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“Because for the first time in her life,” I say, pride for her filling me, “she knew what she really wanted. And she didn’t need anyone’s advice for it.”
Her face falls in realization, and she finally turns around. Daisy stares out at the horizon, her arms over Willow and Lily’s shoulders, all standing on the boulder, picturesque and beautiful.
Her smile lights up the fucking sun.
There is nothing happier in the world than this moment.
Rose can see that. She brushes a tear that falls and collects her hair onto one shoulder. “Don’t tell her I was upset.” Before I even respond, she hikes over to her little sister in five-inch high heels, pride flushing her cheeks.
“I won’t,” I say beneath my breath.
It’s a promise that will be easy to keep.
DAISY CALLOWAY
After a rough patch of turbulence, the captain announces that we can leave our seats. Ryke and I unbuckle almost at the exact same time, and with that I’m twenty-seven and I know what I fucking want demeanor, Ryke clasps my hand and leads me down the aisle. Towards the bathroom.
We pass the other cream leather seats in Connor Cobalt’s private jet. Everyone is here for our Christmas vacation. Well, everyone except our parents, but considering what I’m about to do, I’m very thankful my dad is not on this plane.
I catch sight of Jane on Rose’s lap, Connor fixing a cute bow in her brown hair while Rose talks to their baby. Janie’s cheeks are splotchy from sobbing, not a fan of planes yet.
At least not like Moffy who’s fast asleep on his father’s chest. Lo keeps a hand on the small of his back and simultaneously scrolls on his phone while reading a comic book over Lily’s shoulder. Willow decided to return to Maine just for the holiday, to catch up with her little sister and mom. And then Poppy, Sam, and their eight-year-old daughter Maria piece together an art-deco puzzle at a table furthest from the bathroom.
It’s hard not to hone in on the kids during family getaways. Sometimes I wonder: is this how it will always be?
Ryke and Daisy: the cool aunt and uncle without any burdens or responsibilities. No little ones to look after or take care of. This could be our forever-title.
Ryke glances at me over his shoulder, his rough exterior never softening. I concentrate on the moment, and the hardness of his unshaven jaw, the danger set within his masculine features. You know what you’re getting yourself into by being with me, Calloway?
Yes. Yes, I do.
I wag my brows at him, and he turns back around, not giving into my playfulness. I like that he’s not outwardly desirous by it but rather still broody and mysterious. What are you thinking, Ryke Meadows?
He opens the bathroom door and waits for me to slip in first, not a word passed between us in a long while. The suspense drums my core, and I watch him shut the door, the space tiny and cramped. As he walks forward, my back presses against the lip of the sink.
He sets a hand on either side of the counter, caging me. Towering above me. Staring down. Our hot gazes linked as they descend slowly over one another. I reach up and skim his shoulder with my fingers. He never flinches or melts. He’s stoic, rugged.
My breath catches, and I fist his shirt the same time he leans forward, his rough cheek sliding against mine. He nudges my face so I lift my chin, our bodies communicating in raw fashion, pleasure heating my insides. As soon as I raise my head, his lips meet mine, and we devour one another, our hands everywhere.
All at once.
We explore each other so carnally that I struggle to breathe. He hikes both of my legs, my hands gripping his hair. His beneath my shirt, then lower to my jeans. He unbuttons. I nip his ear. He finds my lips and kisses me harder.
I moan against him, and his body presses into me, now unbuttoning my easy-access flannel shirt.
My fingers fumble with his pants, and he kisses my collar, his lips trailing a scalding line between my breasts, down my belly.
Ryke drops to his knees.
I’m breathless, leaning back on my elbows, supported by the sink. “I have this theory,” I pant. He shimmies off my jeans and kisses the line above my panties before rising again. Before hiking my legs back around his waist.
With my legs split open and only in white cotton panties, I’m perfectly in line with his cock, but he stares down at me, waiting for me to declare my theory. I breathe heavily. “I lost my thought.”
“Did you,” he deadpans, his voice low and deep and extremely attractive.
