But it wasn't panic, not exactly.
It was realizing that Matthew was part of me, and I was part of him, and not only did we want each other but we needed each other. Sure, we knew how to kick ass on our own, but doing it with him was the only option worth considering.
And maybe that was where the gravity pushed and pulled, because it was never a choice; it was always Matthew and me. While he arrived at the conclusion more quickly that I did, I was there, and I was owning the shit out of it now.
I grinned, my leg tightening around his waist. He was erect and ready, the hot weight of his cock sliding over me, just waiting for the right moment. "When do you want to marry me?"
He dipped to my chest and took a nipple in his mouth while his hips moved against me, urgent and impatient. I could translate his touches, his movements, and I knew he was going to fuck me hard and fast, and I knew he wasn't waiting much longer.
With his mouth on my breast, he said, "As soon as you'll let me. I know you probably want—"
"Is tomorrow too soon?"
I felt his lips curve into a smile, and he wrapped his arms around me, my breath vanishing as he squeezed my ribs. I didn't want to talk about this without my hands on him, and I laced my arms around his neck, urging all his weight onto me.
And then he bit the underside of my breast.
I couldn't explain why his teeth drove me wild or why the bolt of pain electrified my desire. The sensation had me arching off the bed, moaning, begging for more. For his fingers, his mouth, his cock—anything, everything. All of him for all of me.
"Oh, sweetness," Matthew growled. "You drive me so fucking crazy."
"But you love me."
He nodded, shifting until he was there, pushing inside me. "And you love me."
"More than I can even explain," I whispered. He anchored my legs around his waist and thrust forward, filling me. Goosebumps spread out across my skin, every tingle gathering, aligning in my center. I felt him everywhere, stretching me, owning me, adoring me.
A sob caught in my throat, and I wanted to remember every ounce of this moment, every drop of warmth radiating from us. I wanted to keep it in a safe place alongside his bites and growls forever.
It was overwhelming and suffocating and perfect.
"We did it all backwards," Matthew groaned. Each word was punctuated with rough thrusts that had me seeing stars.
"That doesn't mean it was wrong," I said.
He pulled all the way out, watching his body separate from mine before snapping forward, then repeating the process. Matthew slipped two fingers into my mouth and growled, his eyes narrowing and head falling back as I sucked.
"I want to do this right. A real wedding," he said.
His fingers retreated from my mouth and he fastened them to my clit. "We'll do the wedding thing, and then we'll do the marriage thing."
His lips were on me, all over my throat, my mouth, and his kisses mixed with my obscene words and filthy requests and promises of a forever we'd create. There was nothing to hold back, not anymore.
"And I'm going to build you that house. And we'll have a dog and babies, and we're going to do it right."
He lifted my hips higher and—oh God, oh fuck, oh yes yes yes yes—his eyes held mine for a heavy moment before leaning down and kissing me, swallowing my moans as he drove deeper.
"I can't wait, sweetness. I need you with me."
His fingers dug into me, pulling at my hips and shoulders, demanding everything, and I didn't want to deny him anything, ever. Teeth scraped over my nipples, and tiny explosions erupted under my skin, each one triggering another. The waves of my orgasm crashed over me, spreading, multiplying until I was dissolving in Matthew's arms.
He stilled, his body rigid while he roared against my shoulder. It was my turn to hold him tight, and I squeezed my legs around his waist, keeping him deep inside me.
"Holy fuck, Lauren," he groaned. "You're going to kill me. And I'm going to enjoy it."
We stayed there, panting and clinging to each other, still joined.
"Memorial Day," I murmured. "On Cape Cod. But I don't want to wear a white dress. Maybe yellow. Or pink."
Matthew lifted his head from the crook of my shoulder, running his thumb over my kiss-swollen lips with a smile. "That's when I can marry you?" I nodded and sucked his thumb into my mouth. "Okay. Wear whichever color you want, sweetness. I'll be there."
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Walsh."
Matthew's lips curled into a devious smile. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Walsh."
Another Epilogue
For Lauren, on Valentine’s Day
I like numbers. That should come as no surprise to you. Today, there are a few numbers I want to tell you about.
953: Number of days we've been married. That's two years, seven months, and twenty seven days.
1: I remember that first day like it was yesterday. I remember us sneaking away from the resort to get lunch (and shots of tequila) in town before the wedding, I remember getting under your dress ten minutes before the ceremony, and when you walked down that aisle, I remember hoping that you wouldn't realize that I didn't deserve you until after the vows.
4: You tripped down a mountain in Switzerland on our honeymoon. I should have expected that. What I didn't expect were the dirty looks the innkeepers gave me when they noticed your bruised knees.
98: We drank tequila on that day, and congratulated ourselves on surviving our first three married months. I can't remember why we doubted ourselves.
364: You brought home a mini-replica of our wedding cake on that day, and confessed to eating the anniversary slice that we saved in the freezer after a rough day at school. I really loved licking that frosting off you.
