Hold On

He just kissed the top of my hair and let it be.

God, he looked good, fucked great, liked my kid, liked my mom, liked me, was protective, smart, dressed well, drove an awesome ride, had a nice family, amazing friends, a solid job, was funny, thought I was funny, knew how to install countertops and skim walls, and he didn’t rub it in when he was right and I was…not.

Was he perfect?

And was I crazy?

“You’re not goin’ to sleep,” he noted.

“That’s because I’m freaking,” I shared openly.

“Tomorrow,” he stated.

“It is tomorrow, Garrett.”

I heard the smile in his voice when he said, “Right, then later today.”

“You can’t just turn off freaking, Merry.”

“Okay, then shut up, relax, and go to sleep, or, seein’ as your boy was probably tweaked at what went down tonight and isn’t sleeping soundly, I’ll need to haul your ass to my truck to fuck you until I exhaust you. And this doesn’t work for me because it’s had time to cool off, and a running truck on a street like yours is a curiosity. I don’t need your neighbors checkin’ things out and seein’ me doin’ you. That shit could get back to Ethan.”

“I’m suddenly finding myself very fatigued,” I announced, though it was a lie. I was suddenly finding myself not giving a shit if a running truck in my ’hood was a curiosity.

Merry chuckled.

That, just that, in my bed, in the dark, so close, might be the most beautiful sound in the world.

I drew in a deep breath and let it go.

Merry stopped chuckling and encouraged, “That’s it, baby.”

I drew in another deep breath and let it go.

Merry shifted his arm from around me but only so he could shove a hand up my tank and stroke the skin of my back.

At first, this caused a non-drowsy reaction since no man had ever touched me like that with the intention of relaxing me, and Merry’s touch felt a particular brand of good.

But surprisingly quickly, it did what he’d intended, and melting into his heat, I fell fast asleep.

*

I was in the kitchen making dinner. Ethan was doing his homework in the living room.

We were waiting.

Waiting for someone we loved to come home.

“Brown eyes.”

I went to the doorway of the kitchen. I knew he was home. I watched my son look to the front door. I turned my eyes there.

The door started to open. I felt my mouth curve into a smile even as I held my breath.

“Babe.”

My eyes opened. I blinked away my dream. Then I slid my gaze to the side and saw Merry, dressed all the way to his leather jacket, sitting on the bed beside me, his hand curled warm on the side of my neck.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered.

Sleepyhead.

Merry.

Cute.

I was still half asleep, but I wasn’t out of it. I was there. Right there.

Hell, I didn’t know if I’d ever been as right there as I was right then, staring at a gorgeous man who fucked good, liked my kid, my mom, me, looked after us, thought I was worth it, and called me pretty.

This filling my head, I pushed up, adjusting so I could put my hand to his abs, feeling the soft, thick cotton of his shirt and the tight muscle underneath, and I blinked again as I moved in. Eyes to the cords of muscle around the strong column of his throat, one of my many favorite parts of all that was him, I aimed and landed a kiss right there.

“Cherie,” he whispered, his hand sliding from my neck up into my hair.

Cherie.

No one had ever called me that.

Not even my mom.

I liked it so much, it made me feel dizzy.

Or giddy.

Or both.

I didn’t know, I’d never felt that feeling.

But I knew it felt good.

Riding that feeling, I slid my lips up, over his jaw, his morning whiskers scraping my lips in a way I felt in my clit. I kept going even as his head twisted, angled. My lips glided over his and locked on.

Then I kissed him, open mouths, sliding my tongue inside.

He let me, not taking over or anything.