“It’s not.” He props himself up, one hand still warm on my hip. “Kids. Do you want them?”
The question doesn’t catch me off guard—I’ve been asked it enough times by well-meaning relatives and nosy colleagues. But from him, it’s different. This is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. There’s a risk this is a make-or-break conversation.
“No.” I hold his gaze, waiting for the flicker of disappointment. “I love Poppy’s baby, and Andi’s kids, and every other rugrat running around the clubhouse. But I love giving them back more.” I shrug. “I don’t have the maternal instinct. Never have.I’m happy with my life, Boone. My career, my freedom, and now us—that’s enough for me. More than enough.”
He nods slowly, and I’m relieved I don’t see any disappointment.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you want more?”
“I love being a dad.” A soft smile crosses his face. “Emma and Lee are the best things in my life. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree, grinning.
“I’d do it again, if you asked. But given the choice, I’m getting older. The thought of diapers and school runs and teenage drama gives me hives.” He huffs a laugh.
“So we’re on the same page?”
“Almost.” He traces a lazy circle on my hip. “Emma and Lee might have kids someday. Maybe not soon, but eventually. I’m going to want to be there for that. Grandpa duties. Spoiling them rotten, getting them hyped up on sugar, then sending them home.” His gaze searches mine. “You okay with that? Being part of our family, down the road?”
I picture it—holidays at the clubhouse, a new generation of chaos, Stone with a grandbaby in his arms while I pour wine and offer unsolicited parenting advice.
“Sounds perfect, actually.” I smile. “I’m excellent at spoiling children and returning them.”
“Then we’re set.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to my sternum. “You and me. Cool grandparents who ride motorcycles and corrupt the next generation.”
“I do look good on the back of a bike.”
“You look good everywhere.” His voice drops, and the wicked gleam returns to his eyes. “Now. Where was I?”
He lowers his mouth to my breast, sucking my nipple between his lips. He swirls his tongue and I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.
“Boone—” I’m panting already, my skin flushed and tingling. “More. I need more.”
“You’ll get more.” He presses a kiss between my breasts, then continues his downward path. “When I’m ready to give it to you.”
His mouth traces over my ribs—kissing each one individually, because apparently he really does intend to worship every inch—then down to my stomach. He pauses at my navel, dipping his tongue inside, and I squirm at the ticklish sensation.
“Ticklish?” He grins against my skin.
“A little.”
“Good to know.” He files the information away, I can tell, for future torment. Then he moves lower, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the jut of my hipbone.
I feel his smile against my flesh when I whimper.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “I love how your body reacts to me. Like you were made for my touch.”
“My body is very enthusiastic about you.”
“Good.” He shifts lower, his shoulders spreading my thighs as he settles between them. “Because I’m very enthusiastic about it.”
But he doesn’t go where I expect. Instead, he presses kisses to the inside of my knee. My inner thigh. The crease where my leg meets my hip. Everywhere except where I’m aching for him.
“You’re a tease,” I accuse, propping myself up on my elbows to glare at him.
“I’m thorough.” He nips at my thigh, making me jump. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference is I’m going to die if you don’t touch me.”
