Sir: I was practicing advanced probability.
Bronson: Won everything on the table but had to give it all back because it’s rude. You don’t beat the Don, even if you do. Unless you use a club, then a spade. Boom.
Fawn: More. More. Is there anything he can’t do?
Bronson: Fly. Trust me, when he tried to jump from the balcony to the pool the night of his Prom, he learned fast.
Sir: I was seventeen.
Sir: And I made the jump.
Bronson: Only because you had a soft landing on the hedges, beautiful brother.
Sir: Fawn is tired, Bronson, get to the point.
Bronson: So, we have flowers. It’s cake time. Do we have a cake? I’m not just the sexiest Butcher, but I’m also quite the culinary expert.
Fawn: I’ve done one tasting. I booked a cake, but I didn’t really love it. Like, love it love it. Just. It was okay. I’m picky with cakes.
Bronson: That’s a no. Perfect! Tomorrow. You. Me. Cake for two. But it’ll actually be three, ‘cause Sister Cassidy wants to come. Food is where she shines.
Fawn: Yes, please. Sir?
Sir: Fine. You know the rules, Bronson.
Bronson: Aye, aye, Captain. I’ll have the cotton-wool packed and ready to wrap her in.
I’m still blinking at my phone when my skin prickles, theheat of his eyes a tangible caress along my skin. I lift my gaze and meethisfrom in the doorway.
Phone still in his hand by his thigh.
I beam. “You were in a group chat.” I giggle quietly, eyes darting between Ash on my nipple and Sir, bare-chested and in casual jeans. They are slung low across his hips—if he didn’t have the most perfect structural integrity with those V-shaped muscles, his notorious shooting jeans would flash more of his pelvic tattoo, more virileparts.
Amused by the big bad Clay Butcher in a group chat with his brother and his fiancé from only a few rooms away, I add, “That is verynormalof you, Sir.”
His smile is smooth and easy.
As he approaches, tucking his phone into his front pocket, the subtle scent of the basement gun range clings to his skin, sweat and smoke. He is a physical embodiment of contradictions, both deadly and now tender for me, wrapped in the same impossibly handsome package.
“Clay Normal Butcher,” is all he says, in that deep and dangerous tone that denotes he’s anything but normal.
Watching me nurse with the adoration that dreams are made of—Disney couldn’t draw the reverence and warmth in his gaze—he smiles.
I sigh. “I love you, Sir.”
“I love you, too, sweet girl,” he returns, never hovering on that declaration, never allowing my expressions of love to echo, needy and insecure, without response and assurance. He knows me. Knows I need it.
At my side,my everythinggazes down, his knuckles smoothing my cheek, his eyes on little Ash.
“Looks like he’s finished,” he says. He scoops Ash from my arms and leans him against his shoulder to burp him, his large,tattooed hands supporting his son’s crown, thumb combing instinctively through the fine hair.
I watch as he joins us for our snack time, as he walks to the other recliner, sitting down and lazily stretching his long legs out in front of him.
My heart feels so big, it might detonate, a piñata of butterflies. Happy.
Collecting Luca, I offer him my other nipple this time. Though he is a more enthusiastic feeder than Ash, latching immediately, fists pawing at my breast.
“Dominant boy,” I say, then look at Sir. “He’s going to be like you. Probably a handful.” Like he isn’t already—I have to swap my nipples halfway through to even out the let-down or I’d be lopsided and bruised.
