I can’t tell you how awful I feel. I’m so sorry.” My mother looks like she’s on the verge of tears—and she’s not a crier.
Chelsea rubs her shoulder. “It’s okay. These things happen—especially to my nieces and nephews. Riley broke her collarbone when she was two, Raymond broke his leg last year—and my sister-in-law was always on top of them. It’s not your fault, Gigi.”
“I knew as soon as I heard him yell, somethin’ wasn’t right . . .”
They continue to talk in the emergency room waiting room, while I crouch down in front of Rory where he sits in an orange plastic chair, cradling his right arm against his chest. Pain has bled his face of color. His eyes droop with agony and he takes in air slowly, every move hurting.
“How are you doing, kid?”
“It hurts.”
“Yeah, I know.” I brush my knuckles against his knee, not wanting to jostle him, then I glare at the triage nurse and tell her to hurry up, that I think he could be going into shock.
She can tell I’m full of shit but it makes me feel better to try.
The story goes that the kids were playing in the backyard, under Owen’s watchful eye, while my mother made breakfast. Riley bet Rory that he couldn’t climb to the top of the oak tree. Which, of course, Rory could—and did. Getting down . . . posed more of a challenge. And here we are.
“Why don’t you head back to the house, Mom?” I tell her, rubbing her shoulder. “Owen’s probably losing his mind with the other five by now.”
“Okay.” She nods, caressing Rory’s head. “I’ll see you soon, sweetie.”
“Don’t worry, Gigi, I’ll be fine,” Rory says kindly, proving that my mother has definitely won the kid over.
“Rory McQuaid?” a nurse with a wheelchair announces, ready to actually take us into the ER.
“Thank Christ,” I mutter.
- • •
Later, Rory’s propped up on an exam table while a George Clooney lookalike explains to Chelsea that her nephew’s arm is busted.
“He fractured the ulna. It’s a clean break, and we won’t need surgery to set the bone—that’s a positive.”
“Good.” Chelsea nods her head, nervously glancing at Rory.
The doctor gestures toward the door. “So, if you could both just step outside, I’ll set the bone and we’ll get Rory fitted for his cast.”
“Step outside?” Chelsea asks, frowning.
“Yes, it’s hospital protocol. Closed reductions can be painful, which is upsetting for parents and guardians, so we have them wait outside the room during the procedure.”
“I prefer to stay with my nephew.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” George replies.
All her nervousness fades away, and Chelsea is rock-solid, sure. She’s poised and polite—but there isn’t any way she’s taking no for an answer.
“I appreciate your position, Dr. Campbell, and I hope you’ll appreciate mine. I will sit next to Rory and I’ll hold his hand while you set his bone. Neither Mr. Becker nor I will make a sound or say a word. But I’m not leaving him. If necessary, I’ll take him to another hospital.”
The doctor thinks it over—and then he completely caves.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Chelsea sits in the chair beside the table and clasps Rory’s left hand in hers. Her smile is so loving, so tender, my chest aches looking at her. The doctor adjusts the table so Rory’s flat on his back, then he shows me where to brace his shoulders, holding him still. They gave him some pain meds, but even with them, I know from experience, getting two halves of your broken bone rubbed together doesn’t fucking tickle.
“Just breathe, Rory,” the doctor tells him—like that’ll help—and my chest starts aching for a completely different reason. Then he holds the kid by his wrist and near the elbow and starts.
“Ahh!” Rory yells. His voice is sharp and shocked and hits me like a shank to the stomach. “Ahh!” he calls again, trying to grit his teeth.
Chelsea tightens her grip, looking at him earnestly, letting him know she’s here, sharing his pain—even if she can’t save him from it. And I whisper to him, right against his ear, giving him the only comfort I can, wishing like hell that I could take this pain for him.
“You’re doing so good, kid. It’s almost done.”
“Ahh . . .”
“Almost there, Rory . . . almost there . . .”
- • •
“This cast is totally badass!” Rory admires the camo-patterned plaster that now covers his arm from elbow to hand. I chuckle because he bounced back quickly, and obviously his sparkling personality is intact.
Chelsea gives him the obligatory chiding for his language—but she’s smiling too.
“Hey—could you draw a tattoo on my cast? Like yours?” Rory asks, pointing to the tats visible in my short-sleeved T-shirt.
