Chapter 14
Gray light streams through my window—the silver of predawn haze.
Rose petals are strewn everywhere, unlit tea lights on every surface of my bedroom.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—I’m in my bed, in my bedroom. But I’m not alone.
There’s a big hard body behind me, a strong hand resting on my hip. Breath on the back of my neck, slow and heavy and rhythmic. A beard tickling my spine between my shoulder blades.
Ryder.
Hey. I love you, Laurel.
God, was that real?
I look over my shoulder at him and know that, yes, it was real.
The clock on my nightstand says 6:01a.m.
Plenty of time to go back to sleep.
I wiggle my ass back into him, and he hums wordlessly, tightening his grip on my hip. I shift, curling into the comma of his body. Close my eyes and drift.
I’m not sure if I fall asleep or not, just that there’s a time of warmth, a fuzzy, hazy fog of drowsiness. An almost drugged sort of happy, joyful, contentedness of not-quite unconsciousness.
Then I feel Ryder’s hand clutch my hip. Tighten, release. I hear a murmur from him, feel it on my back. He sighs. Shifts. His hand slides up my side, rests on my belly. After a moment like that, I wonder if he’s falling back asleep.
But then he murmurs again. “Laurel?” It’s muzzy, sleepy.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Thank god. Thought I’d dreamed it.”
“Mmmm-mmmm.”
His hand drifts up to cup my breast, and I smile. I feel him behind me, his breathing telling me he’s fully awake now. Something else is awake, too, and my secret smile widens. I don’t move, just drowse in the silver shine of dawn, and bask in the rough clutch of his hand, and the hard shelter of his body, and the delicious warmth of our bodies under the covers.
He hardens to full arousal, nestled between the squishy globes of my ass. I draw my knees up and push back against him.
“Mmmm…Laurel.”
I lift my upper leg, and he fits a hand between us. Touches my opening. I grasp him, guide him in.
Has anything, ever, felt so perfect as him bare inside me?
Hot and hard and thick, skin on skin and nothing else. I whimper immediately, and he groans. His fingers touch me, and I would tell him I don’t need the extra stimulation, but it feels too good so I say nothing. Just move with him. Writhe with him, on my side, him behind me.
It stays slow—he never speeds up past a slow gentle glide. I push back into his thrusts, shuddering as we reach the brink together within seconds. There’s no drawing it out, no need, no desire to. We fall over the edge together—I gasp, reaching behind my head to clasp his, twisting to kiss him raggedly, awkwardly as we move.
I roll against him and sob, clutching at his beard. He lets out a soft, shuddery gasp, and that’s all the warning I need or want. That gasp, that quiet, gentle, tender in-breath, and then I’m flooded with heat. I feel him tense inside me, pushing deeper, and I’m squeezing in spasms around him, and I feel the spurt as he comes inside me, filling me with his seed. Him coming inside me sets off my own orgasm, and I can’t even whimper or sob for the breathlessness of us like this.
We shudder together.
“I—I…” He’s barely able to formulate words. “Laurel…god—I love you, I love you, I love you.”
I feel him inside me, the wetness trickling out of me.
“Can we wake up like this every morning?” I murmur. I huff a laugh. “Yes, I know—you love the way I think.”
“That would be…heaven,” he whispers.
“I wasn’t being…it wasn’t hyperbole,” I say. “I know this is jumping into things fast, but…I really do want to wake up with you like this every single morning.”
“Say that again when we’re not both still shaking from having just come together.”
“I don’t need to.”
He’s still inside me, and he finally pulls away. “Laurel, I—”
I look at him, thinking he’s going to tell me it’s too much too fast. “Ryder, you don’t have to—”
He palms my face. “Waking up with you every morning sounds like heaven.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Let me clean you up.”
He grabs the washcloth, rinses it with hot water, squeezes it out, and then cleans me with it, each touch gentle and loving.
I pull him down to the bed. “Stay here.”
He frowns. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to make you breakfast.”
He grins, and grabs me, hauls me down, kissing me stupid. “Can I make one request?”
