Second Draft

by C. M. Seabrook

  Carter gives me a wicked grin, the one that after all this time still gives me butterflies. The next thing I know he’s lifting me against his chest, and carrying me upstairs to the bedroom, his hands moving over my body, getting rid of my clothing.

  When we’re both naked, he bring his hands to my waist and places a hard kiss on my mouth.

  “I love you,” I say, running my fingers across the new ink on his chest. Mine, and Joshua’s name written in a beautiful design over his heart.

  His hands cup my face, drawing my gaze up to his eyes.

  Blue.

  Intense.

  Captivating.

  And so full of love that my breath gets locked somewhere in the back of my throat.

  Every sculpted inch of his body radiates strength and possessiveness. There’s no fear when I’m with him because I’ve finally given myself to him, completely.

  Epilogue

  Carter

  Three years later…

  I can feel Layla’s eyes on me with every flip of the page. It’s her manuscript, the second draft of the one she had originally wrote, and it’s good. Really good. Not only because it’s well written, but because in a way it’s our story.

  Two people who have to face seemingly insurmountable obstacles to be together.

  I read the final paragraph and my chest squeezes, because she’s written her happy ending. No, our happy ending.

  She knew that no matter how much they had lost, they had gained so much more. He was her one. The one. The only person who had ever made her feel truly and completely loved. It didn’t matter what the world thought of them, because with him by her side, every day was a fairytale come to life. And he was her happily ever after.

  “Well?” She asks, when I place the papers on the table beside the bed. “What do you think?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I grab her around the waist and pull her down on my lap. “I’m proud of you.”

  She gives me a small smile. “I’d never have finished it without you.”

  “See. All my prodding worked.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not what I meant. I would never have believed in the ending if I hadn’t met you. You’re the one that showed me happiness is possible.” Her brows draw down, and she says softly, “Even through heartbreak.”

  I press my lips against her forehead, and let her words sink in.

  Both of our lives have been filled with tragedy, and these past two years haven’t been any different.

  Six months ago, I received a phone call informing me that Travis had been killed in a boating accident. He’d been drinking with a few of his buddies up on Lake Ontario. From what I was told, he’d been sitting on the side of the boat when he’d gone overboard, hitting his head when he fell. They pulled his body out three days later.

  I swallow past the large lump that forms in my throat.

  There will always be a part of me that feels guilty for not being more for him. But Travis made his own choices. Choices that almost always went against every piece of advice I’d given him.

  We’d spoken a few times before his accident. And I’d sent him a couple pictures of Joshua.

  I’d thought he’d gotten his head straightened out. Or at least that’s what it seemed. He was always good at pretending with me.

  Hit with a wave of sorrow, my chest clenches painfully.

  “You’re thinking about him?” Layla straddles me and places her palms on my cheeks.

  I give a small nod, my throat tightening with the memories.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, brown eyes filled with sympathy and regret.

  Pressing my forehead against hers, I inhale her scent, focusing on the good that’s in front of me.

  And it is good.

  My life is everything I never knew I wanted.

  Husband.

  Father.

  Those two things have completed me, made me whole.

  I kiss her hard. Needing her touch. Always amazed at how we can both draw strength from each other with the simplest of gestures.

  “Have you thought of a title yet?” I ask, going back to the manuscript she’s been working so hard on.

  “I was thinking about Second Draft.” Her hands comb through my hair, a small smile playing on her lips. “The book is all about second chances, rewriting mistakes, and turning them into something positive and beautiful, even if the world doesn’t understand it.”

  “Like us.” I trace my thumb over her bottom lip.

  “Like us,” she agrees.

  We’re bound in a way that defies even my own understanding. Every pain, every happiness we experience, we experience together. Maybe it’s all the things we’ve already been through together, or maybe there really is something in the whole soulmate claim.

  I don’t know. I just know that my heart and soul are tangled with hers. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t send up a prayer of thanks that she wasn’t taken from me the day Joshua was born.

  “Joshua’s sleeping,” she whispers, fingers curling under my shirt, my cock going instantly hard the minute her hands brush against my lower abs.

  “And?” I ask, knowing full well her meaning.

  Her touch skims up my chest, tugging the t-shirt over my head. “And I want my husband to make love to me.”

  I flip her on her back and she lets out a small squeal. “After those steamy scenes you made me read, I was hoping you were going to say that.”

  She chuckles lightly, helping me remove her shirt, then wiggles out of her pants.

  I have my own pants off in seconds, the need to be inside of her overwhelming. Her hands begin their frantic dance across my chest, down my hips, wrapping around the length of my cock and guiding it towards her entrance.

