by Kilby Blades
"I love you…I love you so much," he breathed, a long tear sliding down his face.
It was all a dream, him standing us up, sweeping me bridal-style into his arms. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder as he carried me to his bed. He placed me down, and began undressing me so gently, so intimately, I sighed at his feather touch. He left a trail of delicate kisses on the places where he'd just removed clothing, divesting me of all but my bra and panties. His eyes roved my nearly naked body, longingly, but only for a fleeting moment, before he dug into a drawer and recovered one of his old t-shirts, which he pulled over my head.
I climbed back a bit on his bed, taking in the view as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down to reveal tanned, muscular legs. Jagger was just as lean as before, but thicker. Right down to his snug-fitting gray undershirt and his green striped boxers, grown-up Jagger was ten kinds of sexy.
I yawned, prompting Jagger to look at the clock. When my eyes followed, I saw it was past midnight, which meant it was past 3:00 AM in New York. Between the emotional stress of the day and the late hour, I was exhausted.
"Tonight, we sleep," he said, pre-empting me from finding my second wind. "Tomorrow morning, we do everything else," he murmured a bit cheekily as he helped me into bed. I wasted no time stealing another long, delicious kiss before burrowing more deeply into his embrace. Just before I felt myself drift off completely, I heard him whisper to me, “Welcome home.”
Epilogue
In a couple of years they have built
a home sweet home,
with a couple of kids running in the yard
of Desmond and Molly Jones.
The Beatles, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da
* * *
Roxy
"Danzig?"
"No."
"Deftones?"
"No."
"Death Cab?"
I looked up at Jagger and rolled my eyes. Maybe agreeing to consider a rock band for our son's middle name hadn't been such a great idea. I was 37 weeks pregnant, so we really needed to get serious.
"Divo?"
"It has to be a band we like," I intoned. "Besides, I don't know why you're giving me bands that start with 'D'. I already told you ten times—our son’s name doesn’t need to spell out an acronym, like yours.”
The stupid delight that Jag had gotten all his life from his initials spelling out the word JAM was one of many new things I’d learned about him since we’d reunited. He’d wanted to pass down his middle name—Anderson—to our little son. Thinking about all of this far too hard, he’d reasoned that if our son’s first middle name started with a “D”, our baby’s initials would concatenate to ADAM.
Jagger looked up at me with truly pathetic puppy dog eyes.
"Pleeeeeease?" he asked sweetly. "I'll rub your feet again."
Hmmmm, tempting…but I had to remain strong.
"Give it up, Monroe." I commanded, sticking my feet out for him to rub anyway. (He did.)
Never in my life would I forget the day we'd told Jack and Elsie our good news. In their retirement, they had bought a place in Santa Barbara where they could come for the winter. That put them roughly forty-five minutes away from our house in Marina Del Rey, where I'd moved into with Jagger the previous summer. We'd only done the long distance thing for ten weeks, but it had still felt like ten weeks too long. We’d seen each other often, during that time. I made it so that the book project I was working on at the time took me to L.A. more and more. Even without that, there were other meetings to attend to every few weeks since we’d jointly decided to license my song.
And so our courtship had commenced—when I came, Jagger took me out on dates. He was as sweet as I'd ever seen him. I'd have been content to watch paint dry, as long as we were together, but Jagger was set on making up for lost time. We discovered our own L.A., together, while turning his house into our home, bit by bit.
But half the time we spent in the bungalow was on the bed. And half the time out of the bed was spent bent over the back of the couch, against the wall of the shower, splayed out on top of his baby grand.
In that department, Jagger was even more talented than I'd remembered, though over the years I'd often wondered whether I had only built him up as the best lover I'd ever had in my mind. It was no figment of my imagination—only he had ever found that special rhythm; only he knew the right way to do me slow, and hard, and deep. Then there were the other skills, skills I didn't want to think about how he'd learned but that served me very, very well.
"T and T, Roxy?" Elsie had asked that day as she’d walked me to their spacious backyard. On these Sunday visits, it was customary for us to have drinks before dinner at the large covered table by the pool. Jagger and Jack usually tossed back a sixer of beer before moving on to the scotch while Elsie and I sipped away at Tanqueray and tonics, and talked. The Beatles-only rule had endured the years, and made everything feel like home, even with the new digs.
"No thanks," I had hedged lightly. "But I'll take a soda. Do you have any ginger ale?"
She'd stopped mid-gait, stepping back from me as her eyes flew to my midsection, then up to my eyes. The bathing suit cover-up I wore was loose and flowy, but still she could tell…
"Oh, Roxy!" tears had sprung to her eyes. "Are you expecting?"
I smiled, not needing to say the words for Elsie to hear the answer. Her joy was palpable, and my hormones were working overtime, so before I knew it, we were hugging, and both in tears.
