I heat. “So what’s the answer?” I cannot be horny right now. Lily even confessed that she abstained all week—and if she can be that epically self-controlled at this theme park, then so can I.
Connor places my panties in the suitcase, and his deep blue eyes flit to me. “Did I ever fantasize about you, sexually, when I was a teenager?” He steps towards me, until his hand brushes the bareness of my neck. “I don’t live in fantasy, Rose. I live in vivid reality, and in my reality as a teenager, I thought most often and most fondly and most passionately about you.”
I inhale strongly, my skin tingling beneath his hand. “More specifically,” I challenge.
His lip rises more, his smile inching closer to me. Towering. Our bodies draw together, his other hand on my hip. “More specifically,” he breathes, “I would masturbate to these realities.”
“No fantasies?” My hands are on his waist, gripping like my knees might buckle.
“One or two,” he says deeply, “but they would all come true.”
Sudden, abrupt, annoying clatter alarms me. I flinch and break apart from Connor. I fix my hair like he just fucked me.
He grins like he did.
Honestly.
I touch my stinging lips. His words kissed me.
Get it together, Rose.
I shake out of my stupor.
“I’ll check on the boys,” I say with purpose, strutting to the door. I feel Connor’s unbridled confidence all around me, as though he’s still right beside me. I push out, into the suite, and towards the room with all of our boys.
I’m excited to finally go home. I miss my own bed, peeing in my own toilet, and curling up on my own couch. I even miss the spirited Lady Macbeth and that exasperating little Pip-Squeak. Being on vacation is nice, but sometimes it’s more comforting to be surrounded by my own things.
I grab hold of a new door frame and skirt into a disastrous room. I do not enter further. I scan their progress, which is pitiful.
Only Charlie and Beckett packed their bags, and they’re no longer in this room. That leaves Eliot, Tom, and my youngest, Ben, all standing on the bed.
I spot the casualty: an overturned lamp.
“One of you will be picking that up before we leave.” I point a manicured nail at the fallen lamp.
Eliot laughs and starts bouncing on the bed, Tom following suit. Ben falls to his ass, but his brothers keep jumping.
Their clothes are wrinkled everywhere, most thrown haphazardly into the suitcases. “Did I not teach you how to fold?” I ask them. I most certainly remember that lesson because Tom face-planted on the clean clothes by the end of it.
“Mommy, I need help,” Ben says, sliding off the bed.
“Me too, Mom!” Eliot calls, leaping onto the floor.
“Me too!” Tom now lands beside his brother, both rushing to their suitcases.
I don’t care what their true motives are—at least they’re beside their luggage. I grab one of Tom’s black shirts, a gravestone on the front.
He never grew out of these prints.
“I’ll demonstrate,” I tell them, “and then you can finish your suitcase yourselves.”
Eliot drums his lips. “What if I opt to forgo the folding?”
“Then when you’re twenty and in college and you have no idea how to iron or fold, you’ll wish you listened to this lesson.”
“Go ahead, Mommy.” Ben crawls into his suitcases like he found a new home, laughing like he made a joke. “I’m listening.” He’s five, and I cherish all the ridiculously strange things my children do. In a blink of an eye, they’ll be grown and gone.
My bones are rigid as I fold Tom’s shirt.
“But…” Eliot frowns.
“But what?”
“I can call you when I’m twenty and in college, can’t I?” he asks. “You’ll still be around to teach me how to fold?”
Tears brim, and I nearly shed an actual tear. I skim my finger beneath my eye, avoiding smudged mascara. Having children has been like viewing the Titanic a million times in succession. I could cry at the stupidest, silliest, most inane and nauseatingly adorable moments. I could cry at the sight of any of them, for any reason, for anything.
I take a deep, vital breath that grips my heart. “Whenever you need me, I’ll always be here.”
< 61 >
December 2027
The Woods of the Meadows Cottage
Philadelphia
DAISY MEADOWS
I swing my axe and split a log in two.
Ryke places another log on the tree stump where we’ve been chopping. A secret spot in our woodsy backyard. Yesterday’s sudden snowfall layers the ground and trees in white. Coconut has been tired lately, so she’s inside staying warm. Our girls are currently at school, which leaves me alone with Ryke.
We’ve been silent for the past fifteen minutes, exchanging coy glances here and there. Ryke skims me from head-to-toe again, and I draw out the heady tension, staying rooted to this place. I’d like to just slink forward, to run my fingers through his thick hair, his scruff.
My wolf.
I smile with the next swing, but I barely split this log. I try again, the wood too tough. Ryke extends his hand, and I go to pass him the axe. He tries to grab, then I playfully retract.
He raises his brows.
“You want this axe?” I hold my axe towards my crotch. I stroke up and down the wooden handle.
Ryke Meadows is indestructible, barely batting an eye. It drives me wild. My smile constant, never receding. I’m the one who steps forward. About three feet away. I nearly pant, winter air rushing cold through my lungs.
Ryke stares darkly down at me, and when we’re an arm’s length away, he tears the axe out of my hand.
And throws it aside.
What is he doing? What does he want? Where is this going? The mysteries light my eyes, and I rise and fall on the tips of my toes.
So suddenly, so swiftly, Ryke shuts the distance, his hands on my cheeks. Lips on my lips. I lose breath, my fingers scraping through his soft hair. His tongue wrestles against mine. Our animalistic energy snaps the air.
I quickly kick off my boots, and he yanks my jeans down my legs, along with my panties. He pulls me closer with a feral kiss. My body sings a song of love, affection and happiness. Ryke kneads my head like hey, sweetheart.
My hands speak back, the same motion on his head.
And then he breaks apart and effortlessly hikes me up onto his shoulders. My lungs eject, and my legs dangle down his back.
I cup his rough jaw, my smile out-of-this world.
The danger of it all.
Ryke stares up at me while he kisses between my legs. The cold nips my skin, and mixed with the warmth from his mouth, all my nerve-endings shriek in delight.
“Ryke,” I cry, gripping his hair.
He sucks hard, and I tremble on his shoulders. Oh…
My head lolls, ahhh… I cry out, his hand on my thigh, the other on my bare ass. Fuck.
His tongue. That tongue.
My fevered moan pitches into the air. I contract, dots blinking in my vision. Skin on fire. My eyes roll back, fuck fuck.
“RYKE! DAISY!”
Connor Cobalt.
We’re close enough to the tree line that he might be able to see me partially naked on Ryke’s shoulders.
Oh God.
It takes me a second for my world to realign. Ryke slides me down his body, his head whipping towards our cottage. I see the outline of Connor’s body, but thankfully his back is to us—and he’s not walking further into the woods.
Ryke starts helping clothe me, rapidly, while I descend from a mind-numbing orgasm. Panties first. Then jeans.
“Fuck it.” Ryke says midway through, abandoning my boots. He picks me up to save me from the snow, and he cradles me in his arms. Where I’ve been so many times before.
I couldn’t discern Connor’s tone of voice. Worried? Panicked? Angry? Elated? It remains to be seen, which is why Ryke runs with me.
We break through the tree line to our yard and then just stop. Connor stands right there, poised in an expensive black woolen coat. His gaze sweeps us, landing on my bare feet, and then his blue eyes flit to Ryke.
“Where are your phones?” Connor asks calmly, but I have trouble reading his gaze.
I pat the pockets of my jeans and sweater.
Ryke lets me down and touches his pants.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” Ryke curses. Maybe we left them inside or maybe we dropped them somewhere in the woods.