He smashes his lips to mine, starved and crazed, clutching me like I’m his most prized possession—his whole purpose. Lifting to his knees, he pulls me with him, then falls back to the headboard in a sitting position until I’m straddling his lap. “I can’t believe you love me. I can’t believe you’re mine.” His words spill out ragged, his hands climbing my back, fingers gripping me at the nape of my neck. “I can’t believe I put a baby in you.”
“Believe it,” I whisper. “Believe me.”
“God, I fucking love you.”
Parker kisses me again with unbridled hunger, our tongues dueling to the beats of our hearts. He tears the shirt off my body, throwing it to the floor beside us, then dives forward, taking my breast in his mouth. My back arches with pleasure, our intimacy spiraling into sheer desire. I grab fistfuls of his hair, a breathy moan mingling with his. Thick hardness presses into my inner thigh, and I grind into him, wetness pooling between my legs. “Are you sure you’re not too sore?”
He sucks my nipple into his mouth, biting gently. “I’m sore as fuck, but there’s no way in hell I’m ending this night without being inside you.”
My head drops back when he nicks me again, then trails his tongue up my chest to my throat, pulling the skin between his teeth. On instinct, I reach over to the bedside lamp to switch it off, but Parker steals my wrist before I can.
He shakes his head. “No.”
Inhaling a sharp breath, I watch as he gathers the fabric of his t-shirt, then pulls it up over his head, tossing it next to mine. His body sits bare before me, seventy-nine scars on display, and I fall in love with every single one. I trace my fingertips along the puckered marks, smooth and soft, feeling him stiffen as his fingertips bite into my hipbones.
Parker hisses when I lean down to pepper kisses along his torso, my tongue poking out to lave along the expanse of scars. He cradles the back of my skull in his hands, arching into my roaming mouth with a soft groan. “You ruin me, Melody,” he murmurs, weaving his fingers through my wild hair. “You shatter my walls. You vaporize my darkness, overthrow my demons. You destroy every goddamn misaligned belief I’ve carried with me all my life.”
My lips trail up his chest until we’re mouth to mouth, breaths intermingled, and I say, “It’s time to rebuild.”
Words fade into needy kisses and frantic touches, and I’m devoured by his tongue, his hands, his palpable love for me. His hips lift up to tug his boxers down as I shimmy out of my underwear, and I position myself in his lap, his erection teasing me.
Our eyes lock for a powerful heartbeat, the last few hours swirling around us with electrifying energy.
Near death.
New life.
And then I slide down onto him with a husky cry, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
Parker’s face falls between my breasts, stifling his moan of pleasure. Strong arms envelop me, wrapping around my back, anchoring me to him. We don’t move right away.
We just feel.
When my hips begin to rock on instinct, taking him slow and deep, Parker grips me tighter, his hands skimming up my spine and tugging me closer until our mouths meet.
Skin on skin, my body buzzes with restoration. His tongue pushes past my lips as fire blazes through me, my heart quickening, my pulse dancing. I ride him faster, harder, both of us groaning with every collision.
He’s alive.
I’m alive.
We are living, breathing, fucking, loving, evolving. Our blood pumps hot. Our veins thrum and throb. Our skin sweats, and our limbs cling.
My womb sings with life.
The thought alone ignites my core. I’m fevered and driven, rising and falling onto him at a desperate pace, attacking his mouth as I tug handfuls of his hair to steady myself.
Parker yanks my head back, nearly crumbling. “Jesus fuck, if you keep riding me like that I’m going to fucking lose it.”
I kiss him again without slowing down, nipping his lip with my teeth. “I want you to. Lose yourself in me.”
Show me how alive you are.
“You want me to lose control? You want me to come in two fucking seconds?”
“Yes.”
Our pelvises crash together, and I bite his lip again, grinding myself against his groin. My body sparks with the prelude to release.
“Fuck, Melody…” Parker palms the base of my skull in a punishing grip, our teeth knocking together as he hisses out, “You’re coming with me.”
His opposite hand snakes between us, fingering me until those sparks catch fire and I go up in flames. Parker slams into me with violent thrusts, unraveling the moment I’m shuddering in his arms, nothing but dynamite and shooting stars. His release flows through me, his life force, and he buries his deep groan into the crook of my neck, holding me tighter than ever as we ride the waves together.
I go limp in his arms, and we both collapse against the headboard with a hard sigh. Parker glides his hands up and down my back with tender strokes, his heart beating fast and furious into my own, our breaths uneven, yet perfectly aligned.
A smile claims me, and I feel myself drifting away as I lay sprawled atop him, our bodies still joined. But as a soft, hazy glow permeates the curtains, the first hint of daybreak, I’m overcome with another inherent desire. My cheek lifts from his chest. “Parker?”
His exhaustion is evident, but he musters a soft, “Hmm?”
“I know you’re tired, but I want to do one more thing before we go to sleep.”
Long lashes flutter as his eyelids open, and then he reaches down to squeeze my backside. “Mmm, you’re insatiable.”
“Not that,” I grin, pulling myself off of him and reaching for his hand. “Come with me.”
