Igniting Ivy (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  I wipe my tears, wanting to see him clearly when I say the words I’ve only said to him in my dreams. “Yes, Sebastian Briggs, I’ll marry you.”

  “Yes!” He pops up off the bed and does a fist pump. “Sorry,” he says, sitting back down to slip the ring on my finger.

  He kisses me passionately, letting our tongues taste each other while giving me small glimpses of the possibilities that lie ahead. Possibilities I never thought existed. Possibilities that wouldn’t have existed without him.

  We pull apart when the baby starts to cry. Bass picks her up and places her in my arms. Then he walks over to open a curtain to let in the afternoon sun. On his way back to the bed, he looks around the room, noticing the daisies Eli brought. “Damn, I see someone beat me to the punch.”

  I laugh, admiring my ring. “Nobody beat you to this punch,” I say. “Plus, I can never have too many daisies.” I look down at the picture of Dahlia that still sits next to me on the bed. “Did I ever tell you what Dahlia said about daisies?”

  “No.”

  “She used to say that daisies would make everything better.” I smile as I remember. “Actually, she would say ‘Daisies gonna make everything better.’ I didn’t have the heart to correct her grammar.”

  Suddenly, my breath catches and my heart soars. I look at the flowers. I look at the picture of my first daughter. I think about her drawing on the wall at the shop. I look down at my new baby. And I know. I just know.

  “Oh my God,” I say to Bass. “She was right.”

  “Who was?” he asks, looking confused. “Dahlia?”

  I nod, swallowing more tears. “Yes. She was right. Daisy’s gonna make everything better.” I look down at our miracle baby as I finally give her a proper greeting.

  “Hello, Daisy.”

  Epilogue

  Sebastian

  I lie here watching my beautiful bride sleep. It’s one of my favorite things to do. She’s completely at peace. I remember the days when she wasn’t. Even after Daisy was born, Ivy would still have nightmares about her dying. For the first year of our daughter’s life, my wife would go into Daisy’s room and check on her—actually put a hand to her nose to make sure she was breathing.

  I never said a word about it. It was Ivy’s way of working through her demons.

  Every time Daisy hit a major milestone, Ivy lightened up a little more. When she rolled over, I instantly saw Ivy’s stress level go down. When she sat up, Ivy looked five years younger. And when Daisy took her first steps, which was the very same week she called Ivy ‘Mommy’ for the first time, I think that was when I saw it with my own eyes, the final stages of healing.

  Healing, however, doesn’t mean forgetting. Ivy will never forget her first two children. She talks to us about them often. Daisy refers to them as ‘Mommy’s heaven babies.’

  Dahlia’s artwork still remains on the wall at the flower shop. Her scrapbook still has a place of pride on Ivy’s dresser. Photos of her are interspersed throughout our house along with family pictures of the three of us.

  I look at one such photo on Ivy’s nightstand, thinking of just how much Daisy looks like Dahlia. Like Ivy. I once asked Ivy’s mom for a baby picture of her. I was stunned when I saw it. Ivy, Daisy, and Dahlia could have passed for triplets had they been the same age at the same time.

  “Are you watching me sleep again?” Ivy says, rolling onto her side.

  “Old habits are hard to break, sweetheart.”

  I tuck my arm behind her when she puts her head on my chest.

  Her hand accidentally brushes against my morning erection. She looks up at me with raised brows. “Well, good morning.”

  I laugh. “Just how good are we talking?”

  She eyes the clock. “Daisy won’t be up for thirty minutes or so. I’m thinking that could make for a pretty good morning.”

  “Thirty minutes?” I say, as I wink at her. “I think we could make two good mornings in that time.”

  I watch as she shimmies out of her panties and then climbs on top of me. I pull her shirt up and over her head to reveal her glorious breasts. I take them in my hands. “Have I told you lately how much I love these?”

  “Only about a thousand times.”

  I pinch her left nipple, the more sensitive one, and she moans as she squirms on top of me.

  “One of these days, I’m going to get you to come just by playing with these.”

  She puts her hands on either side of me and leans over until she’s almost kissing me. “But not today,” she whispers into my mouth. “Today I want to feel you inside me.”

  “Anything you say, Mrs. Briggs.”

