Page 31 of Room 1003

Shane nudged me with his elbow. “Careful what you promise, because you know he’ll never forget you said that.”

“I’m counting on it,” I replied with a giddy grin. Playing outside with Kit had rekindled my own childlike dreams of impossible, silly goals.

The backdoor opened and Zack stuck his head out. “Come on in for some lunch, boys. I made tomato soup and grilled cheese.”

Even though the yard had been covered in snow, beneath the wet top layer was a grassy, muddy base, and Kit had managed to cover himself in all of this. The knees of his pants were drenched through, and his hands were filthy, with blades of grass stuck between his fingers. “Wash up before eating,” Shane told his son. “And maybe change into some dry clothes.”

Kit groaned, flopping his arms at his sides, trying to wipe his hands clean with no success. “But I already got dressed once. Why do I have to do it again?”

I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “This is your chance to get back into your pajamas.” He giggled mischievously and ran inside without another word.

“You’re a bad influence on him,” Shane mock scolded, but he was grinning from ear to ear. Before Shane could follow Kit inside, I grabbed him and dragged him out of sight of any windows, pressing him against the house.

He was ready and willing to grab one last stolen kiss. He arched into me, tugging at my hair to bring me closer, and I knew this would have to be enough to last me the rest of the day. I pulled back reluctantly, out of breath, and rested my forehead on his, sharing his air.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I said. “I picked up a job this afternoon on the other side of town.” The sense of responsibility I felt did little to lessen the regret I felt at leaving them.

“It’s okay, I understand.” He cupped my cheeks between his palms and gave me one more soft kiss. “You should come over after he’s asleep.” He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, holding off a devilish smirk.

I longed to sleep the full night with Shane in my arms, but I wasn’t in a rush. The anticipation and sneaking around was kind of hot. “I’ll be here,” I promised. For as long as he would have me.

19

Shane

“Shane?Hellllloooo,earthtoShane,” my dad called, waving a hand in front of my face. It was clear he’d been trying to get my attention for a while.

“Sorry, what?” My mind had been elsewhere—more specifically, still in bed with Ben. I tapped my pencil on the pad of paper I was currently using to hide the telltale bulge in my pants as I daydreamed about my late-night romps. Ben had been sneaking over almost every night, but last night, we’d dozed off somewhere around 2am and had woken up to the sound of my son in the bathroom. We had rushed around grabbing clothes but were almost caught sneaking Ben out. It would be so much easier if we could just tell Kit about our relationship. But it was too soon… wasn’t it?

Dad cupped his hands around his morning coffee mug, his lips twisted in a smirk. “You seem awfully distracted today. Anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” I said firmly. “You know enough without needing the details.” I couldn’t bring myself to say any of it out loud, not to my dad. That would just be all kinds of awkward. I couldn’t tell him about how the sex was so good that I couldn’t think of anything else or that Ben was so big that I could still feel him every time I sat down. And the dreams I’d been having about him were so vivid. Half the time I woke up in a puddle of my own cum. I’d never had to do so much laundry in my life! And now the dreams were creeping into my awake time.

“Whatever you say,” Dad said slyly, sipping from his coffee. “But if you change your mind, I’m always here for you.” I thought that would be the end of it, but as I got back to sketching out next week’s comic strip, I could sense his burning need to know the gossip. Finally, he blurted, “Is he the one?”

I smiled sadly at his choice of words. “I think if we’ve learned anything in our grief, it’s that there isn’t justonelove. There can’t be. But Ben…“ I could feel my smile widening at the mere thought of him. “I think he’s here to stay.”

Dad reached out and squeezed my hand. “I’m so happy for you. So, what’s next? When can we tell Kit? Is Ben going to move in with us?” What he was probably actually wondering was whether we would sell this house, after all the time and effort and money we’d put into it. Dad’s life was tied to my decisions too.

I sighed. “I don’t know, Dad. Those are things we haven’t talked about yet.”

He snorted into his mug. “Yeah, because there isn’t a lot of talking going on. Not when there are better things to do with your mouths.”

“No, Dad,” I groaned, slapping my hand over my face. “Please don’t go there.”

He wasn’t wrong, though. As soon as Ben and I were in a room alone together, things tended to get very heated, very quickly.

I didn’t mean to compare my current sex life to the one I’d shared with my husband, but it was impossible not to. I’d only had two lovers in my life, so it was only natural. Embry and I had been more than happy with our time in the bedroom. He was passionate and adventurous. Ben, though… he wasvoracious. He had enough stamina to keep going all night, and that lack of sleep was affecting us both.

Hence the daydreaming.

One particular flash of a dream brought heat to my cheeks, and I got the sudden urge to capture it on paper. I flipped the top sheet of my pad over, getting a fresh page. After a few swipes with my pencil, though, I frowned. This was the wrong medium. I needed color. I needed paint.

I tossed the pad across the dining room table and pushed back my chair. “I’ll be back,” I muttered. My dad was used to this and likely recognized the fervent look in my eyes as the muse took hold. He knew better than to disrupt the creative process, so he didn’t say anything as I jogged up the stairs, heading for my office. What I really needed was a studio, though, a creative space where I could sling paint and make a mess. This image in my mind was not something I could sketch on a small piece of paper or my tablet. I flung open the room’s narrow closet and pulled out a blank canvas. I hadn’t painted in too long, but the feel of the rough canvas and solid frame felt familiar, comforting.

Kicking open my easel, I propped the canvas up and dragged out my case of paint tubes. The first one I opened, a vibrant cobalt blue, hadn’t been sealed properly and had dried out, while the emerald had thickened and gone lumpy. It had been ages since I felt the call of my muse. In fact, I’d barely dipped into my creative well since Embry’s death. I’d forgotten how good this felt. It made my heart race, my hands pulling the brush across the canvas in broad strokes as I struggled to keep up with the thoughts in my head.

I was vaguely aware of the passage of time as I created painting after painting. There were things I should’ve been doing with my time—like finishing my comic strip or catching up with chores—but ignoring the draw to paint wasn’t an option right now. I wasn’t entirely in control anymore. Dad brought me lunch and a glass of water, offering his silent support. I stopped long enough to eat and drink, take a bathroom break, before starting back up again.

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