by Anne Malcom
They didn’t treat me any different, though. Of course they didn’t.
But I was different. There was a reminder in my empty heart every damn day. Walking into houses, bars, stores knowing I’d always be walking in alone. There was no escaping it. The urge to say no to every invitation, wanting to hide at home with wine and my books was overwhelming at times
But I’d done that. For a year, I’d done that. It hadn’t changed anything. Didn’t make the hurt any less. It had only made my children suffer.
So I was sucking it up.
It wasn’t so bad when I got the house to myself for an afternoon. As much as I’d feared being alone, especially in our home, I realized needed it. Needed the time to just be... me instead of ‘mom’.
Ranger used to give me that.
Constant reminders that I was not just a mother. That I was a woman. His and my own. Since I didn’t get reminders like that anymore, I didn’t feel like anything but a mother and a widow. And it was infuriating. I was sick of my own fucking misery. My own pain.
So I had to find a way to get more familiar with it.
Which meant time alone.
Which also meant reorganizing Lily’s dolls—which she hated doing—changing around Jack’s room—which he barely noticed—and sorting out my clothes while studiously avoiding Ranger’s side of the closet.
Then I’d go into the backyard, picking up the rogue toys. Did a little gardening. Made fresh lemonade for when the kids came home. Scones to go with it.
That was another thing I was getting really good at.
Making sure the kids had some kind of treat waiting for them whenever they came home. Fresh baked scones with homemade jam. Cookies. Bread. Lemonade. A new room layout.
Like I could distract them with baked goods and maybe they wouldn’t notice that their dad wasn’t coming home.
It was just as I was putting scones in the oven that the lawn mower started. It gave me a fright, since I’d been doing all my tasks in silence. I didn’t like music anymore. Too many possible encounters with a song that meant something to me. That had meant something to us.
Silence was much safer.
It shouldn’t have been surprised that he was there. He’d been doing this every Sunday for almost two months. The kids had even gotten used to him. Last Sunday, Lily had insisted we bring him milk and cookies, despite the fact that the last thing he probably wanted after mowing the lawn in the heat was a glass of milk. Nonetheless, he took them with grace, charming Lily. Like he often did, Jack had just watched the encounter with a stony expression that reminded me of his father so much I’d locked myself in the bathroom and sob for five minutes.
But then the lawn mower broke down. Kace disappeared for a few then came back with a part. By then, Jack was out in the yard, inspecting the mower like he thought it was his job to fix it.
When Kace arrived back, Jack’s stony expression returned. But Kace invited him to help, and my young son was just far too curious to just walk away.
So Kace taught Jack about the inner workings of a lawn mower.
Apparently, he’d promised to teach him about cars next—with my permission, of course.
Jack had recounted all of this, since I had made an art of avoiding the man since the girl’s night and Isabella’s birthday. Avoiding him meant avoiding whatever feelings I had toward him, so that’s what I did.
Jack hadn’t had a stony expression when he’d begged me to let Kace show him how he was rebuilding a car he had in his garage. I wanted to say no. Really fucking badly. Mostly because my feelings were getting in the way, but mostly because the thought of Kace spending time with my son, charming him further, scared me.
Also a little bit because it made me angry. Furious. That offer. He was practically a stranger, offering my son things his father should've been teaching him. Things he never would.
Which was why I said yes.
Sure, Jack would have plenty of male role models in his life of the badass, alpha male variety. Men able to teach him how to be a badass alpha if he so wished.
But those men also had families of their own.
Who was I to deny Jack one more positive influence?
And, inexplicably, I trusted Kace. It was irresponsible to trust a man I barely knew, especially with my children. Maybe that made me a bad mother, but I had to trust my instincts. I had nothing else.
So, next week, Jack was going over to Kace’s to help with the car.
It was after I pretended not to watch him out the window that I decided if I was sending Jack off to spend time with him, it was my responsibility to get to know him a little more. Make sure he wasn’t some crazy murderer.
Which probably shouldn’t have been my criteria, since most of my son’s positive influences were either crazy, murderers or both.
I took a deep breath as I opened the door. Kace’s eyes went straight to me, walking back from the garage where he’d stored the mower. It had become somewhat of a routine. He never tried to approach the house, but always interacted with the kids when they came out to talk to him.
I had not come out to talk to him.
So he definitely looked surprised to see me. Probably more so the beers in my hand. But his gaze didn’t focus on the beers. No, they lingered on my legs, my denim cutoffs smudged with dirt from the garden suddenly feeling far too short.
This was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
But it was too late now.
“You dangling those in front of me as a form of torture?” he asked, eyes teasing.
It’s too late to back out now, I told myself again. Throwing the bottles at him and sprinting back into my house would totally cement me as the crazy woman.
“No, I think making you mow my lawns without any form of payment other than a glass of milk and some mediocre cookies is torture enough,” I replied.
“I’m going to agree to disagree on the cookies,” he retorted, walking toward me. He had a confident, easy swagger about him that shouldn’t have been attractive. Nor should the thin sheen of sweat clinging to his body. But it was.
“And the milk was a necessity. Cookies without milk is a crime,” he continued, taking a beer from my hand, his fingers brushing with mine.
