Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)
Chapter 19

Do you ever have those moments where you realize that this is it? That this is where everything changes? Sometimes it’s a day, a week, or a month. Sometimes it’s one single moment, a blip in time when it feels like the world stops spinning and lets you take everything in exactly as it is in this moment, to remember it, because nothing will ever be the same again. This is that moment in time where you can draw the line right down the middle and definitively say, “That was life before, and this is life after.”

I think I’ve been having those moments since I heard Ryne’s voice over the speakers in the dinner hall as he told the waitress what a good girl she was. That was the first one, the line that would officially mark the before.

Some people want to forget the befores. Not me, though. I don’t want to forget what it felt like to have my dreams belittled on a regular basis, to be talked down to when I disagreed with anything, pushed just a little on something I wanted. I don’t want to forget the silent treatments, the rolling eyes, and the general way I was made to feel like I should be thankful someone was putting up with my attitude.

I want to remember the way Ryne treated me, and I want to remind myself, day in and day out, that I deserve so much damn better than anything he ever gave me. That I’m not going to stand for anything less.

I want to enjoy the little moments along the way, small lines in the sand that mark the beginning of a new change, a new after. Jaxon making me see stars on my honeymoon. Jaxon making his home nut-safe when he didn’t know I was watching. A handwritten guide on how to make my favorite coffees with the world’s most complicated espresso machine, Timbit cereal because I can’t eat real Timbits, my favorite flowers on Valentine’s Day, extra shelf space in the shower, the heating turned up, and a step stool in the kitchen.

An intimate, broken confession, where one person’s heartache became the heartache of an entire group.

Small moments, many of them inconsequential on their own, that slowly draw that line down the middle, giving you the after you’ve always dreamed of, the kind you deserve.

That’s what I’m thinking about this morning as I stand at the kitchen island, staring at a bright and fresh bouquet of pink tulips.

I never see him do it. Throw out the old ones, put out the new ones. And Lord knows the man always acts like he has no idea how they got there. But every week they appear, as soon as the old ones show the first sign of wilting, and always in a brand-new vase. Today, it’s a ceramic cat paw, painted in white and orange, like Mittens himself is gifting me my favorite flowers.

A few steps farther, until I stop in front of the espresso machine, looking down at the drink that waits for me, next to a bowl of Lucky Charms and a carton of milk, and a single, extra-large Sour Key half-dipped in chocolate beside my spoon.

And that line extends itself a little further.

I take my cereal to the living room, standing over a passed-out Jaxon on the couch, Mittens tucked into the crook of his arm. They’re wearing the shirts I got them a couple days after Ireland’s birthday. Mittens’s says MY DAD IS A DILF and Jaxon’s simply says DILF. He’s also sporting the ball cap I had made for him, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL CAT DADS embroidered in pink. It’s maybe my favorite sight, so I pull out my phone, snap a picture, and immediately upload it to Mittens’s Instagram page. I’ll save it for the next game day, too, post it on the Vipers’ page next to his game-day suit and ask the fans to vote for their favorite fit.

I got everything to cheer him up. It’s not so much that he’s been sad, but that he’s been quiet. We haven’t had sex since he told us about Bryce a week ago, but he hasn’t spent any less time with me. He still spreads out next to me on the couch at night, or hangs over my shoulder while I’m cooking. He watches me get ready in his bathroom, eyes hooked on me while I blab on and on about anything I think might make him smile. I usually earn a few, even if he looks away to try to hide them.

Hell, two nights ago in Florida, he even showed up at my hotel room after their game. He didn’t feel up to going out with the guys, so he wanted to know if he could hang with me. Twenty minutes later, the rest of the boys showed up, pizzas and snacks in tow, saying they’d rather stay in with us. I got to attend my first Britney’s Bitches meeting, and helped Carter untangle the great pony debacle and win back Olivia’s affection. Jaxon was the last one out the door at midnight, and he hesitated so long I nearly asked if he wanted to spend the night in case he didn’t want to be alone. But then he rubbed the back of his neck, glanced at me one last time, and whispered, Thanks for tonight, honey.

I know he’s going through it. Jaxon’s not someone who shares easily, and from the way he stumbled through a story about Bryce, giving us the bare minimum, just enough to know what he lost, the words fractured like pieces of a puzzle we need to put together, it’s not hard to see it’s a memory he’s tried so hard to suppress. Now he’s reliving it, dealing with the grief all over again, and I have to sit by and wait until he’s ready to come to me with all of it. If he’ll ever be.

Beyond that, I get the sense he’s embarrassed of the emotions he showed when trying to tell us about Bryce, when the nine of us gathered around him, wrapped him in our arms, but he has nothing to be embarrassed by. Friends are supposed to support you. Good friends will take the weight off your shoulders and put it on theirs without needing to be asked, just to help you breathe. And that’s the type of friends Jaxon has.

All of that is what I told myself to justify why I canceled my apartment viewings this week, but the truth is what I’m smiling down at right now. A man and his cat who took my broken heart and healed it without consciously doing it.

I nudge his thigh with my knee, shoveling my cereal back. When he doesn’t move, I lift my foot, giving the lump in his sweatpants a quick tap.

His eyes fly open, and he shoots up to sitting, knocking Mittens to the ground. “I’m awake! Are we fucking?”

