Page 101 of The Trouble with Flings

“Look at me,” he demands.

The intensity of his gaze heightens every sensation. This isn’t Costa Rica or a yacht or the ocean or the intoxicating blur of a week out of time. This is a dark city street in the moonlight, and Fitz Silver is looking at me like I am the only thing worth looking at, and in the charged silence, I am completely, terrifyingly present for all of it. I feel everything the night has held. The fear, the relief, the deepening emotions I refuse to name, chipping away at the walls I’ve spent years building.

The air is thick with our scent, our passion, our sounds. Every thrust and grind pulls a gasp, a moan, or a groan. He moves his hand between us. I arch into his touch, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. The pleasure is a fire, burning away the noise in my head, coiling tighter and tighter, until “Fitz—” shoots from my lips, my voice breaking as waves of ecstasy crash over me.

He follows me over the edge, growling my name, his breath hot against my neck as we ride out our passion. The pleasure goes on and on. When we finally come down from the high, he holds me tight, our bodies still connected, both of us breathless, wrapped up in the safety of a world that exists only when we’re together.

Then he kisses me, slow and deep, his hands cradling my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I didn’t realize I’d shed.

“I’m yours, wild girl,” he whispers against my lips, his voice rough with emotion. “Tonight, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. No matter what you decide, or what comes next, you will always own this part of me. Our baby can count on that.”

I want to believe him. God, how I want to. But the fear is still there, hunkered down like a villain waiting to strike. This is what terrifies me most. That he can make me feel so much, and I still don’t know how to let him in. “You say that now,” I whisper, hating myself for needing to say it.

He shakes his head, his grip tightening like he’ll never let me go. “I’ll say it, and I’ll mean it, every damn day,” he growls. “Now kiss me, wild girl, and let me show you how serious I am.”

I do, and before long we’re finding our rhythm again, moving in perfect sync. His words echo in my mind, and I ride him harder, fighting the fear, pushing it away. Far enough to let myself fall for the delusion. Except tonight, with Fitz holding me tight, his breath warm against my skin, it feels more like the truth.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fitz

I told myself I wouldn’t be the guy standing at the dock anxiously awaiting Jennifer’s arrival like something out of a movie. But it’s been twelve days since I held her in my arms, and I am absolutely that guy, standing by the pier on a Friday evening watching the ferry dock with my heart thundering like a fucking drumroll.

It’s been three weeks since I met her family. That whole weekend was amazing. She showed me all her favorite places, and we went to a Broadway show, which I haven’t done since I was a kid. It was wonderful seeing more of her world. I made it back to the city the following weekend, and we spent lazy mornings exploring each other’s bodies before heading out to run errands and discover new favorite places that were all ours. Like a scrappy art gallery in Harlem that shows local artists’ work and a cramped independent bookstore in the village where we promised we’d stay away from parenting books but gravitated there anyway.

Ever since our first walk through Carl Schurz Park, we’ve ended most of our evenings with a walk along the water, which we both love. But our favorite of all our newfound spots is a Colombian restaurant with an indoor courtyard filled with rich wood and leafy green plants that reminds us of Costa Rica. The smell of fried plantains lured us in. It was the kind of place that makes you forget you’re in the middle of a city.

We were there for two hours and enjoyed every minute of it. We planned on going back last weekend, but we had a last-minute booking for an event at the resort, and I wasn’t able to get back to the city.

Needless to say, I’m anxious to see her and to tell my family about the baby. I’ve caught myself nearly slipping up too many times to count. Wells won’t be in town until Sunday morning, and we’ve decided to tell everyone at once after the Easter egg hunt, when my family gathers for brunch. But this weekend is about more than that for me. It’s about introducing her to my world, my life, the island, and the people I love. I’m hoping she’ll enjoy my world as much as I enjoy spending time in hers. I want her to fall a little in love with it, with the hopes that one day she’ll feel what I feel every time the ferry rounds the point and the island comes into view.

I see her coming down the ramp, gorgeous in a caramel sweater with shoulder cutouts, and jeans that hug her curves, pulling a large suitcase behind her. I know she’s sensitive about her changing body, but damn. She’s knuckle-biting fine. She hasn’t been fighting our connection as much as she was, and it’s made everything better. I want to run to her, but she’s like the feral horses at the wildlife refuge. If I spook her, she’ll bolt, so I’m going to play it cool and let her set the pace. After all, the horses always return to the marsh where the seagrass is sweetest and the shore holds them steady.

She spots me, and her entire face lights up. I lift my chin, grinning like a fool, and she hurries down the last few feet of the ramp, rushing toward me. Hell if that doesn’t light me up, too. My self-control goes up in smoke, and I meet her halfway, hauling her into my arms, lifting her off her feet, and kissing her like we can make up for lost time right there on the dock.

As our lips part, she’s grinning from ear to ear. “What the heck have you done to me, Silver?”

“I missed you, too, Stone,” I say, and kiss her again.

As we head to the parking lot, I carry her suitcase and slide my other arm around her waist, holding her against my side. “How’s my girl and our little bean?”

Her eyes go soft, the way they do every time I say little bean, like it’s the one thing that’s ours and ours alone. That look gets me every time.

“We’re better now.”

I don’t think she has any idea how much it means to me to hear her say that, but I feel about ten feet tall.

We take the coastal road toward my house, the water appearing in flashes between the trees until we come to my private drive. Soon the dogwoods standing sentinel on either side of the drive will bloom. We round a gentle curve, and my house comes into view, all dark weathered wood and pale stone that catches the evening light, sitting on a point with views of the water on three sides.

Jennifer’s gaze flicks over the house like she’s trying to remember it.

Mine isn’t the kind of home that announces itself, but it is unique. I never wanted grand or showy. I wanted permanent and comfortable. The kind of home that keeps a family close without suffocating them. I drew up the plans and chose every detail myself, from the wide covered porch that wraps around the front to the outdoor shower tucked into the west side of the house for maximum afternoon sun. I drove the architect a little crazy, but I knew what I wanted. A four-bedroom home built in a U shape so every room opens onto a central patio. An open and inviting floor plan, a kitchen made for cooking big meals, a great room with exposed beams and the kind of large stone fireplace that pulls everyone toward it on a cold night, and a den, my only concession to work, but even there, the view is all water and sky.

No wasted space. Nothing formal.

“Is it weird that I don’t remember your house looking like this, or these breathtaking views?” she asks as I cut the engine.

I think back to the night we met last summer, when we stumbled through the front door in a tangle of lustful desperation and barely made it to the living room before she was bent over the couch and I was buried nine inches deep in the sweetest pussy I’d ever known.