502: Three of your teachers went home with the stomach flu that day, and I taught first graders about triangles. It wasn't until then that I realized I didn't know nearly enough about geometry if I couldn't explain it to six-year-olds. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done.
731: I watched you walking along the beach that day. I counted the freckles on your calves (I've always loved your freckles. Have I told you that?) We went back to Chatham for our second anniversary, and you were intent on finding some seashells for Judy's new craft project, and I couldn't remember what my life was about before you and your freckles.
899: That day was our third Christmas Eve together. There are many reasons why that day was memorable but it was then that I noticed how much you'd changed my family. You convinced Tiel that we're all bark and no bite (well...maybe a little biting). Patrick and Andy are still Patrick and Andy because you wouldn't let them walk away from each other. Erin likes you, and she doesn't like anyone. You brought Will to Shannon, and that's probably bad news for me, but my sister has never been this happy. None of this would have happened without you.
0: The number of times we've managed to celebrate Valentine's Day without one of my siblings (or Nick) rearranging our plans. As you might have heard, you're bossy as fuck. You're adorable and perfect, and you're bossy as fuck. Now, don't misunderstand: I love your bossy ass. I also know you claimed you'd be helping Shannon pack her apartment this weekend, but I'm taking you to Vermont. We're putting that obscene lingerie you have hiding in the closet to use and getting a legitimate Valentine's holiday on the scoreboard. Get ready.
There are so many more days to come, sweetness.
-Matthew
* * *
Thank you for reading!
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The Space Between
The Space Between
A brilliant, alpha architect. A smart, sultry apprentice. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
This is the second book in The Walsh Series, though it reads as a stand-alone novel with characters from the first book making appearances.
* * *
Some lines are mean
t to be crossed.
* * *
Patrick
That hair.
* * *
That fucking hair.
* * *
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
* * *
And that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice.
* * *
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston's crumbling buildings.
* * *
Andy
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn't part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
* * *
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
Coach Eric Taylor – this one's for you.
1
Andy
Sometimes I have that nightmare where I show up at work or school naked, on display for everyone to stare and laugh. I never studied psychology or sociology, or whichever -ology that fit into, but I could say with some confidence it more than likely related to feeling vulnerable.
Exposed.
Everything I wanted to guard from the outside world was illuminated, offered up for judgment. Then again, maybe it was from eating questionable Chinese food before going to bed.
Meeting Patrick Walsh was exactly like that: a waking naked-at-work dream.
"How would you adapt the roof geometries of a Queen Anne for maximum rain water catchment while keeping it historically accurate?" he barked.
It didn't matter that the ink on my Master of Architecture degree from Cornell University was barely dry. It definitely didn't matter that I wasn't quite twenty-five, or that I was a woman in a field where men outnumbered me four to one. I was good, and I knew it.
"What's your approach to handling conflicts between strict preservation guidance while also meeting LEED Green specifications?" he asked.
I'd been fantasizing about this for years—Walsh Associates was the ultimate apprenticeship and interviewing was my jam.
But Patrick wasn't nearly as excited about the interview. No, Patrick interrupted before I offered any substantive comments, glowering from across the rectangular conference table. He squinted at me while I spoke, stripping away the artifice of interview and openly dissecting my words. His lips twisted into grimaces while his eyebrows quirked and furrowed. He even rolled his eyes when I discussed my passion for original Bostonian masonry.
Everything about Patrick was assertive. Staring into his hazel eyes, I immediately knew it wasn't limited to architecture.
"Walk me through your approach to construction waste management. Specifically, CFC-based refrigerants."
I left my friends' apartment this morning pleased with my edgy-conservative outfit that avoided all manner of architecture school chic—no corduroy, no khakis, no ponytails, no wrinkles. My confidence was swinging high when I arrived at the hallowed halls of Walsh Associates, though I never noticed how frizzy the dry winter air turned my long, raven curls until I felt Patrick's eyes cataloging every errant strand.
He made little effort to manage his reactions and he clearly took issue with my appearance. I was unapologetic about my wardrobe and its shades of black simplicity—I was a charter member in the 'selective pops of color' cult—yet he repeatedly drank in my black skirt suit, pearl gray shirt with delicate beading around the neck, and black knee-high boots, with an arched eyebrow and blatant scowl.
I wanted him to glance at my résumé, leaf through my portfolio—anything to take his piercing hazel eyes off of me long enough to regroup and strategize. Something about his fierce gaze—how he'd stare, scowling, his jaw rigid—made my thoughts freeze and words dissolve into a fumbling, garbled mess.
Missing out on this apprenticeship was not an option. I didn't work my ass off for the past five years, fighting for every tedious assistantship, internship, and design fellowship, to blow it when I finally got my shot. I wasn't surprised when Shannon Walsh's assistant called to schedule my interview; I was perfect for their firm. Now it was just a matter of getting this interview back on track and them believing it as much as I did.