We take a moment to freshen up and find our clothes, and then I’m leading him through his house, Walden trailing behind us, until we’re standing on the front porch, gazing up at the blossoming horizon.
It’s a celebration.
A new day. A new beginning.
A new life.
We watch the sunrise together that morning, side by side, hand-in-hand, with Walden resting comfortably beside our feet. And as vibrant colors paint the sky, sheathing the treetops in magenta and gold, I think we finally see the same thing.
Hope.
—FORTY—
I found a way to give her a forever August.
Our daughter, August Amelia, twirls the skirt of her birthday dress in ungraceful circles, two small palms cocooning her furry little friend.
I was never any good at life, and here I am now, living—while somehow managing to keep my kid alive, as well as my dog, who is a thousand years past ancient at this point, Melody’s aggressive infiltration of house plants, and this fucking hamster that clearly surpasses every law of hamster physics.
“Daddy, look!”
Oh, fuck, did it finally croak?
Bracing myself, I step closer to my daughter as the blades of grass tickle her bare toes. Her toothy grin has me letting out a breath of relief. “What is it, sunshine?”
Sunny blonde pigtails dance with the breeze, while wide green eyes twinkle in the midday glow.
She’s a spitting fucking image of her mother.
“Nutmeg wear birfday hat.”
A smile twitches on my mouth as I glance inside August’s cupped hands, taking in the tiny pink blossom that rests atop the hamster’s head. It’s a singular petal that blew free of the young peach tree flowering in our backyard.
It was one of the first things Melody did when she moved in with me three years ago. She planted a peach tree in honor of her late husband, and we’re hoping it will finally bear some fruit this summer.
“Parker!”
Melody’s panicked voice carries over to me from the back door, and I turn in place, casting worried eyes upon my very pregnant wife. She waves me over, looking frantic.
I race towards her. “Shit, what’s wrong?”
“It’s an emergency.”
Double shit.
Melody is thirty-nine weeks along with our son, so planning a big party for August’s third birthday was risky. My mind has been consumed with harrowing images of the party being interrupted by Melody’s water breaking during the Happy Birthday song, painful contractions, and our son popping out on the kitchen floor next to the dog bowls.
“No, it’s worse,” she exclaims in a flustered breath, her braided pigtails swinging side to side as she shakes her head.
I pale.
Then I glance down at her swollen belly, just to make sure my kid didn’t already pop out and I fucking missed it.
“I burned the cupcakes,” she confesses, a horrified cry following. “Who am I? You should just take over.”
What the fuck?
Melody’s expression is riddled with regret.
In the years that I’ve known her, my wife has never once burned a cupcake. She’s well-known around town, practically a local celebrity, having opened up a successful bake shop downtown late last year. It was a natural progression once her in-home bakery became too much to maintain, and the ratio of flour dust to oxygen inside our home was becoming concerning.
I purse my lips through a frown. “The last time I tried to bake cupcakes with you, I forgot three critical ingredients. It was a terrible fucking idea.”
Her eyes flare, then shift to August, who is coming up behind me. “Language,” she whisper-scolds.
Oh, right. I’m trying to be more careful now that our daughter repeats literally everything.
Clearing my throat, I amend, “It was a terrible fudging idea.”
My eyebrows waggle. Melody blinks.
“Fudging,” I repeat, then let out a drawn-out sigh. “You know, fudge. Cupcakes. C’mon, that pun was gold.”
She stares at me for a moment before a smile stretches and her eyes shimmer with humor. “Oh, my God,” Melody replies, bursting into a fit of giggles and flipping one braid over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Parker. My mind turned to sludge an hour ago, and I’m living in a perpetual hot flash.”
Her cheeks are rosy red, the flush spreading down her neck and chest. My palms reach out to pull her close, one pressing along her stomach, while the other reaches around her neck.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Placing a lingering kiss to her forehead, I whisper, “Now you know what it’s like for me being around you every day.”
She shivers. “Yeah, right… I’m a bowling ball within a bowling ball.”
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” My lips travel down her cheek, landing on two full lips, and I murmur suggestively, “How much time do we have before people show up?”
Melody melts into me for a blissful moment, temptation seizing her. But she quickly collects her bearings and delves right back into panic-mode. “Twenty minutes.”
The doorbell rings.
She goes ashen.
August pushes past us both with a squeal of excitement, still holding onto Nutmeg, while Walden hobble-skips along with her to the front of the house.
I take Melody’s face between my hands and bring her gaze to mine, smiling softly until she noticeably relaxes. “Melody March-Denison.”
“Yes?” she squeaks.
“How many batches of cupcakes did you already make?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve batches, a dozen each? That’s one-hundred-and-forty-four cupcakes.”
She nods.
“How many regular cakes did you make?”
“Two.”
“Okay, well… if my math checks out, that equals approximately a-lot-of-fucking-cake. Everything will be okay, nobody will starve, and our grandchildren’s grandchildren will still have leftovers to spare.”
Melody heaves in a calming breath, curling her fingers around my wrists. Her eyes flicker with acceptance as she lifts her chin. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“But…” Her tongue pokes out to slick her lips, and she swallows hard. “I burned the lemony ones.”
“With the meringue filling?”
