia screamed, “yes.” His rough plunges kept her on the edge between pleasure and pain.

“Touch your breasts, Sophia.”

She opened her eyes, startled by his growled order.

“Touch yourself. I want to see you pleasuring yourself,” he crooned.

The command made her nonsensical. She had never done anything so bold. She cupped her breasts with her hands and looked at him. His green eyes caught fire.

Pleasure flared through her body as she noticed how turned on he was watching her. “Harder! Faster!” she demanded, as the climax peaked. She opened her eyes to look at the rugged visage of her pagan god.

He set a violent rhythm, his measured thrusts filling her with passion. “Come for me, Sophia,” he bent down to catch a nipple between his lips, sucking hard.

Suddenly, it hit her with violence, bright stars exploding behind her eyes, making her breathless and dizzy. Her muscles clamped around his invading arousal and they shouted together. He pulled her hips flush against his own. She felt a sharp pleasure as he pressed deeper.

“Yes,” he gasped as her orgasm triggered his. He plunged deep once again and stilled, his whole body stiff and his eyes closed tight. For several moments, he stayed immobile enjoying the sensual feelings coursing through his body and then collapsed on the bed, supporting himself on his forearms over her, his beautiful eyes searching hers.

He placed a kiss on her mouth and rolled onto his back, pulling her against his chest. He sighed deeply when her head rested below his chin and she purred, contented and sated.

“Sophia, you have just the right amount of energy for me,” he chuckled and felt her smiling on his chest. “And the weekend isn’t over yet.” His hand caressed her long hair. “I love you, mo chridhe.”

“What?”

He smiled. He hadn’t noticed he had spoken in Gaelic. “You, Sophia, you are mo chridhe. My heart.”

“Mmm. Mo chridhe,” she experienced the words on her tongue. “I like that.”

He didn’t try to order his emotions that felt completely out of control. He sensed a strange happiness filling his heart. An unrecognizable desire to be with her forever surged through him. It wasn’t only her exquisite face or her sexy body that had drawn him to her. It was her incredible spirit and way of confronting life. It was her hope for a better life in spite of all she-and he-had suffered.

Sophia is not my second chance. She is my heavenly gift.

After a few minutes, she kissed his chest, rose from the bed, and walked to the glass doors, stretching, entwining her arms above her head, “Mmm. It’s a beautiful day.” She turned to him, with a satisfied smile on her lips. “I’m hungry. Can you call for our breakfast, please? With coffee. Espresso, of course.”

Life suddenly had possibilities as new and bright as the sun shining outside. He sighed happily, picked up the phone from the bedside table, and asked for the delivery of their breakfast.

Alistair watched her young face as she raised it toward the gentle winter sun and made a firm decision in that moment. She, I will trust.

Epilogue

London.

Monday, March 15th, 2010.

Some minutes after midnight.


Kensington Palace Gardens.

She sighed contently as she fluffed her mountain of goose feather pillows and spread the comforter, readying the bed for the night. She chose her sleep list on her iPhone and soothing sounds started to play. She flung herself on her bed, a wide grin on her face, and buried her nose in the pillows. His smell lingered on them.

She felt young and loved again.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her happy thoughts. She donned her silk wrap and opened it to stare at the lovely face of her little daughter.

“What are you doing awake, my angel?” she whispered and crouched on her haunches, bringing the child into the circle of her arms.

“I had a strange dream. I dreamt you were getting married again.” The girl paused and glanced at her mother, a tender and anxious expression on her face that the mother decided not to interpret. “Are you, Mama? Are you going to marry again?”

A strangled sound emerged from the back of her throat. Then she answered, in a murmur, “No, my love. Mama is not thinking about marrying again. I was married to your father and very happy. Marriage is-” She paused unsure of what to say next. What does she want to hear?

“I thought you had found a new boyfriend and that you liked him,” the girl said in a small voice, almost pouting.

“A new-” She inhaled sharply at the child’s matter-of-factness. “I do like him,” she agreed and held her breath waiting for the girl to continue. Oh, God. What now?

“I like him, too.” A beautiful and happy grin spread over the child’s face. “I like him a lot. Marry him, Mama.”

The woman rose from the floor with the girl in her arms. “Let’s sleep,” she breathed and crossed the TV room, entering the little girl’s bedroom.

“Sing for me, Mama?” The question chilled the mother as she tugged the pale pink comforter around her child’s little body.

“Not tonight, love. Mama hurt her voice,” she looked away from her daughter’s intelligent blue eyes.

Tiny fingers touched her bruised neck. “How?”

How? How? The woman shrieked inside her head. How, you idiot?

“How, Mama?” the child insisted. “Did you fall?”

“Yeah. I tripped on a root and-” she interrupted herself, frowning, “and hurt my neck on a branch when I fell.” God, only a three-year-old kid would believe that.

“Then stay with me for a little bit?”

“Yes, my angel, for as long as you wish,” she answered and got under the covers, threading her fingers in the girl’s pale blonde hair. “Sleep,” she ordered softly, “tomorrow I’ll sing for you.”


Palace Gardens Terrace.

Seated in his large armchair in the living room, a glass of whisky in his hand, his thoughts completely absorbed him. His mood was broody and reflective. But not dark.

The changes in him were noticeable and he knew that she was the one responsible for them. Her youth and happiness were contagious. It brought out the light in him.

But he still feared scaring her away with the deep ugliness still inside him.

He took a big gulp of whisky, resenting himself, and banged the glass on the side table. The familiar rage he felt for so many women had vanished and now his anger was directed at himself. The black-and-blue marks on her body shimmered in his mind.

She didn’t deserve the harsh treatment I inflicted on her.

“Fuck!”

He stood and wandered into his dressing room sliding open a door on the left of the entrance. He perused the contents with mixed feelings and raked his long fingers through his bangs.

Would she like it? Would she debauch herself as I did for that fucking whore?

He closed the door with a sharp movement and it emitted a loud bang.

He shut his eyes, remembering what he had done to so many women and what one in particular had done to him.

No.

Not with her.

Not. With. Her.

She is different.

And I don’t need to live that life anymore.

He strolled back to the living room and flung himself in the plush armchair.

So, why don’t I throw everything in the bin and stop thinking about using them on her? After yesterday, I should know better.

It’s time to bury the ugly ghost.

It’s time to start fresh.

It’s time for love.

And then another thought struck him hard, chilling him. She wants at least another child.

He closed his eyes, disheartened.

I will have to tell her the whole story. He sighed and felt grief settle over his soul.


Park Lane.

He stood in front of his bookshelf, holding a glass of port in his hand. Still as a statue for a long time, he studied the striking couple smiling in the photograph framed in silver.

A sharp emotion sliced his heart and he drank his wine in a gulp, putting the glass carefully on the side table next to the sofa.

She was perfect for me.

Why did she leave me?

Why did I let her go?

He stepped uncertainly toward the bedroom, where a stunning brunette slept. He halted.

How can two women look so much alike and yet be so different?

His azure gaze swung back to the photo, a fierce longing piercing his body, almost causing him curl in pain.

And a weird look came over his handsome features. Rage, pain, and love. All mixed together.

Why is it that the women I love don’t love me back?

Why do I have to live with these ghosts in my life?

It’s my mother’s fault. That bitch.

He picked up his phone and speed-dialed a number.

“Sir?”

“Is she home?”

“Yes, sir. The lights went out a few moments ago.”