My lips trail up his chest until we’re mouth to mouth, breaths intermingled, and I say, “It’s time to rebuild.”
Words fade into needy kisses and frantic touches, and I’m devoured by his tongue, his hands, his palpable love for me. His hips lift up to tug his boxers down as I shimmy out of my underwear, and I position myself in his lap, his erection teasing me.
Our eyes lock for a powerful heartbeat, the last few hours swirling around us with electrifying energy.
Near death.
New life.
And then I slide down onto him with a husky cry, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
Parker’s face falls between my breasts, stifling his moan of pleasure. Strong arms envelop me, wrapping around my back, anchoring me to him. We don’t move right away.
We just feel.
When my hips begin to rock on instinct, taking him slow and deep, Parker grips me tighter, his hands skimming up my spine and tugging me closer until our mouths meet.
Skin on skin, my body buzzes with restoration. His tongue pushes past my lips as fire blazes through me, my heart quickening, my pulse dancing. I ride him faster, harder, both of us groaning with every collision.
He’s alive.
I’m alive.
We are living, breathing, fucking, loving, evolving. Our blood pumps hot. Our veins thrum and throb. Our skin sweats, and our limbs cling.
My womb sings with life.
The thought alone ignites my core. I’m fevered and driven, rising and falling onto him at a desperate pace, attacking his mouth as I tug handfuls of his hair to steady myself.
Parker yanks my head back, nearly crumbling. “Jesus fuck, if you keep riding me like that I’m going to fucking lose it.”
I kiss him again without slowing down, nipping his lip with my teeth. “I want you to. Lose yourself in me.”
Show me how alive you are.
“You want me to lose control? You want me to come in two fucking seconds?”
“Yes.”
Our pelvises crash together, and I bite his lip again, grinding myself against his groin. My body sparks with the prelude to release.
“Fuck, Melody…” Parker palms the base of my skull in a punishing grip, our teeth knocking together as he hisses out, “You’re coming with me.”
His opposite hand snakes between us, fingering me until those sparks catch fire and I go up in flames. Parker slams into me with violent thrusts, unraveling the moment I’m shuddering in his arms, nothing but dynamite and shooting stars. His release flows through me, his life force, and he buries his deep groan into the crook of my neck, holding me tighter than ever as we ride the waves together.
I go limp in his arms, and we both collapse against the headboard with a hard sigh. Parker glides his hands up and down my back with tender strokes, his heart beating fast and furious into my own, our breaths uneven, yet perfectly aligned.
A smile claims me, and I feel myself drifting away as I lay sprawled atop him, our bodies still joined. But as a soft, hazy glow permeates the curtains, the first hint of daybreak, I’m overcome with another inherent desire. My cheek lifts from his chest. “Parker?”
His exhaustion is evident, but he musters a soft, “Hmm?”
“I know you’re tired, but I want to do one more thing before we go to sleep.”
Long lashes flutter as his eyelids open, and then he reaches down to squeeze my backside. “Mmm, you’re insatiable.”
“Not that,” I grin, pulling myself off of him and reaching for his hand. “Come with me.”
We take a moment to freshen up and find our clothes, and then I’m leading him through his house, Walden trailing behind us, until we’re standing on the front porch, gazing up at the blossoming horizon.
It’s a celebration.
A new day. A new beginning.
A new life.
We watch the sunrise together that morning, side by side, hand-in-hand, with Walden resting comfortably beside our feet. And as vibrant colors paint the sky, sheathing the treetops in magenta and gold, I think we finally see the same thing.
Hope.
—FORTY—
I found a way to give her a forever August.
Our daughter, August Amelia, twirls the skirt of her birthday dress in ungraceful circles, two small palms cocooning her furry little friend.
I was never any good at life, and here I am now, living—while somehow managing to keep my kid alive, as well as my dog, who is a thousand years past ancient at this point, Melody’s aggressive infiltration of house plants, and this fucking hamster that clearly surpasses every law of hamster physics.
“Daddy, look!”
Oh, fuck, did it finally croak?
Bracing myself, I step closer to my daughter as the blades of grass tickle her bare toes. Her toothy grin has me letting out a breath of relief. “What is it, sunshine?”
Sunny blonde pigtails dance with the breeze, while wide green eyes twinkle in the midday glow.
She’s a spitting fucking image of her mother.
“Nutmeg wear birfday hat.”
A smile twitches on my mouth as I glance inside August’s cupped hands, taking in the tiny pink blossom that rests atop the hamster’s head. It’s a singular petal that blew free of the young peach tree flowering in our backyard.
It was one of the first things Melody did when she moved in with me three years ago. She planted a peach tree in honor of her late husband, and we’re hoping it will finally bear some fruit this summer.
“Parker!”
Melody’s panicked voice carries over to me from the back door, and I turn in place, casting worried eyes upon my very pregnant wife. She waves me over, looking frantic.
I race towards her. “Shit, what’s wrong?”
“It’s an emergency.”
Double shit.
“Are you going into labor?”
Melody is thirty-nine weeks along with our son, so planning a big party for August’s third birthday was risky. My mind has been consumed with harrowing images of the party being interrupted by Melody’s water breaking during the Happy Birthday song, painful contractions, and our son popping out on the kitchen floor next to the dog bowls.
“No, it’s worse,” she exclaims in a flustered breath, her braided pigtails swinging side to side as she shakes her head.
I pale.
Then I glance down at her swollen belly, just to make sure my kid didn’t already pop out and I fucking missed it.
“I burned the cupcakes,” she confesses, a horrified cry following. “Who am I? You should just take over.”
What the fuck?
Melody’s expression is riddled with regret.
In the years that I’ve known her, my wife has never once burned a cupcake. She’s well-known around town, practically a local celebrity, having opened up a successful bake shop downtown late last year. It was a natural progression once her in-home bakery became too much to maintain, and the ratio of flour dust to oxygen inside our home was becoming concerning.
I purse my lips through a frown. “The last time I tried to bake cupcakes with you, I forgot three critical ingredients. It was a terrible fucking idea.”
Her eyes flare, then shift to August, who is coming up behind me. “Language,” she whisper-scolds.
Oh, right. I’m trying to be more careful now that our daughter repeats literally everything.