“You wish, fuckboy. Why you sleeping anyway? It’s almost eleven.”

He scrubs the sleep from his bleary eyes, flecks of green and gold dancing in the sunlight. “Uh, ’cause we landed at two this morning, and then I got up early to go get you your flow—” He mashes his lips together.

I lift my brows. “My what?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, ’kay, ’cause for a second there I thought you were gonna admit to being responsible for the bouquet of tulips on the counter every week.”

Jaxon stands, adjusting his cock in his pants. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh. You never do. How convenient.”

“Life is all about conveniences, tidbit. Like right now, you’re wearing those teeny jammy shorts that you never wear panties with, and Magic Mike”—he gestures at the cock tenting his pants—“is dying to say hello. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmm.” I lift my bowl to my lips, draining the milk. When I’m done, I tug on the waistband of his sweats, peeking down at Magic Mike, happy as ever to see me. “Hi, baby,” I coo, then snap the band back in place. “Can’t. I’m on my period.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since halfway through our flight last night.” I’m as disappointed as his pout says he is. Period backing onto a sexless week? The horror. This will be the longest I’ve gone without sex since I moved in here. On top of that, my cramps are coming on strong, just like my migraine, so I anticipate spending the next two days curled up in bed whenever possible. I swipe my Sour Key off the counter on my way back to my room. “Chocolate-covered candy for breakfast was a great idea, Jaxon. Thank you.”

“Where you going?” he calls after me. “Don’t you wanna spend time with me?”

“I spend time with you every day!”

“Yeah, so why ruin the streak now?”

“Gonna go hibernate in bed and shop for birthday outfits!”

“Get something sexy!”

“Don’t worry, I will!”

It’s not me I’m shopping for, though; it’s Mittens. Because if there’s one day of the year I’m going to get away with having a photoshoot where I dress that cat in whatever I want, which may or may not include a mermaid bikini with a fin, it’s my birthday.

So that’s what I do. I spend the day alternating between express shipping the most endearing/ridiculous—depends who you ask—outfits imaginable for Mittens so they’ll be here in time for my birthday, watching reruns of Girlfriends—Joan Clayton is unmatched; fight me—and napping.

When I venture out late in the afternoon, I replace Jaxon in his room, headphones on, muttering along to whatever song he’s listening to, and . . . dancing? He claps his hands above his head while shaking his hips, and my God, he’s rigid as a fucking board. Leaning in the doorway, I watch as he stomps his right foot, then his left, then spins himself in a circle, rolling his hips as he goes.

It’s . . . Christ, it’s utterly horrifying. Mittens is crouched low to the ground, ears back, tail whipping back and forth, pupils dilated and fixed on what I can only assume from here is Jaxon’s crotch.

I pull out my phone, recording him as he hops, slides to the left, then to the right, jumps, criss-crosses his feet, and finally, cha-chas real slow.

“Whaddaya think, Mitts?” Jaxon yells over the music in his ears. “Is Daddy’s dancing magical, or what?”

Or fucking something.

I can’t take it. Laughter rumbles deep in my belly, and I fold over as it barrels out of me. I clap my knees, losing my balance and catching myself on the wall. Jaxon whips around, eyes wide as he spots me.

“Lennon, what the fuck!” Mittens jumps at his ass, and Jaxon screams, clutching his butt cheek as he falls to the ground. “Ah! Man down! Man down!”

“The best part,” I wheeze, swiping at my eyes with one hand, shaking my phone in the other, “is that I’m still recording.”

“Out!” he shouts, scrambling to his bed. “Get out!” He scoops up a pillow, chucking it across the room. I deflect it, cackling as I dash down the hall and back to my room.

I collapse on my bed, catching my breath, grinning as I send the video to my group chat.

Two minutes later, Jaxon screams my name, and for the first time, my mind wanders to a future where I spend the rest of my days annoying him. My laughter slowly fades, until all I’m left with is the gentle, quick patter of a heart that should be too broken to feel anything again.

A heart that has no right hoping for a future with a man who once told me he’d planned to avoid living with a woman for the rest of his life.

I may be the exception to his roommate rule, but it would be silly of me to hope to be the woman the playboy settles down for.

Wouldn’t it?

I lose myself in another episode until my thoughts are buried, until my cramps are bad enough to pull me out of bed. Wrapping myself in a blanket, I hobble into the hallway. Jaxon’s bedroom door is cracked, and I poke my head inside again, because good things seem to happen when I do.

He’s in his bathroom, leaning over the counter, the quiet hum of his beard trimmer working in time with the hum of his voice. I like watching him when he trims his beard. He’s meticulous, always keeping it short and tame, just long enough to tickle the insides of my thighs when he buries his face there and lavishes me with attention.

I creep closer, smiling as a little more of him comes into view. Mittens is on the counter, rolling around on his back, using his dad’s elbow as a chew toy, and Jaxon is singing what sounds a fuckload like Reba McEntire, except these are not the lyrics I remember my mom singing in the car on the way to Mimi’s house on Sunday mornings.