“Sure.”
Chelsea looks around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with the discharge papers? I’m going to go ask . . . oh, hey, Janet!”
A woman steps within the curtained area where we’re waiting. She’s a black woman, in her midthirties, with tightly cropped brown hair and a bright smile, wearing a beige suit and white blouse.
“Hi, Chelsea.” Her eyes fall to Rory, on the bed. “Hi, Rory, I heard you had an accident.”
Rory shrugs, his earlier smile replaced with a distrusting scowl.
Janet looks me over and I notice her gaze pause at the tattoos on my arms.
“Jake, this is Janet Morrison,” Chelsea says, introducing us. “She’s our social worker from CFSA. Janet, this is Jake Becker, my . . .”
She searches for the word. “Lawyer,” I supply, offering Janet my hand. “I’m with Adams and Williamson.”
Janet nods her head. “That’s right—you negotiated Rory’s release with probation after . . . the car incident.”
It might just be the nature of my job, but I’m not a big fan of government agencies—or their employees. Too much power, too many people—too many mistakes that can so easily be made without any accountability. That’s what has me asking, “So, Janet—did you just happen to be in the area?”
“No.” She glances at the open file in her hand. “Whenever a child in our system has an incident at school, at a hospital, or with the police, we’re automatically flagged.” She turns to Chelsea. “Do you mind if I ask you my questions now before you go?”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Great. The doctor said Rory fell out of a tree. Did you see him fall, Chelsea?”
And I suddenly get a bad fucking feeling about this. Chelsea doesn’t appear to share my concern.
“No. I actually wasn’t home when he fell out of the tree.”
This is news to Janet. “Where were you?”
Chelsea’s eyes slide my way. “I was . . . with Jake.”
“Your lawyer?”
“It was sort of a working breakfast meeting,” I explain smoothly.
“I see.” She writes something down on the file. “So who was with the children while you were at your meeting?”
“Jake’s mother,” Chelsea answers.
Pen poised, Janet asks me, “Your mother’s name and address?”
“Giovanna Becker.” Then I rattle off her phone number and address and tell Janet it’s fine to contact her whenever she wants to.
She closes her file. “That’s all I need from you right now, Chelsea. Is it all right if I speak with Rory alone for a few minutes?”
“He’s a minor,” I tell her.
“In cases like this it’s standard to speak with children alone.”
“Cases like this?” I ask, schooling my tone. “What kind of case do you think this is, exactly?”
Janet isn’t the backing-down type. “It’s a case where an injury has been sustained and abuse needs to be ruled out.”
“Abuse?” I half-laugh, half-choke. “You think she did this?” I point at Chelsea.
“No, Mr. Becker, I don’t. However, if she had, Rory would be much less likely to divulge that information with you both in the room.”
And I do actually see her point. I just don’t like it.
I look to Rory. “You up to talking, kid? It’s your call.”
Rory’s smart and I can see in his eyes that he senses this is something that needs to be dealt with now. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her, Jake. No big deal.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll be right outside.”
- • •
I guide Chelsea through the curtain and into the hall, out of Janet’s earshot.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks once we stop. “Why are you antagonizing Janet?”
I grasp her elbow. “I wasn’t antagonistic. But it’s important that she knows that you know your rights.”
She shakes her head, confusion gripping her features. “Janet is the nicest person I’ve met at CFSA. She’s my social worker. It’s her job to help me.”
“No, Chelsea, it’s not. Her job is to make sure you’re a stable guardian for the kids.”
For the first time she realizes the difference—the distinction—and her mouth turns tight with worry.
“Do you think . . . I mean . . . could I get in trouble for this? Are they going to give me a problem about Rory’s arm? About being with you last night?”
My hands move to her shoulders, squeezing and rubbing at the tension that stiffens them. “No—listen to me—it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong and they’re not gonna give you a hard time.” I pause then, wanting to make her understand without freaking her out. “But you need to think about how you phrase things. Sometimes how a statement reads in a report doesn’t represent the way things actually are.”
I see this often in my cases. Words like terroristic threats being applied to six-year-olds who shoot finger guns at classmates and claim they’re “dead.” Or a charge of “possession with intent to distribute” makes some moron sound like a member of a goddamn drug cartel, when in reality they’re a slacker fuckup who happened to get their hands on a big stash.
