Page 42 of Loss and Damages
“Just answer the question.” I squeeze her chin harder, my fingertips sinking into her skin. Her pupils dilate and I loosen my grip. She’s scared of me.
“No, I’m not pregnant. That’s difficult to do when he didn’t put his you know what you know where.”
I scoff. “I’m familiar with the idea.”
She smiles, gently takes the coffee cup out of my hand that I forgot I was holding, and sips, her eyes never leaving mine.
She lowers the mug and I do the only thing I’ve wanted to do since the day I met her.
Slowly, giving her all the time she needs to stop me, I kiss her.
“Oh,” she breathes against my lips.
It spurs me on, and I hug her to me, her warm cleft snug against my belly. “Okay?” I mumble, my hands framing her face, tilting her head to gain better access to her mouth.
“Yeah.” She sets the mug down on the counter and wraps her arms around my neck, her fingers forking through my hair.
Her breasts push against my chest, and if I weren’t in such a precarious position—and I’m not talking about my gunshot wound—I’d carry her to bed and have my wicked and wild way with her whether she had to open the gallery later or not.
She mews into my mouth, and I push my tongue between her lips, demanding she let me in. The acrid taste of coffee fights with her sweet flavor and our tongues tangle together as I try to find a way to get closer.
I need more and slide my hand under her pajama top, my fingertips grazing the bottom of one of her lush breasts. She doesn’t stop me and I go farther, cupping the glorious weight in my palm, my thumb teasing her nipple into a hard peak.
“Christ,” I mutter, “you feel good. We need a bed. Please, Jemma, for the love of God, let me take you to bed.” I don’t give a shit about the trouble I’m in. I need this.
She jerks away. “Dominic, I don’t—”
“Jemma! Yoo-hoo! There’s a strange truck in your driveway. How have you been?”
A chubby woman I’ve never met steps into Jemma’s cottage uninvited, and she freezes in her tracks, her mouth a wide O as she processes Jemma on the counter, her legs wrapped around my waist and my hand shoved up her top.
“Oh. I see you’ve been quite well.”
Jemma drops her legs and her heels hit the cabinet door by my knees. “Gloria. This is, ah, Dominic Milano. Leo’s brother. Dominic, ah, Gloria Billings. My mother’s best friend. She owns a shop down the road.”
I try to be discrete and ease my hand out of Jemma’s pajama top, but the woman’s eyes follow my every move. “Mrs. Billings. Good morning.”
“It is for you.” She pauses. “I was sorry to hear about your brother. Leo was a permanent fixture around here. He’ll be missed.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Jemma was helping me change my bandage. I’ll get out of her way.” This old biddy had impeccable timing. In which way, I’m not sure. I don’t know if I should be grateful she stopped me from doing something I’d regret or angry because now I’ll never know if bedding Jemma would have been the best decision of my life. No matter the outcome, I can’t let what we have between us go further, but still, I rest my hand on the nape of her neck and kiss her forehead. “Thank you again for all your help.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I yank on my shirt and Jemma hops off the counter. My pill bottles are where she left them on the breakfast bar and I shove them into my pocket.
Gloria watches me step onto the porch, and Jemma follows. I don’t have any reason to see her again. I can wrap gauze around my own arm, or if need be, I can ask my PA. I’d been confused, woozy, and in pain, and I hadn’t wanted to be alone.
Jemma belonged to Leo. She belongs to Leo’s memory now. We need to try to move on without him in our lives.
A little brown chihuahua sniffs at my feet and I resist the urge to kick the mutt in frustration. It’s not his fault Jemma and I would never work. It’s not the ugly dog’s fault that today I’m saying my last goodbye.
Something about that deflates me. It’s the same feeling I had as a young boy when the harsh truth planted in my heart that my mother would never love me. Disappointment. Anger. Hurt.
She can do better than a greedy, selfish, bastard like me.
“Goodbye, Jemma. Take care of yourself.”
“You do the same.”