“A single dad who works too hard, who loves his cat and never stops. With handsome hands even though he’s a fiiighterrr. I’m a surviiiv⁠—”

I clap a hand over my mouth, running from the room before he can finish that word. When I’m safe in the kitchen, I let the giggles free. Pulling the pantry open, I take out my stool, climb to the top step, and grab the first pill bottle I can get my hands on. Extra-strength Advil, which is not Motrin, what I usually take when I’m cramping this hard.

I turn the bottle in my hand, looking for the dosage. “Jax!”

“There’s nobody here by that name!” he shouts back.

“I have cramps! Do I take one Advil or two?”

He sighs. “Regular strength? Just read the bottle, Len.”

“Extra-strength! It says only one every six hours, but my cramps hurt real bad!”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m just gonna take two!”

Footsteps thud, and he slides into the room. “Lennon, you can’t take two if it says only take one!” He rips the bottle away, glaring at me. “Gimme that.”

I hide my smile behind a glass of water as he dumps a single pill into his hand, transfers it to mine, and pockets the bottle.

“Thanks.” I chase the pill with my water, letting Jaxon take the glass. A shiver runs through me, and I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

His eyes coast over me. “You cold?”

“A little.” I shiver again, exaggerating maybe a touch. “I always feel colder on my period.”

“Want me to turn the heat up?”

“It’s okay. Then it’ll be too hot for Mitts.”

His head bobs as he nibbles his lip, looking at me, then away, back to me, then away again. “So, um . . . I guess you’re not going to Adam and Rosie’s, then. Since you’re . . .” He points at my crotch, then circles his own.

My brows rise. “I’m not bedridden, Jaxon. I’m on my period. I can still live my life.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Yeah. Obviously. Obviously you can still live your life while you’re on your period.”

“Women have been doing it for years.”

“I just thought . . . because . . .” He tugs at his shirt and looks away. “You’re not feeling well. Both times I checked on you, you were sleeping. I wasn’t sure if you were up for going out.”

I force myself to ignore those four words.

Okay, no, I don’t. I fixate on them like any normal, rational person would.

“You checked on me?” I wave the words away. “Yeah, I’m gonna stay in. I’ll take a hot shower to help with the pain, then curl up on the couch for a movie with Mitts.”

“Okay. Cool.” He scratches his head, hazel eyes dancing with uncertainty. “Um, so, I guess . . . see you later, then.”

“See ya.”

He waves, but doesn’t move.

“Bye, Jaxon.”

“Oh. Yeah. Bye.” Slowly, he backs out of the kitchen, making it halfway down the hall before he spins and books it the rest of the way, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

I do feel like shit, but the truth is I’m horny as fuck on my period. My experience with Ryne dictates that men don’t want to go anywhere near women when we’re menstruating, so I wait until I hear Jaxon leave a few minutes later before doing what I’m used to. I fill the bath with steaming water and grab my waterproof dual-stimulation vibrator, sighing as I insert it and fix the suction over my clit. Then I grab the remote control, climb into the bath, slip my AirPods in, turn on my audiobook, and crank that toy up to ten while definitely not thinking about Jaxon.

When I’m satiated, I hop in a quick shower to wash my hair, which is, as predicted, my worst mistake. I’m too tired and sore to go through my routine, so I wrap it in my microfiber towel and decide to make it Tomorrow Lennon’s problem. Once I’m snug in one of Jaxon’s Vipers T-shirts and a pair of sweats I stole straight from the dryer three weeks ago that he never asked for back, I make my way out to the living room to put on a movie.

Mittens is exactly where I expect him to be: sprawled out on the chaise lounge. It’s everything else that’s out of place, pulling my feet to a stop.

Netflix already on and waiting for me. Tiny, snack-size boxes of cereal on the coffee table. One bowl of Smarties, one of mini Sour Keys. A heating pad, and Jaxon Riley, NHL bad boy, walking toward me, a steaming mug in his hand.

He sinks to the couch, and I can’t breathe.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Jaxon.” I step in front of him, blocking the TV. “What are you doing here?” I motion around us, all the thoughtful gestures that are just for me, even if he acts like they’re not. “What is all this? Why aren’t you at Adam and Rosie’s?”

He tosses a handful of Corn Pops in his mouth. Tilts his head, peeking around me, scrolling through Netflix.

When I cross my arms and jut a hip, he sighs.

“You’ve got a case of FOMO worse than Mitts, so I’d just have to deal with you asking me five million questions about what happened when I got home.”

I arch a brow, and he throws his hands in the air.

“I didn’t want you to feel shitty at home all alone! I got halfway to Adam’s, then suddenly I was at the store, picking up snacks for you. There, are you happy? Fuck.” He grips my wrist, yanking me down beside him. “Sit your ass down.” He gestures at the steaming mug. “I made you your stupid chai tea that you like at night.”

“Chai,” I murmur, smiling against the warm mug.

“Huh?”

“It’s just chai, because chai means tea. Calling it chai tea is like calling it tea tea, the same way calling naan ‘naan bread’ is like calling it bread bread.”

He blinks at me. “I fucking hate you.”

I grin. “You fucking love me, bud.”

He grabs the Sour Keys, glaring at me as he sucks one into his mouth. I reach for the bowl, and his scowl deepens as he tugs it out of reach.

“Give it! You can’t keep candy from a woman on her period!”