Words matter, and sometimes context can make all the difference in the world.
“When you talk to Janet, you have to think about not just what’s true, but how the truth will look in black-and-white. Okay?”
She nods and I pull her in against me. I kiss the anxiety on her forehead, then whisper, “Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
She squeezes her arms around me and nods against my chest.
We step apart as Janet comes out, wheeling Rory in a hospital-policy-mandated wheelchair. “We’re all set.” She smiles.
A nurse comes up and gives Chelsea his discharge instructions and pain medication. Out on the sidewalk, Rory stands, saying he can walk to the car.
Janet shields her eyes from the glaring afternoon sun. “I’ll be stopping by the house one day this week, okay, Chelsea?”
“That’s fine,” Chelsea replies. “I’ll be there.”
“It was nice meeting you, Janet,” I offer just for pleasantries’ sake.
“Same here, Mr. Becker.”
Rory is between me and Chelsea and we walk to the car, her arm around his lower back, my hand on his shoulder, just in case he stumbles. And even though I don’t look back, I feel Janet’s eyes on the three of us the whole way.
- • •
Over the next few weeks, Chelsea and I settle into a weird domesticated arrangement. After work, I swing by the house to help her with the kids, hang out, and do whatever needs doing. Then, after the kids are in bed, Chelsea and I . . . hang out together . . . more often than not without clothes.
The sex has been . . . fucking intense. Quiet—so as not to wake the cockblocking interrupters who are all too eager to disturb us—but still top-notch. It’s a different situation for me—new—but strangely comfortable. I haven’t really let myself think about it too deeply. No labels or discussions or any shit like that. They say ignorance is bliss . . . and my nights with Chelsea have certainly been that.
For now, that’s good enough.
And the kids are a fucking riot. Like a funny, sometimes adorable, sometimes ass-pain-causing fungus, they’ve grown on me. One time, after work, Chelsea needed me to take Rosaleen to her piano lesson. And I did, but . . . it didn’t end well:
“We need to add a piano teacher to the list,” Rosaleen tells her aunt as we walk into the kitchen.
The TV is blaring in the next room, where Raymond and Rory engage in Mortal Kombat—the video game—but from the sounds of it, they may actually be on the verge of beating the shit out of each other. Ronan rocks quietly in his swing while Regan busies herself with pots, pans, and wooden spoons strewn like landmines across the floor. A big metal pot boils on the stove, giving off a warm, beefy aroma.
Chelsea looks up from the cutting board, where a half-chopped carrot lies in wait. “What do you mean? You have a piano teacher.”
“Not anymore.” The seven-year-old shrugs.
Chelsea turns suspicious eyes on me.
And I have no guilt at all. “That guy shouldn’t be teaching children. Sadistic son of a bitch.”
Chelsea places the knife down beside the carrot. Then she takes a deep breath, and I know she’s trying not to stress. “Monsieur Jacques La Rue is the best piano instructor in the city. It took months for Rachel to get him to take Rosaleen as his student. What happened?”
I pop a slice of carrot in my mouth. “What kind of guy makes his students call him Monsieur? He’s probably not even French,” I grumble. “I bet his real name is Joey Lawrence from the Bronx.”
Rosaleen climbs onto the island stool across from her aunt and eagerly tells the tale. “He hit my knuckles with the ruler ’cause I messed up.”
“Exhibit A,” I interrupt. “What kind of sick fuck could hit her?” I motion to Rosaleen’s joyously precious face. “Rory? He’s another story. Her? No way.”
Rosaleen continues. “So Jake went out to his car and came back in with a baseball bat. Monsieur La Rue asked him what he was doing and Jake told him, ‘You hit that kid’s knuckles again, I’m gonna hit you with this.’ ”
Chelsea turns to me, her head tilted and jaw slack.
I admit nothing.
“So . . . he fired us,” Rosaleen concludes.
I nudge her with my elbow and offer her a carrot. “We fired him.”
She pops it in her mouth with a smile.
Chelsea watches our exchange and her face softens. “Okay. New piano teacher. I’ll add it to the list.”
Another time, the older kids had dentist appointments that conflicted with Regan and Ronan’s Mommy and Me playtime. Like I’ve said before, I fucking hate doctors—and dentists are just doctors for teeth. So I opted to take the little kids to their class. I mean, they’re babies—how hard could it be?
