by Mara Wells
Chapter 23
Lance didn’t mind Beckham nearly pulling his arm out of the socket. No matter how much of a hurry the little Jack Russell was in, Lance was even more so. His need for Carrie thrummed through his veins, as steady as his own heartbeat. The gate, the stoop, the front door. In the entryway, he spun and hauled her against him, picking up the kiss where they’d been so rudely interrupted.
She laughed and pushed on his chest, extricating herself in order to settle the dog. Even though the baby monitor was stuffed in his pocket and they hadn’t gone more than a thousand feet from her front door, she still tiptoed in to check on their sleeping son. If Lance wasn’t so anxious that she would change her mind, he might find it adorable.
But he was anxious. She’d said yes on the street, but now they were in her condo, on her turf, the signs of her life with Oliver everywhere he looked. The throw rug between the TV and coffee table was tactile, a multicolored kind of rag-knot, that he was sure she’d chosen purely for the texture. He remembered doing a nursery renovation with her in their second year of marriage. She’d done so much research on baby rooms and created a design that would help a growing child learn colors, shapes, and textures. In her own condo, she’d extended the idea in small touches around the home. The baseboard, he noted, was a scratchy rattan, perfect for a crawling baby to feel with his tiny hands.
Her life was all about Oliver. He saw it in the tiny raincoat hanging by the door, the stuffed animals stuck in the crack of the easy-to-clean leather armchair, and the toys in the basket under the TV. There were also signs of Carrie herself—scuffs on the wooden floor from her many pairs of high heels, touches of green in the throw pillows and on the walls. The condo was cozy and comfortable, so much so that he became uncomfortable. There wasn’t room for him in this space. He didn’t belong here.
You’re a builder, he reminded himself. You can make your own space. Although he couldn’t imagine it now, the thought gave him hope. He quietly made his way to Oliver’s room and observed Carrie as she swooped down to kiss his forehead. She tucked the covers in around his legs and repositioned the big orange octopus so it wasn’t covering his mouth. She must’ve felt Lance watching because she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
Lance’s abdomen tightened like he’d taken a swinging wooden beam to the gut. When he and Carrie split, this was what he’d given up. And suddenly he didn’t simply want Carrie for tonight, he wanted her back. He wanted Oliver and Beckham and space for his work boots in the closet. What he wanted, really wanted, was his wife.
Carrie turned her head, sending him a smile over her shoulder, and his heart sped. Maybe, just maybe, his wife wanted him back, too. He waited in the hallway while she tiptoed her way to him. A guy could hope, couldn’t he? Lance framed Carrie’s face in his palms and kissed her with all the longing he’d spent years burying. He’d built some pretty firm walls after the divorce, but the way she kissed him back was a wrecking ball, leaving him in rubble at her feet. He backed her toward the bedroom, one step at a time, because if he was going down tonight, he wasn’t going alone.
* * *
Carrie landed on the mattress with a thump, the jade comforter soft on her exposed back. Between the hallway and the edge of the bed, she’d lost her silk top and linen pants, but her ivory bra and bikini set were still in place. Lance, too, was topless, and she worked his belt buckle as quickly as she could without letting go of their kiss.
The kiss. This kiss. She’d never been anywhere else, done anything else. The kiss was the beginning and end of time, and even as she felt her lungs burning from lack of oxygen, she couldn’t break away, couldn’t be the reason they reentered reality. No, she was riding this kiss as long as she could, hands shoving down Lance’s jeans while his fingers unsnapped her front hook bra. She gasped at the touch of air on her breasts, gasping again when his warm palms replaced her bra, lifting and holding her, the pressure enough to make her moan.
Lance changed the angle of their kiss, and she sucked in a lungful of air. Their lips crashed into each other, tongues exploring, breath mingling. He moved the kiss to the side of her mouth, down her neck, and it was okay, because it was still the kiss. Their kiss. Her back arched, jaw lifting, as the kiss moved down her body, suckling one breast and then the other before moving to her navel. Then lower and lower still.
Carrie looked down the length of her torso, mesmerized as the kiss moved to the very core of her, Lance’s blond head between her thighs. Her knees fell open, and he growled his pleasure, cupping her buttocks and bringing her right. To. His. Mouth.
