He kisses my forehead. “That it is, baby.”
The last couple weeks have been hard. We’re both in intensive therapy twice a week, once together and once separately. We’ve had to rehash things that we’d both wish to forget, and Rex’s memories are still filtering back little by little.
The other night he woke up shaking. He’d had a dream about his mom. She was crying, and he felt so desperate in his dream to get her to stop. He said he’d actually felt her arms around him, telling her that he was the only man in her life who truly loved her. She called him “her little man.” He curled into my arms, and I sang to him until he fell back to sleep.
As wonderful as it is for Rex to have that part of his mom back, it doesn’t come without consequences and pain. At twenty-five-years old he’s losing his mom all over again.
But we find joy in the little things, making macaroni and cheese out of a box and s’mores over the gas burner in the kitchen. He bought me a dirt bike for my birthday, which isn’t until February. When things get too intense, we take to the hills and ride together or make a trip to the Stratosphere, little things that remind us that we’re alive and together.
Remind us to look forward.
Keep moving.
And never stop fighting for our chance at happiness.
*
I’m looking over the dessert table that’s spread with every kind of Christmas food we could think of from eggnog to decorated sugar cookies and peppermint bark, mini assorted chocolates and a big thermos of hot chocolate.
The bathroom door opens and Rex walks out. My eyes freeze on him and two steps toward me, his legs do the same.
He’s wearing black jeans and a bright red button-up dress shirt that offsets his black hair and blue eyes. But in typical rocker style, his shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled up to expose his gloriously tattooed forearms, and the top button hangs open, giving a tease of his inked-up neck and impressive build. My mouth waters, and the dessert table suddenly loses its appeal to my intense hunger for him.
He blinks a few times then continues toward me but stops about a foot away. His eyes move from my face to my feet and back. “Holy shit, baby. I’ve never seen you in a dress and I gotta say . . .” He whistles through his teeth. His eyes fix on mine, and the blue flares with desire. His tongue slides against his lower lip. “You look good enough to eat.”
A tremor of arousal shoots through my body and pools between my legs. “That sounds good. How much time do we have?”
He hooks me around my waist and pulls my body flush with his. His lips find my ear and he nips gently. His warm breath dances against my flesh, raising goose bumps down my arms. “Not nearly enough time for all I want to do. I have a feeling once I get down there I’ll never want to stop.”
I gasp and drop my head to the side while he covers my neck with kisses and runs his nose along my exposed shoulders and clavicle, breathing me in. My head swims with the spice of his cologne and the clean smell of his skin.
His fingertips trace the bust line of my strapless dress. “Have I ever told you how good you look in black?” His tongue skates up the side of my neck.
Incapable of words, my eyes drift close. “Mm-hm.”
He chuckles in my ear, so deep and full of promise that my legs tremble.
“You like that?” He tucks my hair behind my shoulder and repeats it on the other side.
I grip his biceps to stay upright.
His hot peppermint breath is at my ear. “Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Atta girl.” His hands move over the curves of my body now filled out thanks to his insistence that I eat and go with him to train at the gym a few days a week. He grabs both hands full of my ass and squeezes. “I’m happy to have everyone over, but I’m looking forward to sending them home.”
His words clear the fog. I blink. Yes, people are coming over. “We better stop or we may never answer the door.”
He pulls back, and holding my hand, he steps away and gives me another long appreciative glance. “Shit, Gia. Where the hell did you get this dress?” He lingers at my platform pumps. “And those shoes?” His free hand adjusts his jeans. “They’re doing fucked-up things to my body.”
“Good fucked-up?” I spin slowly, ducking under his arm to keep my hand in his. “Or bad fucked-up?”
He lifts his pierced eyebrow and flashes a crooked grin. “All kinds of good.”
I barely have to lift up on my toes to brush a tentative kiss against his perfect lips. “Good.”
His hand darts into my hair and fists seconds before he covers my mouth with his. Passion hits as it always does, and we’re clawing at each other, nipping, drinking, and in a frenzy to get closer.
The doorbell rings and he rips his lips from mine. Our eyes lock, chests heaving, hearts racing against the other.
“I’ll get it.” He kisses the tip of my nose and gives me a second to steady myself on my shoes. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I smooth my hands over my dress.