He rolls his eyes, relenting, resting his hand on my thigh, bowl in his palm. He looks at my towel. “I thought you don’t like to sleep with wet hair.”

“I don’t. I wasn’t thinking when I washed it. But I’m too tired to do it tonight.”

Jaxon nods, quiet as he resumes scrolling on Netflix.

“Oh!” I clap his thigh, pointing at the movie he just passed. “That one!”

“No. Fuck no.”

“Please, Jaxon! It’s one of the greatest romantic comedies of all time!”

His face twists in disgust. “She’s the Man? She’s the Man is one of the greatest romantic comedies of all time?”

“I said what I said.”

Another roll of his eyes, but he presses play, huffing out the longest sigh anyone’s ever sighed as he stands and storms off. His footsteps return two minutes later, and I pat the spot next to me, shoving a Sour Key between my lips.

“Oh, good. Just in time. You don’t wanna miss Viola break up with Justin. He’s such an egotistical ass. Typical male toxicity, threatened by talented women.” I cock my head at his full arms. “Whatcha got there?”

He starts unloading, setting everything up on the coffee table. My heartbeat trips, and when it restarts, it gallops like a horse. My leave-in conditioner and my comb. My curl butter and my favorite mousse. My hair dryer and my diffuser.

Jaxon sits on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs. He gestures to the space there and picks up my comb. “C’mon, tidbit.”

“What . . . what are you . . .” I swallow, pleading away the sting of my nose, the burn of my eyes. “You’re going to do my hair for me?”

“I’m gonna try my best. I think I’ve watched you enough.” He takes my hand, guiding me to my feet, then down to my bum, settling on the rug in the space left for me. “Besides, you love correcting me when I’m wrong.”

“Put it on my résumé,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking good at it.” My chin quivers, and I try so hard not to, but I sniffle.

Jaxon glides his hands up my arms, squeezing my shoulders. “Don’t cry, honey. Please. The girls are starting to tease me every time I text for help.” He unwinds the towel, letting my wet curls fall down my back. “It’s just hair, Len. I’m happy to help.”

It’s not just hair, though. It’s shelves full of products, hours spent washing and styling. It’s not being able to just crawl into bed on my most tired nights without pausing to protect my hair, regretting it the mornings after I’ve forgotten. It’s my mom’s dedication to learning everything she could about caring for Black hair, swallowing her pride and asking the Black women in her life for help so she could send me off to school with the biggest smile on my face. It’s countless dollars spent replaceing the right products, hours and hours spent watching video tutorials. It’s a routine I’ve spent years fine-tuning, and it’s not just hair. It’s a part of me, and Jaxon . . . he’s making it a part of him now too.

“I can stop,” he says softly. “Say the word, Len.”

Tears gather in my eyes, and I bat them away, pulling in one steadying breath after another.

When I stay seated, Jaxon asks, “Leave-in conditioner first, right? Then comb it through?”

I nod, and when he rakes the cream through my hair, I let my eyes close, leaning into his touch.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” he murmurs, slowly gliding the comb through my hair. Fingertips dance over my shoulder, and I watch as he twirls a lock around his finger before letting it bounce free. He picks up my curl butter and mousse, looking between them before holding the purple tub of curl butter out to me for confirmation.

I smile, nodding, and butterflies take flight in my stomach as he carefully sifts his fingers through my hair.

“Tell me something.”

The quiet words startle me, and I search for something to say, anything other than uh oh, I think I might be falling for you, but, like, don’t freak out, because then I’ll freak out, and then we’ll both be freaking out. I settle on, “Like what?”

“Why did your parents name you Lennon?”

“Why else does anyone call their kid Lennon? My mom was obsessed with John Lennon, and my dad was obsessed with her.”

Jaxon chuckles. “That’s it, eh? End of story?”

“Man obsessed with woman is always the end of the story.”

“Mmm. Maybe.” He sprays mousse in his palms before smoothing them over my hair. “Would you have been happy? If what happened hadn’t, you got married in January, and Ryne had been the end of your story?”

I pull my lower lip between my teeth, hesitating. “No. But I think it would’ve taken me a while to admit to myself that I was miserable. I tried so hard to fixate on all the good stuff, like breakfast in bed on the weekends, pretty dresses in my size waiting for me when I got home from work, a note telling me to be ready at eight for a special dinner, the way my stomach flipped every time he told me I was the reason his life was as beautiful as it was.” I lift a shoulder. “Classic case of seeing what we want to see and ignoring all the bullshit.”

“I can’t imagine you doing that. Ignoring the bullshit. You’re pretty comfortable calling me out on my shit, and you have been since day one.”

“Sure, but I wasn’t trying to impress you when we met. I also met Ryne in high school. I was young and desperate to be in love. He was older and popular, coveted, and society dictated that women should be agreeable to be desirable. When you’re young, it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re too much, that you should make yourself smaller to keep others happy. That’s what I did, even though I spent years telling myself I wasn’t.”

Jaxon works my curls in silence.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

“Jaxon.”

He sighs. “Just that Ryne is a piece of shit. An agreeable version of you who sits quietly by, blending in instead of standing out, isn’t my Lennon.”

My heart pounds at that simple two-letter word. “I thought you liked quiet.”

“Before you, maybe.”

“And now?”

