For a moment, Becca stares blankly at the words. Then the box. Then the words. I swear, I can actually hear when it finally clicks.
With tentative hands, she opens the box to reveal a brand-new toy, not unlike the first one I got her way back when. This particular vibrator has even more features and settings that I know she’ll appreciate.
Full brag, I’m kind of the expert on all that pleasures Becca. I am her husband, after all.
Soon, laughter has replaced the tears, and Becca is wrapping her arms around my neck to kiss me sweetly on the lips. With her nails running through my hair, she sucks on my lower lip before opening her hot, insistent mouth to my tongue.
I spin her against the counter, pressing her ass into the marble and nudging my knee between her legs. I’m about to lift her up when she pulls back with a wet pop of our lips.
“Wait, what about a babysitter?”
“Your mom is staying with the kids for the whole week.”
“Seriously? When is she getting here?”
I glance at the clock overhead. “Any minute.”
Becca yelps when I duck my head down to nibble on her neck. “Owen! I have to put the vibrator away before my mom sees it!”
Now, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear . . .
I growl into her ear, closing my eyes to truly savor the moment. “Becca Parrish, you are fulfilling all of my high-school fantasies, and you don’t even know it.”
She giggles at that, squealing when I slide my hands down her waist and around her ass, lifting her easily onto the counter to press against her with my now raging hard-on. Heat radiates from between her legs, and her eyes darken at the feel of my cock straining against my joggers.
Immediately, we’re locked in another breathless kiss, tangled up like we’re teenagers. I caress her breasts gently, remembering how tender they must be, and then it hits me.
Oh fuck.
“What’s wrong?” Becca asks when I pull away, those big blue eyes wide with confusion.
I sigh, smoothing wild strands of her hair back from her face. “I forgot that you’re still nursing.”
She blinks. “Oh yeah.”
I plant my hands on the counter, dropping my head to her shoulder in defeat. Some “good dad” I am. I planned an entire getaway trip for my wife and didn’t consider the fact that her boobs have to stay in the general proximity of our twins.
I guess we won’t be far. We could try to come back for meal times. But with how often the twins eat, it might be safer to reschedule. Should we try to bring them with us? Then Bishop will feel left out and we’d have to bring the whole family, which entirely defeats the purpose of a getaway.
A soft hand brushes my jaw, lifting my face.
“I have to wean them anyway,” she says soothingly. “I’ve already started bottling breast milk. There’s gotta be at least four days’ worth in the freezer. I can pump some more before we leave, and that’ll give us another half day. The timing is honestly kind of perfect.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
With that, she surges forward, capturing my lips in another searing kiss. I rake my fingers through her hair, grasping a handful at the back of her head and pulling just hard enough to elicit a moan.
I drag long, hot kisses down her neck and over her collarbones, only stopping to say, “I’m sorry, Becs. I’m sorry for—”
Becca lifts my face once again, this time to give me the stern look she’s mastered as a mother of three, soon to be four. “Hey. I love you, Owen Parrish. Now shut up and kiss me.”
And I do.
8
* * *
BECCA
Five months later
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
The buzzer sounds overhead, and the crowd erupts into a roaring celebration. In one of the most nail-biting games of the season, the Seattle Ice Hawks reign victorious yet again with only seconds to spare on the clock. It’s the kind of night that burns into your memory—the kind you’ll look back on with a knowing smile and tell your grandkids about.
Screeching with excitement, the girls and I jump to our feet. Well, Ana and Elise jump. Harper and I have to take a gentler approach with our seven-month-pregnant bellies. And even though my back aches from sitting in the hard plastic chair, absolutely nothing can stop me from screaming my head off and punching a fistful of half-eaten soft pretzel in the air.
Tonight has been like every other game in so many ways—expert plays, close calls, breath-stopping action. But this particular game was different in one exceptional way: Owen Parrish was back on the ice.
When we got the call from Coach Dodd asking Owen to sub in as goalie, there was no question. He was on the relief list, and he immediately said yes. For the first time since his retirement, I got to see that familiar fire rekindle behind my husband’s eyes. Once again, he would play with the team he’d spent his whole career with, the guys who are his friends. His family.
“Par-rish . . . Par-rish . . . Par-rish . . . Par-rish . . .”
As the crowd chants his name, I just about explode with joy. The guys swarm Owen on the ice, crowding around him with a brotherly love so intense that I can feel it from fifty yards away. I blink back tears as Harper hooks her arm into mine and rests her head on my shoulder.
“This is amazing.” I sigh wetly, and somehow over the noise, she hears me.
“I know. You must be so proud!”
Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I watch as the team bumps their helmets against Owen’s, and pat him on the back with gloved hands. They have so much love and respect for this man—just like I do.
The four of us make our way down from our third-row seats to meet our husbands at the edge of the ice. One by one, they greet us, red-faced and beaming with that post-game high I’ve missed so much.
Justin takes Elise’s hands and kisses them one by one like the prince and princess they are. Ana gives Grant a wave, and he grins back. Meanwhile, Jordie takes a knee to give a quick play-by-play of the game to Harper’s belly—twice the size of mine since she’s expecting double the trouble. And to think she was ever worried about him rising to the challenge of fatherhood.
Finally, I meet Owen’s eyes, brighter than I’ve seen them in months. Don’t get me wrong, Owen loves being a fulltime dad. But going cold turkey on the hockey lifestyle was definitely taking a mental and physical toll on him.
Seeing him so happy in his element again, it occurs to me that maybe this is all he needed—one more time to experience that rush of adrenaline, to hear the crowd of fans chant his name. One more “W” to truly feel like his career is complete.
Owen wraps me in a breathless hug. I cling to him, inhaling the masculine scent of hard work that’s paid off.
When I feel like I can’t squeeze him any tighter, I lean back and ask, “Did you see the goalie out there?”
Owen smirks, catching on. “No, how’d he do?”
“Not bad.”
He scoffs. “Not bad?”
I loop my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. “Not bad at all.”
“Nice work out there, man,” one of the newer guys says, clapping Owen on the shoulder as he passes by. I think his name is Preston. “Looking forward to next time.”