Fairytale Come Alive Page 23

Isabella screamed.

  “Elle!”

  When she heard her name, she jolted awake.

  Prentice was crouched before her beside the couch, his hand on her arm shaking her, his face a mask of alarm.

  She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking Prentice off his.

  She wasn’t thinking. Her mind was in turmoil as it always was after those dreams.

  He surged up and caught her on the run. His arm curving around her waist, he pulled her in front of him, his arms locking tight around her.

  She struggled violently. His arms grew tighter.

  “Jesus, Elle, what the fuck?”

  Suddenly, she felt his warmth, his strength, his arms holding her captive against his solid, strong body.

  Feeling all that was Prentice, Isabella collapsed in his arms.

  Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest and burst into body-wracking, silent sobs.

  She felt one arm leave her waist then the ponytail holder was pulled gently from her hair; her hair tumbled into his hand and he ran his fingers through its length.

  “Baby,” he said softly.

  At his sweet endearment, she could take no more.

  She’d been holding it in for years, the grief, holding it in so her father wouldn’t see. Keeping it secret. Keeping it silent. Keeping it inside so her father wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t get angry.

  She had to get it out.

  “I hate it! I hate it when I have those dreams! Hate it!” she cried into his chest through her sobs. She tilted her head back to look at him and continued, “Dad hated it too. Said I was weak. Said I should get over it. He didn’t find her! He didn’t find her dead in… that… fucking… tub!”

  Vaguely, she felt Prentice’s body go solid against hers but she was too far gone to process it.

  She buried her face in his chest again and sobbed, “I’m so tired of those dreams, Pren. So tired. So damn tired.” She tipped her head back and cried fiercely, “Why can’t I stop having those dreams?”

  His hand cupped the back of her head, carefully twisting it so he could press her cheek to his chest as he replied gently, “I don’t know, baby.”

  “I’m…” She hiccoughed through her tears. “I’m so tired.” She clutched his shirt tighter. “So, so tired.”

  His thumb was drawing soothing circles against her temple, his fingers curled into her hair. She held onto him, arms wrapped around him tight, weeping.

  He felt so good. Tall and solid and strong. Warm. Safe. His arms so tight.

  He felt so… very… good.

  He pulled her head from his chest and dipped his chin to look at her.

  She looked back. His handsome face was full of concern.

  And he was handsome.

  So… very… handsome.

  It made her heart skip.

  His thumb rubbed along her cheek, trailing through the tears but his beautiful every-colored eyes never left hers.

  “We need to get you to bed,” he murmured. “You need sleep.”

  It came to her in a flash.

  Isabella didn’t need sleep. She was tired but she didn’t need sleep.

  She needed him.

  Before her turbulent mind settled enough to stop her insane actions, she took her hands from his shirt and curled them at his neck.

  She put pressure there, coming up on her toes.

  His body grew solid again. “Elle –”

  It was good he said her name because his mouth was open when she kissed him.

  Since she wasn’t thinking, she didn’t think forward to what he would do when she kissed him.

  He could have rejected her.

  If she had been thinking, that would have been her guess.

  He didn’t reject her.

  His head slanted, his tongue tangled with hers and then overpowered it when he took over the kiss.

  It was beautiful.

  She melted into him and her fingers, which had itched to do it for over a week, slid into his hair.

  The kiss was hard and it was wild and it left Isabella wild.

  Mouth still engaged with Prentice’s, she tugged his shirt from his jeans, her fingers shoving in, up, encountering the sleek skin and muscle of his back.

  That was beautiful too.

  She dug her fingernails in.

  He groaned into her mouth.

  His groan slashed through her, blazing a heady trail straight between her legs.

  She pulled her hands out of his shirt and her fingers went direct to his buttons.

  At that, he tore his mouth from hers and Isabella made a mew of protest but he didn’t move away. She watched as he lifted both arms. Hands grasping between his shoulder blades, he pulled his shirt over his head, ripping it down his arms, the buttons of the cuffs popping as he yanked it off and tossed it away.

  His chest was right there.

  Right before her eyes.

  And he had a beautiful chest.

  She didn’t waste the opportunity he afforded her.

  Her mouth went to him, lips, tongue, she tasted him, her hands roaming, fevered, desperate, wanting to memorize every inch.

  Down she went, down, until she was on her knees in front of him. She tugged back his belt, opened his jeans…

  “Elle.” His voice came at her as his hands settled at her jaw, putting pressure there to pull her up.

  She resisted.

  She’d found him.

  She wanted him.

  And she was going to have what she wanted.

  For once.

  She pulled him free, took his thick shaft in her hand then slid it in her mouth.

  His fingers left her jaw and glided in her hair as he groaned, “Baby.”

  It was all the encouragement she needed.

  He tasted beautiful, he felt beautiful, he looked beautiful.

  She couldn’t get enough and he couldn’t give her enough, bucking against her mouth as she held onto his hips.

  God, she was going to come just from the beauty of it.

  His hips jerked back, pulling free.