Children are everywhere, all shapes and sizes, some climbing, some stumbling, some—like Ronan—getting their “tummy time” on the floor as they try to master crawling. And the parents—Jesus, they’re like a frighteningly uptight, Stepford-wife smiling, cooing religious cult armed with cameras. The Mommy and Me playroom is obnoxiously colorful—a rainbow rug, neon slides, blaring padded wedges, and mats that hurt my eyes if I look at them too long. Freakily cheerful music pours from mounted speakers with a forcefully happy teenager in a fuchsia T-shirt running the show.
And don’t get me started on the clowns.
They’re painted on the walls, marionette versions line the shelves, and stuffed ones with eerily wide-spread arms fill the corners, their red-rimmed, white-teethed mouths opened in the creepiest fucking grins I’ve ever seen. Like they’re just waiting for an unsuspecting kid to wander by so they can bite their heads off.
About ten minutes into free play, I watch Regan navigate an obstacle course. Next to me is a loudmouthed father cheering his son on like the kid’s about to reach the end zone in the goddamn Super Bowl. He gestures with his head. “He’s the fastest kid here. I got him running the course in forty-five seconds.”
Good for you, buddy.
“Which one’s yours?”
I point to Regan, where she climbs the slide, her orange jumpsuit sparkling beneath the lights. She chants as she goes, “Hi, hi, hi, hi . . . ,” like the Seven Dwarves marching with their pickaxes.
“Is there something wrong with her?” the son of a bitch asks.
I scowl. “No, there’s nothing fucking wrong with her. She’s . . . focused.” Then, for shits and giggles, I add, “And she could totally do this course in under forty-five seconds.”
Dickhead scoffs. “I doubt that.”
I turn cold eyes on him. “Wanna bet?”
He brushes his brown bangs with an arrogant hand. “Fifty bucks says my boy beats her.”
“You’re on.”
I shake his hand, then I go scoop Regan off the slide and coach her as I carry her back to the obstacle course—like Mickey talking to Rocky Balboa in his corner.
“You got this, Regan. Don’t let him distract you—watch his left hook, keep your eyes straight ahead.”
She squeezes my nose.
So I try to use words she’ll understand. “If you do this, I will hi you forever.”
That gets her smiling.
We line them up and the father counts them down. “On your mark, get set, go!”
And they’re off . . .
Douchebag and I cheer them on, like gamblers at the horse track.
“Go, baby, go!”
“That’s it! Pull away from the pack! Make your move!”
They’re neck and neck . . . until the little boy gets distracted by a massive booger hanging out of his nose. He stops to work on it—and the race is Regan’s.
“Yes! Fuckin’ A!” I yell proudly. I pick her up and hold her high above my head; she laughs and squeals. And somewhere Freddie Mercury sings “We Are the Champions.”
As loser dad passes me the fifty, the teenager busts us. “What is going on? This is a cheerful place—there’s no gambling!”
“Right. Well, we’re gonna head out anyway.”
I grab Ronan in one arm and Regan in the other. On our way out the door, I whisper to her, “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
She looks me straight in the face and nods. “Hi.”
I spend my Saturdays with Chelsea and the kids. I bring work with me, sneak in scraps of time when I can focus. Most Saturdays, if there aren’t too many activities to get to, are relaxing. Fun, even. But sometimes . . . well . . . there’re six kids. From a purely statistical standpoint, the odds of a bad day are pretty goddamn high.
One morning, as soon as I got out of the car I knew it was going to be a bad day. It wasn’t any kind of sixth sense that gave it away.
It was the screaming.
I open the front door, and the impressive screeching sound that only a really pissed off two-year-old can make hits me like a blast of hot air. Regan sits on the foyer floor in front of the closet, a mess of tears and screams and stamping feet, surrounded by shoes, flip-flops, and boots. Chelsea squats in front of her, holding out a sparkly sneaker for the toddler’s inspection. Two other pairs of tiny shoes are beside her on the floor.
“This one?” she asks, with a mixture of hope and annoyance.
Regan knocks the sneaker from her aunt’s hand, shakes her head, bangs her hands on the ground, and wails.
Guess that wasn’t the one.
Chelsea notices I’m here. I raise my eyebrows and try really damn hard not to grin. “Everything okay?”
