Page 50

Willow

I t’s strange being back in a house that doesn’t move.

No lost room keys and going to the wrong room number.

No late-night crew laughing as they load our luggage so we can move on to the next city.

No opening another suitcase in yet another hotel room and forgetting what city we’re in.

No working to make the new hotel room yet another adventure so that Poppy was comfortable and happy.

Just stillness.

And quiet.

And the soft snores of Poppy sleeping in the room next to mine.

I stand at the window in an oversized T-shirt and panties, and stare out at the darkness beyond.

It feels good to be home. Even though it isn’t mine, per se, it feels good to be able to let Poppy wander freely and not worry about her getting lost or someone taking her. And I think she feels it too because she was so adamant that she play on her own this evening in her chair by the window .

It feels great to be able to take a shower and not wonder what weird things other guests have done in them. And don’t even get me started on the comforter situation.

I hear footsteps, prepare to see Poppy standing there, but when I look up, it’s Rocket. He’s standing in the doorway, no shirt, hands shoved in a pair of well-worn jeans, and a look on his face I can’t decipher.

Every part of my body has a visceral reaction to the sight of him standing there—including my heart. It feels like that sucker breaks out of my rib cage and lands squarely at his feet.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He leans a shoulder on the frame. “You’re in my shirt.”

I look down and blush. “I am. It smells like you.” I smile sheepishly. “I like that.”

“And I like seeing you in it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “What serious thought was I interrupting?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I shake my head. “Just how I need to decide whether I’m going to jump headfirst back into this master’s program or consider going on this interview I got for that position at the elementary school.”

“The one on the far side of town?”

I nod. It’s a position. Far from here. One that would make it too hard to be a nanny and work at the same time. One that would change everything .

“I vote for staying the nanny and finishing your master’s. But that’s because I’m a selfish bastard and can’t quite imagine this house without you in it anymore.”

Our eyes meet. Hold. His words take root and warm me. Who doesn’t like to feel needed? Who doesn’t like to hear that you are?

But his words say more than that. They say live here with me. Stay here with me. I want to do this with you.

Or maybe that’s what I want to believe they mean.

“I’ve already told you I’d pay for the master’s program.”

“I know, and I told you I don’t need you to. Your generosity has already made it easy for me to complete my master’s program.” And set me up to pay off my existing student loan debt.

“Maybe I don’t want you to have any reason to want to leave.” He tilts his head, eyes drifting lazily across the room before locking on mine. “You’re way over here in the house ... and I’m way over there.”

“Damn architect. ”

“I know. I was thinking of calling him up and having the rock starrest of all rock star tantrums over it,” he says playfully.

“Oh, no. Not that .” My smile is genuine, and my heart has never felt this... full.

“The tour meant you were just right here. Next to me. All the time.”

My pulse skips a beat. God, the way he said that—so casual, so devastating—it’s almost like he’s stating a fact. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s cracking something open inside me.

“It is your house. You’re more than welcome to try out your guest bed ... if you want.” I shift.

He approaches me slowly, eyes playful. “Never done that before.”

I laugh. “You’ve never slept in your guest rooms?”

He sits on the edge of my bed and gives it a quick bounce, testing the springs like he’s making a very serious decision.

“Nope. Never.”

And then, before I can say anything else, he reaches for me, tugs me gently between his knees, and wraps his arms around my waist. His head presses against my stomach like I’m the comfort he wants.

My fingers sink into his hair instinctively. It’s soft and still damp at the base of his neck. I run my nails lightly over his scalp, and his body relaxes against me like I’ve just flipped some hidden switch.

“That feels good,” he murmurs. “Keep doing it, and I’m going to fall asleep. I feel like I haven’t slept in months.”

“Because I don’t think we have.” We did. We slept, but how good do you really sleep when every place is somewhere new? “But the tour was good. The reviews were incredible.”

“They were.” He nods. “And I got to show you and Poppy some of the country and some ofmyworld.”

My throat tightens. “Yes. You did.”

He tilts his head up. It’s too tempting, and so I give in to my need, take my time, and lean down to brush my lips against his. The kiss isn’t rushed. It isn’t playful.

It’s slow.

It’s sensual.

It’s a thank-you, adon’t stop, and a you matter to me more than I can explain, all contained in this simple touch of our lips.

There’s a whimper from Poppy’s room. I rest my forehead against Rocket’s to listen, and then I hear it again. I press a kiss to his head before slipping out to check on her.

I expected a rough night. Sure, she’s back home and she’s tired from playing with less restrictions, but I also look at it as another reminder that her mom isn’t here. Just because she’s three and can’t effectively communicate that she misses her, doesn’t mean she doesn’t.

I sneak in and adjust her blanket around her and her bunny, press a kiss to her curls, and murmur, “Love you,” before walking out.

When I return to my bedroom, Rocket is propped up against the pillows, one arm behind his head, eyes closed like he’s finally fallen asleep.

I study him—the lines of his body, the relaxed look on his face, how he looks lying in my bed waiting for me—and my heart thunders. It’s never been more apparent than right now that I’m in love with Rocket Caldwell.