I squirm out of his hold. “Anything, love.”
“Do it wearing nothing but my shirt?”
I take his T-shirt and shrug into it—it’s a plain black V-neck, and it’s big enough that it hangs to mid-thigh; the V-neck scoops low, showing off my cleavage. I’m not sure I’ve ever in my life felt sexier, more beautiful, and more desired.
“Ta-da!” I say, doing a little dance for him. “How’s this?”
“Fucking spectacular.”
I grin. “Take a shower. I’ll make coffee and breakfast, and then after Nate’s on the bus, maybe you can help me get clean.”
He growls, a feline, rolling-R growl that’s at once comedic and lascivious. “I really, really, really love the way you think, Laurel Madison.”
I sashay out of the bedroom, swaying my butt for him; I make a quick stop in the other bathroom to give myself a little extra cleaning—because damn, the man made a serious mess of me, and then head into the kitchen. I hear the shower going a few seconds later, as I grind beans for coffee.
“Mom?” Nate’s voice, sleepy and confused.
I kiss him on the forehead as he slumps into a chair at the table. “Hi, honey. Sleep well?”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles. His eyes take in my shirt, and then flick toward my room, where the shower can be heard. “Ryder’s here?”
I nod. “Yes, he is.”
“He stayed the night?”
I look at Nate. “Yes.” I risk a hesitant smile. “Is that okay?”
Nate nods. “Yeah. I like him, and I think he’s in love with you.”
“I think so too, buddy,” I say, unable to hide my joy.
Nate grins. “Are you in love with him back?”
I nod. “Yeah.” I ruffle Nate’s hair. “Is that okay with you?”
He nods again. “I’m glad.”
“You are?”
“Sure. I want you to be happy, and you and Ryder being in love makes you happy.”
I kiss him again, and he wiggles away. “I love you, Nate. You know that no matter what happens, that will never, ever change, right?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Duh. You’re my mom.”
I laugh. “Exactly!”
I make eggs and toast, and Ryder comes out in his jeans, no shirt, barefoot, his hair wet and slicked back, beard beaded with water droplets. I only just suppress a moan of appreciation at the raw and rugged sexiness that is Ryder McCann—and my delirious happiness at him being in my home like this.
It feels pretty much perfect, Ryder and Nate and I sitting at my little kitchen table, eating, talking, joking. Nate finishes his breakfast and goes to brush his teeth and get dressed for school. Ryder starts cleaning up from breakfast as I check Nate’s backpack, make sure he finished his homework, and then put together a quick cold lunch for him. Nate is pestering Ryder about going to play paintball, and Ryder is ducking his questions, which I realize is because Ryder has plans that he doesn’t want to spoil by telling Nate.
And then the doorbell rings.
I’m puzzled for a second, and then dread rockets through me.
No, no, no.
Not now. Not today.
Half of me wants to tell Ryder to hide in my room just so I don’t have to deal with the drama, and the other half wants me to ask Ryder to answer the door for me.
Ryder senses something. “Laurel?”<
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I close my eyes and sigh. “No,” I moan. “Please no, not today—not like this.”
“Want me to answer it?” Ryder asks.
I shake my head. “No, I’ll handle it.”
“Want me to go into your room? Give you privacy?”
“I’m not hiding you, or us.” I stand up and go to the door, summoning every last ounce of inner strength that I have.
I’m still naked except for Ryder’s T-shirt.
The doorbell ding-dongs again. “Laurel?” Paul’s voice. He’s angry. There’s a note in his voice that I recognize, and I don’t like it. “Whose truck is that?”
I open the door a sliver, just enough that I can slide my head through. “What do you want, Paul?”
He’s disheveled. His clothes show signs of having been worn for several days. He’s unshaven, red-eyed. Dark circles rim his eyes. A snarl curls his upper lip.
“Who the fuck is here?” he demands.
“None of your business.”
“Mom? Who is it?” I hear Nate ask.
I sigh. I don’t want Nate to see his father like this. I turn around and glance at him. “Nate…why don’t you go into your room, okay? Please?”
