Page 105 of Last Man Standing

But I know how to do as I’m told. So I inch forward and suckle on the frosted pink tip.

“Good girl.” He dives in and demands his share of my birthday cake, nibbling on my tongue and squeezing my ass until his fingers pull my cheeks apart. “I know it’s your birthday, Princess. I know you’re the one who gets to make wishes. But I have a wish I wanna make, too.” He brings the cake higher and uses his tongue to take a heaped chunk of icing. Then he feeds it to me.

My breath comes out on a desperate groan, and my panties turn wet with need.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Because fuck, Adelita, you are the bravest, baddest soldier I ever met. Actually—” He bites into the side of my cake and slams his lips to mine.

Who even eats birthday cake the traditional way anymore?

Not me. Not when this way is far superior.

“I have two wishes.” He pulls back and searches my eyes. “I wish you didn’t want to hate me as much as you do. Because you’re exactly who I imagined when I was twelve and planning ahead.”

He sets my cupcake aside and trades it for his jacket, then he yanks me away from the stall door and carries me twelve feet to the left. Unlatching the gate and striding in, he holds me with just one arm and drags my sweater up until the fabric stops above my head.

He keeps my arms and elbows immobilized, fisting the excess fabric until I feel the pinch on my skin. Then he sets me on my feet and drops his jacket onto the straw-covered floor. He unsnaps my jeans and trails his tongue over my chest, then my belly. Lowering to his knees, he nips at my hipbone and tugs the denim lower. “I know you’re cold, and I know Jasper’s gonna peek over the wall and watch. But he’s a cool dude, so he won’t tell anybody.”

Stunned, I cast unsteady eyes to the right and find Jasper licking pink frosting off his lips.

He ate my cake!

“I’m gonna be right here, Princess.” He tugs my jeans all the way to my ankles, then he lowers to his back and pulls me across until I rest on my knees, one on each side of his face. “And I’m gonna feast till you’ve got nothing left to give.”

“Oh, God!” I cry out. “Sebastion…”

“You just have to sit.” He forces me down and holds me in place with his hands on my hips. Even when I want to shoot through the ceiling, he pins me to his face. Even when I fear the ferocity of my first release, filling his mouth with a gushing spray, he holds me down. And when my body betrays me, launching me into the abyss with no more than a minute of his tongue touching my flesh, I simply sit, powerless to do anything else. “Mmm.” He growls low in his throat, the vibration sparking more pleasure in my veins. “Feels like my birthday, too.”

33

PAUL

CHOICES

Istop in the kitchen doorway and spot two of my three sons licking cake beaters and scraping pink frosting from a mixing bowl amidst silly laughter and shoulder-check violence my smallest son doesn’t shy away from.

I clear my throat and draw Koda’s eyes until he presents me with a nose messy with pink frosting, while more circles his grinning lips. But then I look to Mav.

Because he’s who I need answers from.

“Where is she?”

A single sharp brow lifts high above his left eye, and because he’s not done with the half-clean beater—and Koda wants it—he presses a palm to his little brother’s face and pushes him away. “She, who?” he teases. “La Bruja, or Adelita?”

I remain silent. Waiting. Because we both know who I’m asking about.

Finally, he tips his chin toward the north side of our property. “That way.”

“Thanks.” I back out of the doorway and stride along the hall. I go in search of the woman who has given herself for her family, no matter the cost. She’s sacrificed more than any woman should ever have to sacrifice, and it burns me that instead of showing Scarlett the devoted, selfless mother she is, she’s shown nothing but hate and fire. A woman to fear. A person to avoid.

Not a woman to respect or admire.

Both of which, she deserves.

I hate that my wife is hurting. I loathe that the woman I love, the fucking goddess she is, has presented a side of herself that isn’t, and shouldn’t be, how she’s remembered.

To be intimidating is helpful in war. But to be revered is to be immortal.

Arabella Jameson deserves to be loved, not dreaded. Cherished, not avoided.