“Now I like loud.”

Goose bumps dot my arms, the tension in the air as palpable as the heat of his body against mine.

Jaxon’s eyes meet mine as he scrunches my curls in his fist. “Am I doing this right?”

“You’re doing great.” I pull my phone out, aiming it at us and hitting the record button so I can watch him, thankful for the distraction. The blush that spreads across his cheekbones is the most fascinating shade of pink I’ve ever seen. He laughs, a soft, low sound that warms the exposed skin on my neck, rolling across the surface of my body like the summer sun. He glances away, and when his gaze comes back, it focuses on my lips. When I smile, he smiles too.

And then he does something that lights my insides on fire.

He slides his rough palm over the nape of my neck, squeezing tenderly, and angles my face over my shoulder. The sharp rise of his chest matches mine, and a moment later his lips are on mine. Tasting them softly, coaxing them open. His tongue sweeps inside, and he kisses me hungrily, like he’s been craving nothing else.

He kisses me until I’m breathless, twisted between his legs, clinging to his shirt, and when he tears his mouth away, he whispers, “Been thinking ’bout that for a few days.”

Well, okay, then. Caught that all on video, which is . . . nice. Yeah, nice. In case I need it later for . . . informational purposes. Or whatever.

As Jaxon starts diffusing my curls, I forward the video to Serena. It takes her ten seconds to start responding, and I hide my phone between my crossed legs so I can read it without Jaxon seeing.

Serena

Oh my fuck??? Is he doing ur hair???

OH MY FUCK??? THE WAY HE’S LOOKING AT YOU???

OH MY FUCKING FUCK, THAT KISS??????? MARRY HIM. MARRY HIM RIGHT NOW. MAN’S OBSESSED. ***OBSESSED***

What’s he doing now???

Is the answer you? The answer is you, isn’t it?

It’s not, obviously, but I wish it was. Instead, I snap a picture of Jaxon diffusing my hair, a small crease between his brows as he focuses on the task.

Serena

Fucking swoon, what the hell???

You like him, don’t you?

Len?

Oh, you’re ignoring me now? We’re playing that game. K. *music notes emoji* Lennon’s got a cruuush, Lennon’s got a cruuush *music notes emoji*

It’s an interesting thought, but I’d rather not dwell on it further than I already have tonight, so I switch my phone off. Another problem for Tomorrow Lennon.

Instead, I close my eyes, letting myself relax as Jaxon dries my hair.

“Voilà.” He sets the hair dryer down and hands me his phone, camera open. I run my fingers over my curls, checking out his handiwork. Some of the corkscrews are misshapen and tangled, it’s significantly frizzier than usual, and somehow the left side is hanging a good inch longer than the right.

My nose tingles, chin quivering. I swat at the single tear that works its way free. “It’s perfect, Jaxon. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

I stay on the rug between his legs, thoughts running rampant. I think about a little girl who dreamed of seeing her photography in nature magazines, of a man who crushed that dream. A man who didn’t care enough about her interests, what made her smile and what made her feel special.

And I think about the man behind me, the one I’ve known just shy of three months, who has no obligation to but goes out of his way to do the complete opposite.

I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

“Ryne got me cash for Christmas,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Cash. He opened his stocking on Christmas morning, the one I spent hours meticulously curating, and when he was done, he took out his wallet, counted out a thousand dollars, handed it to me, and told me to buy myself something special.”

“Jesus, honey.” Jaxon runs a hand over his mouth before offering it to me, helping me onto the couch beside him. “He didn’t get you anything?”

I shake my head. “You know, that’s not even the worst.” I wring my hands, afraid to say the words out loud. I’ve never told anyone. Whenever anyone asked me what I’d asked for from Ryne for my birthday, I told them I’d asked for a nice dinner, because that’s always what I got. It was easier than answering what their inevitable follow-up question would be, which is Why didn’t he get it for you? “Do you remember me saying I’d wanted to go into astrophotography?”

“You said a perfect life would be one where you spent the rest of it stargazing.” He grins, sheepish and boyish, my favorite. “You had your thighs wrapped around my head when you said it, and all I could think was that my perfect life would be one where I spent the rest of it with you riding my face.”

I snicker, giving him a shove before pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “I’ve always loved the stars. Anything that happens in the sky, really. It’s just . . . surreal, you know? Ethereal. You see the sky every day, and most people, they just get used to it. It becomes part of the background. I never understood that. You’ll never see the same sunrise twice. The sky looks different every night, even though it’s the same constellations. It’s just . . . magnificent. My parents bought me my first telescope when I was seven. I’d dog-eared the Christmas toy catalogue, and on Christmas morning, there it was, set up beside the tree. I ran that thing into the ground, and for my twelfth birthday, Mimi replaced it. And two months before I turned eighteen, when it was stolen from the trunk of our car, I asked Ryne for one.” The memory squeezes my throat like a fist, impossible to swallow down. “He said it was a silly hobby. Took me for dinner at the clubhouse our grandparents were members at instead. And when he saw my college application for the astronomy program at the University of Georgia, he told me to be for real about my future, to pick a real job, because hobbies don’t pay the bills. ‘Stargazing is a fun activity when you’re a kid, sweetheart, not a job,’ he’d said. And when my parents asked me why I didn’t apply, I lied. Told them I didn’t love it the way I used to, because I was embarrassed.”