Despite the fact Patrick was annoyed that I was taking a second of his time, I would happily pluck my eyelashes if it meant learning from him. He didn't have any National Preservation awards—yet—or much more than a decade in the industry, but he transcended it all with his talent. It wasn't every day that early thirty-somethings received the type of acclaim Patrick earned from the start. No one bothered to tell him or his siblings—his partners in this work—it should have taken them longer to achieve this much success.
He could have turned out to be a bridge troll, and I probably wouldn't have noticed. I was prepared to endure an endless supply of his surly attitude if any fraction of his greatness rubbed off on me. Maybe I was a little infatuated, but plenty of my grad school friends geeked out over the reigning industry legends. I was fine. Definitely not over-the-top, boy-band obsessed.
The truth was his work got me fired up about historical preservation and its place in sustainable design. His master's thesis was my favorite bedtime story through undergrad and I pulled it out whenever I needed inspiration.
His siblings were equally brilliant—shockingly so—Matt, the structural engineer, Sam, the sustainable design guru, and Shannon, the grand master of it all. I heard rumors of the fifth Walsh, Riley, who recently joined the family business, though my research yielded limited information about him or his background.
I admired all of the Walshes but the love of the craft spoke to me in Patrick's thesis, grabbing me by the throat and demanding I believe in his philosophy. I wanted to fangirl all over him.
He sat back in his chair, minutely swiveling while his fingertips drummed against the arm. I didn't expect him to be so…big. At five-eight, I wasn't short but I knew he'd tower over me. None of the online photographs accurately portrayed his presence. His harnessed intensity brought the walls closer and thickened the air. His stare was cool and observant, and I experienced a profound sense he could slough away my layers with one glance.
"Where do you see yourself in five years, Miss Asani?"
Time for the Hail Mary response, the one I prepared with my mentor, Charlotte, but never expected to use. My chance to put it all on the line was in front of me, and if I didn't appeal to Patrick as a visionary craftsman, I might as well pack my drafting kit and start designing rural fishing lodges back home in Maine. God knew I couldn't accept any of the commercial real estate design apprenticeships waiting in my inbox. I'd be happier working on Barbie dollhouses.
I wanted Patrick to train me. Teach me. Shape me. Infuse the unique spirituality of his craft into my marrow. Pour his wisdom into me until I overflowed with the muscle memory necessary to bring history back to life.
Fine, so I was completely boy-band obsessed.
"I see myself as a partner in a sustainable preservation firm, and I'd like to spend several years learning under you—"
"Thank you for coming, Miss Asani. Shannon's assistant, Tom—"
I held up a hand. "I wasn't finished, Mr. Walsh."
His icy stare turned molten, his eyes narrowing as if trying to assign a name to my defiance. I suspected he didn't hear 'no' very often. He lifted an eyebrow in challenge, and a smile pulled at my lips.
"I want to learn everything from you. I don't get coffee or copies, and I don't do busywork. Your philosophy on the role of sustainability and efficient design in preservation shaped my entire approach as an undergrad and beyond, and I've
spent the past five years absorbing every field experience possible to prepare me for this work. With you. At this firm. I want to learn from you, Mr. Walsh. I want to learn the soul of preservation. I want to learn everything you have to teach me because your work fascinates and enthralls me."
On top of Patrick's vision seeping into my blood and bones, his family was gaining legend status in their corner of the architectural universe. In an age when architecture had more to do with erecting sterile filing cabinets as lifeless boxes for work and home, and sustainability was being co-opted as a hollow branding strategy, the Walsh family was proving boutique firms could run with the big dogs.
Their successes weren't accidental. It was clear they ran a tight ship, and I knew much of the credit belonged to Shannon Walsh. Talking to the petite redhead was like being caught in a tornado—she yelled, exaggerated wildly, cursed like a frat boy, and walked faster in four-inch stilettos than physics should allow. The aggressive click of her heels coupled with the fifteen hair-thin jingling silver charm bracelets on her wrist meant everyone knew when Shannon was coming, and they made sure to pass inspection.
"Is there anything else, Miss Asani?" Patrick asked, his voice taking on a thick, gravelly quality that tickled the hairs on the back of my neck.
I didn't want to talk about architecture anymore. I only wanted that voice. And it was all wrong.
"This is the only apprenticeship I want," I continued, my eyes zeroing in on Patrick. "I know everyone you've interviewed. Zemario? He's only interested in checking off the historical box so he can get started on his doctorate and teach undergrads how to hold a ruler. Heywood? He wants residential—McMansions—and he's going to leave the second something opens up in the Sun Belt. Morton-Myers? He's smart, but lazier than most housecats. I'm the one for you, Mr. Walsh. You're not going to meet anyone else as eager to learn from you or as invested in sustainable prez."
The Walsh Brothers Page 27