Page 93 of Stolen Kiss

Her eyes sprang open when she felt the wallop on her backside. A hard, open-handed slap as Jonathan buried himself deep inside her and came with a low grunt. Jonathan slipped from her body, wiped himself on the crumpled sheet, and fell back onto the mattress.

Cynthia was still on all fours, clutching the bedhead, unaware of what was going on. It was early morning, the sun had risen an hour before, and they were on their second round of sex. Thefirst time that morning, he faced her in the missionary position, but the second time, it was like she was with a different man.

Carefully, she stretched out on her side and covered her body with the sheet up to her throat, pinching the material with one hand at her sternum.

“Are you all right?” Cynthia asked.

“How long have you known?” he clipped out.

She knew what he was asking, but faked ignorance.

“Known what?”

Jonathan turned his head. His lean body remained where it fell, glistening with sweat. He hadn’t bothered to cover himself. Her eyes drifted to his cock, and he was still semi-hard.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Cynthia. We have been here twice before, and those times didn’t end well. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t try again.”

“It must have been the seafood,” Cynthia whispered.

“What?” Jonathan yelled.

He sprang up and threw his legs over the side of the bed, showing her his glorious back.

Cynthia started talking fast. “When we met at Easter break, the oysters didn’t agree with me. I was sick. It must have happened then.”

“You’re forty,” he bellowed.

“I know how old I am. Why are you so angry? I don’t know for sure I’m pregnant.”

“Of course you’re pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“The technical point is that we’ve been here for five weeks, and you haven’t had a period. That alone says it. It didn’t occur to me until you showed me your bottom with the cut from a week ago, and I saw the redness. I thought about how it bled a lot for a small cut, and then the domino effect happened. Your breasts are bigger like the last two times.”

“Why are you angry?”

“We agreed to no children after losing the last two babies. Fucking hell, Cynthia, our second child was stillborn.”

Jonathan stood and then strode to the open veranda windows, stark naked. The curtains were open, moving in the breeze. He lifted his right arm, resting his wrist on the door frame and looking out over the lake.

“You nearly died,” he whispered.

Cynthia sobbed on the bed, burying her face in the pillows as she remembered the day, five years ago, when they were in a French hospital, overjoyed that they would meet their baby. Except it never happened. When she let out a wail, Jonathan was at her side, wrapping her up in his arms and holding her tight.

“I don’t know what to do. You’re adamant that you won’t marry me. You won’t risk leaving your job and running away. If we’re forever to be like this and only meet three times a year, what will become of us?”

“We’ll figure it out. But I am not making you leave your family. If anything were to happen to me, even on a meagre salary, and you have walked away from the Turners, you’d be on the streets.” Jonathan rested his hand on her stomach. “If this baby comes into this world wailing, then we’ll figure it out.”

“Why won’t you take the risk?”

“It’s not how I’m wired, darling. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

Jonathan lifted the sheet and wrapped it around them when he felt Cynthia shiver. He held her there in the middle of their bed and held on as she sobbed against his chest.

Sometime later, a soft tapping sounded on the door. Cynthia and Jonathan had fallen asleep under the covers. Jonathan got out of bed and pulled on his pyjama bottoms. He opened the door and froze, then he opened it wider.

Cynthia lifted and rested on an elbow, looking at the door. An ashen Jennifer stood on the threshold in her Turner Hall attire.

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