I snatched my hand back in the guise of necking my beer.
Kace watched me drink my beer and sipped his own.
Unfortunately, there was only so long I could have my lips around the bottle without looking like a frat boy or like I was preforming a sex act on an inanimate object.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked, even though I really didn’t want that to happen. “I was just about to order pizza that I’d have to consume completely on my own because I can’t have any remaining evidence when the kids come home tonight.”
Now why did I offer that? I could’ve suffered through one beer and forced s brief, surface level conversation. One beer was only, what? Five minutes? Ten tops? The pizza thing was more than one beer for sure. And then there was the ordering, waiting for and eating aforementioned pizza.
Way too much time alone with him.
“We got to get one thing straight before I reply to that offer,” he said, his eyes pinning me in place.
I swallowed. He’d felt it too. Or he’d noticed that I was acting completely odd around him and staring at him like an insane person while he talked. Me, the older woman with kids and enough emotional baggage to fit a passenger plane front to back.
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those psychopaths that thinks pineapple belongs on pizza,” he teased with a straight face.
I waited for more. But nothing came. And Kace didn’t seem perturbed at how long it took me to answer the question about what toppings I liked on my pizza.
“No, I definitely am not into fruit on my pizza,” I replied, trying to sound as casual and amused as he had. “When the kids are in charge of the ordering, which is any other time I ever order pizza, it’s usually half barbeque, half every meat on the menu. But
in those glorious, rare, kid free pizza nights, I order from the fancy Italian place and go with a delicious, traditional margarita.”
Kace raised a brow. “What? Sauce, cheese and basil? That’s it?”
I frowned back at him. “Of course that’s it. That’s how it’s meant to be. Americans have butchered traditional Italian foods with all sorts of sacrilegious toppings. It’s only meant to be three. Four, at a stretch.”
“I’m a smart man. And a hungry one. So I’m not going to even try to argue with you on that. Instead, we’re just gonna get two pizzas.”
We’d had more than two beers.
We ate outside. No TV on, no music, no distractions. We talked. About what, I couldn’t even remember. Nothing deep. Not the traumas of our past or the scars of our yesterdays. We talked about easy things. Kace led the conversation, but it happened naturally. I even enjoyed myself.
So much so that after we finished the pizzas and cleaned up, I offered him another beer and suggested a movie.
I only suggested this because Asher had texted to say the kids wanted to stay the night. For selfish reasons, I’d agreed to that. Because tonight I was feeling like something more than a widow and a mother.
The movie had barely started when I paused it.
Kace had carefully placed himself on the opposite end of the sofa. He’d been looking at me a certain type of way all evening. Not constantly, but I’d seen it. The slight heat in his eyes when his gaze lingered on my legs. I’d felt something when our fingers brushed trying to pick up a slice of pizza at the same time.
It was a spark. The kind I hadn’t expected to ever feel again.. One that had grown. Or maybe one that was there because he was attractive and available, and I needed something to numb the pain.
But I couldn’t handle the mundane shit anymore. The ordering of the pizza. The cleaning up. The movie on the sofa. That was entering dangerous territory. Hence me pausing the movie and turning on the sofa so I faced Kace.
“Okay, I know you’re super-hot, and it’s obviously clear that I’m attracted to you because I am a woman with a libido and a heartbeat, which I’m thinking are the requirements to be attracted to you. So yes, I’m human. But I’m also a total fucking mess. Slightly less of a mess than I was six months ago to be sure, but a mess nonetheless. I’m not ready for any kind of relationship,” I blurted.
He grinned, his eyes bugging out ever so slightly at all of the information I’d just laid on him. “Now, I have a good memory. Not the best, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember asking you to be in a relationship with me.”
I stared at him. Holy fuck. He was right. He hadn’t asked for a relationship. Hadn’t even made a move, for that matter. “But you mow my lawn,” I said weakly. “You hang out with my kids. You’re always going out of your way to talk to me.”
“Yeah, I like being around you,” he replied. “Like your kids.” His eyes flickered over me. It was a quick glance, but I felt it everywhere. “I’m not going to lie and say I don’t want to. I fuckin’ do. But I know you’re not ready. Know you’re going through some shit right now. So I’m waiting.”
“You’re waiting,” I repeated.
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m waitin’. Till you’re ready. Because no fucking way am I letting any other guy have the chance when you are. I want that chance. So I’m waiting.”
I blinked. Several times. My mouth felt dry, and the rest of my body was flaming hot. “Why would you want to wait?”
His eyes did that thing again. My body also did that thing. Again. “Why wouldn’t I want to wait?” His voice was husky now. Sexy.
Okay, this was not supposed to be going this way. I definitely was not supposed to be reacting this way. All of my sexual urges needed to be muted for at least another year. Two years maybe. That was acceptable. Three years would’ve been preferable. Even then, I would only allow sexual dalliances two towns over, leaving right after it was done. There was not going to be any men going in and out of my children’s lives. No.
So right now, the smart thing would’ve been to banish this beautiful man from my home and from my life. Then I’d drink the rest of my beer and go to bed, grab the vibrator from my bedside table and think about his voice and the looks he gave me. Which was already bad enough because I should’ve been thinking about my dead husband.