  Before she could protest, his hands were under her armpits and he yanked her up.

  “Pren –”

  “Quiet.”

  He shifted them around and sat on the couch, positioning her standing in front of him. His hands curling into the waistband of her yoga pants, he tugged them down, taking her underwear with him.

  With a forceful pull at her hips, he yanked her forward. She fell into him, her feet kicking off her clothing, her legs opening, her knees came up and she straddled him.

  He fell to the side, taking her with him, dropping to his back.

  Her hand went between them, she found him, wrapped him tight, guided him inside, lifted her torso up and he filled her.

  “Heaven,” she breathed.

  Her back arched, her hips ground into him, tilting, grinding further, reveling in Prentice’s hardness buried deep.

  Connected.

  Intimate.

  Isabella and Prentice.

  She thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

  She felt his hand cup her breast at the same time his fingers touched her right there between her legs.

  Her head tilted down to gaze at his beautiful face as his thumb stroked her nipple.

  “Pren,” she whispered as her eyes locked on his.

  Then she came, her body bucking, her sex rippling.

  It was shattering.

  It was magnificent.

  It was beautiful.

  Dimly, she felt his hands leave her as one slid into her hair, cupping her head, pulling her torso to his. He switched positions, moving her to her back, coming over her and then slamming deep inside.

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders and held on.

  She watched him move over her, her eyes barely open, glorying in the feel of Prentice driving deep inside her.

  His hand went to the side of her face.

  “Christ
,” he bit out, his breath coming fast, his strokes coming faster, pounding harder, thrusting deeper, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  She gazed at him for a mere moment, feeling all the magnificence that was Prentice wrapped in her limbs, pressing her to the couch, slamming deep inside her, before his head came down and he kissed her.

  She accepted his groan in her mouth as he reared one last time, plunging so deep it felt like he pierced her heart.

  His lips slid from her mouth, down her cheek and he buried his face in her neck.

  He pressed his hips into hers. Her limbs tensed, holding him tighter.

  She loved every inch of him.

  At that thought, her turbulent mind settled and reason intruded.

  She stiffened.

  The instant she did, he felt it.

  His face came out of her neck as she whispered, “Pren –”

  She didn’t finish his name. He kissed her.

  Her mind descended back into beautiful chaos.

  His mouth released hers and he pulled out, lifted up, tugging her up with him until they were on their feet.

  He’d unzipped her knit jacket and pulled it down her arms and had his hands in her camisole when her thoughts yet again cleared.

  “Prentice, we shouldn’t –”

  He whipped off her camisole and before her arms settled down to her sides and his swift actions settled through her brain, she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers again.

  He kept her mind jumbled with his kisses as he disrobed, turned out the light in the sitting room and then carried her to the bed.

  When he had her on her back, the covers pulled over them, his heavy warmth pressed down the length of her side, his elbow in the pillow, head in his hand, other hand resting at her neck, eyes resting on her face… only then did he speak.

  “Now you can talk.”

  “I –” she began to tell him that she was sorry, she shouldn’t have started this, this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  And selfish.

  And stupid.

  And a million other things.

  But he interrupted her, “Tell me about the dream.”

  Her mouth snapped shut.

  His hand tightened on her neck but his voice was gentle when he demanded, “Elle, tell me.”

  “What…” she stammered, unsure of the state of affairs and equally unsure she wanted to explore said state of affairs. She’d rather talk about her dream which was saying something since she hated those dreams. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “You’ve had it since it happened?”

  She nodded but said, “Not so much anymore. Just occasionally. Only when I’m stressed or anxious.”

  “You had them when you were with me?”

  She pulled in breath. Obviously, she’d never told him about the dreams.

  “Yes,” she whispered, terrified about his response.

  It wasn’t the insulted betrayal she expected, the betrayal he felt and angrily shared with her when he found out about her mother. Instead, his head tilted toward her, he touched their foreheads together a moment and he sighed.

  This tender reaction made Isabella relax.

  No, she didn’t relax.

  She relaxed, her body, her mind, her heart, even her soul felt like it relaxed.

  He drew away and said, “You need to talk to someone about it.”

  “I have,” she explained softly. “They couldn’t help.”

  His fingers flexed then eased.

  His voice dipped lower when he asked, “Your father said you were weak?”

  She couldn’t decipher if he was angry or disturbed by this.

  She also didn’t answer verbally.

  She just nodded.

  This was met by silence.

  Then in a voice that was lower, rougher and definitely angry, Prentice bit out, “He’s a fucking piece of work.”

  “He’s out of my life,” she assured him quickly.

  “He didn’t seem out of your life when he waltzed into a fucking wedding reception and right in front of everyone, including me and my children, literally brought you to your knees.”

  All right.

  Well.

  Since his voice was even lower, rougher and now rumbling, Isabella thought it was safe to say he was now seriously angry.

  “Prentice,” she murmured placatingly.

  “Tell me how he’s out of your life,” Prentice demanded, not sounding placated even a little bit.

