Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  Our gazes drift to one another, calmness flowing through us as we recognize the life we created. I will never stop loving Rose and the future we’ve built together.

  “Say something real,” she whispers.

  “Je t’aime.” I love you.

  I cup her ass and bring her firmer against me. Rose clutches the quilt with two tight hands, and I place a couple pillows beneath her lower back, hoisting her body towards mine.

  Be gentle, I remind myself. Even if she dislikes those two words, even if they’re not my favorite either—I can’t fuck her roughly, not when she’s this pregnant.

  I squeeze her ass and place hot kisses along her abdomen. She sucks in another breath, but she lets me do whatever I’d like to her body—and I’d like to play with my wife.

  Fragile, more vulnerable, and she’s still giving me permission to dominate her. This fact, combined with the changes in her body and the way her eyes burn holes right through me, stirs and grips me.

  I’m entrapped.

  My mind never wanders. Never diverges.

  I’m fixated.

  I can’t think about anything but Rose.

  I lower my head and kiss between her legs. She trembles, her hormones intensifying every sensation. I squeeze her ass again. Rose shudders and shuts her eyes tight. Her sex drive, in the past, has been higher during her first and second trimester and absent during the third.

  I study her reaction for a moment, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Tu es à l'aise, là?” Are you comfortable right now? I sit up to adjust the pillows beneath Rose. She has frequent backaches, mostly due to high heels, but she’d endure nearly everything to wear a pair.

  It’s a paradox.

  She’s more comfortable in heels. And yet, they’re the cause of what adds to her discomfort.

  Rose blows out a hot breath from her nose. “I have to talk to you.”

  I have to talk to you isn’t a placeholder for don’t have sex with me. On the contrary, we talk during sex more often than we have sex in silence.

  “I’m listening.” I rub her thigh, and I watch her gaze flit to the outline of my cock and then back to my blue eyes. I free my cock, and her lips tic upwards before she settles back into a glare.

  “You’re not going to like the topic,” she explains, “but it needs to be discussed.”

  “If it has anything to do with Twitter, I’m already dealing with it—”

  “It’s not that.” She waves her hand like she’s volleying that topic aside.

  I press the tip of my erection against her pussy. “I could guess, but you haven’t given me enough details to make an educated one.”

  She props herself on her elbows, as though hoping to near my face and claw it off. “You’re so—” I push into her and she falls onto her back with the new fullness and pleasure. Her warmth wraps around my cock, the sensation pricking my nerves.

  “What was that, darling?” I tease.

  Rose raises her hand like shut up and then she sets her palm to her forehead. “It’s about Sadie.”

  I rock slowly in and out, friction building sweat. “We could be talking about game theory, Nietzsche, Foucault, or evolution and you’d like to discuss my misogynistic cat who’s living with my therapist?”

  “Yes,” she says stubbornly.

  I spank the side of her ass.

  She fights a smile. “I hate yo—”

  I cover her mouth with my hand, her rage heating my whole body. “You love me, and this just might be the thousandth time I’ve reminded you.” Knelt between her legs, I thrust excruciatingly slow, even for me. My muscles burn. “And I don’t speak in hyperboles.”

  I drop my hand from her mouth, trailing the base of her neck, between her breasts, and I rest my palm flat on her round abdomen. I could feel small movements from our son or daughter this morning.

  Rose is lost in pleasure for a moment, her breath shortening, but the fire never extinguishes from her voice. “Your ego is going to contaminate our unborn child.” She presses her hand to her mouth, stifling a moan.

  I grab her wrist, lifting her palm off so I can hear.

  “Fuck,” Rose cries out. Her shoulders dig into the mattress as she nears a peak, and she pulses around my cock.

  A groan escapes my lips.

  “Harder,” she begs.

  I squeeze her ass. “No.”

  “Connor…” She places her hands over her face, which she only does when she’s disoriented from an orgasm—and when she’s not handcuffed.

  I seize both of her wrists and hold them in one hand. I don’t climax with her, so when she comes down, I’m still rocking inside.

  “Sadie,” she pants.

