by Jayne Frost
“It’s not morning yet.” I rolled her onto her back, and she stopped squirming, a little moan escaping when my hand slipped under her shirt.
Her legs wrapped around me as I toyed with her nipple, the taut peak now standing at attention.
“You want me, baby?” I asked, lightly pinching the hard nub between my thumb and forefinger.
“Always.”
I rose to my knees and slid the loose fitting sweatpants over her hips. No panties.
Fuck.
My cock, already rock-hard and ready, threatened to punch a hole in the thin flannel of my pajama pants as my eyes skimmed over her milky skin.
“No,” she rasped, grabbing my arm when I settled her leg over my shoulder and dipped to press a kiss to her belly. “I want you inside me.”
I smiled as I moved lower. “Are you sure?”
She blinked at me, suddenly serious. “Yes.”
Confused by the sudden change, I eased on top of her, touching my forehead to hers. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing. I just want…I want you to love me. Like this.”
Love her. Not fuck her. Didn’t she understand that I’d stopped fucking her long ago? This—us—we were more than tangled limbs. More than pleasure. We were magic.
“I do, little mouse. I will.”
Small hands framed my face as I slipped deep inside her warmth.
Locked in her gaze, I began to move. Slowly. Because I wanted this to last.
I kissed my way to that spot on her neck where I’d whispered all my promises. Too faintly for her to hear. But they were there, shadows on her skin, waiting to be fulfilled.
The story of us.
Gelsey
One year later
Seventeen deadbolts. Kidding. It just felt like that when I was unlocking the door to our Fifth Avenue apartment.
Miles was still getting used to living in New York. And even though we resided in a safe building with a doorman and special keycards to get to our floor, he wasn’t taking any chances when it came to security.
We still had a bodyguard.
Sadly, it wasn’t Daryl. He was back in Austin. Not that we had a chance to miss him, or anyone else, since we jetted home at least a couple of times a month.
Before I’d even pushed the door open, the sound of claws tapping against the hardwood coaxed a smile to my lips. Mac, our tiny chihuahua, careened around the corner, with Lennon, our bulldog, close on his heels.
Mac danced around on his hind legs, yapping his head off while Lennon waited patiently, milky eyes trained in my direction. At times, I swear he saw me. But that was impossible. Lennon had been born blind.
Miles had read a story about him online, chronicling Lennon’s friendship with the chihuahua who’d taken him under his wing.
A week later we got a visit from the woman who ran the pet rescue where the boys were living.
Mrs. Clauson was a hard nut to crack, but crack she did.
After it became clear I’d fallen in love with the mutts, Miles had donated an ungodly sum to the Bulldog Rescue Society and agreed to let Mrs. Clauson drop by for “wellness checks” to assure we were fit parents.
Miles rounded the corner, shaking his head when he found me on the floor being licked to death.
“Leave your mother alone.” Scooping Mac up with one hand, he tucked the squirming fur ball under his arm and offered me the other. I climbed to my feet and levered up on my toes to give him a kiss, but at the last second, he turned his head, offering his scruffy cheek instead.
“You smell like anchovies,” he said, wrinkling his nose and casting a hard gaze at Lennon. “He got into the pizza. Again.”
I groaned and followed Miles to the living room, glancing over the mangled box on the coffee table. “Please tell me that wasn’t the only pizza. I’m starving.”
A devilish smile curved his lips as he sauntered to the bookshelf where another box sat too high for anyone but a human to reach.
I parked a hand on my hip. “Why don’t you just admit that you always order one for the boys.”
He dropped the box onto the table. “That would make me a bad parent. Since dogs aren’t supposed to eat people food.”
I flipped open the shredded box. No cheese. All meat. And from the looks of it, a gluten-free crust. “That’s not people food.”
Just like the cookies in the jar in the kitchen. I found that out the hard way when I went searching for a midnight snack.
Apparently, Miles had the dog treats specially made at a bakery on the other side of the park. Pretty as the little cookies were, they tasted faintly of bacon and something else I couldn’t identify.
Gross. But endearing.
Someday, Miles would make a wonderful father.
I was still daydreaming about a raven-haired little boy with my eyes and his father’s smile, when Miles stretched out on the couch.
“So…” he drawled, running a hand over his bare chest. “Netflix and chill?”
He was wearing his favorite sweats. The ones that hung indecently low on his hips. And that smile.
Netflix, my ass.
Fiddling with the button on my blouse, I watched as his chocolate gaze turned molten. Me. I did that to him. “What kind of movie are you in the mood for?”
His eyes snapped to mine. “Huh?”
“Action? Rom-com?” Tugging my hair free from the bun, I closed the gap between us. “Drama?”
I squealed when he hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me down on top of him.
“Definitely action,” he growled, his fingers inching toward the waistband of my yoga pants
My lids fluttered closed when our lips met in a soft kiss, only to fly open a second later when Mac muscled his way between us, dragging his leash behind him.
“Jesus,” Miles groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Not now, boy.”
But it was too late. I was on my feet, hooking Lennon’s leash to his collar.
This was our life. They one I’d dreamed of. Chaotic and messy and everything in between.