I smile as Mittens wakes, stretching before hopping up to spread out between Jaxon and me. “For my birthday last year, I worked up the courage to ask Ryne to take me to see the Northern Lights. There’s a place in Georgia, Brasstown Bald, that’s supposed to have incredible views, and it was always on my bucket list. It was a little over three hours away, so I suggested a hotel, and Ryne agreed, said it was a good idea, and gave me a kiss.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “He forgot my birthday. Got home at nine that night, looked at the flowers all over the kitchen counter, the birthday balloons, the bag I’d packed for us for the night, and groaned. ‘Ah, shit, Lenny,’ he said. ‘It’s been a shit week at work. Don’t make me feel bad about it. Providing for our family is a little more important than going stargazing.’ Kissed my forehead, reminded me he treated me like it was my birthday every day, and went for a shower.”

Jaxon’s hand moves over my back. “I’m sorry, honey.”

I tuck my chin on my knee. “It’s just . . . it’s the thought that counts, you know? It doesn’t need to be big or expensive or flashy. I just want to know that you’ve taken an interest in me. That you’re listening. I want to feel heard, and I guess . . . I guess I wasn’t. Not there. Not with him. I wish I would’ve admitted that to myself years ago.”

“No more.” Jaxon grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “No more quiet Lennon. That’s not you. You’re not gonna let people like that walk all over you, make you feel like you’re selfish for asking for something you deserve.”

“It’s not that big a deal. The telescope⁠—”

“I’m not talking about the telescope, Lennon. I’m talking about love. You asked to be loved, deserved it, and he failed to do it. He never deserved you, honey. Not an ounce of you. Not at seventeen, not at twenty-six, and not for the rest of your life or his.” His eyes move between mine. “You deserve better. So much fucking better. Got it?”

I lick my bottom lip, sucking it into my mouth. Jaxon tugs it free, scraping the pad of his thumb across the soft flesh, his eyes tracking the movement.

“Tell me,” he demands gently.

“Got it,” I whisper, and he swallows the two words with his mouth. My chest heaves as his tongue sweeps mine, his palm gliding roughly over my hip, dipping beneath his T-shirt I wear, gripping my waist. He keeps me there, holding me beneath him as he explores my mouth, and every nerve ending in my body fizzles and pops.

I’ve never, ever been kissed the way Jaxon kisses me, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get just one more taste. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to go without it again, now I know what it feels like.

He drags his mouth from mine, along my jaw and up to my ear, where he presses three whispered words that make my blood run hot. “Good girl, honey.”

We watch the movie in silence for a few minutes, though I get the impression Jaxon is taking in about as much as I am: nothing at all. It’s a tragedy, especially when I realize I’ve missed the infamous Gouda line.

All I can focus on is him. I’m hooked, fixated on every movement, the way he taps a single finger against the arm of the couch, mindlessly strokes Mittens’s forehead. He scoops the cat into one arm and deposits him on the chaise lounge by the window, and when he sits back down beside me, he spreads his legs wide and lets his palm fall to my thigh. I watch as he runs it slowly up and down before letting the tip of his pointer finger take its place. He picks up the strings hanging between my thighs, and my vagina squeals at his proximity.

Calm the fuck down, bitch. We’re bleeding, remember?

He twist the string around his finger. “Pants today?”

“I’m . . . cold?” Lies. I’m burning up, horny as hell, and why do gray sweatpants highlight dicks so fucking flawlessly? I can practically trace the entire shape of him with my eyes right now.

“Mmm. Don’t know if I like you in your shorts more, or my pants. One screams easy access.”

My throat dries. “And the other?”

Playful eyes coast to mine, a lazy, arrogant smile pulling up on one side. “The other screams mine.”

Oh. Oh, fuck. No. Nope. Not today, Satan. Today of all days, with my uterus literally shedding, is not the day to be testing me.

I shove his hand away from my coochie, flinging my arms wide in a faux stretch, nearly hammering him in the face as I give him an Academy Award–winning yawn and leap to my feet. “Well, I’m beat. Off to bed I go.”

“Not gonna finish the greatest romantic comedy of all time?”

“I know what happens, and you do too. Don’t act like you haven’t seen this at least five times. I caught you dancing to the ‘Cha Cha Slide’ today, Jaxon. The song you pretend not to know when the guys try to get you to dance at the games.”

He watches me with an arched brow as I scoop up the treats, tucking everything away in the kitchen. Fold the blanket, fluff the cushions via karate chop, dust the bookshelf for no reason, rearrange my books, and finally, gather my hair products in my arms.

I pause, then place them back on the table. “Actually, these go in your bathroom, so I’ll let you . . .” I fiddle with my curls, twining them around my fingers until they tangle and get stuck. “Bye. Thanks. Good night. Thanks again. For the hair.”

My exit begins a walk, but the second I round the corner, it turns into a mad dash down the hall and into my bedroom, door slamming behind me. I don’t have time to run myself another bath—I’m much too horny—so I crank the shower for a second time and hope Jaxon won’t be upset with me for ruining his fresh ’do. I tug all my clothes off, clean out my period cup, grab my dragon dildo, and then scream bloody murder when the bathroom door swings open.

