Page 137 of Promise

Confident, cocky, certain that he’s enough for me. That he’ll give me anything.

He teases my clit and fills my channel, and I’m clutching at the top of the headboard as I pitch forward and silently scream, afraid to wake Mirabelle down the hallway.

Dart moves even faster, surging harder, taking me to a higher level.

Leaning back, I wrap my arm around his neck. His forehead rests on the side of my head. He breathes heavily.

“Love you so much,” he grunts, until he finally stills, letting go inside me.

“I love you, too.”

We’re both a little sweaty and sticky, but we stay together for another second. Dart slips one arm around my breasts. His hand between my thighs lifts to my lower belly.

Once upon a time, we’d make jokes about what might have happened after having sex like we just did. And touching my soft stomach would bring me to tears, knowing nothing had happened.

But tonight, I smile, especially when Dart says, “Congratulations, Momma.”

“Congratulations to you, Daddy.”

We just celebrated our baby girl down the hall.

Dart chuckles, “I know what you mean, but that sounded dirty as hell.”

“You like it dirty,” I tease, glancing over my shoulder at him.

“Only if I’m dirty with you.”

“Always,” I say to him as he cups my chin and brings my mouth close to his.

“Promise.” It’s not really a question.

“Promise.”

EPILOGUE

[Dart]

One week later

I’m standing in the front yard, about to head out for my newest home renovation—a revamp of the free-standing garage. It’s the last project on my list before I take Clint up on his offer for part-time work.

Trinity and I talked about me finding a purpose. Not just husband, father, friend, but something for me. For now, I just like staying busy.

I’m about to open the garage door when a car pulls into the driveway.

A Chevy Camaro that’s as familiar as my right hand.

She’s loud. A beauty and a beast.

A young guy unfolds himself from the driver’s side door. He’s tall and thin, wearing loose-fit jeans and a Chevy t-shirt.

“Hey.” His voice cracks like he’s still in puberty. “Are you Dart Rivers?”

“I am.” I step toward him, offering my hand, although a faint trigger about the last time a stranger approached me, asking me the same question in such a hesitant voice, comes to mind. A time when I was worried I’d lost my wife, and I had.

“Ryder Wesley.” He shakes my hand with a firm grip. “Max Larsen said I should come see you.”

Max shouldn’t be passing along my private address, and I make a mental note to ream him out for it. After my early departure from the race track a few weeks back, I called Max. Told him I had a family emergency and never watched the race.