But what I did instead was place my beer on the coffee table, reached over and did the same to Kace’s. Then, I pounced.
Our mouths met in a clash of tongues, teeth and pure need. He kissed me back immediately, though I was pretty sure he was not expecting me to jump on him like a horny hyena.
Before long, we were completely horizontal, me on top of him, grinding my body against his.
“Lizzie,” he rasped, pushing at me enough so our mouths detached.
I did not like that. The pause in the frenzy was too stark, too dangerous, potentially giving me time to think and realize the mistake I was making.
“No talking,” I ordered, trying to move forward again, before common sense kicked in.
He held fast, but at least it looked like it was a struggle for him. There was fire in his eyes, his entire body taut with what I hoped was restraint.
“Lizzie,” he ground out. “Need to know that this isn’t me takin’ advantage of you.”
I groaned, hating that him being this sensitive and considerate turned me on.
“No, I’m taking advantage of you,” I hissed.
He let me kiss him then. Let me take control. Though I didn’t feel like I had control. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a conscious choice. It was a need. The kiss lasted forever. Hands in my hair. On my ass.
Clothes needed to come off. I needed to feel his skin. In fact, I needed him inside me. More than anything in this moment, that’s what I needed. My shirt was already heavy, dragging me down, I wanted to claw it off. But there was no way we could have sex on the couch with the prospect of my kids walking in.
No, couldn’t think of them. Couldn’t think of anything.
“Bedroom,” I murmured, my own voice rough.
He didn’t hesitate. In an instant, we were no longer kissing on the sofa. My legs were wrapped around his hips, his hard-on pressing into me, his plump lips still on mine. I didn’t pay attention to the fact that we were walking through the house like this, I was too busy with the kissing thing and almost orgasms from kissing and dry humping.
The door to my bedroom closed quietly, that small sound jerking me into somewhat of a coherent state.
“Not the bed,” I all but hissed as he began to move across the room.
Panic clutched at my throat with the idea of us doing what I wanted to do in my bed. Our bed. No. I wasn’t ready for that.
Kace didn’t hesitate either, moving to the bathroom, putting me down on the counter. His mouth went to my neck then down, yanking the fabric of my tank to the side so his lips landed on my nipple.
I tore my hands through his hair, sinking my teeth into my lip to stop from crying out. His teeth grazed my nipple, not gently. My stomach dipped, and an orgasm started to build up.
He’d somehow gotten my shorts off, so caught up in the frenzy I hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t tease, didn’t move slowly, hesitantly. No, his fingers landed there. Right there while his mouth moved against my nipple.
I tasted blood as my lips sank down even farther.
Kace was no longer at my breast. His fingers had stopped moving in those expert circles, instead, they’d plunged right inside.
I let out a hiss of pleasure at his beautiful intrusion.
Kace’s eyes were dark. Hard. “You’re not gonna try to silence yourself now, baby,” he growled. “If you try again, I’ll punish you until you got no choice but to scream.”
“Punish me?” I repeated, voice scratchy.
His fingers still moved inside me, coaxing me, teasing me, not giving me the full relief I knew he could. He was doing this on purpose.
“Yes,” he grated out. “You don’t scream my name, y
ou don’t moan, cry out like I know you want to, I’ll take you to the edge and bring you back so many times you’ll get on your knees and beg me to make you come.”
Fury settled in my stomach, battling with need. “I will never beg.”
He grinned. But it wasn’t easy or simple like it had been before. This grin was wicked. Dark. And I fucking loved it.
“Oh, yes you fucking will,” he ordered, moving his finger deeper now, brushing against my g-spot, causing my breath to hitch, my body to tense, ready to shatter, burst apart. But then he stopped, lifted his finger between us, put it in his mouth and tasted me.
“Knew you’d be sweet,” he murmured.
Fury drowned in the sea of my desire. “Well then, taste me properly,” I invited.
His eyes flared, palm moving back between my legs, cupping me. “Let’s get one thing straight.” His other hand moved to my neck, circling it. There was pressure. A considerable amount of it, but not enough to hurt. I could still breathe.
“I’m the one who gives the orders here,” he rasped against my mouth. “You got a problem with that?”
I definitely should have had a problem with that. Kace was a relative stranger. He was ten years my junior. He definitely shouldn’t have been ordering me around.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” I breathed.
He grinned wickedly once more, lips landing on mine. Then his fingers moved inside me again. Slowly. Torturing, showing me that it was up to him if and when I got my release.
His fingers left me and his mouth moved down my neck, skirting over my breasts, moving down my stomach, hovering at my hip bones and finally landing on the place where I needed him to be.
His lips didn’t move slowly or gently now. He devoured me like a starving man. Didn’t stop as I screamed his name, tore at his hair, exploded under his touch. No, he kept going, relentlessly, until my second orgasm washed over me.
Then his lips were gone. His mouth on mine, tasting like the both of us mixed.
“Condom,” he murmured.
I barely registered what he was saying, only realizing it because he wasn’t doing what my body craved. He wasn’t fucking me.