  I lean up on my elbows so she doesn’t have to stoop over so far. I kiss her as my erection dances between us. I need to feel her with my hands, so I sit us up, her still straddling me as I work my boxer briefs off underneath her.

  I reach around her and caress her silky-smooth behind as she undulates on top of me until I’m hard as steel. Then she lifts herself up and sinks down onto me. She looks into my eyes as I fill her up completely. She braces herself on the headboard and works up and down in slow, controlled motions.

  I love it when she’s on top. When I can see every nuance of her face as she makes love to me. For three years now, every time we make love, we watch each other. That is, unless she’s on all fours, which admittedly, we’ve done a lot more of lately.

  I palm her breasts, kneading them, molding them to my hands before I attack her nipples again. That’s all it takes to make her throw her head back and scream.

  I cup my hand over her mouth the best I can so she doesn’t wake up Daisy. But it’s hard to make any purposeful movements when I’m in the throes of orgasm myself.

  Her climax lasts longer than mine and I have the pleasure of watching every exquisite moment of it.

  She collapses onto my chest with a satisfied sigh.

  That’s when I feel it.

  “Every time,” she says, giggling into my shoulder.

  I feel another jab. This time, I jab back. Then I push Ivy off my lap and onto the bed next to me. I lean down and talk to her belly.

  “Listen in there, whatever your name is—you better start learning now that Mommy and I need alone time. Lots and lots of alone time. How else do you think we’ll be able to give you and Daisy three or four more siblings?”

  “Three or four?” Ivy says with wide eyes.

  I run my finger down the side of her nose. “All the girls will have freckles. Just like you and Daisy.”

  She rubs her hands across her belly. “How about we just get through this one first?”

  “Fine,” I say, handing Ivy her shirt before I pull on my boxer briefs. It’s the FDNY shirt she’s always worn ever since we met in Hawaii. I’ve offered her a new one, but she’ll have nothing to do with it. I reach into my nightstand and pull out the long list of possible baby names we started right after the ultrasound. And damn, who knew there were so many friggin’ flowers? “So can we finally give her a name, please?”

  “You know I don’t want to jinx it,” she says.

  “Sweetheart, you have nothing to worry about.” I put my hand on her seven-month belly and feel another kick from our baby girl.

  This pregnancy is different from any of Ivy’s others. Different because we’re in love and married. Different because we know the baby won’t have ARPKD. Different because we have a healthy, happy, three-year-old daughter whose existence reminds Ivy every day that there are good things in the world, not just bad.

  And we’ve enjoyed every second of it. We’ve made so many plans. Bought so many things. Laughed so many times. But the one thing we haven’t done is choose a name.

  I give Ivy the list. “Come on, let’s pick one. Right now. Just close your eyes and point to a name, and that will be the one.”

  She hesitates, but finally closes her eyes. Then I grab her hand and stop her.

  “Wait. Don’t pick Petunia,” I say. “Or Lavender. Or Marigold. Crap, give me the list b
ack.”

  I grab a pencil from the drawer and start crossing off names.

  “Are we ever going to agree on a name?” she asks.

  I throw the list on the floor and cage her to the bed. “You know what? I don’t really care what her name is. Name her Petunia if you want. It won’t stop me from loving her as much as I love you and Daisy.”

  “You love all of us so well, babe,” she says with glassy eyes. “How did we ever get so lucky?”

  Lucky. It’s not a word that was even in her vocabulary for a good eight years of her life. But I know how she feels. I feel like I hit the jackpot with her. With them.

  I reach over and grab my guitar from beside the bed. I play a soft tune for Ivy and the baby. Ivy says the baby stops moving every time I play, like she’s listening to the music. I play the first song I ever composed for Ivy. I’ve composed about a hundred since then, but the first one remains her favorite.

  When I’m done, she lays her head on my shoulder.

  I lean down and place a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m the one who’s lucky, Ivy Briggs.”

  She runs a hand across my jaw. “I love you, Sebastian.”

  I close my eyes and revel in her declaration. It’s a miracle every time she says it. And I love how she says my name. She hardly ever calls me Bass anymore. And I’m okay with that. This woman could call me anything and I’d still come to her. She owns me. She rules me. Well, she and the pint-sized mini-Ivy in the next room.

