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“I feel bad for you, Mia. God be with you. Hopefully she’ll hate you a little less than she always hated me.”
I swallowed a large gulp of my wine and stared at her with wide eyes.
Would I have to deal with Owen’s mother? The idea of that had my heart pumping furiously with nerves.
“Will you…tell your mother about us?” I asked, turning to Owen with a million questions in my eyes.
He looked up at me from his spot, his hand gently stroking my thigh over the denim of my jeans.
“I would love for you to meet her, but I also understand if you’re not ready for that step yet.”
Well shoot, I didn’t know if I was ready for it or not.
“When will she come?” I asked before downing the rest of my cup of wine and lying out next to him.
“She said Thanksgiving, so we have a few weeks.”
Leaning on my elbow beside him, I ran my eyes over his face, relaxed in the moonlight. He was so beautiful like that. Untethered and a little bit wild with zero restraints.
“Maybe we can talk about it when you’re more sober,” I told him.
His eyes popped open and he eyed me with a frown, until we heard a shriek, some giggles, then a moan and a hush.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Owen hissed, leaning up to see where the noise had come from, but shaking his head instead as he obviously decided against it.
“Let’s move,” he said. “I’m not interested in hearing my ex squeal like a pig.”
I snorted a laugh, but agreed quickly as another soft moan came from the mound of blankets just a few feet away.
The two of us grabbed three of the bigger blankets and dragged them off to the other side of the jeep where we had some more privacy.
The moans quieted to just about nothing as Owen produced the half full bottle of whiskey.
“Now, what were you saying earlier about whiskey dick?”
I laughed at him, watching him take another long draw from the bottle before settling it down into the grass.
“I was asking how well you can perform with a high blood alcohol level.”
He grinned down at me.
“Why take my word for it? How about I show you?”
“Mmm, I could always use more fodder for my book.”
That grin got impossibly bigger as he crawled over me, hovering above my face with a wicked promise in his eyes.
I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, then slid my fingers into his hair.
“You know I love it when you talk literature to me,” he murmured, his lips so close to mine I could feel his breath brush across my mouth.
“Jane Austen,” I gasped out, aching for his lips to touch mine. “Was nothing but a 1800’s smut writer and I love it.”
“Mmm,” he moaned against my lips, pressing a lingering kiss to them.
“Moby Dick wasn’t about revenge. It was about the flaws of blindly following a corrupt leader.”
He growled and settled a firmer kiss to my lips.
