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“Were you just going to keep going?”

He smirks and bites the ball of my shoulder.

“You’re talking too much. I’m not doing my job.”

He slams back inside me, making me cry out, and then slap my hand over my mouth.

“He can’t hear us,” Carson assures me, his lips on mine. “This room is soundproofed.”

Holy shit.

“So you scream my name all you want, Sunshine.”

He starts to pound into me, holding my leg high up on his hip, and there’s no way I can stop the sensations moving through me.

“Already quivering around me,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re choking me. You trying to make me come with you, baby?”

“Hell yes.”

He chuckles, but when I bear down on him, it turns into a growl. He pins my hands above my head and fastens his mouth around my nipple as he fucks me hard, making me cry out as I writhe beneath him.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans. “You come so goddamn perfectly.”

He pushes inside, rocks there, and gives into his own climax, his forehead tipped down to mine.

“So. Goddamn. Amazing.”

Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don’t care. I don’t fucking care at all because I have my husband.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he says softly, ghosting his knuckles down my cheeks.

“Happy tears,” I whisper back, and sigh when he rolls us so we’re on our sides, curled up together. “So damn happy.”

The next time I wake up, the sun is coming up, and my husband is gone. I run my hands over the sheets and find them cold, so he’s been up for a while.

Carson never needed much sleep.

I get up and pad into the bathroom, where I almost gasp in horror at the sight of my blotchy, swollen eyes and face.

Jesus, I’m an ugly crier.

The fact that my hot-as-fuck husband wanted to have sex with me last night is a miracle.

I shake my head and go about my routine, use the bathroom, wash my hands and face, and pull my hair up into a knot on my head before I cross into the closet that any red-blooded woman would dream of and find some denim shorts and a tank top, then pad barefoot down the hall to peek in on Charlie, but his bed is empty and made, which surprises me.

My kid never makes his own bed.

With a shrug, I walk downstairs.

It’s quiet in the house, but when I get to the kitchen area, I look through the doors that lead out to the pool and see that’s where everyone has congregated.

Now that my kid has discovered that he can swim any time he wants, we’ll never get him out of that water. I need to book swim lessons.

I step outside and grin because Carson is dressed only in swim shorts and he’s sitting at the side of the pool, his feet in the water, his arms crossed over his impressive chest, all that glorious ink on display, and his eyes pinned to our son and . . . a stranger.

“If he drowns, so do you,” Carson barks out, and I lift an eyebrow as I walk to a chaise and have a seat. “Good morning, Sunshine.”

“Good morning. What’s going on?”