Page 85 of Tight End

He laughs a third time, and he’s got to be completely oblivious to my plight. I shouldn’t have picked a comedy.

I’m about to shift again when those fingers move. They pop the button on my jeans, and I could jump up and do a happy dance, but his fingers are so close to my desperate pussy, I won’t. I can’t risk ruining the moment.

“You’re a terrible snuggler.” His low voice rumbles in my ear, his beautiful, beautiful fingers inching inside my panties. Lower and lower they go. “What’s the matter, Princess? Is this greedy pussy of yours desperate for my touch?”

I could cry in relief, but I let out a low groan instead. He touches my clit, and it’s a whisper of a touch, but it has my entire body convulsing. Another touch and I’m already ready to explode.

He lets out a low groan. “You’re already so wet. Fuck. I can’t wait?—”

“Mommy. Daddy. I don’t feel good.” Oliver’s quiet voice carries down the stairs, and the mood is instantly killed.

Both of us let out a curse and we’re up, scrambling to get off the couch and fix our clothes. I might even let out a small curse as I button up my pants. I really wanted to see where the chill part of the evening was going, but there will always be another night.

Oliver comes first, and I bet any money there’s somethinggoing around his day care. I should have been more prepared for this. I didn’t even think about all the medicine that likely got thrown away at my apartment.

“Dang it, I don’t have any meds. Or a thermometer. I should have picked up all-new stuff before I moved in. That was so stupid of me.” I’m hustling up the stairs with Ryan hot on my heels.

He pulls out his phone. “Tell me what you need. I can have an entire pharmacy delivered in thirty minutes.”

It’s nice not to be alone, to be the only one having to handle everything.

Too bad I can’t get used to it. Everything will change when I move back to my apartment.

FORTY-ONE

Ryan

Oliver is sick.Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Shouldn’t I have noticed something when we put him to sleep? He seemed fine. He ate his dinner. He acted completely normal.

Should I be freaking out?

I don’t know what to do here. I’ve never had to take care of anyone before. June isn’t freaking out. Of course she’s not. She’s a fucking pro, a seasoned veteran. I bet she’s dealt with this hundreds of times while I was jacking off with football and not being a dad.

Okay. She’s feeling his head. Should I feel his head? Why don’t I have a fucking thermometer?

I never felt so helpless in my life, so I do the only thing I can: I bring up the delivery app and look for the closest drug store. Got that. Now the thermometer—there’s one in the ear, across the forehead ... what happened to pointing that shit under your tongue and waiting a few minutes? Oh, they had mercury in them. Mercury equals bad. I shouldn’t be allowed to adult. I’m terrible at this.

“He’s warm,” June murmurs, and I nod in agreement. Ihave no idea what that means, but I’m assuming it’s bad. “You don’t feel good?”

Oliver shakes his head, his entire body scrunched inward. My poor little man just looks like he feels terrible, and I want to make everything better, but I don’t know how. He looks at me, lifting his arms, and I hand June my phone. “Go ahead and order everything we need. They should have a rush delivery option.”

My tacos do, so it only seems fitting that medicine does as well.

As soon as she takes the phone, I’m crouching down, lifting Oliver up as gently as I can. His arms latch around my shoulders, and he rests his head against my chest. His forehead presses against the front of my throat and fuck me, it is warm.

Fuck.

But June’s okay, so I’m okay. It looks like she’s checking out and getting everything ordered. See, no need to panic. It’s going to be fine.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” I rub a light circle along his back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to sleep in my room?”

“Yeah.” He nods, but it’s weak, slow.

June’s across from me, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, her fingers running under his jaw. “What doesn’t feel good, honey.”

“My tummy.” That’s all he can get out before his head jerks back and he throws up between us.

And I’m not talking about a little bit of throw up either. Nope. My little man doesn’t half ass anything. I’m coated. He’s coated. It smells so fucking gross, and I regret everything about fajita night. But Oli is sick and needsme, so I ignore the dampness of my shirt, the pungent smell, the chunks, and hold him close.

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