Her fingers tangled in the longish strands of his hair, curling and uncurling with each lick of his tongue. Her hips rose, spine arched, and she couldn’t watch anymore, the bob of his head, the smooth expanse of his muscled back between her legs. She threw her head back, clutched clumps of the comforter beside her, panting because she couldn’t scream, not with Oliver asleep down the hall, but oh, how she wanted to.
Lance’s hands moved from her butt, parting her, a finger, then two, finding its way inside her. The kiss didn’t let up, their kiss that started and ended everything. The kiss that was her whole world. He kissed her, stretched her, and she came apart, turning her head to bite the pillow as her whole body trembled its pleasure.
And still the kiss didn’t stop, though it did gentle, moving back up her body to glide across her belly, dip into her navel, reverently revisit each breast, her collarbone, the column of her neck. Until finally, finally, he was back at her lips. She could taste herself on him, and it drove her even wilder. She lashed him with her tongue, his punishment for leaving her alone up here, but he didn’t seem to mind.
The kiss stole more time, stretching minutes into hours and hours into eons. She pushed her hips against his, restless now that her trembling was done. She felt his smile against her lips, his hand parting her thighs.
“Condom?” he whispered.
Her head thrashed to the side. “IUD.”
“Thank God.”
Finally, he was inside her. And it was better even than the kiss. His lips sipped at hers, stealing what little breath she had. Her hands roamed his ropy back, following the lines and contours of muscles to his butt, where she squeezed.
He reared back, breaking the kiss, but it didn’t matter because he was inside her, and they were moving together. His gaze bored into hers, a connection closer than any kiss. The blue of his eyes had always been her sky, her world, and she felt broken pieces of herself fitting back together. Until they were together, one breath, one heartbeat, one eternal moment when together, holding tight, they rode to the edge of time. And leapt.
Chapter 24
Lance’s internal alarm usually woke him up well before dawn and long before his alarm, which he always set for the last possible moment, rang. This morning, though, he woke to his old life—Carrie snuggled beside him, one possessive arm thrown across his chest, and Beckham on the bed, nose lifting Lance’s hand in a bid for attention.
“Hey, buddy, need a little lovin’, huh?” Lance scratched the top of Beckham’s chin. “Guess we both are hearing nature’s call.”
It felt so normal to stealthily peel Carrie’s arm away and slide out on his side of the bed, pulling on boxers and his jeans in one swift move. Beckham leapt to the floor, jumping straight up and turning midair in joy at the prospect of going out. Lance held his finger to his lips, like that would keep the dog from skittering on the hardwood floor, and padded out to the hallway.
A light at the bathroom entrance let him know he wasn’t the first awake this morning. The door stood wide open, and Oliver was positioned in front of the toilet, red fire-engine pajama pants pooled around his ankles, peeing directly on the floor. And indirectly on his pajama bottoms.
“Morning, Oliver.” In the old days, the eternal dilemma was: who needed to pee more, him or Beckham? With Oliver in the mix, option three: bathroom cleanup, kid
cleanup, and a lesson on how to use the step conveniently placed near the toilet. Would Beckham wait that long? How did Carrie do it? He was tempted to wake her up. One of them could handle Oli, and the other could take the dog.
The way she’d smiled at him last night as they drifted to sleep, her chin propped on his chest so she could stare into his eyes…
“Thank you,” she’d said, then yawned and turned her cheek against his pecs. His heart had beat harder in his chest, like it was trying to reach her through bone and skin.
“My pleasure.” He’d stroked his hand down the silky length of her hair, listening to her breathing even out, and sometime in the waiting, he’d fallen asleep, too.
Wake her from that lovely memory to deal with multispecies urine? Not exactly a romantic start to the morning. If Carrie could handle these two on her own, surely he could figure it out.
“How about a shower, big guy?” You don’t leave a child standing around in his own pee. That seemed pretty obvious. Oli obligingly climbed the rest of the way out of his pajamas and into the tub.
Beckham whined, pacing in and out of the bathroom. Lance looked from child to dog, dog to child.
