Well, that whole not being tense thing is totally not happening now. My entire body stiffens at the question.
“Fuck,” Wyatt says heartily. There’s a laugh in there somewhere judging by the shaking of his chest. “Boy, I love that woman something fierce.”
“Are you going to live with us? Are you getting back together?”
“We weren’t ever not together,” Wyatt says earnestly. “You know that tattoo your mom’s got on her back? And the one on her shoulder? Those tell the entire world that she’s mine. No man will ever have her without seeing my name on her skin. Nobody will ever see her body without knowing she belongs to Forsaken. I screwed up a lot, and we couldn’t be together back then, but you, me, Pips, and your mom? We’re family, and nothing beats that. I live where you live. I sleep where your mom sleeps. She doesn’t have to like it, and she doesn’t have to let me touch her, but I’m here.”
“Too far, man,” Zander says in disgust, his voice trailing off. I hold back the snicker in my throat. “A simple yes would have worked. I’m going to go shower now if I can find a towel.”
“How do you think you and your sister got here? We certainly didn’t make you while in separate rooms.” Wyatt’s taunting dissolves into full-on laughter. He turns his body into mine, wraps his arms around my waist and legs, and pulls me onto his lap. I try not to stir, but my stillness gives me away.
“You’re a shit liar.”
I peek one eye open slowly, met by Wyatt’s disapproving gaze. My eyes open and close rapidly in an attempt to portray an innocence we both know doesn’t exist. One of his hands finds its way to my chin. He holds it steady so I can’t pull away. I shift, only realizing too late it’s the wrong thing to do.
“Keep doing that and I’m going to be hard enough to fuck you on this tiny-ass couch.” Wyatt’s words tumble out all dark and rough but still soft somehow.
“This couch isn’t tiny. You’re just enormous,” I say in defense of my old-ass piece of furniture.
“And you still can’t fake sleep. After all these years you still think you can snow me,” he says. Very slowly, he leans in and our noses are side by side, our foreheads pressed into one another.
“You told our son we’re sleeping in the same bed,” I say accusingly.
“We are.” His voice is low, his breath heating my skin. I breathe him in only to wish I hadn’t. He smells like burgers and root beer—because that’s what he had with dinner, a freaking root beer—but underneath all that is his spicy scent that can’t be from a soap or shampoo. It’s just Wyatt. I’ve missed it so much that at times it felt like I was suffocating without it. Like if I couldn’t remember how he smells, I’d just waste away to nothing right then and there. It never happened—God was never that generous—but it felt real enough that it could be a serious possibility at the time.
Wyatt slides his hand down from my jaw to my chest, laying his palm flat against my heart. His eyes fall closed, and I swear, I think I’m watching him listen to my heartbeat. It’s crazy fast now, with the way he’s touching me. His calloused fingers press so gently but determinedly against my bare skin. The scoop neck I’m wearing used to have a higher neckline before my kid make it her personal mission to work out by yanking on my clothes all the time. Now, though, I’m grateful for Piper’s annoying yanking on clothes, because I can’t imagine having his hand over a thin layer of cotton.
“I love you, you stupid woman,” Wyatt says softly. His eyes are still closed, prompting mine to shutter closed as well. I breathe him in and keep quiet. I shouldn’t give in to this, but I’m a selfish creature. I want my man back if even for a night. Wyatt presses his lips softly against mine. I move into him, but still he doesn’t remove his hand from my heart. Our kiss is soft and full of promise and hope, and it absolutely slays me.
Hope is the death of all things.
“If you were done with me, with us, I’d know. Your heart wouldn’t be beating this hard. But it is. I’m a part of you, even if you don’t want me to be. So yeah, we sleep in the same bed.”
I’m scared and furious and trembling. I want to tell him these things. I want to tell him so much, but I don’t because he’s right. I’m not done with him. I couldn’t ever be done with him. I move a shaky hand to his heart, sliding it under his cut and placing it above his worn dark-red shirt. His heart beats at a normal speed that almost infuriates me. How can I be such a nervous wreck and it’s like he isn’t feeling anything? I open my eyes to find he’s watching me with a purposeful gaze.
Love.