“Hey, Len, do you have my—holyfuckitsyourdragondildo.” Jaxon’s eyes widen, glued to the ridged dildo gripped tightly in my fist. He covers his mouth with one shaky hand, the other rising to point at my toy. “Were you gonna . . . you were gonna . . . holy fuck, it’s your dragon dildo.”

I shove it behind my back, hands shaking, embarrassment pooling in my cheeks. “Lots of women masturbate on their periods,” I rush out, hating how the words tremble, ready to be torn down. “Hormone levels peak, there’s an increase in blood flow to the pelvis, which makes us ultrasensitive, and it’s totally, completely normal to have amplified sexual desire.”

His hands fall to his sides. The wonder in his eyes clears as he tilts his head, looks me over. Something like disappointment creases his forehead, and my stomach sinks. “Jesus, Ryne really was a piece of absolute shit, wasn’t he?”

I open my mouth to argue more about the science behind masturbating on your period, but then his words settle, and my thoughts jumble, especially as he slowly ambles toward me. “What?”

“You think I’m turned off by a little blood, honey?”

I point at him, and I hate that it’s the dildo hand I do it with. “Don’t do that. Not the honey. You know what it does to me.”

“Turns you on. That’s good. I’m always turned on by you.” He wraps his hand around mine until my dildo is gripped tightly by both of us. “Period or no period, Lennon. I’m always fucking turned on by you.”

I shiver, head tilting as the tip of his nose drags up my neck, replaced by his mouth as he showers my throat with hot, wet kisses. “I don’t blame you. I’m really hot.”

Jaxon sinks his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head taut, leaving me at the mercy of his mouth as he drags it wherever he pleases, lavishing me with attention. “My mouthy girl. Always begging to be fucked when you talk like that, huh?”

Fingertips dance down my side, and I freeze when he slips his hand between my thighs.

“Jaxon, you don’t have—” I swallow my words, fingernails digging into his broad shoulders as he slowly circles my clit. I pull his mouth to mine, burying my moan there, loving the way his chuckle tastes on my tongue.

“You were gonna fuck this while you thought of me.”

The head of my dildo slips through my folds. I moan, rocking against it.

“Say it.”

I shake my head, and the dildo disappears. Frantic, I grip Jaxon’s wrist, bringing the cock back between my legs.

“Say it,” he demands, gliding it over my soaked, throbbing pussy. “Tell me.”

“I was gonna fuck my dildo while I thought of you.”

The dildo disappears again, and my eyes snap open, zeroing in on the man I’m about to dismember. But every threat I want to hurl at him dries in my throat as he pulls his shirt over his head, shoves his pants and boxers down, his cock bouncing up to his belly button, and holy fuck, I want to swallow it.

He fists his cock, slapping my dildo down in the square sink before he stalks toward me. “Show me. Show me how you fuck yourself when you wish you were fucking me, honey.”

“Jaxon, I . . .” I rub my thighs together, because the idea is tantalizing. Me, on the counter, spread wide in front of the mirror, watching my pussy swallow a thick cock while Jaxon strokes himself. I shake my head. “There’ll be blood.”

“I don’t mind.”

My chest heaves as my eyes bounce between Jaxon and the dildo waiting for me. I wring my hands, lick my lips, unsure where my voice has gone. Words stolen by Ryne even when he’s not here. “I’m worried you’ll be grossed out,” I finally whisper.

The hard edges of Jaxon’s gaze softens. “I already told you, honey, there’s nothing about you that turns me off.” He wraps his palm around my neck, lips meeting mine for a soft, slow kiss. “If you’re uncomfortable, Lennon, I understand. I won’t push. But I don’t want you to feel ashamed for something that’s natural. Make yourself feel good however you want to, and don’t let words somebody never should’ve spoken take up space in your head. He’s not worth it.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and reaches for his pants.

“Wait!” My lower lip slides through my teeth, and I glance at the dildo bouncing around in the sink. “How do I get up there?”

Jaxon ditches his pants over his shoulder, racing back to me. “At your service, my short queen.” He flips me up into his arms before I can protest the newest nickname, depositing me on the counter, legs spread wide, feet flat. He bows, tipping an invisible hat, and I can honestly not believe how hard his cock is. “Milady.”

I snicker, and his eyes move over me in the mirror, the heat stacked behind them leaving a trail of fire as they go. He moves behind me, palms scraping up my calves, my thighs. He palms my breasts, and I marvel at the sight, sun-kissed skin covered in tattoos, corded forearms and perfect, broad fingers that tug at my nipples, rolling them while I squirm.

“Fuck, honey, look at you. So damn flawless, I couldn’t have dreamed you up. Spread your legs wider. Lemme see that perfect cunt.”

“Jaxon,” I gasp, and he smiles against my neck. When my legs fall open, he sighs, a long, low sound that scrapes against my clit.

“Look at you, Lennon.” He grips my chin, forcing my gaze to my reflection, where I take in the sight of my pussy, drenched and weeping just for him. Grasping my hips, he shifts me, and I gasp as my clit rubs against the ridges of the cock. “You’re gonna enjoy this, honey. So am I. And when you’re done watching yourself come all over this cock, then you can have mine.” His mouth dips to my ear as his hands slide under my ass, lifting me, positioning me over the dildo. “You can come all over my cock as many times as you want.”