She nods again.
“Fuck.”
Our mutual disappointment is interrupted when our daughter comes bounding back through the house, beaming with enthusiasm, her lacy dress billowing behind her little legs. “Uncle West and Auntie Lee-Lee!”
West and Leah enter the house with massive giftbags, likely containing obnoxiously loud toys that I’ll need to lose the batteries for. Melody tugs me inside through the back door and darts straight to Leah. The women do their girly hugging thing as West approaches, eyeing me warily in his khakis and lame polo.
“Hey, asshole.”
My arms cross, my gaze assessing him with equal distaste. “Hey.”
It’s been an interesting few years getting to know Melody’s brother. The truth is, we don’t have much in common. He likes beer and sports, while I like things that aren’t beer and sports. He enjoys going out to bars. The only thing I enjoy about bars is the leaving part. He has terrible taste in movies, and even worse taste in music, and he was a huge pain in my ass during the wedding planning two years ago when Melody and I decided on an intimate backyard ceremony instead of a ballroom extravaganza.
But fucking West just had to take over and hire a shitty rock band to serenade us with godawful Nickelback covers all night. He even got up on stage and sang that Photograph song as some kind of horrifying dedication, and Christ, that song was terrible enough to begin with—the memories still haunt me.
He also made a giant fucking spectacle of himself when he got trashed and drunkenly proposed to Leah in front of our seventy-five guests.
She slapped him. Then she kissed him. And then she slapped him again.
I’m pretty sure that sums up their entire relationship.
Last summer, they took a spontaneous trip to Las Vegas with another couple and “accidentally” got married by an Elvis impersonator who doubled as a male gigolo. Nobody is entirely sure what the fuck is going on between them, but honestly, I don’t think they do either.
But for all of our animosity, bickering, and insults, I think the thing we hate most is that we really don’t hate each other at all.
The asshole isn’t half bad. He loves the fuck out of Melody, and it’s hard not to respect someone like that. Not to mention, he really came through when I got this psychotic idea of building an entire second level onto my little ranch house. I figured we could use the extra space with our growing family, and apparently, I hate sleep and free time.
West helped me get Melody’s house fixed up to put on the market, and then he dedicated a hell of a lot of time to helping me with the new addition. He’s an electrician, so he actually knew his shit, and we semi-bonded over circuit breakers and ground conductors.
He narrows his eyes at me as we hold our stare, but West cracks first, a smirk lifting. “You get that dimmer switch all installed in the new nursery?” he wonders, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah. You figure out the HVAC problem for that one douchebag customer?”
He sniggers. “After all that, it was an issue with the flame sensor.”
“Shit.”
A beat goes by, easy smiles passing between us.
We fist-bump.
August bounces up and down in front of us with a wide smile, her pigtails bouncing with her. She holds up her arms to Leah, stealing her raven-haired godmother’s attention away from Melody. “Lee-Lee! Look at my fucky hamster. She has birfday hat.”
Oops.
I try my best to dissolve into the hardwood flooring when all three heads jerk towards me.
Leah clears her throat in an attempt to cover up her laughter. “Your fucky hamster. Wow, Aug, I can’t believe how cute she looks in that hat. And how… alive.”
She mouths to me, “How is it still alive?”
The thing has got to be four or five. Pretty sure it’s an alien hamster. Or a robot, like my sister.
I shrug.
&nbs
p; Speaking of Bree, I step away from the crowd to pull out my phone. She was heading over to the party after her shift at the hospital, but it’s typical for her to get roped into more work.
While there are no notifications from Bree, there is a new Hangouts message waiting for me.
A genuine smile creeps in when my eyes skim over the message from my favorite pen pal.
RacerDude: I made the baseball team!!!
Fuck. Yes.
Zephyr79: Atta boy. I knew you would.
RacerDude: Thank u for helping me pitch the other day. I know u don’t really like sports.
Zephyr79: It was fun. You’re a natural. You can pay me back with a joyride when you’re a famous race car driver someday.
RacerDude: Yea right! Oh.. mom told me to tell you that we have a b-day present for August. Sry we can’t make the party today.
Zephyr79: That’s okay. She drew you a picture. It’s just a red scribble, but it’s supposed to be a car. Act excited.
RacerDude: Cute!! :-) thx August.
Zephyr79: Gotta go, but let me know when you have your first game. We will be there. Proud of you, Owen.
RacerDude: Ur the best. TTYL
Slipping my phone into my back pocket, Melody is standing in front of me when I raise my head. Her knowing smile flashes bright.
“Owen?”
“Yeah. He made the team,” I tell her, unable to hide my own proud grin.
“That’s so wonderful. I knew he would.” Melody saunters over to me, wobbling a little like Walden does, which is charming as fuck, and leans up to kiss me. It’s sweet and gentle at first, but I clasp her cheeks between my palms, deepening it instantly. She sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out as a squeaky sigh, our tongues touching and tasting, and we lose ourselves for a moment, uncaring of the guests only a few feet away.
A satisfied moan escapes when I pull back, dusting my thumbs along her rouge-stained cheeks. “Mmm. You taste like lemon frosting.”
The Wrong Heart Page 35
