I press harder against her and she’s right there with me—head arching, meeting me touch for touch. I drag my tongue across her lips, tasting mint and her. Chelsea opens her mouth and I slide my tongue inside its wet depths, delving and groaning, ready to devour.
With our mouths still joined, she rises to her knees, hovering above me. Her fingers scrape my jaw, touching my cheek. We move up farther on the bed, and she lies back, her hands guiding me to her—keeping me close. I settle between her open thighs, feeling heat and clenching, grinding desire. Her nipples are hard and hot beneath the jersey. They press through the fabric against my chest like two sharp flames, and I fucking moan into her mouth. Because I want to stoke those flames with my tongue, suckle that fire. She tilts her head, swiping her tongue slowly against my own.
And her hips slowly, deliberately rise.
Fuck me. I thrust against her in a long tight stroke, because it feels too goddamn good not to. She answers with a gyrating moan, low, guttural, and as decadent as the taste of her tongue. My hand glides up her bare, smooth thigh to her hip. I grasp her with harsh fingers, holding her steady so I can slide against her again.
But then she turns her head away, breathing hard. “Jake, the kids . . .”
Shit. The thought of the half-dozen sleeping demons just yards away should put a damper on my desire. But it doesn’t. The stiff, hot erection straining between us whispers, You can be quiet. They’re asleep. You have hours and hours until morning, he whines. Just think of what we can do with all that time.
And as if the baby can actually hear him, Ronan’s cry squeaks out from the monitor on the nightstand.
Double dog shit fuck damn it.
That wasn’t me. That was the dick talking.
I roll off Chelsea. My forearm covers my eyes and my breath comes out in forceful puffs, like I’ve run a marathon.
She says my name again, and I pant out, “It’s okay—you’re right. Just . . . just give me a minute.”
Or an hour. Possibly a day.
Chelsea laughs breathlessly, with a hint of frustration. “My nephew has incredible timing. Incredibly bad timing.”
I lift my arm and glance her way. Her cheeks are satisfyingly flushed, her lips swollen. It’s a damn good look on her.
She sits up to tend to the hungry baby, and I roll to my side and pull her flush against me. “Let me take you out tomorrow night,” I say.
Her fingers skim across my brow. “I don’t have anyone to watch the kids. I can’t just grab a sitter out of nowhere. They’re a lot to take on.”
“I’ve got that covered.” I happen to know the toughest, most capable, patient child raiser ever. She got me to adulthood in one piece—and I was a shitload worse than all the McQuaids put together.
Chelsea leans back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So say yes.”
She kisses me—fast and hard, the way I like it. Then she hops off the bed because Ronan is winding up to full volume.
“Yes.”
13
At six p.m. Saturday night, I stand in Chelsea’s foyer, wearing black slacks, a gray button-down shirt, and a black jacket. Chelsea is still upstairs getting dressed. I didn’t go to my prom, but if I had, I imagine it would’ve felt something like this. Eager excitement. Thrilling possibilities. It’s a new, rare feeling and I kind of like it.
When a knock comes from outside, I open the door—and there, before me, stands the kid whisperer. Luckily, she was good with short notice.
“Hey, Mom.”
My mother is a tiny woman—five foot nothing, one hundred pounds, exotic gray-blue eyes that see through all types of bullshit, and a timelessly attractive face. What she lacks in physical stature she more than makes up for in a supersized personality. She flings herself at me, arms around my neck. “Honeybear! I’ve missed you!”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Rory and Raymond, two sides of the same snickering coin. Raymond elbows his brother. “Honeybear??”
Internally I sigh. This could get ugly.
Behind my mother, Owen, her long-term boyfriend, walks in, hauling overloaded shopping bags in both hands. Owen’s in his fifties, sports a noticeable beer belly, and has been just a hair or two away from totally bald for years. Together, they’re an odd-looking couple—the kind who would make people say, Is she really going out with him? But Owen is a hell of a guy—patient, kind, hardworking—and he’s worshipped the ground my mother walks on since the day they met.
He places one bag on the ground and shakes my hand. “Good to see you, Jake.”
“Oh!” my mother exclaims, the Alabama accent she’s never totally lost shining through, “I have to get the other two bags in the car—can’t forget them.”
Owen taps the air with his hand. “I got ’em, G. Take it easy.”
The kids, minus Ronan, are lined up at the entrance to the den. Riley holds Regan on her hip. “That them?” my mother asks me, nodding her chin.
“That’s them.”
She approaches them slowly, regarding each one by one. “Hey there, children. I’m Jake’s momma and your babysitter for the night. You can call me Gigi.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “And that’s Owen.”