“The bus is going to be here in a minute.”
“I’ll drive you.”
He frowns, sensing something amiss. “Mom—what’s happening? Who is that at the door?”
“Nate?” Paul pushes at the door. “It’s me—it’s Dad.”
Nate frowns even harder. “Dad? Why are you here? It’s not your turn until next weekend.” He takes a few steps closer to the door.
Ryder is behind him, a towel dangling from his hand. “Say the word, babe—I’ll handle him,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low—he’s got his cell phone up, recording this.
“Who is that?” Paul demands, sounding unhinged, pushing at the door.
I put my weight against it. “Go away, Paul. This is enough.”
“LET ME IN!” Paul shoves violently at the door.
“Mom?” Nate asks, his voice tremulous. “Why is Dad acting like this? He sounds scary.”
I let my eyes plead for me as I fight to keep Paul out. “Paul—please. You’re scaring Nate.”
“WHO IS IN MY HOUSE? WHO’S BEEN TOUCHING YOU?” Paul shouts, snarling, raving.
I feel hands on my waist—Ryder pulling me away. I resist. “No, Ryder. Don’t.”
He hesitates, one hand on the door all it takes to keep Paul out. “Why not?” he asks, anger hardening his features.
“It’s—it’s my mess. I don’t want you to—to have to deal with it.”
He grins at me, light and unworried despite the anger I see in him. “Babe—this is what I’m here for. Part of being your boyfriend is dealing with your crazy ex.” He gently pushes me backward, out of the way, but I cling to his arm. “I’ve got it.”
“Ryder, I—”
He touches my lips, the cell phone pocketed now. “I won’t hurt him.”
I roll my eyes, despite myself. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
Ryder lets his fury bleed through. “You should be. I’d really like to—” He glances at Nate, who’s watching and listening. “Nate, buddy. Why don’t you let your mom and I deal with this, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
Nate nods, turns wordlessly and goes into his room, slamming the door.
“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Paul screeches.
As soon as Nate’s door is closed, I let go of Ryder and back away. “Make him go away, Ryder,” I say, my voice hard.
Ryder puts his foot against the base of the door and takes a big step away—Paul is hammering and pushing and kicking, cursing and shouting. I see him mentally count to three, and then Ryder moves his foot, and Paul tumbles inside, off balance at the sudden removal of resistance. He stumbles, and Ryder is there, his big hard hands grabbing Paul by the shoulders and shoving him effortlessly backward, back outside. Paul staggers backward onto the stoop, trips, and falls backward into the grass; Ryder stomps through the doorway to tower over Paul—Ryder seems ten feet tall, somehow, and every muscle is bulging, straining, raw furious power making him positively vibrate.
Bending, Ryder curls one fist into Paul’s shirt and hauls him upright, but keeps him off-balance. Paul is abruptly silent.
“Listen to me, you crazy fuck,” Ryder snarls. “As it stands, you still get to see your kid. What you don’t get to do is show up here, ever again.”
“Who—who the hell are you?” Paul stammers, somehow finding the gumption to sound pissed, despite the fury in Ryder’s eyes and the obvious threat in his posture and the power in his body.
“Who I am isn’t important.” Ryder’s voice is calm—a deadly, razor-sharp kind of quiet. “What is important is that you understand one thing—you are not welcome here—ever.”
“What are you gonna do?” Paul sneers. “Beat me up if I come back?”
“Much as I’d love to, no.” Ryder shakes him. “What will happen is you’ll lose what few rights you have left. Maybe you don’t really care all that much about the kid in there, but—”
“Don’t you talk about my son!” Paul shouts, struggling.
“Quit your squawking, fuck-face,” Ryder snarls, and Paul, pale, goes silent. “Here’s how this is going to go, okay? You listening? You go away, and you never show up here again. In the meantime, Laurel, whom you will never contact, never look at, whom you will never even think about again, will be making a visit to the court, where she’ll show the appropriate authorities the video I took of you acting like a fucking lunatic. If you manage to even acquire supervised visitation privileges, I’ll be surprised.”
