Sure enough, the dog wags his tail happily from the floor between their two chairs when we all sit down later, waiting for errant grains of rice or whatever else falls from the sky.
Matt’s kickass chili is delicious and makes me feel embarrassed to have served him store-bought lasagna. At least the dessert he takes out of the cupboard is store-bought.
“YAY, cookies!” one of his daughters yells. “Mommy will be mad.”
“No she won’t,” he says quickly. “They’re organic and low sugar.”
“Really?” I whisper as he opens the package beside me. They’re coconut macaroons dipped in dark chocolate, and they look delicious.
He gives me a guilty shrug and I swallow a laugh. “They’re gluten free, though,” he whispers back. “You can’t have everything.”
He’s right. You can’t. I’ve just spent the past couple of hours trying not to wonder how different my life might be if I’d married someone who wanted to stay married and have kids. Children had always been on Jackson’s and my to-do list. Or at least I’d thought they were. But since I’m not even thirty, it was never an urgent matter. And we had a growing business to run.
Matt disappears for a little while to get his girls changed into PJs. They’ll do anything to avoid brushing their teeth, it seems. A game of tag breaks out, and then Libby tries to ride Rufus like a horse. His reaction is to yawn and sink down onto the floor.
Then there’s a story book on the couch, followed by pleas for more.
“That’s all,” he says, snapping the book shut. “Bedtime was two minutes and seven seconds ago.” It sounds like a faintly sarcastic echo of his ex, and when I smirk, I get a sexy wink from him. “Say goodnight to Hailey.”
“G’night, Hailey,” they both chime.
“Night, girls. It was fun scaring your daddy earlier.”
They giggle, but Matt gives me the side-eye for that. Apparently it’s fine for a bossy, alpha male to admit his fear of heights, but only once a day. Matt herds them into their room and reappears a few minutes later.
“I should go,” I say reluctantly, rising off the couch.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Like hell you should. This is the perfect evening—all my favorite females under one roof.” He kisses my forehead and I feel the warmth trickle through me. “Besides. You just survived seven hours at the Eriksson circus. Now you win a glass of wine and a snuggle on the couch.”
I fold like a bad hand of poker. Five minutes later I’m sipping cabernet and watching the highlight reel of the Pittsburgh/Montreal game.
Five minutes after that, we’re making out like a pair of teenagers right before curfew. Matt’s hand is up my shirt, his thumb circling my nipple through the lace of my bra. His muscular thigh parts my legs, and my body practically bursts into flames. I swear I hear the same whoosh sound as when the heat kicks on in my apartment. I’m stroking his pecs and rubbing against him like a cat in heat.
He catches both my wrists in one of his big hands and lifts them over my head, pinning my hands to the arm of the couch. Then his mouth lands, hot and determined, on my neck. Whoosh, again. Firm, generous lips begin to suck at my skin. Whooshity-whoosh. I’m turning to a liquid right here on the sofa.
In front of all of Toronto.
While his daughters fall asleep a few feet away.
“Matt,” I pant, lifting my chin. “We have to stop.”
His hand releases immediately, and I lose his hot mouth on my neck. “Sorry,” he gasps. “Thought you were into it.”
“Mmmm,” I agree, trying to get a grip on myself. “But…your girls.”
His thumb circles my nipple again. I knew there was a reason I’d spent my life lusting after hockey players. Matt is really good with his hands. “Hottie,” he says, his breath ghosting over my jaw. He pauses to kiss that spot, and I shiver. “My bedroom door has a lock. Let’s go use it.”
“You sure?”
Instead of answering me, he stands up and shuts off the TV. Then he tugs me off the couch. Leaning in, he murmurs in my ear. “We’ll be very quiet, okay?”
I nod to show him I understand the need for silence.
“Walk slowly into my bedroom.” His whisper is a hot hiss in my ear. “Then take off your top and your jeans. Wait for me beside the bed.”
A shiver runs through me as I nod again. He pinches my butt and tips his head toward the bedroom, getting me moving in that direction in a big hurry.
His bedroom looks different in the dark with the lights of Toronto shining in, bathing the white comforter in silvery light. There’s no chance that anyone could spy on us in the darkened bedroom. But it still feels risqué to strip out of my top in front of his windows. There are other apartments lit up throughout the neighborhood. Other Saturday nights in play.
None of them is as great as mine.
The door clicks shut as my jeans drop to the floor. Hands land on my shoulders and turn me around to face his sexy smile in the dark. He lifts his eyebrows and then points at the buttons of his shirt.
It takes me only a split second to understand that I’m the one who’s supposed to undo them. My hands rush to do this task. He’s warm and solid under my hands as I quickly flick the buttons apart. As soon as I’ve revealed a portion of his chest, I have to lean in and kiss it. The only sound is his sharp intake of breath when my tongue finds his smooth skin. Two hands give my ass a squeeze that’s full of expectation.
There are so many whooshes now I lose count.
Somehow I strip him out of that shirt, my eager fingers moving to his fly. “That’s it,” he breathes into my ear as his pants fall away. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my panties and drops them to the floor. Then he does the same to his briefs. “Now turn around.”
I expect him to nudge me onto the bed, but he doesn’t do it. He just clasps me there, my back to his front, his erection pressed possessively against my lower back. His hand flicks my bra clasp open, and now I’m completely naked. A gasp escapes my lips as his hands slide across my skin, waking every nerve ending and making it sing. One arm clamps across my body, his roughened palm holding my breast. The other palm skates down to my core, cupping me.
His shameless fingers dip between my legs and I bite my lip, eyes squeezed shut, as he discovers how wet I already am for him. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, and I sink down against his hand, my head falling back against his shoulder. I can’t help myself. In this room, I’m a different Hailey, the kind whose hips move in time with his strokes. Modesty be damned.
“Look,” he orders so silently that the “k” is almost the only sound I hear.
My eyes flip open to see our reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door. The light is dim, but there’s no mistaking my pale, bare skin. His strong arms stripe across my body. I can’t decide which one is sexier—the one that’s gripping me possessively across the chest, or the big hand working me over below, the tendons flexing in his wrist.
My gasp is loud. Too loud. And his upper hand has to give up my breast to clamp across my mouth. My moan is dampened by his hand, thank God.
This man is going to ruin me.
Matt