Page 46 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“I know my wife,” he runs his palm along my skin. “That performance was all fueled by you, though, best-supporting actress definitely goes to Whitney for ‘Lorena of the Bobbitt.’

We both laugh as I pluck at his picked-through hair. “When did youreally know?”

Bending, he begins licking along my navel, mumbling.

“What’s that?” I ask, tugging his hair.

“No more information, it’s bro code.”

“Nope, our bond wins, always, and you know that.” He continues his ministrations as I pull harder. “Thatttttch,” I urge.

He kisses a pattern around my belly button before his grin wins out. “Fine, I knew when my soldiers got into a sweater fight.”

I frown. “A what?”

“It was epic. They went feral, Eli has a dark side,” he chuckles. “You know, it’s pretty awesome being the veteran husband of us three,” he declares dreamily as he traces the curve of my breast and dips to flick his tongue against it. The pull begins below, but I’m already feeling like shit and decide that ... soon. Very soon.

“Baby, I’m seriously overheated and feeling gross, or I would totally pay homage to your beautiful penis.”

He nods and continues kissing his way up to my lips, laying one on me before pulling away with his declaration. “Well, I’m holding out on you anyway.”

“Really?” I can’t help my grin. “Going to be stingy with the penis like you were when we started?”

“Oh yeah, I’m going to make youbeg for it,” he declares in a tone I haven’t heard in years.

“Well, be that as it may, honey, you just helicoptered me. It will takeweeksto erase that image.”

“Challenge accepted,” he drawls, his eyes glazed with his buzz. “Oh, and fair warning, the girls arein for ittonight. I warned them not to, but Brenden is possessed.”

“Oh shit,” I chuckle, “howin for it?”

“In for it, Whitney especially,” he draws on my nipple—hard—before laying his head on my stomach and angling it to gaze up at me. “And when I feel better and can pinpoint which of the three of you is a real target, so are you, Serena O’Neal.”

“Hmm.”

“Ready yourself, woman,” he warns, tracing a lazy circle around my responsive nipple. Ten minutes later, Thatch drools on my stomach as I grin down at him, having lulled him to sleep with the stroke of my fingers through his hair. Our position the same as it is most nights. Him lying on my chest as I absently rub his beautiful strands. Most nights, I’m distracted, the act more routine, but tonight I find myself soaking him in a little more. The strength of his nose, the cut of his jaw. His dark blond lashes. And though the eyes beneath his lids are currently dormant, over the years, I’ve been the recipient of thousands of looks, both good and bad. But since the night we truly decided on one another, Thatch never denied me his eyes and has never stopped looking back. Running my fingers through his featherlight, strawberry hair, I utter my whisper more for me than him. “I love you, Thatcher O’Neal.”

Swinging the axe, I bring it down against the wood and shatter it in two as I feel the weight of a gaze before propping another piece up to split.

“Hey,” Serena drawls as she approaches. “You’ve been at it for a while,” she thrusts a bottle of water in my peripheral as I sound my warning.

“Give me a little space.” It comes out clipped and tense, and I see her posture draw up in offense as I manage to land another perfect cut. The wood falling in pieces along the side of the stump. It’s taken me weeks to be able to do it, and like woodworking, I find satisfaction in it. I came out here in hopes the workout would help exhaust some of the thoughts circulating in my mind—particularly my thoughts about the girl standing feet away. Fat fucking chance of that with the way she’s looking at me. After wordlessly positioning another piece, a water bottle lands at my boot, and I look up to see Serena now skewering me with her stare.

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry,” I say, picking up the offered water.

“Yeah, I’m getting that you are.”

“I’m swinging an axe, Serena, which requires concentration.”

“So you do regret it. Message received.”

“You don’t get it because there is no message.”

“You’ve been nothing but hot and cold since the ‘fun’ started, so I’ll skip the mind fuck, Thatch. Take care.” She turns on her boots and starts to stalk back to the house.

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” I call after her.

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