  As if Daisy hears me thinking of her, she comes bursting through the door and up onto the bed. She has a drawing with her. Like Dahlia did, Daisy loves to learn about flowers and draw pictures of them.

  “Hey, pumpkin,” I say, lifting her high above me on the bed as she squeals in delight.

  “Hi, Daddy. I made you and Mommy a picture.” She turns to Ivy. “Can we hang it on the wall at the shop? Please, Mommy, can we?”

  “Of course we can,” Ivy says. She reaches her hand out for the drawing, but Daisy tries to play keep-away with it and Ivy ends up with a paper cut on her finger.

  “Oh, shoot,” Ivy says, putting her finger in her mouth to suck on it.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy,” Daisy says, giving her a hug.

  “It’s not your fault, baby. It’s just a little paper cut.” Ivy shows Daisy her finger. “See, it’s not even bleeding.”

  Daisy holds out the drawing to her. “Here, Mommy. You can have this. Flowers gonna make it better. Flowers make everything better. Especially lilies. I like the stick thingies in the middle.”

  Ivy looks up at me, covering her mouth in surprise. Then she asks Daisy, “Baby, what did you just say?”

  “The stick thingies,” Daisy says, pointing at her picture. “Right there.”

  “No, what did you say before that?”

  Daisy shrugs and goes back to mumbling about her drawing.

  I scoot next to Ivy. “You heard her,” I say, knowing we’re thinking the very same thing. “She said flowers make everything better. Especially lilies.”

  Her eyes tear up and she grabs my hand. “Lily’s gonna make everything better?” she asks.

  Ivy looks at me. I look at her. We both look down at her belly.

  And then we smile.

  Be on the lookout this summer for Denver’s story. In the meantime, if you like hot men and sexy stories, be sure to check out the Stone Brothers, starting with STONE RULES.

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M09FHOJ

  Acknowledgments

  Even as I write this, I’m thinking, thirteen? This is my thirteenth book – how did that happen? And yet I’m so excited for the day when I can say I’ve just written my thirtieth! Lucky for me, writing today is just as satisfying as it was five years ago. Even more so, because now I get to interact with so many new people around the world.

  Igniting Ivy was a difficult book to write. There was so much loss involved. Loss that I know many of my readers have experienced firsthand. To compare my fictional character’s lives to theirs is neither fair nor possible so I won’t even try.

  There are so many people to thank, I don’t know where to begin.

  I know so little about firefighting that it took a village to educate me. First and foremost, I must thank Thomas Butler, former FDNY firefighter. The information he provided me will help tremendously with all three books in this series. Thank you to Tina Lynn McCain, Rusty Henry, and Rick Martin for sharing your expertise as well.

  Shout-outs to my medical guru, Dr. Brandon Crawford, and my legal expert, J.D. Steele, are also in order.

  To my tireless editors, Ann Peters and Jeannie Hinkle, I appreciate you so very much. Thank you to Emily at Murphy Rae Solutions for your copy editing. To my beta readers, Tammy Dixon, Shauna Salley, Joelle Yates, and Laura Conley – your keen eyes and suggestions helped make this book ready for publication.

  Finally, a big thank you to Elizabeth Harris, a member of my private reader group and former resident of Hawaii. Elizabeth told me all the wonderful things I needed to do during my visit to Kauai last year. Most of them made it into this book. Mahalo!

  About the author

  Samantha Christy’s passion for writing started long before her first novel was published. Graduating from the University of Nebraska with a degree in Criminal Justice, she held the title of Computer Systems Analyst for The Supreme Court of Wisconsin and several major universities around the United States. Raised mainly in Indianapolis, she holds the Midwest and its homegrown values dear to her heart and upon the birth of her third child devoted herself to raising her family full time. While it took time to get from there to here, writing has remained her utmost passion and being a stay-at-home mom facilitated her ability to follow that dream. When she is not writing, she keeps busy cruising to every Caribbean island where ships sail. Samantha Christy currently resides in St. Augustine, Florida with her husband and four children.

  You can reach Samantha Christy at any of these wonderful places:

  Website: www.samanthachristy.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SamanthaChristyAuthor

  Twitter: @SamLoves2Write

  E-mail: samanthachristy@comcast.net