“Wait…I have it.” I almost shudder in his arms and end up clutching his biceps. I love this man. I’m very small against him, even my 5’11’’ self seems little to his six-feet and three-inches.
His hand makes the perilous descent down my inner-thigh, but his hard brows and darkened gaze stays latched onto me.
“My theory,” I continue, “is that if you have sex in the air, you’re one step closer to reaching god-like status.”
He almost smiles.
I’m grinning more for the both of us. “Zeus and Hera fuck in the clouds, right?”
Ryke gives me a what the fuck look that I appreciate. I love it all.
“Do you want to become a god with me?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair again.
One of his hands slips down my lower back and pushes me closer to his body. A sharp breath escapes my parted lips, splitting into a short, pleasured cry. I clench, coming faster than I ever have. Holy shit.
He says, “I don’t think fucking in the air is how gods are made.”
I tremble, my chest rising and falling as I catch my breath again. “Maybe we should ask Connor Cobalt.” He’s practically a god.
Ryke glowers. “Hey, Calloway?
“Yeah?”
“Don’t say his fucking name while I’m getting you off.”
I try not to smile. “What about babies?” I pant, still winded. “Can I talk about making babies with you?” I search his eyes that roam my features, and he places a hand on my cheek, cupping my face.
It’s a dream-like feeling. Making love with the hope to procreate. Not every time has been wild or monumental and successful—I’ve even skipped some days out of soreness. But it’s filled with sentimental value that we both can’t ignore.
It’s been…emotional, as much as it’s been physical.
Before he answers, he kisses me strongly, his abs hard and tight against my body, and I push my waist closer to him and tug down his pants. His muscles constrict, and I wrap my arms around him. He rubs my head tenderly for a second and whispers, “Every fucking day.”
I’m glad he still has some hope too, even after one failed pregnancy test and some no’s, based on my regularly appearing period. No pain with sex, another plus. The remaining chocolate cyst has not beaten me yet.
“Stand up,” Ryke instructs, his hand firmly on my ass.
I can’t contain my smile. I rise onto the counter, a little unstable. I have to turn my head a little so I’m not hitting the ceiling. I pulse more than once.
He holds my hip and leg so I won’t fall. His head is near my abdomen, and he fingers the band of my panties before tugging them down.
Ryke kisses my hipbone before he scoops me by the waist, setting me on my feet faster than I thought he would.
He lifts my panties back up, and a pit falls in my stomach. I notice the graver look in his brown eyes, and his focus keeps falling to my panties.
“What?” I breathe and then peek inside them. I notice a couple droplets of blood immediately. I shouldn’t be having a period right now.
He kisses my cheek, hugging me closer so I don’t freak out. I’m two-fourths scared and two-fourths bummed by what feels like a setback.
“It’s okay,” he assures me. “When we land, we’ll call your doctor.”
“I must be spotting…” It’s not enough to be a period. I’m tense, and concern is all over his face. “Maybe we should still try? I could be ovulating today. Unless, you think it’s gross—”
“You know that’s not fucking it,” he forces. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
I’m aroused though, and squandering this moment feels wrong. He must sense my mood because he kisses me again and gently eases me against the sink.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and he lifts me up with his upper-body strength and unparalleled endurance. Only in dark green boxer-briefs, he frees his erection and pulls part of my panties aside, pushing slowly inside of me.
I gasp against his shoulder at the fullness. “Ryke…” I look down. He’s only halfway in. Oh God. I rock forward and tighten around his hardness. Ahhh…ohmygod. I pant for breath, and he thrusts forward, all the way in.
All the way in. My fingers dig into him, holding on like he’s my rollercoaster. Take me. Take me.
His pace increases, building sweat on our skin, the friction so amazing.
“Dais,” he grunts at one point, his hand clutching the sink for a second, knuckles white, before returning to my hip.
It feels so—
Ow. I inhale sharply, the fullness rebelling into a stabbing pain. Ow ow ow ow. “Ow,” I wince, inhaling sharply again.
“Fuck.” He stops immediately and scrutinizes my frame. “What’s wrong? Dais?”
