Page 126 of Sweet Distraction

My lips work a rhythm, and his hips stutter, and my own pleasure lingers in the air like a benediction for us both.

He’s not gentle as he fucks my mouth. He’s not rough either. More like a man on the cusp of losing control but holding tightly to that one last thread remaining. The last thing holding him back.

It’s in the way his hands keep tightening and flexing in my hair. How his chest shivers beneath my palm. The way he strangles on the guttural sounds clawing up his throat.

I smile around him, my lips tightening so I can drive him wild. I love the way he loses control, how the tattoos and the tough talk and the sprawl of his body all melt into a desperate need for my touch and my touch alone.

His thighs tense beneath my palms, but I take my time, slow and then faster, listening to the way his breath hitches, the way he breathes my name like a prayer and a plea.

“Wills, Jesus.” He presses his head back into the pillow, his control unraveling with each second. Each time I pull back, I look up at him, and his eyes—lids heavy, pupils wide, undone—are the best reward.

When he finally comes apart, he shudders so hard it nearly lifts him off the bed, both hands tight in my hair, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Another moment, and he collapses, boneless and spent, and starts to laugh.

“What?”

He leans up on one elbow and cups my cheek with his free hand, thumb smearing along my jaw. “Are you trying to ruin me, Wills?” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

I shrug coyly, proud of garnering that reaction. I look him up and down. “Good. You look better ruined.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Willow

Rocket’s been pacing the house all morning like he’s trying to outrun something he can’t name.

He’s showered. Changed. Ignored calls from the guys—who no doubt know he’s stressing. Tossed on a hoodie, then ripped it off again. Tried to eat. Left his plate where it was, barely touched, to walk back and forth on the grass out back. Stayed there staring at the ground for what felt like forever before rushing into his studio. Tried to play a few things in there but then cursed loudly and stalked back out.

Now he’s leaning against the window frame in the living room, staring out at the street like it might hold the answers to the custody hearing he’s dreading. He’s too afraid to admit that, of course.

Because that’s what this is all about. Nerves. Fear. The unknown.

I don’t need to hear him confess a thing to know he’s spiraling. I can hear his deep breaths from the other side of the room. He doesn’t look at me when I speak. He checks on Poppy every fifteen minutes like he’s already missing her.

“Hey, Caldwell.”

“Hmm.” He keeps staring at the street.

“I’m restless and feeling cooped up,” I lie. “And I haven’t figured out what to do for Poppy’s dinner yet. What do you say we get out of the house for a bit and grab a bite to eat?”

He glances my way for the first time. I swear I can see relief flood through his posture at the lifeline I’m giving him.

“Where do you want to go?”

“How does anywhere but here sound?” I laugh. “Grab a hat and sunglasses. Probably best if you take that BENT shirt off too so we can go incognito.”

He nods and a slow, steady smile paints his lips. I haven’t seen that all day, and it’s all I need to see to know I made the right suggestion. “Okay,” he says softly and then turns to Poppy. “We—you, Willow, and I—are going on a date. How does that sound?”

She squeals and runs to his arms. They babble as he carries her down the hall to his bedroom to change. I watch their backs as they go, marveling at what a difference a few months makes.

Night and day and in all the best ways.

And the good mood keeps rolling as we find a wood-fired pizza place and allow Poppy to make her own pizza. To say she was ecstatic is an understatement. Then to a boutique where Rocket spoils her with a new doll that she now has clutched under her arm, right beside her bunny.

We walk a few blocks down, side by side with Poppy on his hip, where the breeze is a welcome relief in this heat. It feels like time slows down and allows us to have this moment. Like it knows how bad we need it.

Laughter is constant, as is Poppy pointing at everything and wanting it. She takes one last bite of a pretzel from the cart we passed when we round a corner and stop when we see a tattoo parlor.

Poppy tugs on Rocket’s sleeve and points at the images in the window—the flowers, the dragons, the names inked into skin. She then looks at his arm and points.