With a sigh, Miles hauled to his feet with Mac in his arms. Looping an arm around my shoulder, we headed to the door. To our bench in the park. And our sky.
Three years later.
Gelsey dropped onto her seat on the jet, her gaze on the window. I tossed the tattered doggie bed in the usual spot, and Lennon and Mac quickly climbed on top, making themselves comfortable. Our pups were seasoned travelers, having visited almost every continent.
But now, we were going home. To Austin. For good.
Gelsey’s final performance at the New York City Ballet had taken place last night. A standing-room-only crowd filled the theater, giving her a sendoff fit for a queen. Because she was. In three short years, she’d become ballet royalty.
Then, out of the blue six months ago, she’d announced her retirement.
I want to go home, Miles. Please, take me home.
The look on her face when she’d said it had sent chills down my spine. And a fear I’d never known.
I’d always kept my distance when it had come to Gelsey’s career. Supporting her. But never encroaching.
But this time, I’d insisted on accompanying her to the specialist who’d kept a close watch on her condition since she’d moved here.
Gelsey had sat stoically while Dr. Thatcher had explained about the narrowing in her spine. The deterioration of the bones. The arthritis that had increasingly made it more painful to dance.
“Stop now, and you can lead a perfectly normal life. Teach. Have kids. But if you keep going…”
He’d let the threat dangle. But I knew what he’d tried not to put into words. Nerve damage. Partial paralysis. Or worse.
I didn’t want to think about the worse.
Surprisingly, Gelsey had been upbeat about her decision. Until last night. She’d cried herself to sleep in the guest room, sobs wracking her body that she thought I couldn’t hear.
But I had.
And now she was qu
iet, so fucking quiet, her gaze fixed out the window as the plane taxied down the runway.
The flight attendant rose from her seat when we reached our cruising altitude. But I caught her eye and shook my head. Her attention flicked to Gelsey, who hadn’t moved a muscle, and she nodded, then closed the flimsy curtain.
Looping an arm around my girl, I pulled her to my side. “I’m sorry, baby.”
Sniffling, she blinked up at me. “Why?”
Searching her face, I struggled to find the right words. I kissed her forehead. “Because you’re sad, I guess.”
She straightened, then let out a shuddering breath. “I’m not sad. It was time. I’m just going to miss it, that’s all.” Her lips fell into a frown as she glanced around the plane. “I’m going to miss this too.”
Her tone held an edge of guilt. Even though she complained often about the carbon footprint, I knew she loved the jet. Which is the reason I’d agreed to purchase it when the lease was up. We still had plenty of places to see. Adventures to embark upon. And flying commercial was worse now than ever. Between Gelsey’s fame and mine we couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Even Mac and Lennon had Instagram profiles and Facebook pages with followers in the thousands.
Crazy.
“Come on,” Gelsey said, climbing to her feet.
“Where are we going? I asked, already out of my seat. Because I knew.
Gelsey confirmed it with a raised brow.
Mac and Lennon hopped up, trotting down the aisle toward the bedroom.
I grabbed their doggy bed and followed my girl, my dick already straining within the confines of my jeans.
“I’ll be right back,” Gelsey said as she levered up to press a kiss to my mouth. “Don’t start without me.”
“Not likely,” I growled, pinching her pert little ass as she spun for the bathroom.
While she was gone, I set the doggie bed in its spot by the chair. It was the only place in the cabin where the boys wouldn’t have a clear view of me defiling their mother. And defile her I would.
Lennon dropped onto the cushion, while Mac defiantly held his ground.
I pointed at the bulldog, ready to square off with the chihuahua. “Get into your bed with your brother.”
Nothing.
“Mac,” I warned, taking a menacing step. “I’m not kidding.”
Still nothing.
Scratching my head, the bargaining phase of the process began. In reality, I was begging. Promising. Pleading.
The bathroom door swung open, and Mac’s furry little mug swiveled in Gelsey’s direction.
“Bed,” she said firmly. “Now.”
With what I swear was a nod, Mac jumped right onto the cushion and snuggled up next to his brother.
Shaking my head, I tugged off my T-shirt. “I have no idea how you do that,” I grumbled, reaching for the button on my jeans.
Obstinate dogs aside, I was ready for some action. But Gelsey hadn’t budged.
“What?” I asked, looking her up and down.
“I want to show you something.”
Since that sounded promising, my grin widened.
“Just sit down,” she said, rolling her eyes. And like Mac, I did as I was told. “Close your eyes.”
I raised a brow, causing her to huff in frustration. For a moment, I considered resisting a while longer. “Frustrated Gelsey” was a wildcat in bed. But the look on her face told me it was a bad idea.
I closed my eyes.
“Now, hold out your hand.”
Smirking, I offered her my palm.
“You can look now,” she said.
Pressing my lips together, I examined the paper animal perched on my hand. Despite her best efforts, Gelsey had never gotten the hang of origami. I’d tried. Really, I had.
“It’s…beautiful.”
She narrowed her baby blues to slits. “Do you even know what it is?”