Ooof.

That’s a huge admission I’ve been dancing around with tricks like saying I’m falling for him . Well, I’m way past falling.

I shut the door gently and slide in beside him.

“Come here, you,” he murmurs as he pulls me against him so that my head is on his chest. I trace the lines of his tattoos, much like Poppy does, as his chest rises and falls.

We lie there for a few minutes, the darkness wrapping around us, before his voice breaks the silence. “I’m terrified of the hearing.”

“I know you are, but I think it’ll be fine.”

“I have a past. It’s not horrible, but it’s beenpublic. Wild years. Exaggerated headlines. Bad decisions.”

“We all deserve a little grace for the things we did when we were younger.”

“I hope that’s true. But what if it’s not enough? What if I lose her, Willow? What if—”

I press my fingers to his lips. “Shh. We’re not thinking things like that.”

“But—”

I kiss him to stop the words. To stop the negative thoughts. It’s a slow, tantalizing kiss, as I try to anchor him to this moment. Tome. To everything he’s become instead of everything he’s afraid he used to be.

And he lets me own this moment. He allows me to direct us to a place where sensation and feeling rule. And when my hand trails over his chest, down his stomach, and dips beneath his waistband, he handcuffs my wrist.

“No.” He growls low in his throat and flips me gently onto my back. “ You took care of me on tour ... and now I’m going to show you how good it feels to be taken care of in return.”

His mouth trails down my stomach lighting a fire in its wake and burning his touch into my memory before positioning himself between my thighs.

He looks up at me in the dim light as he leans down and kisses me through my panties. His breath is a whisper against my skin. I arch reflexively into his mouth as my nerves sing, and my body aches.

I’m aware of the ache at my core, and of the tremble in my thighs as he slides his tongue along the edge of my underwear. The tip of his tongue teases, taunts, and tempts.

Our eyes meet through the dim light, and there’s a darkness in his gaze that’s equal parts hunger and adoration. A look that owns me in unexpected ways.

Almost as if he’s confused which one should take center stage. Almost as if he’s never had to choose before.

I reach down and thread my fingers through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he presses his mouth hard against me, lips parting, tongue insistent and slow through the fabric. I grip his shoulders, helpless, dizzy against the sheets, and desperate for more.

He pulls my panties aside and glides a finger inside, featherlight. My body answers him instantly, greedy and wanting. Hungry and insatiable. He takes his time, hot breaths, featherlight touches, and murmured praise.

When he finally puts his mouth on me, I arch. I want to call his name, but can’t form the sound. For a moment, the world telescopes to just this. To just us. To his warm tongue and the searing-hot pleasure. His rhythm is careful. Patient. Methodical. Skilled.

The orgasm is a slow build. The crest of a wave that pushes me up then pulls me under with an intensity I revel in.

“Come on, Wills. There you go,” he murmurs, his lips against my belly as he lets me ride out my high.

And I do, but my thought as I come down is how he deserves to feel the same. How I want to return the favor.

He protests when I push him off me. When I press his shoulders to the bed and lick my lips in anticipation.

“Turnabout is fair play, right?” I say suggestively. He sucks in a breath as I trail my finger down his chest right to where his cock bobs in his pants .

“By all means.” He chuckles then groans as I waste no time taking him in my mouth.

And I don’t mess around. The very first bob of my head takes him all the way to the back of my throat until it can’t go any farther.

“Fucking hell, Wills,” he groans out, his hand going straight to the back of my head and fisting in my hair there.

It urges me on, the way my name sounds in his gritty voice. The way it feels to know I’m bringing him as much pleasure as he did me.

My lips work a rhythm, and his hips stutter, and my own pleasure lingers in the air like a benediction for us both.

He’s not gentle as he fucks my mouth. He’s not rough either. More like a man on the cusp of losing control but holding tightly to that one last thread remaining. The last thing holding him back.

It’s in the way his hands keep tightening and flexing in my hair. How his chest shivers beneath my palm. The way he strangles on the guttural sounds clawing up his throat.

I smile around him, my lips tightening so I can drive him wild. I love the way he loses control, how the tattoos and the tough talk and the sprawl of his body all melt into a desperate need for my touch and my touch alone.

His thighs tense beneath my palms, but I take my time, slow and then faster, listening to the way his breath hitches, the way he breathes my name like a prayer and a plea.

“Wills, Jesus.” He presses his head back into the pillow, his control unraveling with each second. Each time I pull back, I look up at him, and his eyes—lids heavy, pupils wide, undone—are the best reward.

When he finally comes apart, he shudders so hard it nearly lifts him off the bed, both hands tight in my hair, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Another moment, and he collapses, boneless and spent, and starts to laugh.

“What?”

He leans up on one elbow and cups my cheek with his free hand, thumb smearing along my jaw. “Are you trying to ruin me, Wills?” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

I shrug coyly, proud of garnering that reaction. I look him up and down. “Good. You look better ruined.”