Page 109 of For The Weekend
“I’m forty. Seems a little old for a baby.”
I shrug. “I’m thirty, and that biological clock is almost out of battery.”
He pinches my chin, holding my gaze. “So you want some?”
“I’d like to. If you want more.”
He ducks down, speaking his words into my mouth. “Only with you.”
Then he wraps his hand around my throat, angling my head to kiss me, unhurried and almost lazy. For a conversation about how fast we’re moving, we’re at a glacial pace now.
My limbs are heavy, my body weighed down by the holiday dinner. I didn’t plan on having sex tonight, but I don’t try to stop Roman when he tugs my sleep T-shirt off, revealing my breasts to his hungry attention. He uses his hands and mouth to love them, squeeze and kiss and suck until my hips are bucking off the bed, and then he shucks my pants, leaving me naked and on display. He kneels between my legs, licking his lips as he admires me, and I’ve never felt so beautiful as I do under his dark gaze.
He reverently strokes his hand over the roundness of my stomach and down to my thigh, running the backs of his fingers along the sensitive inner flesh, inching closer and closer to where I want him with every pass but never meeting.
I squirm, reaching out for him, but he shakes his head. “Hands down. Let me enjoy.”
It’s difficult to stay still, but I try my best as his mouth follows the same path his hand did, his hot breath wafting over me, his tongue wet, lips soft. His beard tickles, and he intentionally rubs it over certain spots since we both like seeing thered reminders there later, before finally backing up to kneel on the floor, tugging me to the edge of the bed so he can give the aching flesh between my legs the same treatment. Soft licks of his tongue, too-tender kisses that send shivers down my spine. Blood pools low in my belly, his quiet hums echoing in my bones.
I’m hot and on edge by the time he leans over me, his lips shiny and swollen. “On your side,” he directs roughly before digging into the nightstand drawer for lube and a small silicone plug that makes my insides flutter with anticipation. He strips then settles on the bed in front of me, drawing me close with my leg over his hip, leaving just enough room for me to slip my hand between us to fist his erection. He grunts quietly when I squeeze it, whispering, “Daddy.”
“Careful, sunshine. I want to go slow with you tonight.”
And my already overinflated heart grows another three sizes, practically bursting out of my chest. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says, then carefully squeezes out the jelly, working it between my legs and up to the back, prodding and circling until I’m begging him for more. That’s when he slips the plug in and drives his length inside me.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the feeling, the bite of pain and the rush of pleasure. He fills up every part of me, careful with each inch.
The man who looks like he could kill, brought low by a bit of sugar and a whole lot of pink.
Chapter 32
Roman
The vague smell of paint and fresh carpet lingers in the air as Ian, Griffin, and Taryn take a look around the house. In the past five months, I’ve renovated every single room, installed a new garage door, repaved the drive and the cracked sidewalk, and torn out the dead tree in the backyard, making room for a swing set.
Dante helped a lot, but Ian and Griffin took turns on weekends, when they could, helping me paint and spackle. It was important for me and them that they were here. As we worked, they told me stories about the house, memories they had—good and bad—some about Dad, but mostly all about Mom. It healed all of us to fix up the house. When we finished the kitchen, we all measured ourselves against the doorway, marking it with our names and year.
Mazie’s looking forward to seeing how she grows. I am too.
“A smidge over,” Taryn says, and I barely move the frame before glancing over my shoulder at my sister. She nods. “Perfect.”
I settle the photo and stand back, folding my arms over my chest.
“It’s perfect there,” Ian says, gesturing to the windows on either side of it, the sunshine pouring into the room, mimicking the light in the photo behind our mother.
“Thanks for holding on to it for me,” I tell Griffin. “I told you I’d come for it.”
He grips my shoulder tightly. “You did, and I’m real glad.”
Silence descends between the four of us as we admire Mom. Her long, dark hair around her shoulders, her big smile, a book open in front of her. We can’t be sure, but we estimate she was in her early twenties when it was taken. Andi found the photo in Griffin’s closet, and she blew it up, framing copies for each of us.
When Griffin texted me to tell me, it was in the middle of a bad day with Mazie. At that point, we hadn’t seen Amy in a few weeks—this was before she was even arrested—and I’d finally soothed Mazie to sleep after a crying jag. Then the message came through with a picture of the photo, and I had chills all over.
A voice in the back of my head that sounded suspiciously like my mother, telling me it was time to go home.
Three years later, I finally did it.
