Page 66 of The Archer and his Rosebud

He nudges my nose, nipping at my bottom lip. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t. Stay.”

I smile against his mouth. “Okay.”

While I change and feed Clem, Archer grabs the porta crib and sets it up, even grabbing her sound machine, so she has some familiarity to fall and stay asleep.

The bedtime process is a little longer than usual, but eventually, she gives in. Archer waits on the couch, his arm draped along the back, watching me as I leave the hallway, and I slow. We’ve been alone more times than I can count, but this feels different. This time it’s going somewhere, even if it’s not all the way. We’re no longer two friends hanging out. We’ve entered new territory, and I’m still learning how to navigate.

“I’m gonna go change into some pajamas and grab a few things for bed.”

“Take your time.” He flips on the TV and offers a soft smile that warms my core. “I’ll be here.”

As I enter my apartment, I can’t calm my trembling heart. Aside from the physical aspect, we’re not doing anything different than we’ve been doing for months, but that’s not true, is it? No matter how I look at us, my heart is on the line. If I view us as nothing permanent, a stop on the way to something else, or as a possibility for mine and Clem’s future, I can’t keep my heart out of it. She’s too invested in Archer. If things go sideways, I don’t just lose a boyfriend. I lose a best friend.

What am I getting my heart into? Clem’s heart into? She’s young, I know. If he were to leave us, she might not even notice, but she was still so new when he came into our lives. Archer’s almost been with us since day one. Her short life knows a handful of people, and he’s played the biggest part aside from me. I’ve been so desperate for help and support, I haven’t stopped to think about what he is to Clem.

When I return in the new gray pajama set Mom bought me on her visit and freshly brushed hair, Archer turns his head, tracking my every move. He’s seen me in PJ’s before. I’m not wearing anything sexy. The top button is undone, so I don’t look like a nun—and okay, I’m not wearing a bra because it’s the end of the day, and I refuse to be trapped by the torture device for one more minute—but he can’t tell as he watches me like I just walked in wearing risqué lingerie.

Maybe I’m asking for heartbreak, but I have just enough hope and faith in Archer that I can’t stop myself.

The closer I get, the quieter the TV becomes as he turns down the volume, not breaking eye contact.

“C’mere.” Archer extends his hand when I’m within reach. I hold out my hand, but he takes one of my hips and then the other before settling me on his lap, straddling his thighs. With the glow of the TV lighting our way, he tilts his eyes to me, his fingers digging into my full hips. “I swear you wield some sort of sorcery because you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

“Even in my postpartum pajamas.” I chuckle.

The edge of his mouth quirks up. “Especially in your postpartum pajamas.” Archer lifts a hand to my cheek, brushing hair strands back before tugging me in and locking my mouth to his. The taste of mint on his tongue attesting to his doing a little primping while I was away.

“You wanna know why these are so hot?” His lips trail, savoring the curve of my jaw as he clutches the waist of my pajama bottoms.

I hum, leaning into his touch.

“Because they mean you’re comfortable with me, you’re comfortable in your skin.” His teeth and tongue follow a rhythm along my neck. “You’re irresistible when you’re confident, Rosebud.”

A heavy exhale falls from my lips, and I yank his mouth back. Kissing Archer is like kissing no one else. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Or is this just his skill level in contrast to mine?

His hips roll, and with a swift urgency that coaxes a gasp from my lungs, he hooks his arm around my waist and carries me down the hall to his bedroom, never removing his lips from my skin. My back lowers to his bed in a blink, and Archer hovers above me. “I know I keep saying it, but I feel like you need to hear me.” He kisses one side of my mouth, then the other. “You’re so damn sexy, Willa Rose.”

How does he do that? I’m far from being in the best shape of my life. My body still doesn’t feel like mine, but somehow he convinces me I’m desirable. I’m adored. Byhim.

Unfastening another button, Archer pulls aside the collar of my top and lowers his lips to my collarbone. One languid path to the other side. My hands plunge into his loose curls, tightening my fists.

His weight lowers onto me, one of his hands slipping under the edge of my top, skimming my waist. I can’t take it. I need his mouth back on mine. Yanking his hair, I catch his lips and dive my tongue inside, deep, invading. He matches my intensity with a near unrestrained appetite.

Archer proves over and over the kind of man he is, the kind of maturity and selflessness he possesses. I try to suppress the comparison game, but it’s impossible. Ty cared about one thing and one thing only. Getting off. And I was a prop to do so. I just didn’t understand that until now.

Archer retreats, and to my embarrassment, I whimper, needing him against me. Until he interlocks our fingers and his lips press to the sensitive skin of my wrist, over the pulse point. Following the line of my arm, he pauses at the crook and grazes his mouth and tongue across. I had no idea those areas could be so pleasurable. I can’t look away as he drops another kiss and guides my hand to his hair. I slide my fingers deep between his curls.

As he inches down, Archer’s mouth chases the path of my breastbone, skimming the side of my full chest before taking hold of my leg and running his hand from my thigh to my ankle. The soft stretch of the material of my wide-legged bottoms slides up to my thigh, baring my leg. I wait with bated breath for his next move. He never slows, never questions what I might like. He knows. More than I do.

Bending my knee, Archer brings my ankle to his lips and places an open mouth kiss to the inside and then to my inner knee before hooking my leg around his hip. My core clenches, and I shiver, overwhelmed by the simplest of his touches.

“Archer,” I breathe, pawing at the collar of his shirt.

“I know.” He comes back to me, yanking the back of his collar to pull his shirt over his head, and my hands hunt the hard muscle of his body. It’s unfair. For him to look how he does. Like he’s been cut straight from stone.

With one hand curling around his nape, I encourage his mouth’s return to mine, a twin moan of relief as we mold together. His sturdy hips roll in this more intimate position as I claw at his bare back. A shudder runs through him. I made Archer Thomas—hero to single moms, baby whisperer, web developer extraordinaire—shudder.

A muffled cough filters into the room, and I jerk, my eyes flying open. Archer stills, our gaze connecting. The dim bulb from the hallway lights his face as we wait for cries. We’re met with silence a few beats later, but as he resumes our kiss, another soft noise comes from the boys’ room.

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