Here Without You Read Free Page A

through my teeth and I take a slow breath whilemy body riots. For the first time in my life, I’m hoping the new will wear off soon – just a bit, at least – because whenever I think of touching her and how she responds when I do, I can’t think of anything else.
    ‘I’ll pull my shirt off before peeling back your covers. Run my fingertips over you, carefully. Wake you so, so, slowly.’ Every nerve in my body is wide awake. ‘What will you do then?’
    Her voice is so quiet that I strain to hear her. ‘Reach for you. Take your hand and pull you into my bed.’
    The hot-factor of this conversation just vaulted up several notches. ‘Ah, I like the sound of that … but I’m still wearing my jeans, and you’re wearing that shirt …’ I wonder if she’s brave enough yet to continue this sort of game, though six months ago I would have had to be high to think she’d
ever
do this. Or that I’d end up wanting a committed relationship with her.
    After last weekend, all bets are off on what either of us is capable of.
    ‘Are you – are you wearing the ones with the button-fly?’ Breathy and soft, her words are like a caress.
    ‘If that’s what you want, then yes.’
    ‘Then … um … I’ll unbutton your jeans …’ Her voice husky and sweet, she hesitates, and I picture the blush spreading across her face.
    ‘You’ll shove them down with your foot, grazing my leg as you go …’ I say, helping her out ‘… while my hands are sliding under that T-shirt.’
    ‘Oh?’ She sounds almost breathless, and I’m
completely
turned on.
    ‘Your MADD T-shirt,’ I qualify, pausing when she laughs. ‘It’s a little threadbare, you know. I’ll stroke your breasts with my fingertips … and then lean down and taste you right through that thin red knit.’
    ‘Ah …’ she breathes.
    ‘One hand will drift down, over your ribcage, across your hip, nothing between us … what then?’
    Damn if she’s not panting. So am I.
    ‘Are you … are you wearing boxers, or briefs?’
    I smile. ‘In the interest of fairness, let’s say
no
.’
    ‘Oh, fudge.’
    I repress a laugh.
    ‘Um … what about …?’
    I chuckle softly. ‘Dori, Dori – so responsible, even in the middle of our little fantasy. I’ll bring a whole strip of them. You’re
protected
. Now what?’
    ‘Reid … I want you.’ Her voice is pure frustration, and I love it.
    My groan echoes her longing. ‘Baby, let me give your gifted little fingers a few suggestions to follow while I tell you the many, many ways I want
you
 …’
BROOKE
     
    Despite the fact that Reid had nothing useful to say, it helps to have someone to talk to about this. About
him
. Who better than his sperm donor?
    I may have to stop referring to Reid like that, assuminghe means to be a part of this, which isn’t
a given. I can’t imagine him stepping up and admitting to anyone that he’s the father of this kid. Not really.
    Earlier tonight, I learned my son’s name.
River
. Identical to the up-and-coming young actor who powerballed his way to a flatline on the sidewalk outside an LA club. A promising life cut short – by drugs, no less. Fabulous.
    Bethany Shank brought an eight-by-ten print of the photo I’d been longing to get my hands on, rather than sending me a jpeg. I fully believe she just wanted to witness my reaction. That flagrant intrusion wasn’t a point in her favour with me. When she slid the photo across the glass tabletop in my kitchen, I stared, but couldn’t touch it. My first thought was
No. This can’t be him
. Hours later, that kneejerk reaction hasn’t changed, even though I know it’s wrong.
    Staring at his likeness again now, alone, I don’t have to worry about my visible reaction. I can study every detail of him. He squats just inside a cyclone fence marred by patchy streaks of rust. There’s a stick in his hand, held like a tool, not a weapon – used, I think, to dig or draw in the dirt. In the background there are