“No,” she hisses. “It’s not.” She yanks her hair back from her face, the haphazard bun ready to fall. There’s stains on her T-shirt—looks like peas—and her cheeks are flushed with color.
That’s when I notice that it’s not just Regan making a shit-ton of noise. It’s a chorus—a symphony of angry young voices coming from the living room. Somewhere upstairs, Ronan’s voice joins the melee. And he does not sound fucking happy.
After another shoe rejection, Chelsea stands up and throws the sandal across the room. “Which one, Regan? What do you want?”
Regan just cries and points at absolutely nothing.
Before I can say a word, the twins come crashing into the foyer, arms locked around one another. They drop to the floor, rolling and grunting, teeth bared.
“You knew I was saving it!” Rory yells.
“It was in the cabinet—it’s free game!” Raymond growls.
“Stop it!” Chelsea screams. “Both of you, cut it out!” She’s kind of screechy now, too.
They totally ignore her.
“You’re a jerk!” one shouts.
“You’re a dick!” the other replies, and I’m betting that one was Rory.
“Stop!” Chelsea shrieks, and she grabs the one on top by the tiny, sensitive hairs at the base of his skull. Then she yanks him up.
Even I fucking flinch.
Rory howls, both hands coving the back of his neck. “What the hell?” he demands from his aunt. “I’m gonna have a frigging bald spot now!”
“Don’t fight with your brother!”
“He ate the last chocolate chunk cookie!” Rory fires back. “He knew I was saving it and he ate it anyway.”
Standing now too, Raymond taunts. “And it was gooood.”
Rory lunges, and I unfreeze from the shock of seeing all hell break loose. I step between the boys, separating them with iron grips on their arms. “Knock it off.”
Then Rosaleen comes tearing around the corner, with a livid Riley right behind her.
Of course.
“Give it back!”
“No, it’s mine!”
“It’s not yours, it’s mine!”
“No it’s not!”
Chelsea instinctively holds out her arms when Rosaleen cowers behind her.
“What is going on?” she shouts to her oldest niece.
“She has my pen!” Riley screams.
“A pen!” Chelsea shrieks back. “Are you kidding me? You’re fighting over a fucking pen!”
Riley pouts in that scathing way teenagers do. “Nice language, Aunt Chelsea.”
Chelsea grinds her teeth. “Give me a break, Riley.”
“No—you’re supposed to be the adult. Look at us! No wonder this is a crazy house!”
“And that’s my fault? That you’re a bunch of selfish, evil heathens?”
Riley gets in her face. “Yes! It is your fault!”
Chelsea raises her hands. “That’s it! I have had enough of this! All of you—go to your rooms!”
Loud with indignation, Rosaleen bellows, “But I didn’t do anything!”
Chelsea spins sharply, facing the little blonde. “I said go! Now!”
Rosaleen draws herself up, her little face scrunched and angry. “You’re mean! I don’t like you!”
Chelsea grabs the seven-year-old by the arm and moves her toward the stairs. “Well, you can not-like me from your room!”
Rosaleen tears up the stairs, crying. Riley marches up behind her, arms folded and shoulders stubbornly straight. Rory gets in one last shove to his brother, then heads up, too. As Raymond turns to follow, Chelsea adds, “Raymond—you go to the spare room. I don’t want you boys near each other.”
He glares. “This sucks!”
And Chelsea glares right back. “Tell me about it!”
After the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse disappear upstairs, an eerie quiet settles in the house—like a town after a tornado has blown through. Ronan isn’t crying anymore from upstairs, probably succumbing to his mid-morning nap. Regan selects two hot pink flip-flops from the pile of unwanted shoes, slides them on her feet, then—sniffling—shuffles out of the foyer.
Chelsea breathes hard, and I approach her with caution.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
Her blue eyes meet mine for a moment. And then she bursts into tears.
And she looks so damn sweet, even unhinged with frustration, that I choke down a laugh. ’Cause she’ll kill me if it gets past my lips.
I rub her shoulder and guide her down the hall into the kitchen. “It’s all right. Shhh, don’t cry—it’s all right.”
She shakes her head, tears streaming as she settles on an island stool. “It’s not all right. They’re evil. They’re ungrateful little animals.”
And I suddenly have the urge to call my mother, to apologize. Not for anything in particular . . . just the first fifteen years of my life.