Paul goes limp, the fight going out of him. “Let me go.”
Ryder keeps him in his grip. “One wrong move and you’ll be shitting your own teeth.” He lets go and crosses his arms, standing between Paul and my house.
“I’m sorry,” Paul whines. “I just—”
I stand behind Ryder. “Go home, Paul.”
“I just—I want to talk to you.” He’s shifted tracks now, trying to wheedle and charm. “I just wanted to talk to you, and I saw the truck and I just—”
“This isn’t your house, Paul,” I snap. “It never has been and never will be. Who I have in my home is none of your business, and never will be.”
“You don’t get to fucking—” Paul starts, venomous, and then cuts off and starts over, calmer. “You’re my wife, Laurel. I don’t fucking care what some judge or some piece of paper says. You’re mine—”
“You better watch yourself, bud,” Ryder says, his voice a vicious snarl.
I move aside a little, my own anger getting the better of me. “I’m not your wife, Paul! I stopped being yours a long time ago. You lost that years ago, long before we ever got a divorce. I’m not your wife. I’m not your friend. I’m nothing to you—except the mother of your child. We will never be together again, Paul. Get that into your head!”
Paul surges forward, eyes blazing, spittle flying. “You fucking played me! You lured me in and seduced me and made me think I could be something I wasn’t, and then you dropped me like a rotten egg!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I’m beyond baffled now; he’s not making a lick of sense.
“You got fat, you stupid whore! After you had that brat of a kid of ours, you let yourself go! How was I supposed to feel any desire for you or pretend I loved you when you looked like that? And then once I finally got rid of you, suddenly you look like that!” He gestures at me, at my chest. “You dump me like I’m fucking garbage, and then get all—all sexy? You’re hotter now than when we met! It’s not fucking fair!”
Ryder steps into Paul’s face. “A very thin thread of control is all that’s stopping me from breaking you like a twig, Paul.” His hand lifts, curls into Paul’s shirt, and shoves, once, hard—Paul goes airborne several feet, hits the ground tumbling backward, rolling to land with a thunk on the sidewalk.
I’m shaking, only barely ke
eping it together. I stop Ryder with a hand to his chest, kneeling in the grass next to Paul. I look at him, and then back at Ryder, who is watching me, protective and powerful and watchful—and peace flows through me.
“Once upon a time, Paul, what you just said would’ve destroyed me.” My voice is utterly calm, my eyes fixed on his. “Once upon a time, when I cared what you had to say. Once upon a time, when you had power over me. Once upon a time, when I was weak.” I meet his eyes, and feel only pity, now. “I’m not that woman anymore, Paul. You don’t have the power to hurt me. I’m sorry you feel the way you feel, but none of that is my fault. I did everything I could make us work, and I wasn’t ever enough for you. So I moved on. It’s been over between us for a long time.”
Paul’s eyes search me, but he says nothing.
“And you know something else? Yes, Paul, I look better now than I ever have. You know why? Because I feel better. I’m strong inside myself. I don’t need your approval, and I don’t care about your disapproval.” Paul reaches for me, but I shrink away. “Don’t touch me—ever. Don’t mistake me being calm for accepting this behavior. I’ve done my best to facilitate you having a relationship with Nate because you’re his father, and regardless of how you’ve treated me, I know you love him and I want him to know his father. But this? This is unacceptable. You’ve frightened him, and I’m not okay with that.” I harden my voice and stand up, move backward away from him. “I will be asking that your time with Nate be supervised from here on out. Furthermore, if you ever come here again I’ll get a restraining order against you—it’s not an idle threat, but rather a promise.”
Paul stands up, scrambling to his feet—I feel Ryder tense beside me, and Paul holds up his hands. “I’m leaving.”
I lean into Ryder. “I really do hope you find the help you need, Paul.”
He hangs his head. “Don’t, Laurel—just fucking…don’t.”
I shrug. “Okay, then.” I sigh, resting my head against Ryder’s shoulder. “Goodbye, Paul.”
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