But then Lachlan’s mouth finds mine, gentle and sure, and my doubts blur at the edges. His hands slip to the hem of my sweater, lifting it over my head with careful reverence, like he’s unwrapping something precious.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my collarbone, pressing soft kisses to the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder. When he unhooks my bra and takes my breast into his mouth, tongue circling my nipple, I arch into him with a soft gasp.
This is what I need. Not thinking. Not worrying. Just this. His hands on my skin, his mouth making me forget everything except how good he makes me feel.
He strips off my leggings, my underwear, until I’m naked in the lamplight. Then I’m reaching for his belt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel him against me, inside me.
“Easy,” he chuckles, but his breathing is already rough.
I push his jeans and boxers down to his knees—not bothering to get them all the way off—then push him back onto the edge of the bed. I climb onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, then sink down onto his cock. We both gasp.
“Christ, Blair . . .”
Any last questions in my head scatter like startled birds. There’s only this. The stretch and fullness of him inside me, the way his hands grip my hips, the heat building between us. This feels so right, nothing else matters.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LACHLAN
I’m standing at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister, listening through the open door of Finn’s bedroom. Blair’s voice drifts out, animated and warm.
For the past four nights, she’s taken over the bedtime routine completely. I should probably feel put out about it. Those quiet moments before Finn drifts off have always been ours, just the two of us. Well, three if you count Gus curled up and listening in. It stings, standing here while someone else claims that special time.
But Christ, she’s good at it. Natural. The way Finn leans in, utterly spellbound, whenever she opens a book says everything.
Tonight’s a bit different, though. Not one of Finn’s usual books. Her own words, by the sound of it.
“The otter’s whiskers twitched as he watched the boy approach the water’s edge,” Blair reads, her voice carrying with the gentle rhythm of a born storyteller. “His sleek coat had grown thick and glossy again, and when he slipped into the water, he moved like liquid silver.”
Ah.The Otter and the Boy. The story she’s been working on.
I edge closer to the doorframe, drawn in despite myself. Through the gap, Finn is propped up on his pillows, eyes wide and fixed on Blair’s face, hanging on every word.
“The boy felt his heart swell with pride,” Blair continues. “He’d done it. He’d helped the otter get better. But then...” Her voice drops, weightier now. “He saw something that made his stomach twist into knots.”
“What?” Finn whispers.
“Another otter. A female, sleek and beautiful, gliding through the water toward his friend. And when the two otters touched noses, greeting each other with soft chirps, the boy suddenly understood what this meant.”
My chest tightens. Even I want to know what happens next.
“His otter friend was better. Completely healed. Which meant...” Blair pauses dramatically.
“He might leave?” Finn’s voice is small, worried.
“The boy watched them swim together, diving and playing, and he felt happy for his friend. But he also felt something else. Something that made his throat tight and his eyes sting. Because if the otter was truly better, if he’d found his own kind again, then maybe he wouldn’t need a human boy anymore.”
Fuck me. She’s good. Really good. The story’s simple enough for a child, but layered with something heavier: love, loss, letting go. Hits harder than it should.
When Blair closes her notebook, Finn sits up straighter. “Is that the end? Do the otter and the boy not see each other anymore?”
Blair’s smile is warm, reassuring. “No, it’s not the end of the story. There’s more to come.”
“How many more chapters?” Finn presses, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “And how long will it take you to write them? Because I need to know what happens!”
Blair laughs and tucks the covers under his chin. “I’m working on it as fast as I can. But stories are like plants. They need time to grow.”
Finn nods solemnly. “Like Gerald.”