  I let her see my irritation and then spank her again. “My name isn’t Sadie.”

  “I’m serious, Richard.” She catches her breath. “I want to bring her home.” She cuts me off before I can add we’ve been through this. “The last time I saw her at Frederick’s, she lazily and pathetically collapsed at my feet. She’s old.” I open my mouth but she says passionately, “I’ll clip her nails every single morning, and I’ll teach Jane not to provoke the cat or pull on her tail.”

  “If it was just about Jane’s wrongdoing, we would’ve never sent the cat away. It’s more than that, Rose.” It’s about Sadie being unpredictable and hostile.

  “She’s old, Connor.” She used my middle name, which means that this subject means more to her. “It’s not about Jane. It’s about keeping our family together, and Sadie is a part of our family.” Rose is loyal to a fault, but if she sees a change in Sadie, then it might be safer to bring her home.

  I can convince myself that Sadie is fine without me, so I have no emotions towards leaving her behind, but Rose can’t.

  Jane can’t.

  I nod but then I shake my head. “I don’t like giving Jane something after we repeatedly told her no.” Our children are privileged, but I need them to understand their privilege. Spoiling them like this won’t help.

  “We’ll remind her that Sadie isn’t hers. She’s her own being and not a toy or a reward.”

  It’ll be difficult for Jane to understand the difference.

  Rose glowers, her passion practically smoking off her skin. “Richard Connor Cobalt is afraid of a challenge.”

  I push deeper, and her collarbones jut out with a staggered inhale. My jaw is tight in arousal. “And Rose Calloway Cobalt is trying to incite me.”

  Rose jerks her hands in my hold, on the brink of another orgasm. I clutch her wrists tighter, my own climax on the horizon. Sweat beads across my chest, my abs glistening.

  Her fervor stimulates me.

  I come as soon as she climaxes. I carefully lean forward to kiss her lips, and I whisper, “Two weeks. We’ll bring Sadie home then.”

  “One week,” she argues.

  I sense a battle in our future. One with tiles and letters and points. “Scrabble. Best out of three wins,” I challenge.

  Her shoulders rise with confidence. “I accept with the option of one addendum.”

  She could remove certain vowels or set a category like “pastoral words”—anything is possible with an open-ended addition to the game. What will she do?

  I’m entrapped.

  I’m fixated.

  “One addendum,” I agree to her terms.

  And our love turns to rivalry.

  * * *

  I won the first round. She won the next two. Her addition to the game: only use words that specify historical sites or anatomy. The categories have zero relation to each other. On the board, we had hypothalamus connecting to Everest and then ventricle to Inukshuk.

  It was as nonsensical as it was entertaining.

  And I blame luck for my loss. I kept blindly grabbing tiles worth one point.

  Now nearly 7:00 a.m., Rose has fallen back to sleep after we both showered. Not tired, I descend the cabin’s narrow staircase. Halfway down, the step creaks behind me.

  I check over my shoulder.

 
Not surprised in the least.

  Whenever we’re in the same house, Ryke and I tend to cross paths in the morning. Aspen or Philadelphia, this wouldn’t change.

  Shirtless like me, hair astray (not like me) and jaw set hard, Ryke skips two steps at a time, barely making eye contact. Then he reaches my stair. No room to pass, he has to wait since I don’t hurdle the steps.

  “Can you let me fucking by?” Ryke asks.

  “The places you have to be can’t be more important than mine.” I’m not descending the stairs slowly or quickly. I’m somewhere in between.

  “You could’ve just fucking said no.” His agitated voice is right next to my ear, and as soon as we reach the last stair, he tries to pass me.

  We wedge together, stuck between the wall and the banister.

  I push out in front, and he curses beneath his breath about me always needing to go fucking first. I’d respond, but it’s mostly true. The first floor is just one spacious room containing the living room, kitchen, pool table and windows to the snowy outdoors.

  Lo is asleep on the leather sofa, crumpled tissues scattered around him. Without stopping, I head to the kitchen and hear Ryke trailing me.

