Page 23 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)
TWENTY-THREE
Atlas
Lily with Maisy in her arms…
It takes a single heartbeat of seeing her smiling down at the baby, gently rocking the tiny human…and I want.
Want that.
Want it to not be Maisy cradled so carefully against Lily’s chest, but our baby.
Despite our previous conversation about kids not being in either of our immediate futures, I want…
To say fuck all to protection, fuck all to logic and sanity…
And I want to fuck Lily until she’s carrying our child.
So we would have that beauty, the flawed pieces of us coming together to create something so perfect and innocent that I would stand in front of a bullet for that innocence, lay the world at her feet.
Or his.
I still, the image of a son with Lily’s beautiful blue eyes, a daughter with her smile and my eyes so arresting that I’m not paying attention to where I’m going.
And I run into the doorframe.
“Fuck,” I grind out, pain ricocheting down my arm, through my shoulder.
Unfortunately, I do it loud enough to draw the attention of the five women in the room.
Lily’s eyes come to mine, twinkling with mirth—and seriously, why am I always running into doors around this woman?
But before she–or the rest of them–can give me a hard time, Maisy decides she’s had enough of sleeping.
Banks sweeps by me and scoops up his crying daughter from Lily’s arms, bringing Maisy against his shoulder and rocking her, crooning in an instinctive way that I wouldn’t have thought my friend capable of a year ago.
He’d been isolated, shut down.
We all were–the baggage of losing Colt, of trying to rebuild our lives without him.
And now…
We’re more. We’re, if not whole, we’re getting there. And we…
My eyes connect with Lily’s.
We’re more than I ever thought possible.
“Oh, fuck!” she cries, throwing her head back, nearly braining herself on the shower wall.
Luckily, I was paying attention.
And I have long arms.
I manage to slip my hand behind her head, to take the impact in my palm.
And I don’t stop .
Really, I can’t stop.
Not with her slick cunt clamped around me as I stroke into her hard and fast and deep, so deep that, even with saving her from cracking her head open, I’m close.
Too close.
Especially with the warm water cascading down our naked bodies, turning her into something out of a wet dream.
Glistening skin. Tempting curves.
Warm eyes on mine.
At least until I change my angle, thrusting deeper, and she arches again, grinding down as I pound up into her.
And I feel it.
The danger zone.
My orgasm coiling at the base of my spine.
The last dredges of my control threatening to splinter and give way.
Spinning us, I sink down onto the shower seat, drawing her over me, smirking at the befuddlement that comes over her face as she sputters. “Wh-what?”
I settle a hand on her back, clamp my other onto her hip, keeping her close. “Fuck me, Texas,” I order. “Make us both come.”
She blinks. Once. Twice.
Probably because giving up control in the bedroom is not exactly my thing.
But doing it with this woman doesn’t feel like giving.
It’s natural. It’s us.
And bonus, it comes with an excellent view of her tits.
Another bonus?
After that second blink, she starts moving, lifting up, grinding down, pussy clamped tightly around me, breasts bouncing, head falling back, but safely this time, well away from the tiled wall .
More bonuses.
“Atlas,” she moans.
And I stop thinking, about bonuses, about everything else except for pleasure–hers, mine. I stop thinking about control, about what the sight of her and Banks and Aspen’s place with Maisy in her arms did to me.
I stop thinking all together.
And I just feel.
The rightness.
The perfection.
The glorious way we both climb the peak and fall apart, pleasure exploding through us, sending our strokes skittering, our rhythm as our bodies come together hitching, our voices echoing through the shower.
“Fuck,” I mutter when I can actually speak again, smoothing back the damp strands of her hair, “how does every moment with you just get better?”
She jerks in my arms, eyes coming to mine, surprise in the beautiful azure depths.
And I feel it.
I know it.
Love.
Not lust or infatuation–and who am I kidding? It’s never just been that with Lily, never just been liking her or being attracted to her. I’ve been half in love with her from the first moment I laid eyes on her. Since then?
It’s just been…inevitable falling.
And I want her to know what I’m feeling, to take it with her when she leaves me again, to understand that we’re new and still building something, that busy lives and jobs and distance might make things complicated…
But ultimately, none of that really matters.
Because I fucking love her .
And I will move mountains for this woman, won’t ever let her go.
But when I go to tell her that, the words bubbling up in the back of my throat, I notice something that has them stoppering up.
Frowning, I smooth my thumb beneath one of those beautiful eyes then the other, wiping away the tears that may have gotten lost in the stream of the shower, if I weren’t paying attention.
But I am paying attention.
I always do with this woman.
So, I table the words and ask, “What’s wrong, baby?”
She looks away, chest rising and falling on a breath. “Atlas, I?—”
But she doesn’t get any further than that.
Because her cell rings from the other room. And mine follows suit.
And they don’t stop–her PR team needing her to put out some fire, Briar needing me to consult on a contract issue that can’t be put off.
Shower time is over.
We towel off, get dressed, deal with those busy, demanding jobs.
Hours later, when we fall back into bed, exhausted but together—so even that fatigue feels good—and I ask her about the tears from earlier, I don’t have any reason to doubt her explanation of “You’re so sweet, honey. So sweet sometimes that you move me to tears.”
Not with her following that up by leaning close, her lips coming to my ear, whispering, “And I feel the exact same way.”
I don’t have any reason to doubt it.
To doubt her words.
To doubt her.
Not until…I do.