Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You
Chapter 170: A Secret

Chapter 170: A Secret

Rebecca

I wake with my head buried in a pillow that smells like both of us, like sweat, and salt, and something for which there is no polite name. The sun is barely up, but even through my eyelids I see the pale light coming through the curtain.

My body is still achy from hours of love making last night. I stretch, and his arm tightens reflexively around my waist, drawing me backward into the heat of him.

In the same moment, his hand slides down, palm flat against my belly as if staking a claim, then further to cup me between the legs. He moves his fingers with a goddamn surgeon’s patience, parting me with the barest pressure, thumb already finding the secret part of me that wants him most.

A jolt of disbelieving pleasure cuts through the fog of sleep. I am still slick and open from the night before.

I bite the pillow, trying not to give him satisfaction, but the sound that comes out is a traitor to my intent. He laughs quietly, breath stirring the hair at the base of my neck, and whispers, "I missed you all night. Every time you stopped touching me, I woke up."

He pushes his thigh between mine and rocks me against it. I whimper. "Marcus...I am sore," I manage, but my voice is already giving up.

"I can’t let you rest if you keep making that noise," he murmurs, tracing soft concentric circles on my clit.

He teases me to the edge and then stops, just to watch me beg. He is infuriating, and I love him for it, or maybe despite it.

When he finally lets me come, it is so violent that I nearly black out, leaving me trembling and gasping in the aftermath.

"Last time. I promise," he says and positions himself at my entrance.

I let him. I let him do whatever he wants.

~-~

By the time I make it out of bed, my legs are wobbly, and my dignity is somewhere buried in the sheets behind me. I put on a robe and head to the kitchen.

He grins when he sees me pad into the kitchen, hair a mess, smeared mascara, and entirely unbothered.

"Morning, domestic goddess," he says, shirtless, standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other.

"You cook?" I raise an eyebrow, easing onto a stool at the counter.

"I do everything," he replies smugly. "Except mop floors."

I laugh and he beams like he just won a prize. He tosses a few chopped veggies into the pan like he’s on a cooking show, then turns to grab two mugs. "Coffee?"

"Please. Make it strong enough to reanimate the dead."

He hands me a mug and slides a small plate of toast my way, which has a tiny heart burned into it where he clearly pressed a cookie cutter into the bread before toasting it.

"Seriously?" I ask, holding it up.

He shrugs. "Hailey told me I need to act romantic."

I take a bite and try not to smile too hard. "You’re such a menace."

"Oh, I know," he says, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and something that may or may not be a sad-looking pancake in front of me.

"How did you figure out where things are? Did you do an inventory check of my kitchen when you broke in last night?" I ask.

Marcus raises an eyebrow like I just asked the most obvious question in the world. "Of course I did. What kind of criminal would I be if I didn’t scope out the cutlery situation first?"

I give him a look, but I can’t stop the laugh that escapes me. "So what—you broke in, wandered around, judged my spice rack, and decided on breakfast?"

"Pretty much." He pours himself some coffee and slides onto the stool next to me. "By the way, you own three different brands of cinnamon and no black pepper. I’m concerned."

I sip my coffee, giving him my most deadpan expression. "You’ve been here for eight hours and you’re already roasting my pantry."

He leans in, voice low, smug. "I’ve been roasting you all night."

I snort into my mug, choking slightly. "God, you’re unbearable."

"And yet." He gestures between us, his grin spreading. "Here we are."

He picks at one of the pancakes, which is, objectively, a little undercooked in the middle. "Okay, maybe I didn’t quite ace the culinary portion of this home invasion. But I get points for effort."

"You get points for not setting the kitchen on fire," I reply, lifting a bite of eggs to my mouth. "Barely."

He watches me eat, eyes softer now. There’s a quiet that settles between us, not uncomfortable, but...full.

"So...um...there is something I need to tell you. I should’ve told you this before, but..." he hesitates.

Marcus sets his fork down slowly, his eyes fixed on mine, all the teasing from moments before draining out of him like someone flipped a switch.