  “We had words. He’s disinherited me.”

  There was silence for a moment then Prentice’s head went back and he laughed. Regardless, he didn’t sound amused.

  This alarmed her at the same time it confused her.

  “Prentice?” she called.

  His laughter died away and his head tipped back to look at her.

  “He disinherited you. That’s rich. I love that. What an unbelievable ass.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that. And he didn’t love it at all. He was angry on her behalf.

  Oh dear.

  She was beginning to think she was in trouble.

  Prentice fell silent. Isabella couldn’t cope with silence.

  “I told him I never wanted him to come near me again,” Isabella informed him.

  Prentice’s thumb stroked her jaw and his voice lost its edge when he muttered his warning, “Don’t expect him to adhere to your wishes, Elle. That man will do whatever he damn well wants to do.”

  She suspected Prentice was right.

  However, it was time for another topic.

  “What were you doing in my rooms?”

  He dropped to his side but his arms came around her and rolled her to hers, facing him. One of his hands drifted up her back into her hair and he pressed her cheek to his chest.

  “I came home, saw a light coming down the hall, heard the television on. I came up to talk to you and saw you were asleep. I turned off the telly and you started to move, like shudders, like you were cold. Then they got worse. Then you were making these noises, like you were terrified. That’s when I woke you.”

  Well, that made sense. It was horrifying he saw that but it made sense.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” she whispered.

  He was silent.

  She took in a breath. Then she screwed up her courage.

  This took awhile.

  Finally, she said, “We should talk about –”

  She didn’t finish.

  His hand twisted in her hair, gripping it, he pulled her head back and his own came down, his lips finding hers and he kissed her.

  His hands started roaming.

  Then his lips started roaming.

  Then his tongue started roaming.

  A long time later, after he made her come with his mouth between her legs and she helped him come by opening those legs for him and taking him inside, he tucked her back into his front and held her close.

  “Pren –”

  “Quiet.”

  “But –”

  “Sleep.”

  “We should –”

  His hand came up, fingers curling around her breast, thumb gliding across her nipple.

  She fell silent and a delicious tremble slid through her body.

  “Elle. Sleep,” he ordered, pressing deeper into her.

  She supposed they could talk tomorrow.

  Or maybe she’d write him another note.

  After she packed her bags, of course.

  On that sad thought, she said, “Okay.”

  His fingers tensed at her breast.

  She let out a sigh.

  Surprisingly, within minutes, she fell dead asleep.

  No bad dreams. No turbulent thoughts. No tossing. No turning.

  Just blissful, healing, beautiful sleep.

  * * * * *

  Prentice

  Prentice woke before Elle and carefully disengaged from the dead weight of her sleeping body.

  He pulled on his jeans, walked to the travel alarm on h
er nightstand, studied it, discovered how to turn it off and did so.

  He put the clock back in its place, stood beside the bed and for long moments he watched her sleep.

  Then he looked around the room.

  Nothing untidy, nothing out of place, her jars and bottles arranged just so on the nightstand. Four journals perfectly stacked, precisely positioned.

  He looked back at her, her face relaxed in sleep and he realized for twenty years he hadn’t seen her face looking like that.

  Relaxed.

  At-ease.

  Determinedly, he set aside the thoughts that wanted to intrude in his brain.

  Thoughts of Elle standing removed from the Annie and Mikey reunion when he’d first seen her after she came back.

  Thoughts of Elle staring into the pasta as she stirred it when Mikey explained how she’d taken Annie’s abuse and patiently forced her friend to heal.

  Thoughts of Elle clenching her fists tightly when she became anxious.

  Thoughts of Elle on her hands and knees after her father struck her.

  Thoughts of Elle lying on the couch last night, her body trembling violently, the terrified noises she made scoring his heart.

  Thoughts he’d refused to let himself think, not now, not yesterday, not five days ago and not in the weeks after she got in her rental car and drove away from him without looking back.

  Instead, he focused on something else.

  He pulled on the rest of his clothes and found her handbag. Digging through it, he located her passport in a travel purse, pulled it out, shoved the travel purse back into her bag and slid the passport in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Then he walked to the wardrobe and found her two pieces of empty luggage neatly stowed. He grabbed them both and took them out to his Range Rover, tossing them in the back.

  Then he went back inside and made coffee.

  He went to his rooms and took a shower, dressed and woke the children with a word of warning that Elle was still sleeping and they needed to be quiet so as not to wake her.

  Even Sally complied with his command.

  As he made his children porridge, he thought of the three days since they had their scene in his study.

  He’d seen her frequently. At breakfast. During dinner. In the evenings.

  He’d spoken to her infrequently.

  Their picture in a gossip magazine had whetted the villagers’ appetites. The house was treated to the constant comings and goings of friends and acquaintances who said they wanted to see how Sally was doing (and they likely did). Mostly, however, they wanted to see what was going on with Prentice and Isabella after their very quick, very public and very short reconciliation ended in an unexplained three week absence that put Prentice (and Jason) in very bad moods.