Page 79 of Single Mom's Daddies
The wind picks up.
I pause on the path and lean against one of the rail fences, bow lowered, violin still tucked under my chin. I breathe through my nose. Inhale the scent of cold dirt and damp leaves.
And that’s when I see it.
A glow through the trees. Saffron’s cottage. It’s late, but her kitchen light’s still on. Her silhouette through the window—shoulders curled forward, back to the glass. She’s sitting at the table. One hand in her hair.
I don’t know what pulls me forward.
Maybe it’s the way she’s holding her body—tight and still, like she’s trying not to break. Maybe it’s the fact that I know that posture. Intimately.
I make my way down the slope, violin tucked under one arm, and knock once on the door.
She opens the door in pajama pants and an oversized sweater, her hair loose and slightly damp like she just showered but didn’t bother drying it all the way. Her eyes are tired. Her mouth is pressed into something trying not to be a frown.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” She steps aside.
I step inside, set the violin down on the chair nearest the door, and turn to her. “I wasn’t planning to bother you, but you looked?—”
“Sad?” she offers.
I nod. “Missing Ivy?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “It’s worse at night.”
I get that. I really do. “Too quiet?”
She swallows hard and steps closer. Her fingers graze the hem of my coat. She slides it off my shoulders and hangs it on the peg by the door. She doesn’t look at me when she does it.
“What are you doing?”
But when she turns back, she meets my eyes fully. “You’re not bothering me, Victor.” Then she kisses me. She kisses me like she needs to breathe me in. Like the only way to breathe is through my mouth.
It’s not rushed—not like before. Hot hands, hotter lips. Her palms slide over my chest, under my shirt. I let her push it up and over my head. Then I do the same. She’s soft and warm beneath the sweater—no bra, just bare skin and hard nipples, the cold air forgotten between our bodies.
Her lips part slightly as I lean in, and I kiss her again. Deeper. Slower. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, and it does something to me—something I can’t name. I pick her up without a word.
She wraps her legs around my waist like it’s instinct. Maybe it is.
I carry her to the bedroom. Lay her down gently. Watch the way her hair fans out against the pillow. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting everything in soft gold. I want to see her. All of her.
She reaches for me, but I take my time.
I slide her pants down slowly, letting my hands glide over every inch of her thighs, her calves, her ankles. I kiss the inside of her knee. The top of her hip. Her stomach. Every kiss makes meyearn for another taste. My body swells and hardens against her softness.
When she shivers, I kiss her again. She watches me with wide, dark eyes. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. I kiss my way back up her body and settle between her legs. She opens for me, breath catching as I slide into her.
She’s hot. Wet. Already ready for me. Always perfect for me. I move slowly, savoring the push, the way she arches beneath me. Her hands find my shoulders, then my jaw, then my back. Her legs wrap around me tighter. She whispers my name against my skin.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “I’m here.”
Her hips lift, meeting mine. I thrust slow and deep, dragging out every inch until her head falls back and she moans. I kiss her jaw. Her mouth. Her throat. She grips my hair and pulls me closer.
We move like that for minutes—maybe hours. Short thrusts. Slow. I don’t know what this is anymore. I’d thought it was comfort or passion, but this? Time folds in on itself. A strange ache lodges behind my ribs each time I go to the hilt. All I know is the sound of her breath, the feel of her body, the way her eyes lock on mine when I start to lose control. Nothing else matters.
When she comes, she clenches around me, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent cry. I follow a heartbeat later. Can’t help it. I bury myself deep and groan her name against her skin.