I blink. "Okay... You’re scaring me. What is it?"

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, then exhales through his nose. "It’s nothing bad. I have a daughter. She is eight and her name is Megan."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him.

A daughter.

He watches me carefully, like he’s braced for me to flinch or bolt.

"Megan," I say quietly, testing the name on my tongue. "She’s eight?"

He nods. "Yeah. She’s smart. Stubborn. Obsessed with space documentaries and glitter pens. She lives with her mom in Chicago. We split custody." He hesitates, fingers tightening around his coffee mug.

"Oh," I say softly. For some reason, I never imagined Marcus would be a father.

"Is that a deal breaker?" he asks, still looking at me intently.

I set my coffee down slowly. "No," I say, and his shoulders loosen just a little. "It’s not a deal breaker."

His eyes search mine, cautious hope flickering there. "You’re sure?"

"Yes, I am sure," I admit honestly. "I love children. I teach children for a living."

"You will love her," he says quickly. "She is a great kid. Almost too good. I still don’t know how someone like her shares DNA with someone like me."

I smile at him. "You are not so bad."

"If you say so, Rebecca." His voice is rough.

I stare at him for a moment, then, almost shyly, I say, "You’ll have to introduce me sometime. To Megan. Only if you think it’s... right, or whatever."

God, I sound so nervous. Why am I nervous?

He looks over. "I would like you to meet her."

I feel a flutter in my stomach. "Really?"

Marcus smiles softly, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes something warm bloom in my chest. "Yeah, really."

"Whe-when?" I ask.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Next week? It’s my turn to see her. She will stay with me for a few days."

I frown. "I can’t. I have a job here."

"Take the week off. Come stay with me, Rebecca," he says, suddenly looking intense as if his whole life depended on me saying yes.

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden urgency in his voice. "Take the week off? Marcus, I can’t just do that. I have students. Responsibilities."

He nods, his gaze steady. "I know. But she’s important to me. And I want you to meet her. To see this part of my life."

I bite my lip, torn between wanting to say yes and the practicalities holding me back. The thought of meeting Megan, this little girl who is part of Marcus, makes my heart race with both excitement and fear.

"I want to meet her," I finally say, my voice softer.

He reaches out and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Then say yes. I will handle plane tickets and whatever you need."

The warmth of his touch and the promise in his eyes make my heart melt.

I look at him, a shy smile tugging at my lips. "Okay. Next week, then."

His grin lights up the room. "Great."

God...I am in too deep, aren’t I?

He leans back, still grinning. "So...now that you know my secret, any secret you want to share with me?"

I hesitate, then lean forward, lowering my voice. "Okay... but you have to promise not to laugh."

Marcus crosses his arms. "Scout’s honor."

I take a deep breath. "When I was a kid... I had a huge crush on a cartoon character. Like, full-on embarrassing levels of obsessed. I still remember the theme song."

He bursts out laughing, and I glare at him, pretending to be offended, but I’m smiling.

"Which one?" he asks, still chuckling.

I shrug, feeling suddenly shy. "I won’t tell you. It’s too humiliating."

"That’s not fair. Tell me now," he orders.

I bite my lip, the heat rising to my cheeks. "Fine," I mumble, barely above a whisper. "It was... Jem and the Holograms."

His laughter bursts out again, louder this time, and he shakes his head. "Seriously?"

I scowl, trying to hold onto what little dignity I have left. "Hey, don’t judge. It was the ’80s. And those outfits were fire."

He grins, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Alright, I won’t tease you anymore. Tell me about your family. Any siblings?"

"Yeah, I have one younger brother, Nate. He is in college in Florida."

Marcus leans back, looking thoughtful. "And your parents?" he asks.

"They’re still together," I say. "Mom’s a nurse, and Dad runs a small landscaping business. Pretty normal, really."

Marcus nods slowly.

I glance at him, feeling a warmth spread in my chest. "What about you? Any siblings?"

His eyes turn dark. "I have a sister," he says.

The sudden shift in the mood catches me off guard. I wonder why he looks so sad at the mention of his sister.