“Swan—”
“I want to taste you. Want to feel you in my mouth, hitting the back of my throat?—”
“Jesus—” My rhythm stutters, pleasure building fast and hot.
“Want to make you lose control,” she continues, her voice dropping lower. “Want to feel you come, hot and hard, all over my tongue. Want to swallow you down.”
That’s all it takes—her words wrap around me tighter than my fist, and I groan low, hips bucking up into my grip as the tension snaps. Release hits hard, spilling over my hand and stomach in hot pulses, my vision blurring for a second while I ride it out. When I finally come down, chest heaving, I glance at her, and damn, that satisfied smile on her face is worth every bit of the tease.
“That,” Emma says, sounding satisfied, “was better than coffee.”
I bark out a laugh, grabbing tissues from the nightstand to clean up. “High praise.”
Once I’m cleaned up, I lean over and kiss her, slow and deep and full of everything I feel for her. She melts into it, her hands coming up to frame my face.
“Now,” I murmur against her lips, my hand sliding between her legs, “my turn to watch you fall apart.”
Her breath hitches. “Bones?—”
“Fair’s fair, swan.”
20
BONES
An hour later, we’re both showered and dressed and I’m carrying Emma down the clubhouse stairs. The main room is its usual level of bedlam. Maggie’s at the stove making what smells like her famous biscuits and gravy. Duck is pouring coffee. Half a dozen brothers are scattered around the long dining table, plates piled with food, conversation flowing.
This is MC life. Communal breakfasts, shared space, family. Fuck, I’ve missed it.
I set Emma in her wheelchair and push her close to the table. Immediately Ginger appears with a plate.
“Biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs, and bacon,” she announces. “Maggie says you’re too skinny.”
“I’ve been a prima ballerina for most of my life,” Emma protests. “Of course I’m skinny.”
“Exactly. Which is why you need to eat.” Ginger sets the plate in front of Emma. “For your strength. Doctor’s orders. Well, Maggie’s orders. Same thing.”
I grab my own plate and settle next to Emma, close enough that I can reach out and touch her good leg. Across the table, Axel is feeding Rose bits of banana while Poppy tries to drink coffee and read something on her phone simultaneously.
“Sleep OK?” Axel asks me.
“As much as I was ever going to. You?”
“Rose was up three times—some sort of sleep regression or growth spurt thing. I don’t know. I’m running on caffeine and spite.” He glances at his daughter, who’s smashing banana into her face with gleeful determination. “But she’s cute, so I forgive her.”
“That’s the trap,” Duck says from down the table. “They’re cute when they’re babies, so you don’t abandon them in the woods when they become teenagers.”
Emma laughs, and I love seeing her relax into the chaos, slipping right back in like she was never gone.
I shake out her morning medications and hand them to her with a glass of orange juice. “Take these.”
“Bossy.”
“Obscenely. Now, do what the doctor said and take your pills. With food.”
She makes a face but swallows the pills, chasing it with a big bite of bacon. “Happy?” she asks around her food.
“Ecstatic.”