“You know how to take a shower?” he asked his son. He couldn’t remember how old he was when he’d learned to shower, but since he didn’t remember baths, he figured it must’ve been pretty young. Like, probably close to Oliver’s age, right?
“Yes!” Oliver clapped his hands together.
Lance looked at his son skeptically. He seemed a bit short to operate the faucets and handheld showerhead. “Let me get the water started, and you can take it from there.”
“Bath time!” Oliver grabbed a bar of soap in one hand and rubbed it on his arm. Demonstrating mastery of the basics, Lance supposed. Good enough for him.
Lance turned knobs until the temperature was a safe lukewarm and handed Oliver the showerhead. “Back in two minutes, got it?”
“Got it!” Oliver directed the spray at the spot on his arm where he’d rubbed soap. Excellent. Part one of Lance’s two-part plan was a success. Even though Oli didn’t look like he needed any help, Lance knew better than to leave a three-year-old alone in the bathtub, which was why part two involved a quick dash to the entryway. As soon as he let Beckham out the front door into the condo garden, which was, he knew, likely against condo rules, he’d be right back in the bathroom to monitor his son’s bathing ritual. The front door could stand open for the few minutes it would take to towel off the boy and get the dog back inside, all before anyone in the building could complain about a loose dog in the garden or Carrie woke up. Lance snapped for Beckham, pleased with the incredible efficiency of his plan.
Fresh-brewed coffee or breakfast in bed might be thoughtful morning-after gestures, but he’d knock it out of the park with his handling of her morning responsibilities. How surprised Carrie’d be when she woke up and there was nothing to do. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she woke up to a clean bathroom, a dressed-and-ready-for-the-day son, and the smell of that light-roast coffee she liked brewing in the kitchen.
Oh yeah, he was killing the morning after, no doubt about it. Beckham bounded down the stairs just as an early-morning jogger opened the front gate to the building. Beckham yipped with excitement and shot off toward the opening.
“Son of a—” Shirtless, Lance took off after him, jumping the front stoop and landing on the sidewalk with a thump.
The jogger didn’t notice the dog streak by, but her eyes widened at the sight of Lance barreling toward her. She held up her hands like he was going to mug her or something.
“Catch him!” He pointed at his Jack Russell, gleefully streaking toward the street. The jogger and Lance raced after him.
* * *
“Mama!”
Oliver’s high-pitched and urgent call catapulted Carrie out of bed. Naked. Taking a moment to pull on her short cherry-blossom wrap, Carrie rushed toward the sound of her son’s voice. Funny, Beckham served as her incredibly reliable alarm clock—6:23 a.m. on the dot every day, except for when the time changed and they had a week or so of adjustment when he was all over the map and she resorted to using an actual alarm. She wasn’t tripping over the dog, and he wasn’t at the front door waiting to go out. Maybe he was in the kitchen, waiting for the first treat of the day?
“Mama, help!”
“What is it?” Carrie followed Oliver’s voice to the bathroom, hurrying but not too worried. Last week, he screamed her name, and she’d come running only to discover he was upset that there was too much toothpaste on his toothbrush.
She stopped dead in her tracks, like Beckham when he spotted a squirrel in the garden. Then, also like her dog, she sprang into action.
“Give me that!” She got a face full of water from the showerhead before she wrestled it out of Oliver’s grip and turned off the water. Her son was naked in the bathtub, his pajamas soaked in water in front of the toilet, and every surface of the bathroom was sprayed with water. Droplets dribbled down the medicine cabinet’s mirror. The framed birds-of-paradise photos on the wall had water leaking inside the glass frames, darkening the edges of the mounting boards. The shower curtain, an oversize bird-of-paradise print, hung heavy on the rings, drenched like a washcloth. The toilet was filled to the brim, and every towel on every bar was soaking wet.
Oliver held his hands over his head. “I showered!”
