“A little tip,” his deep voice suddenly sounds right by my ear, as a hand slides over my hip and down between my legs, where he finds me wet already. “Don’t rub your thighs together when you pretend to be asleep.”
Grinning, I turn around and lift my leg over his hips, happy to discover he’s not wearing a stitch either. “I’ll make note of that,” I whisper, pushing up so I’m straddling him.
His hands slide from my hips up to cup my breasts. “Although I’m not complaining about all this skin. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I brace myself on his chest, lean down, and kiss him. As I rock my hips against him, I slick his length with the wetness between my legs, and catch his growl down my throat.
“You’re killing me, Sweets,” he groans, ripping his mouth from mine as his fingers press into my waist. “Ride me.”
“Yippy-ki-yay,” I whisper before filling myself with his cock.
Rafe
The moment we walk into the house, I can tell word has gotten around Eminence.
Ed seems uneasy as he lets us in and Sarah is banging pots and pans around in the kitchen.
“Sarah! The kids are here,” he yells, as Spencer attaches himself to his leg.
“I can hear that, Ed,” comes her snippy reply. I look over to find Taz’s wide eyes on mine.
“Grandma!” My son lets go of his grandfather and barrels toward the kitchen.
“Hey, my beautiful boy,” I hear her coo. “Did you have a good time?”
Spencer doesn’t let an invitation to talk go by, and happily launches into a play-by-play of the past week. Sofie wanders into the kitchen as well.
“Wanna pour us a drink, Rafe? Beer for me.” Ed sinks down in his easy chair, patting the armrest of the couch beside him. “Come sit by me, Baby Girl.”
“Beer for me too. How are you doing, Dad? Been feeling okay?” Taz asks, taking her father’s hand in hers.
“Hanging in. Getting a little nervous about the surgery.”
I leave them talking and slip into the kitchen where I find Sarah examining the single dread Sofie asked Taz to twist in her hair a few days ago.
“You’re okay with this?” she asks me sharply.
“I am. Sofie asked for it, and I told her she could have one small one.”
“My hair is too short,” Spencer volunteers. He’d wanted a dreadlock as well.
“Anyway…” I lean down and kiss Sarah’s cheek, “…hello to you, Mom. I’m getting drinks, can I get you one?”
At least she looks duly chastised. “Yes, please. I’ll have my port.”
I pour her drink first, setting her glass next to the stove where she is lifting a lid from the Dutch oven. Then I pull three beers from the fridge and hand one each to the kids. “Can you drop these off for Grandpa and Taz, please? I’ll be right in. Try not to spill.” I wait until the kids are gone before stepping up beside Sarah, putting my arm around her tense shoulders as I peek into the pan. My mouth waters when I recognize her braised pork chops and onions.
“Kids seem to have had a good time,” she says stiffly.
“We all did. It was a great week.”
She grunts in response. I let go and turn, leaning my butt against the counter, and crossing my arms over my chest.
“We’re not pregnant.” Her eyes dart my way. “We’re not having a baby. Yet.”
“Jesus, Rafe,” Taz snaps from the doorway. “That’s how you’re taking care of it?” She grabs a roll of paper towel from the counter and turns to Sarah. “Mom, I know the gossip mill must’ve been buzzing, seeing as Sheila seemed very interested in our girls’ night out at Salty’s yesterday, but please don’t believe everything she says.”
“I’m not ready for that,” Sarah mumbles, her voice wobbling.
Taz shoves the paper towels at me. “Spencer spilled some beer in the living room.”
“Got it.” I take the roll and head out of the kitchen, knowing when I’ve been dismissed. A quick glance back shows Taz slipping her arm around her mother’s shoulders.
“Everything okay in there?” Ed asks when I bend down to mop up the spill.
“It’s all good.” I throw him a quick smile before asking, “Where are the kids?”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted them within earshot, so told them they could watch TV in our bedroom.”
“That’s fine, Dad. Thanks. But there’s nothing for them to hear; you’re not going to be a grandfather again for a while yet. One step at a time, yeah?”
“That woman oughta have her lips stapled together,” he grumbles, shaking his head.
“Don’t tempt me,” I warn him on a chuckle. “If Sheila Quinn doesn’t have shit to stir, she creates some.”
I take the wet towels into the kitchen to find Taz and her mom in much the same position, talking softly. When I toss them in the garbage, she winks at me over her mom’s shoulder and I quickly make myself scarce again.
Dad seems pensive when I sit down on the couch and take a swig of my beer.
“You know…” His eyes sparkle when he turns them on me. “…I can’t figure out whether to be glad or disappointed.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Taz
“How is Mrs. Myers?” I ask Mom when she walks through the back door.
The past few weeks have been a little crazy driving back and forth to Springfield for Dad’s surgery and the follow-up procedures, and getting the kids ready to go back to school. Poor Rafe’s birthday got lost in the shuffle, so we’re having a do-over today.
Mom and I have spent a lot of time in each other’s company since the non-pregnancy debacle. The long hours at the hospital, waiting for news on Dad, allowed for some good talks that went a long way to bettering our relationship. It’s still a work in progress, but I think we each have a better understanding of the other. Of our inherent differences at the root of all our past problems.
I’ve come to the conclusion, had I not left all those years ago, we likely would’ve worked those issues out along the way. We’ve covered a lot of ground these past few weeks, most of it by simply spending time in each other’s company.
Today Rafe is scheduled to be out all day doing his quarterly visits, courtesy of Lisa. I enlisted her help to make sure he’d be gone. The new leather sectional the kids and I picked out for the living room is scheduled to be delivered around noon, and I want to have it set up before he comes home. The thing is big enough to seat all of us comfortably, and then some. It may be a weird birthday gift, but as Sofie pointed out with her eight-year-old wisdom, her dad would like nothing better than to be able to snuggle up with all of us at once.
She’s right.
“Happy as a clam with her new cat,” Mom answers, tying on her apron and unloading the rest of the contents of the tote bag she brought in. “That was nice thing for Rafe to do.”
The family who owned the young cat discovered their daughter was allergic and had asked Rafe if he knew anyone who’d want to adopt it. He thought of Mrs. Myers.