Sustained(41)

I’m sorry your brother died. I’m sorry you had to grow up overnight. I’m sorry you’re carrying the weight of six worlds on your slender shoulders.

My hand travels to her knee to give comfort, but when my palm makes contact with her warm skin, it changes into something else.

And she feels it too.

Her thick lashes flare a bit, her eyes meeting mine. She leans my way—inching closer.

“Why were you jealous of Lucas, Jake?” Her tongue peeks out, wetting her bottom lip. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it—but I can’t notice anything else. “I mean, he’s still a boy, mooching off his parents, partying every night. You have an actual life; you have an amazing career.”

“But he had you.” I don’t even think before I speak, because something about Chelsea McQuaid makes me want to . . . give. More. I reach across with my other hand and cup her cheek. The silky strands of her hair dance across my fingers. “At least for tonight, he did. How could I not be jealous?”

Chelsea leans closer and I dip my head, until we’re just centimeters apart. So close I can taste the sweet mint of her breath.

“Is that what you want?” she asks quietly. “Do you want me?”

I lose myself in those clear blue eyes. Endless and cerulean, like tropical seas. And my voice is barely a whisper. “All the time. I can’t remember not wanting you anymore.”

We close the wisp of distance together, and our lips fuse. Jesus. It’s slow at first, a gentle exploration. And then my fingers grasp firmer, pressing into the back of her neck, pulling her nearer. My mouth covers hers; it’s pliant and soft and so fucking eager. And it feels . . . electric . . . and important. Like every kiss before was just a dress rehearsal to prepare me for this. To bring me here, to this moment, where I can’t taste her deep enough—can’t get close enough.

I press harder against her and she’s right there with me—head arching, meeting me touch for touch. I drag my tongue across her lips, tasting mint and her. Chelsea opens her mouth and I slide my tongue inside its wet depths, delving and groaning, ready to devour.

With our mouths still joined, she rises to her knees, hovering above me. Her fingers scrape my jaw, touching my cheek. We move up farther on the bed, and she lies back, her hands guiding me to her—keeping me close. I settle between her open thighs, feeling heat and clenching, grinding desire. Her nipples are hard and hot beneath the jersey. They press through the fabric against my chest like two sharp flames, and I fucking moan into her mouth. Because I want to stoke those flames with my tongue, suckle that fire. She tilts her head, swiping her tongue slowly against my own.

And her hips slowly, deliberately rise.

Fuck me. I thrust against her in a long tight stroke, because it feels too goddamn good not to. She answers with a gyrating moan, low, guttural, and as decadent as the taste of her tongue. My hand glides up her bare, smooth thigh to her hip. I grasp her with harsh fingers, holding her steady so I can slide against her again.

But then she turns her head away, breathing hard. “Jake, the kids . . .”

Shit. The thought of the half-dozen sleeping demons just yards away should put a damper on my desire. But it doesn’t. The stiff, hot erection straining between us whispers, You can be quiet. They’re asleep. You have hours and hours until morning, he whines. Just think of what we can do with all that time.

And as if the baby can actually hear him, Ronan’s cry squeaks out from the monitor on the nightstand.

Double dog shit fuck damn it.

That wasn’t me. That was the dick talking.

I roll off Chelsea. My forearm covers my eyes and my breath comes out in forceful puffs, like I’ve run a marathon.

She says my name again, and I pant out, “It’s okay—you’re right. Just . . . just give me a minute.”

Or an hour. Possibly a day.

Chelsea laughs breathlessly, with a hint of frustration. “My nephew has incredible timing. Incredibly bad timing.”

I lift my arm and glance her way. Her cheeks are satisfyingly flushed, her lips swollen. It’s a damn good look on her.

She sits up to tend to the hungry baby, and I roll to my side and pull her flush against me. “Let me take you out tomorrow night,” I say.

Her fingers skim across my brow. “I don’t have anyone to watch the kids. I can’t just grab a sitter out of nowhere. They’re a lot to take on.”

“I’ve got that covered.” I happen to know the toughest, most capable, patient child raiser ever. She got me to adulthood in one piece—and I was a shitload worse than all the McQuaids put together.

Chelsea leans back. “Yeah?”