I cry out as he drops me on the dildo, throwing my head over his shoulder as I adjust to the size, the ridges.

“Jesus, honey. Look at you. Look at your pretty pussy taking every inch.” His hands run over my quivering arms. “You’re trembling already. You’re not gonna last.”

I shake my head, whimpering as Jaxon dips his fingers to the cleft of my thighs. With torturously slow circles, he works my clit, his mouth moving over my neck as he rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, until my hips start rolling, lifting. I ease myself up the length of the dildo before lowering myself, then do it again and again, hooked on the way I stretch around it.

“Is this what it looks like?” I manage on staggered breaths. “When I take your cock? God, it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s fucking incredible.”

He laughs, a low, husky sound, and when he coats his fingers in my wetness and brings them around to my backside, gently rubbing that tight hole, I moan. “Close, honey. So close. When it’s my cock sinking inside your pussy . . . it’s fucking euphoric. The most addicting sight I’ve ever witnessed.”

He pushes a single finger inside, and my eyes flutter closed as I take it, love it. It used to be uncomfortable at first, take me a minute or two to adjust to the fullness. Now I chase it, crave it. A second finger brushes at my entrance.

“Two?” Jaxon asks quietly.

“Two,” I breathe out, a shiver of pleasure rippling down my spine as I arch my back, taking the second finger. I barely recognize my reflection, and yet in this moment, I’ve never felt more me. I can’t begin to explain how freeing it is. To be with someone who appreciates me, respects me. Hears my desires and feeds them all while shedding the shame I’ve carried too long. There’s no hiding here. My slick, flushed face, quivering limbs, and bouncing tits say as much as I fuck the dildo on my bathroom counter, leaving streaks of blood on it every time I lift myself up, Jaxon fixated on me, unable to tear his gaze away.

“I’m a mess,” I sputter, face falling forward as pressure coils low in my belly.

“You’re a goddamn masterpiece.”

The best part? I feel like it.

“Can’t see you,” Jaxon huffs, nose nudging at the curls curtaining my face.

I gather them in my fist, piling them on top of my head. “It’s called volume, baby.”

He huffs a laugh, and when a moan slips out of me, long and low, and I arch away from him, pausing my movements, he smirks. “Already, honey?”

“Oh, God, it’s so g-g-gooood.” I roll my hips as he works his fingers inside me, slow, deep thrusts, delicious twists that have my legs on the verge of giving out. “Don’t stop, p-p-please.”

My head falls over his shoulder, and he suctions his mouth over the spot where my neck meets my collarbone. When he pulls away, the skin is a dark shade of purple, and the sight alone makes me shiver. He twists his fingers inside me, and the sound I make is some sort of strangled mewl, desperate for more. Jaxon just smiles.

“You want my cock here one day, honey? That’s the only future you have with two cocks at once. Never been a jealous man, but honey, you got me all kinds of possessive. This pussy is mine. This ass is mine. These perfect tits. This fucking mouth? Fucking mine, honey. And I’m not fucking sharing.” He pulls his fingers from my clit, bracketing my jaw as he brings my gaze to his. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good girl.” He steals the whimper right from my mouth. “Let go, honey. Now.” He slaps my clit, and I cry out, shattering around a cock I wish was his, squeezing his fingers deeper inside me.

I’m barely done when he pulls me off the counter and pushes me into the shower. I don’t have time to apologize for having it running this entire time, because he shoves me against the tiles, hooks my legs over his arms, and buries himself to the hilt in a single, punishing thrust that has me crying out his name.

He groans, resting his forehead against mine as the water soaks our faces, and he grins. “Honey, I’m home.”

Five. That’s how many times I come before I pass out. Once on the dildo, once on Jaxon’s fingers, and three times on his cock. Three times in the shower, and twice on a towel in the bed.

He doesn’t leave me until three in the morning, after cleaning the spot between my legs and when he thinks I’m fast asleep. He’s back two minutes later, leaving water and Advil on my bedside table, cupping my face in his rough hands for a long moment before his lips brush softly against mine.

“Night, honey,” he whispers, stroking his thumb over my cheekbone.

And then he’s gone, and I’m flopping over in bed, mind blown, heart thrashing.

Because everything inside me screams that this isn’t typical. That nothing about this, about us, is ordinary or mundane. There’s something here, something real and different and new and … exciting. For the first time in so long, I’m excited about a future with a partner at my side. Even if Jaxon Riley doesn’t do relationships.

So maybe it’s silly of me to hope to be the exception to his rules, but … isn’t that what hope is?

I’ll tell you something, though. Hope is a funny, fickle thing. You hold on to it for so long, refusing to give it up, and one day you just loosen your grip, watching it sift through your fingers, so damn tired you don’t even care as it disappears.

And then you wake up one sunny morning in April on your twenty-seventh birthday to a note on your pillow.

Happy birthday, honey.

Don’t make a big deal of it.

And when you replace the telescope you’ve been asking for waiting for you beneath your bedroom window, you don’t even try to stop the tears from coming.

And all that lost hope? It comes rushing right back, and you stand there, open your arms, and soak it all in.