  “Patience, sweetheart,” I growl against her lips, reaching between her legs to make sure she’s ready for me, which she is. I sink one finger into her wet folds, and circle her clit until she’s mewling in pleasure.

  “Carter,” she moans, gripping my hips, and squirming beneath me, begging me for my cock with her body.

  A wild cry falls from her lips as I sink into her.

  Feeling her slick heat wrapped tight around me is like being immersed in a vortex of all consuming rapture. There’s no better feeling in the world. Not when those light brown eyes stare up at me with more love than any man could ever deserve.

  I draw back, then thrust hard, making her cry out again.

  My movements are slow, controlled, needing to keep my head, long enough to make her come, before spilling myself inside of her.

  The noises she makes as her body begins the climb towards her climax nearly undoes me, and I crash my lips against hers, thrusting harder and faster, and kissing her like a man starved. She strains against me, her legs tightening around my hips.

  Heavy lidded, face flushed, her head tilts back. Her body spasms around me, milking my cock and triggering my own release, until I’m spurting hard and deep inside her.

  I gather her close and roll on my side, bringing her with me, burying my lips against her hair.

  “I love you so fucking much it hurts, baby.”

  “I know,” she says, still breathing hard, and grinning up at me.

  And she does, which in its own right is a miracle.

  “I love you too.” Her hands are on my chest, eyes alight with something I can’t decipher.

  I drag my thumb across the line of her jaw. So fucking beautiful. There are some days when I still can’t believe how lucky I am.

  Today is one of them.

  She chews on her lip, tracing the patterns on my chest, one finger copying the letters of her and Joshua’s names that are printed over my heart.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I was just wondering how you’re going to fit another name here.”

  My brows draw down until I realize what she’s saying. We’ve been trying to have another baby for over a year now with no l
uck, and I’m almost afraid to ask. “Are you...”

  “Yes.” The smile that lightens her face makes my chest tighten.

  I plant a hard kiss on her lips, cupping her jaw in my hands.

  “Are you happy?” she asks.

  “God, yes.” I kiss her again, blinking back the tears that prick my eyes. Being a father is the second best thing in my life, the first being her husband.

  “Daddy, Daddy.” There’s a rush of tiny footsteps clambering down the hall towards our room, causing both Layla and I to reach for our clothes.

  I barely finish shoving my legs into my pants when Joshua’s tear-streaked face appears at our door. I scoop him up, and immediately his arms wrap tight around my neck.

  “Monster in my closet,” he says, tightening his grip.

  “There’s no monsters buddy,” I say, tickling him until his tears turn to full out belly laughs.

  “I wanna sleep with you and Mommy.”

  “Big boys sleep in their own beds,” Layla says sternly.

  “Daddy sleeps in your bed.”

  I chuckle, despite the look of warning Layla gives me. “That’s cause I’m married to Mommy.”

  “Please,” he begs.

  I grunt, and glance over at Layla who’s already sighing with resignation, because we both know that if we don’t let him, he’ll be crawling back into bed with us every twenty minutes.

  “Give your mom a hug,” I say, putting him on the bed, and watching him scamper across and jump into Layla’s arms.

  “Right to sleep,” she warns, brushing his light brown hair off his forehead.

  I crawl in beside them and smile, despite knowing I’m probably not going to sleep much tonight. The kid is as active in his sleep as he is awake.

  As soon as I lie down Joshua jumps on my chest, making my breath leave me in a whoosh. “Careful.”

  “Story,” he pleads, brown eyes the same color as Layla’s wide awake now.

  Layla just smiles and gives me that, I-told-you-so look.

  “One short story,” I say.

  “About hockey.” His grin gets bigger.

  The kid loves the game already. I bought him his first set of skates this past winter, and next year I’ve decided to coach the Little Tykes program.

  “I’ve got a better story,” I say, tapping his nose gently. “About a little boy who’s going to be a big brother.”

  Joshua frowns. “No. Hockey story.”

  Layla chuckles and shakes her head.

  “What? Babies aren’t as fun as hockey?” I grin.

  “No.” He shakes his head, brows drawn down.

  Laughing, I muss his hair. “There was a time I would have agreed with you, buddy.”

  His nose scrunches up.

  “But now?” Layla asks, one eyebrow raised, a grin playing on her lips.

  I place my hand on her stomach and smile, “Now, there’s nothing that makes me happier.”

  THANK YOU!

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  KEELEY

  I know his type. Stuck up. Arrogant. The kind of guy who hasn't had to work for a damn thing his entire life. Even his name, Henry Caldwell III, reeks of privilege.

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