  I check over my shoulder. “And I didn’t even have to tell him to come.”

  Ryke hardly flinches. “I’m not in the fucking mood, Cobalt.” Our paths diverge at the granite countertops. I go to the coffee pot. He goes to the refrigerator.

  While I make coffee, I scrutinize him from a few feet away. It’d be a lie to say that I wasn’t slightly worried. I am. Just slightly. It’s not that he dismissed my banter. Ryke usually does. It’s the fact that he keeps sniffling and pretending I can’t see.

  He yanks the fridge door open and pulls out a carton of orange juice. Then he twists off the cap…and he searches for a glass.

  “I thought you preferred to avoid modern amenities.”

  “Why can’t you just say a fucking glass?” He finds one and sets it on the counter.

  “Because only you would say a fucking glass, and I’m not Ryke Meadows.” I press the start button on the coffee machine. While it brews, I lean against the counter and watch him carefully pour the orange juice in the glass while sniffling.

  Ryke always chugs from the container, but he wouldn’t if he thought he’d get someone sick.

  “You realize Vitamin C only helps prevent illness. It doesn’t cure it.”

  “I’m not sick yet,” he growls beneath his breath. Then he quickly downs the entire glass in two gulps. He begins pouring a second glass, and his brown agitated eyes flit to me. “What?”

  “You’re perspiring.”

  “I’m not.” He wipes his arm across his damp forehead.

  “Have you taken your temperature?”

  Ryke swigs the second glass and then downs it. “Fuck off.” He caps the carton and puts his glass in the sink.

  I ease away from the counter. “You don’t want to get your daughter sick, Ryke.” It’s why he’s so concerned about being sick in the first place, but he’s stubborn.

  Ryke tenses and rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. “Alright.” He steps near, only an inch shorter. “I’m going to say this fucking once, and I swear, if you grin, I will punch you.”

  “It sounds like a promise,” I say casually, “but I haven’t verified what promises from Ryke Meadows mean.”

  “It means you’ll get fucking punched.”

  “We’ll see.” I wait for his declaration.

  Ryke combs two hands through his hair. “Just touch my forehead and tell me if I feel fucking hot.”

  For his sake, I do my best to restrain my grin, and my best is the best. I’m blank-faced as I put the back of my hand to his clammy forehead. After a few seconds, I drop it. “You’re warm,” I confirm. “Warmer than Jane but not feverish like Daisy.”

  “Fuck.” He sets his hands on his head and stares off.

  “Just ask. I’ll say yes.” I’ll always say yes if he needs me.

  Ryke drifts to the sink, setting his hands on the edge as he thinks. I’m patient. I return to the coffee pot and take out a black mug from the cupboard.

  “Can you look after Sullivan?” he finally asks, choking back more emotion than I thought he’d have. “Fuck.” He pinches his eyes.

  My chest rises in a strong breath. His emotion affects me—and it’s not often that people do. “It’s not a failure on your part,” I tell him. “If Rose and I were contagious like you and Daisy, I’d ask you to look after my children.” I get more specific. “I’d ask you first.”

  I see surprise in his eyes, and he turns more towards me. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “You’re dependable, reliable.” I grin. “A classic Golden Retriever.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking…”

  “Accurate, I know.”

  I expect him to flip me off, but he just messes up his hair again and then nods to me. “I saw Twitter this morning. Is that accurate?”

  He wouldn’t know the truth because I rarely talk about my father. For the past two or so hours, the world has been obsessing over a new Celebrity Crush article by Wendy Collins titled: Who is Connor Cobalt’s Father?

  The journalist disclosed his name (Jim Elson) but nothing else.

  People on the internet took it upon themselves to dredge up information about Jim Elson, and now everyone is circulating this photo of a man from Philadelphia standing outside Citizens Bank Park.

  His name: Jim Elson.

  His hair: brown.

  His eyes: blue.

  Age: late fifties.

  “You mean the photo of a man in a Philadelphia Phillies shirt?” He hears my curt tone enough to understand.

  “He’s not your dad.”

