“I wish . . .” August gulps, swallowing the emotion alive on his face. “I wish I could take it all away.”
I cup his chin and catch his eyes in the dim light. “We don’t get to take away the bad things, but it’s okay.” My smile is a work of triumph—a victory cry. “I survived them.”
I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, relishing his grunt and gasp, his groan of pleasure as I stroke him long and hard, up and down. “Can we make love now?”
August spears his fingers into my hair, resting his forehead against mine, his breath laboring more with every pull. “I love you, Iris. So much.
I nod, lick his neck, and suck at his collarbone, one hand steadily pumping him between us, the other reaching up to skim over his nipple with my fingertips. All his air expels in one extended breath. With a growl, he grabs my ass and pulls my legs over his knees. I lock my ankles at the small of his back while he brushes my hand away between us. I sink onto him and moan. With our chests flush, his answering groan vibrates between my breasts. He pistons inside me relentlessly.
“August, harder,” I beg, dizzy with pleasure.
With his lip between his teeth, his dark brows furrowed, he goes harder and deeper. He goes so deep he finds the remnants of my pain and soothes them. He goes so hard his love is an undeniable force that takes me by storm. There is room for nothing else. He takes up all the space, consumes my thoughts, and for a moment, remakes our memories so there’s only ever been him for me and only ever been me for him.
It is sublime.
“We should have eaten this while it was hot,” I say around a bite of not-quite-warm pizza, followed by a sip of tepid root beer.
“I wanted to eat you while you were hot,” August says, his grin cocky.
My laugh bounces off the kitchen walls. “Such a cornball.” I turn toward him on the high stools at the counter until our knees touch.
“And yet here you are.” He laughs, leaning over to brush our noses together in an Eskimo kiss.
“And yet here I am.” I roll my eyes and reach for the slice of untouched pizza on his plate. “You gonna eat that?”
He shakes his head and offers a wry smile. He only grabbed it to make me feel like I wasn’t eating alone. He’s deep in the season and eats like a Spartan solider.
“Thanks for this, by the way.” I pop a pineapple in my mouth. “You remembered.”
He runs a wide palm over my back, his touch warm through my silk robe. “Lakers means pizza and root beer. I told you I remember everything about you.” He lifts my hair and then watches it fall, a small frown pinching at his brows. “So, um, when I was reading to Sarai, she had a question tonight.”
“What’s new?” I laugh and sip my root beer, eyeing him over my bottle.
“Yeah, I know, right?” A tiny smile quirks his full lips, but his eyes are serious before he drops his gaze to the counter. “I was kind of thrown by this one, though.”
“What’d she ask?” I push my pizza away and give him my full attention.
“She asked if I was gonna be her new daddy.” He watches me from under long lashes, gauging my reaction.
I cough a little, less from the bit of pizza lodged in my throat, more from the unexpected turn of conversation. Sarai had a few questions about Caleb in the weeks following his death. She barely knew him, but that word “daddy” carries significance. She only knows the man who told her he was her daddy is gone. One day, I’ll have the hard job of the truth, but for now, she’s satisfied. Or I thought she was. I sip some root beer to make way for a reply.
“Oh. Wow.” I glance at him cautiously. “And what’d you say?”
He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “I told her that I love her more than any daddy loves a little girl,” he says slowly, not looking at me for a second before very purposely looking me right in the eyes. “And that I love you more than any daddy loves any other mommy.”
The pizza may not be hot, but his words steam my heart.
“And I said that we’re already a family.” He takes both my hands between his. “And that one day, when the time is right, I’ll be her daddy and I’ll be mommy’s husband.”
I don’t know what to say for a moment, so I leave it to the quiet to absorb his perfect response, and then I speak.
“That was . . . ahem . . . a good answer,” I say, studying our joined hands. “I’m not surprised she asked, considering all that’s happened. Well, and now that we’re at your place so much, it inevitably raises more questions.”
“Our place.”
“What?” I look up with a frown.
“You said it’s my place, but it’s our place.”
“Yeah.” I wave a hand. “You know what I mean.”
“But you don’t know what I mean.” He smiles, cupping his palms around my shoulders. “I’m adding your name to the title of the condo, and when we move into a house, your name will be on that, too.”
Surprise immobilizes me, freezes me in place. Only I’m not cold. Warmth suffuses every cell of my body until I’m on fire under his hands.
“You don’t have to do that just to prove a point, August,” I finally manage to say.
“It’s not to prove a point. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s team, and you and me”—he draws a line in the air between us—“we’re a team, doing everything together. And when we do marry, I want to adopt Sarai.” He holds up a staying hand. “I know it’ll take some getting used to, but she’s always felt like mine, and I love her. I want things as legal with her and me as they will be for the two of us.”
This—what I’m feeling, what’s washing over my reservations and fears—this must be what the Mississippi feels at that very moment every thousand years when its course resets: that deltaic switch. That monumental chrysalis. My heart resets in an instant. Or maybe it’s happened in a series of patient, painstaking pivots over weeks, months. Maybe it started the moment August walked away from the greatest opportunity of his life . . . for me. When he took a chance on us. Maybe it started then, but his words show me right now.
“I know I’ve asked you to marry me many times, but—”
“Three,” I say, almost absently. I’m so involved with examining this new space I just stepped into. “You’ve asked me to marry you three times.”
“Yeah.” He grimace–grins. “Thanks for the reminder. I don’t want to pressure you. You know that. I understand your hesitation. After finding out what you went through with Caleb, of course I get it.”
I watch him, my face serene, but my heart setting a breakneck pace.
“It’s like this,” he says. “My mom tells this story about my dad. How she’d watch him play, and he would hold the ball for the last shot. She’d scream ‘take the shot,’ but he’d watch the clock, holding the ball ’til the last possible second. Then at just the right moment, he’d take the shot. He had perfect timing.”
August cups my face, his eyes intense and tender.
“That’s what I want. I want to read the clock and know when the time is right for us. I don’t want to keep asking you. It’s . . .”