A white-hot current of pure ecstasy arcs up my spine. My hips buck, involuntarily, driving myself deeper into that incredible heat. A ragged curse tears from my lips, a litany of broken syllables that are only her name.
"Willow… god…Willow…"
She feels it, the imminent unraveling. Her moan vibrates through me, a sensation so intense it borders on pain. She doubles down, her mouth working me, her tongue fluttering, her hands clutching my thighs, holding me there as I come completely apart.
The release crashes through me, wringing a shout from my lungs as my entire body seizes, pleasure shooting through every nerve ending I possess. I pulse into the scorching warmth of her mouth, again and again, until I am utterly, completely spent.
I am boneless. Weightless. Drifting in the aftermath.
She rises from the water, finally, breathing hard. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, her eyes never leaving mine. They are dark with satisfaction, with power, with love.
I can’t speak. I can only reach for her, my arm feeling like lead, and drag her up my body. Her skin is slick and warm against mine. I crush my mouth to hers, tasting the faint, clean soap, the steamy water, and the unmistakable, intimate taste of myself on her tongue.
I break the kiss, panting, my forehead resting against hers. The last of the tension is a distant memory, vaporized in the steam.
"All better?" she whispers, a smug, loving smile playing on her perfect, swollen lips.
I can only stare, my heart hammering against my ribs, not from stress, but from her. Always from her.
"You have no idea," I finally manage, my voice rough and raw.
5
WILLOW
The next morningVincent feels farther away despite being right next to me.
He’s on his side, eyes open, watching the ceiling as if numbers could be printed up there if he stares hard enough. The bedroom is blue with early light; the fire is a bed of red embers, the air cool enough that my breath shows when I sigh. I reach across the small country of sheets between us and touch his shoulder.
“You’re not sleeping,” I murmur.
“Neither are you,” he says, voice that low, gravel that makes my stomach flip.
“Mine’s voluntary,” I tease, but he doesn’t bite. He kisses the inside of my wrist, soft and automatic, then sits up.
The dog starts barking downstairs—the alarm clock none of us asked for—and then come the footsteps. A door opens. A laugh echoes.
“Three Day” Theo bellows, voice already at maximum volume for a person who is eight years old and powered by sugar with a slight lisp so tree sounds like three.
“Tree day,” Rose corrects primly from somewhere near the stairs.
Theo blows out a raspberry, and I can imagine him rolling his pretty blue eyes at her. “That’s what I said!”
Vincent exhales, eyes on the ceiling. “They don’t sleep, do they?”
“Not if there’s something to be excited about,” I say, pushing the blanket off my legs. The cold air bites, but the promise of coffee—and his gaze following me—keeps me moving. “Apparently, tree day ranks higher than human rest.”
He turns onto his side, one arm draped over the pillow he’s stolen. That faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “You make it sound like a tragedy. You’re the one who said the more children the better.”
“It’s seven in the morning,” I remind him, tying the robe loosely at my waist. “I thought my kids would be more morning adverse like me.”
A light chuckle escapes him, low and unhurried. “You used to like mornings.” His eyes trace the movement of my hands as I gather my hair, his gaze soft but heavy enough to feel.
“I used to sleep past them,” I shoot back, catching his reflection in the mirror as I twist my hair into a bun.
He props himself up on one elbow, the sheet falling low on his hips. “Come back to bed.”
I glance over my shoulder, smiling despite myself. “Vincent?—”
