His mouth tilts up into a mischievous grin. “Nah.” He starts mixing the carrots again. “They've got their hands full with the babies tonight.” The smile softens. “I told them I'd make them a to-go bag and have Jen drop it off on her way home.”
And there it is again. That stupid giant heart of his. That instinct to take care of everyone around him. To make sure nobody gets forgotten. I don't think. I simply rise onto my toes and press a kiss to his cheek.
Ryan goes completely still. His eyes flutter shut. “Spence.” There's warning in his voice. Longing too. Enough of it that I immediately take a step backward. “Okay, okay.” I hold both hands up. “I'll go set the table.”
Ryan opens his eyes. Slowly. His gaze follows me as I back away. “Good idea.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
I can't stop smiling as I turn toward the dining room. Which is deeply concerning. Because twenty minutes ago I thought this dinner party was chaos. Now? Now I'm pretty sure the most dangerous thing in this condo is standing in my kitchen wearing an apron and humming Alanis Morissette.
Forty-Two
Freedom ‘90
Ryan
Sitting at Spence's formal dining room table last night—the first time he's ever used it, by the way—and watching everyone eat my food, drink wine, and have a few good laughs at my expense felt like something out of a dream.
Cricket told everyone about the time I tried to make scrambled eggs in a plastic bowl on our gas stove when I was teaching myself how to cook and nearly burned down the house. Then Harper shared the story about the time I gave myself a perm because I wanted curly hair. And, of course, there were plenty of jokes about our little sex show. The entire table was in tears. Even Spence. Especially Spence. I don't think I've ever seen him laugh that hard.
My heart couldn't have been fuller. It was the first time in my life I felt wholly like my authentic self. No pretending. No hiding. No carefully constructed version of Ryan Buterbaugh designed to survive. Just me.
Something settled inside me last night. A sort of unshakable resolve. For the first time, I don't feel afraid of whatever comes next.
Spence sat across from me the entire dinner, and every time I looked up, his eyes found mine. I caught Cricket looking between us more than a few times. Every time, she had this tender expression on her face.
After dinner, my sisters pulled me aside and we had the official coming out conversation. Which is funny considering the entire world already knows. But I hadn't actually said the wordsto them. Not directly. Not face-to-face. So, I did. And then we cried. Well. Cricket bawled. Harper cried. I cried. It was a whole situation.
Cricket could barely get the words out when she told me she'd always suspected I was hiding something. That it was likely my sexuality. She said it was the only explanation that ever made sense for what happened when she walked in on my parents confronting me and Terrell when I was eighteen. She kept saying she should've told me I could tell her anything. That she should've pushed harder. That she should've protected me. I told her the truth. Even if she had tried, I never would've admitted it back then. My father had me so scared there wasn't a chance in hell I would've risked it.
Both of them are furious with my parents. I told them this isn't their fight. That I don't want them drawing my father's attention. They weren't interested in hearing any of that. Of course they weren't. They're Buterbaugh women. Once they make up their minds, God Himself would struggle to change them.
I'm lucky. Those two are the reason I survived growing up in that house.
After everyone left last night, I started gathering plates. When I reached for the faucet, Spence caught my wrist before the water could run. His hand slid down to lace through mine, and he pulled. No words. Just this steady, insistent tug toward the bedroom.
The dishes could wait.
What happened after that—I keep trying to find the right words for it, and I can't. Not exactly.
He fucked me…
All. Night. Long.
Slow. Languid. Like we had nowhere else to be for the rest of our lives. Obviously, Spencer has fucked me before. Many timesover. He’s used my body and gotten me off in so many positions they need to publish another volume of the Kama Sutra. But last night? Last night heworshippedme. Every touch felt like reverence. Like he was memorizing the landscape of my skin, learning me by heart.
He can’t say it yet. Whatever he's feeling, it's still trapped behind that fortress he built around himself. But his body spoke for him. Every deliberate roll of his hips, every breath against my neck, every time he paused to look at me like I was something precious he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch.
He'd bring me to the edge, watch me fall apart, then hold me while I came back to myself. We'd drift off tangled together, his heartbeat slowing against my back. And then I'd wake—an hour later, maybe two—to the sensation of him already inside me, moving so gently I barely registered the shift from dream to waking. That exquisite, excruciating drag against my prostate, unhurried and relentless, building me back up before I'd fully recovered from the last time.
I was floating. God, I was fucking floating.
My thighs ache today. My eyes are heavy. There's a pleasant, lingering soreness that reminds me with every step exactly what he did to me, exactly how thoroughly he claimed me.
Worth it. So completely worth it.