  “He’s not my dad,” I confirm. “He’s just some man with the same name.” I rest my hands on the counter behind me. “The only annoyance is that I now have to take time to placate investors and assure them that no skeleton will crawl out of my closet.” That no long-lost father will try to carve out portions of Cobalt Inc. Thankfully Steve Balm met my father before my parent’s divorce, so he knew this man wasn’t the right Jim Elson.

  Ryke’s brows knot. “Someone just claimed to be your fucking dad, and your only annoyance is about investors? What the fuck kind of relationship did you even have?”

  “None. I’m not like you.”

  “No kidding.” He tears off a piece of paper towel from the roll to wipe his nose. He balls it in his fist when he’s done. Ryke being sick makes him appear more docile than he really is.

  “I was sent to boarding school when I was seven,” I remind him but I add information he doesn’t have. I give him more than he’s ever received. “When I was twelve, my mother told me that she divorced my father. I can’t tell you when it happened because I wasn’t aware. I saw my mother maybe once or twice a year, if that, and my father never called me.” My mother did take advantage of my birthday as a child, using the day to invite potential Cobalt Inc. investors to a party. I thought it was smart.

  “Are you fucking serious?” He looks heated.

  “It was mutual. Everything was mutual. I never called them. I never longed for them. I wasn’t attached to people. I lost contact with my father before I even hit puberty, and what I know about him are just facts. That’s all he is to me, and I know the lack of feelings between us are as mutual as everything else was.”

  Ryke contemplates this, concerned lines crossing his forehead. “You promise that’s fucking it?” He wants to make sure I’m okay.

  It’s sweet.

  “I promise.” I grin. “And my promises are better than yours.”

  Just as he begins to roll his eyes, we hear a weak croak from the couch, “Lily?”

  At the same time, Ryke and I leave the kitchen to approach a feeble Loren Hale. His hair is matted on his forehead and skin still pallid. The darkened room only brightens with the sunrise.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I banter.

  Lo registers us above hi
m and tries to sit up, but he weakly collapses back down. To me, he asks, “How do I get better and defeat this thing?”

  “He’s not a fucking doctor,” Ryke cuts in.

  Lo feigns contemplation. “I don’t know, bro. He’s kinda fucking close to one.”

  I wouldn’t argue with that.

  Ryke puts his hand to his little brother’s forehead. “You’re fucking delirious.”

  Lo lacks the energy to push his brother aside, so he lets Ryke take his temperature. “I’m…” He yawns. “…whatever.” Lo fumbles with his cellphone, his nose reddened from using tissues all night.

  “My advice,” I tell him, “sleep, water, and medicine.”

  Lo looks to his brother. “See, he is a doctor. The physician I went to yesterday said the same thing.”

  Ryke tosses a pillow at Lo’s head. “You’re starting to sound like your wife.”

  Lo knocks the pillow away and glares and points at him with his phone. “Don’t be a dick.”

  “I’m always a dick.”

  “So many truths,” I muse.

  Ryke flips me off, and then asks his brother if he needs anything. Lo is too distracted by what’s on his cellphone. This time, he sits up quickly, ignoring the weight of his head and fatigued muscles.

  “What the hell?” He scrolls furiously, and then his amber eyes flit to me. “Who do I need to fight?”

  My lips rise, and I slip my hands into my pockets. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s a fake photo. And even if it had been real, it’d mean nothing to me.”

  Lo slumps back. “If it means nothing to you, then it means nothing to me.” He turns to his brother. “Can you get me a glass of milk…and toast with butter…and maybe some scrambled eggs?” If you picture Lo with puppy-dog eyes, you’ve forgotten what he looks like.

  He will always be as sharp as glass and ice.

  “Anything else, princess?” Ryke asks while he dusts Lo’s dirtied tissues into a tiny bin.

  Lo points at the patchwork quilt kicked to his ankles. Ryke lifts it up to his shoulders and then carries the bin to the kitchen trashcan. He never told Lo that he’s sick too—he wouldn’t. Because Ryke Meadows loves taking care of people.

  Lo yawns again.