An all-new second chance, surprise pregnancy romance is out this week from author Samantha Christy, part of her Calloway Brothers series, and I have a very emotional sneak peek for you.
Both of us are sobbing, our faces wet with agony and despair. He comes over and sits next to me, pushing his dog to the floor. He pulls me into his arms, and we cry. We cry for memories we’ll never have.
We part and gaze sadly at each other. “Don’t cry,” he says, his thumbs brushing under my eyes to wipe my tears. When they continue to fall, he kisses them. Then he kisses me. And I let him. It’s unlike any kiss we’ve ever shared. It’s full of hurt and desperation. But it’s exactly what I need in this moment. Being in his arms again is like finding myself after I’d been lost. I pull him closer, needing him more than I’ve ever needed anything. It’s a visceral reaction. He’s the oxygen in my lungs. The blood pumping through my veins.
Before either of us can fully comprehend it, we’re removing each other’s clothes. I tug off his shirt. He unbuttons my blouse. We toe off our shoes. We’re naked in a matter of seconds. His hands are like fire when they touch my breasts. Sensations I haven’t felt in years, or maybe ever, shoot through me.
His lips are strong and demanding, taking everything I’m willing to give. When his tongue tangles with mine, it’s both a memory and a promise. A promise of what, I don’t know. My fingers weave through his hair, keeping him pressed against me. Surely one of us will come to our senses and put an end to this. But not yet. The years of pain, they fade into the background. His hands on me, his lips, are somehow healing.
We break apart, breathing heavily, and stare into each other’s eyes by candlelight, both of us wondering if this is really going to happen, perhaps marveling at the fact that it is. And before either of us has a chance to change our mind, I reach out and take his penis into my hand. He gasps but doesn’t tear his eyes from mine. He’s hard and throbbing, the tip of him wet, letting me know he needs this as much as I do. His fingers find my folds, tantalizing me, teasing me, maybe even challenging me. I arch into him, needing more. Needing this. Needing him. Then, without so much as a word between us, he kneels on the floor in front of me, pulls me to the edge of the couch, and sinks himself inside me.
Both of us cry out at the sensation. The sound is guttural. Tormented. Our eyes glisten as he moves oh so slowly. I rack my memories to find a single time when making love to him was this emotional. It was always sweet. Fun. Never filled with a feral need for each other. Never wrought with as much happiness as pain. Never feeling torturous and exhilarating at the same time.
He grunts and comes quickly, but I don’t mind. This isn’t about me. It’s about us. Our connection. Our loss. Our devastation.
He collapses onto me when it’s over. We embrace for a moment, then the lights come on and the moment is over. The spell is broken. The feeling has passed.
It’s quiet outside. The storm is over. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he’s going to do. Are we going to pretend this never happened?