Page 190 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“Hmm?”

“Come, Cross. Please come.”

“Little louder, babe.”

“Come in me, Cross. Please come in me. I fucking want it. Please.”

Yeah, that was all he needed to hear.

He teased her clit with his fingers until she trembled again. With her second orgasm raging through, he emptied his cock deep into her cunt. He could feel the way his cum filled her with each pulse, and it made him fucking crazy.

“We’re always going to be like this together, aren’t we?” Catherine asked.

Cross kissed her cheek, still holding her tight to his cock. “Like what?”

“Stupid. Wild. Sly. In love.”

“You know it.”

He’d make sure of it.

Three months later …

“How are you doing?” Cross asked as Calisto sunk into the seat at the table.

Around them, people chatted and silverware clinked. The restaurant—one of his father’s favorites—was busy that morning.

“I hate the fucking sun,” Calisto mumbled.

“What, why?”

Calisto eyed the sunlight coming in from the windows. “I’ve been shut away for too long. It’s hurting my eyes.”

“Give it a bit; you’ll be fine.”

“And my shoulder hurts.”

“Why?”

“Rain,” Calisto grumbled.

A waitress came to their table, filled their cups with coffee, and left them with menus before heading to another set of patrons.

Cross watched his father sip on the coffee silently, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks and gratitude to whoever was looking out for their family. Calisto had spent two months recovering in Scotland at a rehab clinic specially designed for those with brain and spinal injuries. Cross had only been able to fly out once to see his father, shortly after the surgery, and it had been difficult.

Calisto was irritated at every little thing, impatient with those around him, and constantly tired. Some of his motor functions had taken steps back due to the surgery, which meant it took him time to relearn things that he had been able to do just fine on his own for his entire life.

Things like buttoning his shirt, or tying his shoes.

His verbal skills had been impacted, too. He struggled to form complete sentences, and when he did, his words often jumbled together, or were misplaced.

It took his father two months in Scotland, and then another month at home in New York before he was finally back to normal. Cross had hired someone to come into his parents’ home every single day for a month to work with Calisto, even when his father just wanted to say fuck it. Cross couldn’t allow his father to give up when he was already doing so well, and so far ahead of others in the same situation as him. Calisto’s therapist still came daily to work on things like strength, and stamina.

Sometimes, Calisto still became tired after doing very little. But he could play piano again, he had not had another episode, and his brain was not having minor bleeds.

He had a hell of a lot more years to live.

Cross was grateful for that.