I grab the Southern Comfort from the freezer and pour her a glass.
She sobs into her hands.
And I pour a little more.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing!” She looks up at me. “Absolutely nothing! They all just woke up like this.”
Chelsea swipes at her cheeks and takes a long sip. I squeeze her shoulder. She props her elbow on the counter and drops her forehead into her hand. Her voice is laced with guilt. “Oh, God. I can’t believe I pulled Rory’s hair. Rachel never would’ve done that. She and Robbie didn’t believe in corporal punishment.”
“That explains a lot.” Believe me, I’m not a fan of hitting kids. But there are times when a smack on the ass is very much deserved.
“Rosaleen’s right. I am mean!” And she’s crying again.
And my laugh will no longer be contained. It comes out deep and totally sympathetic. “Sweetheart, I know mean. Trust me, you’re not mean.”
She finishes off her drink.
“I’m not telling you how to raise them, but I know from my own experience that kids need discipline. They want it—even if they don’t know it. You should write up a list of offenses and punishments. You know, curse and you lose your phone for the day. Fight, and you have to pick up the dog shit. A McQuaid Penal Code.”
She snorts, red-eyed and runny-nosed. “That’s not a bad idea.”
I step closer, nudging her legs apart to stand between them. I touch her jaw. “Do you feel better?”
Chelsea sighs dejectedly. “No.”
I tilt her face up to me and lean down. “Then let’s see what we can do about that.”
Her lips are warm. She sinks into the kiss, opening for me, taking my tongue with a gasp and gently offering hers. It’s just a kiss—it won’t lead to more. But if it feels half as good for her as it does for me, than it’s done the job.
I pull away, just an inch. “Feel better now?”
And she smiles. “Almost. We should work on that a little more.”
I chuckle. “Let’s do that.” Then I press my lips to hers again.
Some days, I get insanely turned on watching Chelsea. Just the way she moves, smiles . . . bends over to pick toys up off the floor. And if I’m lucky, the opportunity presents itself to act on it. But we have to be sneaky.
There was one evening when Ronan fell asleep early, Riley was reading in the living room, and Rosaleen and Regan were watching Rory and Raymond play Xbox.
I grab Chelsea’s arm, dragging her toward the stairs.
“Boys—watch your sisters,” I call.
And a few seconds later, I’ve got Chelsea in the bathroom of the guest room upstairs. I turn on the shower for cover, and the sink faucet, then I press up against her back, running my nose up her neck, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her skin and her want for me. She turns her head, kissing me with tongue-dueling vigor, gripping the sink so hard her knuckles turn white.
“What are we doing?” she pants.
“I can make it quick,” I promise. “And I can make it good.”
Then I drop to my knees behind her. Lifting her skirt, dragging white lace panties down her legs. And my mouth is on her, enveloping her pussy, pressing into her, licking like a starving man. My nose skims between the delectable cheeks of her ass—goddamn, that ass.
When I have more time, I swear I’ll give that particular area all the glorious attention it deserves.
I knead with my hands, probe with my fingers, getting her hotter—making her wetter than she already is. She moans above me, leaning forward. So ready and beautifully fucking eager.
I stand up, unbuckle my pants, and slide into her wet softness in one smooth thrust.
“Christ,” I groan. “Nothing should feel this good.”
Chelsea whimpers encouragement as I start to thrust against her, the buckle on my belt jingling with every push. She stays upright, her hands reaching back to caress anywhere she can touch, and that angle makes her even tighter.
Splaying a steadying hand across her hip, I cup her face with the other, turning her head so I can kiss her, taste that sweet tongue. Our lips clash and nibble, our moans mingle. Pumping faster, I move my hand to her shoulder, my arm crossing her chest, holding her right where I need her. Chelsea’s hand disappears downward, touching herself, rubbing quick circles on her clit as I slide in and out from behind.
And I lose it.
“Oh fuck . . .”
She gets there with a high-pitched whimper, her knees going weak, but I hold her up, my thrusts losing their rhythm, turning to hedonistic jerks as I come gloriously inside her.
Afterward, we fix each other’s clothes, touching and kissing. Chelsea’s creamy cheeks are beautifully flushed as she laughs against my mouth. “My God . . . I really like quick.”
And I think I just might love her.
