Three out of three.
He kisses me. His lips stay closed, but the heat under them is painfully clear.
“I love you,” he says against my mouth.
“Brady.”
“No. That’s it. I love you. I love you.” He punctuates each declaration with another kiss. “Nash, I love you.”
“I love you too, but—”
“But nothing. I demanded your time this summer and you made room for me. Now we’re going to make room for your kids. I mean, what we have will be different, and I am okay with that, as long as I’m doing it with you.”
I promised the kids we’d be okay, even if we spend less time together. Somehow, I think Brady is trying to tell me the same thing. And maybe our life won’t look the same as it has this summer, when we thought we could keep ourselves separate from the rest of the world. Instead, we’ll both work too much and spend all our free time bickering and chasing after my kids, but if that’s the life we want, why shouldn’t we have it? If our nights are leftovers in the kitchen instead of sex in my office, who says that’s not enough?
He takes one of my hands and puts it on his chest, palm down. “You get me, Nash. More than anyone else I’ve ever met. And I get you. Tell me I don’t.”
I laugh a little, dropping my forehead to his collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah you do.” Every touch, every look he has ever given me says he knows how I tick, and every flash of his eyes and brush of his hand says he loves who I am.
He wraps himself around me, gripping me fiercely, the way the boys used to do when they were small and learning to give bear hugs. Brady says, “It doesn’t matter how old I am. Doesn’t matter that you were married. We are it for each other. I know this, Nash. In my bones. We’ve been making each other better, helping each other find the time for the important things all along.”
“Blow jobs?” I say.
“Shut up. A healthy sex life is important. But priorities change, and your priority is your kids. My priority is you. So we will find tutors and help your kids any way they need. I don’t care how many T-ball games I have to sit through and how much macaroni art I have to make on rainy weekends.”
“They’re a bit old for macaroni art,” I say.
“You haven’t seen my macaroni art. I’ll make you a fucking macaroni mosaic. Macaroni Mona Lisa. We’ll have a whole macaroni gallery, and you will like it.”
I groan. He and Jacob can never be in the same place together. They will meet their match when it comes to negotiation, and the rest of us will get sucked into the vortex of their debate. Breathlessly, I say, “There’s that smart mouth again.”
Brady’s on me in a second. He might even roar as he wrestles me onto my back. I have a split second to think I never did brush my teeth, but Brady doesn’t seem to care. His kisses are no longer restrained, and his hands work on my clothes with determined purpose. My head is wedged at a weird angle against the arm of the sofa, and I don’t even have time to shift before he’s pulling at my T-shirt, practically lifting me with his intensity to get it off.
“Brady,” I groan as he presses kisses down my sternum. I thread my fingers into his black curls, holding them tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He dips his tongue in my belly button, and I moan. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
“Damn right you do.” He kneels between my legs and runs his hands up and down my thighs. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen. When his thumb brushes over my thickening cock, my whole body ripples with the contact.
“Yes.”
“You’re mine,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
He strokes me through the fabric of my sweats. “And being mine means you don’t get to make decisions without talking to me first, okay?”
“Okay.”
“No more of this bullshit where I’m too young or you can’t make me do something. You’re right.” He lets go of my erection, and I thrust on reflex, trying to find his hand again. “You can’t make me do anything.”
“Brady.” I urge him on, rocking my hips, but he pins me down, spreading his whole body over mine. He’s hard too, and I want to cry as our dicks rub together, separated by too many layers of fabric. But he holds himself rigid against me, and I can’t get the friction I need. I know what he wants. He’s asked for it so many times before. I take a deep breath and let myself relax, melting under him. He smiles, nipping at my skin.
“Good.”
“Brady, please, I need—”
“I love you.” He’s back to kissing.
“Brady.” I shift restlessly under him.
