Ducking my head, I smell it. “Thank you.”
He brings his hand forward and rubs his thumb on my cheek, swirling the pad of it in my heated blush. “You still blush like a rose.”
His voice, low and almost purring, makes me get up on his feet. “Because my beast is still so romantic.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that. I can be pretty mean,” he says, smirking slightly, his hands now in my sort-of blonde hair, making a loose fist.
“You can be. But I like that.”
Keeping hold of my hair with one hand, he fists my nightgown and the fluffy robe that I’m wearing over it with the other and pulls me toward him.
Our bodies crash against each other and so does the rose and he growls, “Is there a reason why I’m not alone with my wife right now, in my own fucking cabin?”
“Because we’re here,” I answer him, my arms secure and tight around his neck, playing with his rich, soft hair and the rose he gave me trapped somewhere between our bodies. “Because we have friends and they invited us to their home for Christmas for a party.”
“I don’t like parties,” he growls again, a thick frown between his brows.
I know.
If he had his way, we’d stay in the cabin in the middle of the woods forever, cut off from the world. The world that once tried to tear us apart but our love conquered all.
I wish that too. That we stayed in our cabin forever.
But we can’t.
We have Rosie and she goes to a really good school in Denver that she likes. I have my own job, working at that same school’s library.
And my husband has his own business.
He has a flower shop and a nursery. It started as a small venture out of his cabin where he grew roses, but now it has expanded. He has people working for him and he supplies roses for major functions and events around Denver.
“I know you don’t like parties. But,” I whisper, “you’re alone with your wife now.”
His eyes change again and so do his features. His large, muscular body goes all tight and his fingers become urgent and needy.
“Not alone enough for what I want to do to her,” he says in a low voice.
I sink my fingers in his beard then. “And what is it that you want to do to her?”
He smirks – a tiny, wicked smirk. “Feed her lollipops.”
My body jerks. It actually jerks and moves like it’s caught in a spasm.
God, lollipops.
So I have a thing for lollipop. I love them. I always have and he loves to feed them to me. Feed them to my mouth, to my pussy, which flutters at the thought.
“You’re so bad,” I whisper, shaking my head, blushing.
“And you’re so easy.”
“Shut up.” I duck my head and rest my cheek against his chest, hugging him.
He chuckles in response and rubs his jaw in my hair.
I close my eyes, burrowing myself in his warmth. “So why can’t you sleep?”
“I don’t like this place.”
I hum. “You know, we still have a couple of days before we make it to the cabin. Are you going to stay awake the whole time?”
After Willow, we’re going to visit Graham’s son, Brian, and his wife in the city.
When I say that the world was against us being together, that also includes his son, Brian. He used to be my best friend back in high school and he had a little crush on me. So the idea of me and his dad was not something he was a fan of.
But he came around and now we’re a family.
It might be awkward for some but it works for us. Plus Rosie loves her big brother and his family, and they love her back. He has two adorable kids with a wonderful girl he met in college. And so, we’ll leave Rosie to visit with him for a few days while we go to the cabin for some alone time.
“Graham?” I prompt him when he doesn’t answer my question.
Even then, his only answer is a long sigh that I feel against my cheek. And so, I think it’s time to bring out the big guns.
“It was a nice party though, right?” I murmur, biting my lip.
He grunts.
“I’m so happy for Fallon and Dean. She’s loved him forever. That poor girl.”
He grunts again.
I bite my lip harder as I go on. “Simon and Willow seemed happy too. Even Brendan, right? So, so happy that his sister found love. I think Dean and Brendan go way back. They seemed pretty tight with each other…”
He stiffens then and I pause.
Especially when he fists my hair again and pulls me back so he can look at my face. “Are you trying to provoke me, Violet?”
“Maybe.” He goes to say something, but I stop him. “So you might as well tell me what the problem is. So I can solve it for you.”
“The problem,” he bites out, “is Brendan. The kid who keeps watching my daughter. He kept looking at her all throughout dinner and I wanted to lunge across the table, grab him by his shirt and throw him out the window.”
See, I knew it.
I freaking knew it.
My honey is so predictable.
I press my lips together so I don’t burst out laughing. I mean, it’s not a joke, him being angry and upset.
But he looks so… ferocious right now.
So wild at the thought of a fourteen-year-old kid, watching Rosie.
“I don’t know how Simon sat through that dinner without losing his shit. Dean touching his daughter,” Graham growls, bringing me to the moment. “If someone was touching my daughter, I would’ve broken every finger in his hand. As it is, I want to put the fear of God in that Brendan kid.”
His face is all bunched up and angry and I rub my hand in his beard.
“No, you don’t. Because he’s a kid. They’re both kids. You’re not going to throw a fourteen-year-old kid out the window just because he stared a little too long at your daughter.”
“I know kids, okay? I know boys. I raised a boy. I know how they think.”
“He’s a good kid. He’s Simon’s kid. Good is practically in his DNA. Let him be. He’s not going to do anything.”
“He better not. Or I’ll teach him a fucking lesson he’ll never forget.” Then he looks away from me, his eyes squinting. “You know what, fuck it. I’ve been debating this shit for too long. I’m going to have a chat with Simon. Maybe he’s lost his mind, handing over his daughter to another man just like that. But he better keep his son away from my daughter or I’ll—”
I cover his mouth with my hand, cutting off his words.
His breaths are punching my palm, gusting over it, hot and upset, and I shake my head at him.
“No, you listen to me,” I say sternly. “You’re not going to have a chat with anyone.” His eyes turn stormy. “You’re going to calm down and relax. Also, handing over his daughter? What does that mean? Daughters are not objects, Graham. Like wives are not objects. Daughters have a mind of their own. Simon’s daughter has a mind of her own. Our daughter has a mind of her own. That’s what we’re teaching her.”