I took a closer look. Fuck. No idea. It sort of resembled a platypus. If the platypus had mated with a giraffe. “Uh…”
Sighing in defeat, she dropped down next to me with a thud. “Not even a guess?”
Regretfully, I shook my head. “Sorry, baby.” I hooked my arm around her and pulled her in for a hug.
“I should’ve just given you the pee stick,” she grumbled against my neck.
I went still, examining her creation for the third time. Long legs. And a beak.
“It’s a stork?”
She smiled shyly, nodding.
“But I thought the doctor said it could take a while.”
Gelsey had only gone off her birth control pills two months ago. And for a month after that, we’d used condoms to make sure the hormones were out of her system. Even though the doctor had said Gelsey’s chances of getting pregnant off the bat were slim.
“Guess doctors don’t know everything,” she said with a shrug.
I took her mouth in a kiss, grateful and happy. So fucking happy.
“Wait. Is that why you said you were going to miss this?” I asked, sweeping my hand around at the cabin.
Pink bloomed in her cheeks as she nodded.
I bit back my laugh as I aimed a glance at the boys, both snoring quietly in their bed. “Any baby of ours, little mouse, is going to have their passport before they get their first tooth.” Sliding my arms around her, I eased her back onto the mattress. “You’ll never even have a chance to miss this.”
As she slanted her lips over mine, I slid my hand to her belly. A baby. A life.
Outside the small window, a cloudless sky. Our sky. Fucking perfect. In every way.
Jeff … Words and music, baby.
Maria … There are too many things to thank you for. You are so much more than the best designer in the business. You’re my greatest champion. Best friend. Reader of all my words, when they’re merely thoughts. Love you from the bottom of my heart.
Patricia … You’re the best editor on the planet. I’m not just saying that. I couldn’t do any of this without you. Love you.
Marla Esposito … Thank you for accommodating my crazy schedule. I keep saying I’m going to get better. Spoiler alert: I probably won’t.
My Beta Readers … Christy, Megan, Jenny. Y’all rock! Thank you so much!
Astrid … Thank you for all the late night talks and support. You are truly dear to me. Love you.
Heather … Thank you for devouring all my words. Your support means everything.
Candi Kane … You’re the best. Thank you for putting up with me. Someday I’ll make a schedule…and stick to it. Maybe
Alyson Santos … You make me jealous with your pretty words. Can I be you when I grow up? All the love.
Jill Bengtsson … I couldn’t think of a better partner in crime. You’re a wonderful storyteller. Love you!
Frost’s Faves … I cherish each and every one of you. Thank you for all your support. The posts and the pictures keep me going. Y’all are the best of the best!
And to all my readers….Thank you isn’t a strong enough word. You’ve made all my dreams come true. And I couldn’t be more grateful or humbled by your support.
Thank you so much for reading ANOTHER SKY. Technically, this isn’t a part of the Sixth Street Bands Series, but I couldn’t help but sprinkle a few characters into some of the scenes.
Since I always get personal at the end of every book, here goes.
Depression.
Where to start?
I’ve always been a little bit depressive. Not like Miles. Or, maybe, since we never know what someone else is feeling. Let’s just say, I’ve never thought of ending my life. I love my life. My family. My daughter. But that’s not to say that people who love their families don’t commit suicide.
My husband’s best friend loved his family. He loved his wife. And his parents. His friends.
That didn’t stop him from blowing his head off one sunny, summer morning. While his wife was on the phone with him.
This happened a long time ago. I was twent
y-one, my husband twenty-three. And we’d just seen Billy two days prior. He came by and asked to borrow a hundred dollars to take his wife to a fancy dinner. They were having marital problems. That happens in every marriage, but I guess he didn’t see that. He thought the dinner would fix everything. It didn’t.
So, he went home to his parent’s house that night, while she stayed in their apartment. And the next morning he did it. The big “IT” that you can’t take back. The permanent solution to a temporary problem.
His wife, my very good friend, called that morning after it happened. Minutes after. In shock. My husband answered and mouthed “Vicky,” (that is her name) when I asked who it was.
Being my smart-ass self, I replied, “Tell her to make sure Billy pays us back that hundred bucks!”
That’s what I said. I said that. Because I didn’t know.
My husband’s face fell a second later. Slid right off and dropped to the floor. And then he told me. And nothing was ever the same.
It was one of those watershed moments. Those stitches in time that scar and shape you forever. Billy was gone. I would never hear him laugh again. Feel his hug. Listen to his stupid stories. Billy would never have children or know my daughter.
Because he wasn’t here anymore.
I wanted to give Miles a better ending to his story than Billy had. The happily ever after that Billy didn’t get. Because there is hope. There is a sunny sky…somewhere. You just have to get help. To believe. And that belief has to be stronger than any fleeting thought whispering promises of oblivion.
If you know someone suffering from depression, please help them. In any way you can. Listen to them. Be with them. Find them when they’re lost. Even if they’re right beside you.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
SIXTH STREET BANDS SERIES
The Sixth Street Bands is a series of standalone rock star romances with recurring characters. While it is not necessary to read the books in order, I hope that you do. You won’t regret the time you spend in the Sixth Street world
