Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
In a pinch, I throw on Conor’s flannel and it hangs all the way down to my knees. Buttoning it haphazardly, I squeak down the hall on my tip toes and lean against the door frame as I peek in on them.
Archer is curled up against Conor’s side, his tiny hand securing a place around Conor’s bicep. Soft words fill the silence of the dimly lit room while Conor flips through the pages of Archer’s favorite book, reading about the adventures of a boisterous puppy.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode. Or maybe it already has. This can’t be real. My son isn’t sitting next to this mobster, soothed by the lulling sound of his voice. Except that he is. Archer watches Conor’s face with a reverence that bleeds into the very marrow of my bones. I can see it happening. Archer is falling for him too.
I duck back into the hall and let that sink into my gut. I don’t know what I’m doing. This man is not who I would have chosen for Archer to love. He lives a life of violence and chaos and everything that I’ve been desperately trying to escape. And yet, nobody has ever been so gentle with my son.
Soft, silent tears splash against my cheeks as I slide down the wall and curl my knees inward. I feel like I’m going insane, and the worst part is, I want this. I want this so badly I can taste it. I want Archer to have this strong, enigmatic man in his life. To guide him, protect him, shelter him. But most of all, to love him.
It seems so far from reality, but I can’t argue that it’s happening right now as I listen to them interact. When Conor reads the last words on the page, I hold my breath, waiting for something to prove me wrong. But instead, all I hear are Conor’s hushed words.
“Alright wee one, let’s get some sleep, aye?”
The room falls quiet, and for the next ten minutes, I wait for Conor to come out, but he doesn’t. When I finally peek around the corner, I wipe my bleary eyes as a smile curves my lips. Conor’s large frame is draped over the length of the tiny twin mattress, protectively shielding Archer from the metaphorical monsters under his bed. They are both fast asleep, curled into each other as deep, peaceful breaths fill their lungs.
And it occurs to me right then, I am so fucked.
In the early light of morning, the bed dips when Conor returns to me. A sturdy arm wraps around my waist and pulls me close, tucking me into a body that I could swear was built just to refuge mine. He buries his nose against my neck, breathing me in while he rubs his cock against my ass.
In the back of my mind, the voice of sanity tries to remind me that this isn’t normal. This crazy lust-drunk feeling is chemically induced by my traitorous body and I need to be stronger, smarter. But somewhere between last night and this morning, all logic has been sacrificed to the gods of war. Body, heart, and soul—they are at odds with each other, and in the end, I fear that Conor will conquer them all.
“I’ll give you one go at what I’m thinking.” Conor’s calloused palm slips up beneath the sheet to cup my breast, my nipple stabbing at his hot skin.
A secret smile tugs at my lips as I bury my face against the pillow. “What are you thinking?”
“Pancakes.” He nips at my shoulder.
A girlish laugh bursts from my chest, surprising me. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“No?” His other hand slips between my thighs, fingers gliding through the stickiness that’s already gathered there.
I arch against him, splaying my legs wide open like a lovesick fool. “Definitely wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Conor rolls me onto my back and mounts me, lowering his body between my thighs and yanking down his briefs like a caveman. “Maybe with syrup. Or strawberries. I haven’t decided yet.”
I wrap my legs around his waist when he pushes inside of me, and his eyelids grow heavy with drunken satisfaction. Conor doesn’t just like to fuck me, he likes to own me. He’s been rough with me. Possessive, hard, demanding. But right now, he’s soft and slow, rolling his hips in and out of me like he has all day to stay just like this.
He kisses me and inhales me and whispers in my ear how much he likes being inside of me. I come twice for him, and then he finishes with a tormented groan that seems to go on forever. When he collapses into the bed and drags me back against his chest, I’m still trying to figure out what just happened. I can’t be sure, but it feels like my husband just made love to me.