“Yes, you sure did.” She looked down at her feet and realized it wasn’t only shower water wetting the floor. Her threshold for grossness had certainly changed since becoming Oliver’s mother, so she didn’t panic. She hopped into the bathtub with Oliver and gave her feet a quick soap, scrub, and rinse. Oliver nodded, as if approving her technique. She placed the showerhead back on its hook, well out of Oliver’s reach, and tried to figure out how to cross the bathroom without stepping in the watered-down yellow puddle that stretched from the toilet base to the wall.
The front door opened, and Beckham’s nails skittered on the floor. Heavy work boots stomped her way. Carrie glanced down at Oliver, still as naked as the day he was born, and herself with her satin robe clinging to her, the cream background turning translucent where it was wet. Which was everywhere, thanks to the initial face blast from Oliver.
“You’re up early!” Lance poked his head in the door, eyes making a circuit of the room, smile slowly fading as he took in the extent of the damage. His cheek muscle twitched. “I was going to surprise you.”
“I’m definitely surprised.” She crossed her hands over her chest, hiding the way her nipples puckered. She was sure it was the chill from the AC hitting her wet gown, not the way Lance’s gaze ran approvingly over her, lingering on all the particularly damp places. “Your idea? Giving the two-year-old a hose?”
“He’s nearly three. And he said he knew how to shower.”
Lance’s defensive tone brought back memories, and not the good kind. Lance saying he’d had to stay at the job site after hours to meet their contract goals, or that he’d meant to pick up her prescription on the way home but forgot, or how he was too tired to attend her office’s holiday party with her.
Carrie found herself shutting down, like she had back then. She didn’t want to fight with Lance. She never had. It was a cycle they’d been unable to break, and here they were only a few hours from some pretty earth-shattering sex, back at it again. They’d had such a breakthrough yesterday. Surely, they couldn’t be regressing already.
She swallowed the words she would’ve said back then, attempting to keep it neutral. “Could you fetch us some dry towels from the closet at the end of the hall?” It was only a few steps away, but space—any space—between them felt like a good idea right now.
“Absolutely.” Lance disappeared, his voice getting louder as he walked away. “I’m really sorry, Carrie. I had no idea one small person could do so much damage in such a short period of time. I was only going t
o be gone half a minute, but then someone left the gate open, and Beckham got out. It was a whole thing.”
Lance apologized? That’s not at all how their fights went. Had he forgotten his lines? He was supposed to blame her for some aspect of the debacle, so she’d get defensive and angry, too. Instead, she found herself smiling. They weren’t regressing at all. New territory opened up before them, ready to explore.
“He is a small destruction machine.”
“Not unlike Beckham’s puppyhood. Tell me, has Oliver eaten any of your shoes? Chewed through a dining chair leg? Mangled any electrical cords?” Lance appeared with an armload of towels. He spread two out on the floor, soaking up the puddles, and gave one to her. The last one, he held open, and Oliver stepped into it. Lance wrapped the towel around him and lifted him out of the tub.
“Shh.” Carrie stifled a laugh. “Don’t give him more ideas. He has plenty of his own.”
“I can dress myself!” Oliver laughed his maniacal laugh and ran to his bedroom.
Lance raised an eyebrow. “Is it true? Or does he habitually overstate his abilities?”
“Sure, as long as there are no buttons.” Carrie stepped out of the tub, squeezing past Lance in the close bathroom. “He’s mastered Velcro and zippers, though he sometimes decides he’d rather leave them undone.”
Lance clasped her hips with both hands, arresting her progress toward her bedroom and dry clothing. “I think we forgot something.”
She tilted her head. “Yeah?”
He tipped his chin and brushed her lips with his. “Good morning, beautiful.”
Carrie felt the heat rise from her chest, no doubt coloring her neck and cheeks. “Morning, yourself.”
“I’ll start the coffee.” A gentle push on her back sent her out the door. “You do what you need to do. I’ll take care of the bathroom.”
Carrie was tempted to turn and gape at him. Who was this guy? Her Lance had been fun; he’d been spontaneous and romantic. And so, so hot. But he’d never been very thoughtful or all that willing to clean. She kept walking forward, across the hall and into her room, planning the day ahead. No more looking back; she didn’t have to look into the past to see Lance anymore. His broad chest and long, chiseled legs were filling up the present and, she dared to hope, her future.