"Looks like the cat's out of the bag," Jag had said when he found us on the patio, seeming not at all upset that we'd agreed to wait to tell them together. Ever since Jagger had heard the news, he'd been bursting to tell everyone—it was I who'd wanted to wait.
"What cat?" Jack had asked as he stepped in behind Jagger, handing his son a beer.
Jagger collected me into his arms, my back to his front and set a gentle hand on my little bump.
"Dad, Roxy and I are pregnant."
Jack had beamed. "Son, that's fantastic!" And soon he had kissed me on the cheek, shaken Jagger's hand and pulled a teary-eyed Elsie into his arms. Five minutes later, I was sipping my ginger ale from a champagne flute while the other three drank the real stuff. The tone changed from elation to something more somber, but hopeful, when we told them the rest.
"We'd like to call him Anthony…if that's alright with you."
I had put my hand over Elsie's as I asked permission, looking between she and Jack. It had been my idea; one I'd said straightaway to Jagger as soon as we found out we were having a boy. Anthony was the name of their son who had passed away when he was a tiny baby. His little brother was the reason why Jag had volunteered for all those years in the NICU.
"We'd be honored," Jack had replied with gruffness in his voice.
Soon after, we’d sat for dinner, where I ate twice my normal helping. By contrast, Elsie was too excited to eat. By the end of the meal, they were all drunk (having opened a second bottle of champagne), laughing and singing along to Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
"How about David?" Jagger asked, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the moment. His voice was different when he mentioned this one—less joking than it had been a minute before. “David, like, as in, Dave Grohl."
I smiled at the memory.
"He did sing us our first song," I mused, remembering our first date at The Vermillion Room.
"Anthony David Anderson Monroe," Jagger said smiling hopefully. "I think it sounds kind of nice."
The truth was, I did too. In my mind, I ceded my earlier position before he even pulled all hundred and seventy pounds of me into his loving arms.
“ADAM it is," I said, grinning at the irony.
Anthony kicked spiritedly, as if approving our decision. Jagger clicked through the iPod until he found Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. I giggled as Jagger sang, intermittently to me and my gargantuan belly. My little son finally had a name.
Hey, readers—Kilby here! Did you like Ended? If you think I’m funny, and you li
ke a little heat, The Art of Worship is my award-winning Romantic Comedy novella about a virginal 18-year-old who turns to his dad for sex advice. It’s hilarious and a fan favorite, because sex is awkward. And, when you’re a teenage boy, so are man-to-man talks with your dad. This one has mature themes, so be warned.
* * *
For something just as funny but a lot more tame, my Contemporary Rom-Com novella, Crazy Old Money, is about a Connecticut-born billionaire who’s ashamed of his wealth being summoned home by his octogenarian grandmother. This threatens his weekend plans: to propose to his Black girlfriend, who has yet to meet his stuffy family and who doesn’t know he comes from money.
* * *
And—love it or hate it—please, please, please leave a review for Ended. For freebies and other awesomeness, join my newsletter (where I overshare about my crazy life) and learn about my new releases by following me on BookBub!
About Kilby Blades
Kilby Blades is a 40-time-award-winning author of Romance and Women's Fiction. Her debut novel, Snapdragon, was a HOLT Medallion finalist, a Publisher’s Weekly BookLife Prize Semi-Finalist, and an IPPY Award medalist. Kilby was honored with an RSJ Emma Award for Best Debut Author in 2018, and has been lauded by critics for “easing feminism and equality into her novels” (IndieReader) and “writing characters who complement each other like a fine wine does a good meal” (Publisher’s Weekly).
When she's not writing, Kilby goes to movie matinees alone, where she eats Chocolate Pocky and buttered popcorn and usually smuggles in not-a-little-bit of red wine. She procrastinates from the difficult process of writing by oversharing on Facebook and Instagram and giving away cool stuff related to her fiction novels to her newsletter subscribers.
Also by Kilby Blades
Young Adult and New Adult Rom-Com
Friended (Modern Love #1)
Ended? (Modern Love #2)
The Art of Worship: A Novella
* * *
Contemporary Romance (The Hexagon Universe)
Snapdragon
Chrysalis
Crazy Old Money: A BWWM Billionaire Rom-Com Novella
Vertical: A BWWM Romantic Women’s Fiction Novella
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Contemporary Gay Romance
Adam Bomb (Moguls, Royals & Rogues #1)
* * *
Romantic Women’s Fiction
The Secret Ingredient: A Curvy Girl Small Town Culinary Romance
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The “Worst Day Ever” Anthology Series
Worst Holiday Ever: A Family Drama Romance Anthology
Worst Valentine’s Day Ever: A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology
* * *
Non-Fiction
The Book Marketing Audit
The Book Reviews Booster
Marketing Steamy Romance
