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“Regretting it yet?” Kyle asks, sounding almost as out of breath as me as he collapses at my side in the sand.
“That was fucking brutal.”
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
I lie there, staring up at the cloudless blue sky above me as sweat drips from my body, but damn, do I feel good. I lost count of the number of orgasms I’ve had since reconnecting with Stella yesterday, and now this. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in a long time.
“Come on,” he says after a few silent moments. “The girls are prepping food for us.”
Everything aches and pulls as I climb to my feet and follow Kyle and Ash back to the car.
The drive home is pretty quiet, all of us shell-shocked.
There’s another car in the Hunters’ driveway when we pull up, but I pay it little mind.
I’ve put everything in place to ensure Stella’s been safe every second she’s been here, so I have no reason to think she’s in any danger—and I quickly discover I’m right when we all pile out and find the girls in the kitchen.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe, coming to an abrupt halt when my eyes land on Stella and what’s in her arms.
The guys on either side of me bark out laughs, as if they totally understand.
“Did your future just flash before your eyes?” Ash asks, slapping me on the shoulder. “Been there, bro. Freaky shit, right? Be careful of the mother, raging bitch,” he says a little too loudly.
“I heard that, Ashton Fury,” a curvy brunette snaps from her seat at the island. “Ignore him. I’m lovely, really.”
Both Ash and Kyle snort a laugh.
“Whatever,” she scoffs. “I’m Chelsea, and that little nugget is Nadine.”
“Right,” I mutter, turning my attention back to Stella with a freaking baby cradled in her arms.
“Cute, right?”
“Uh…” I look between the two of them a couple of times. “Y-yeah, she’s cute.” It’s not a lie; she’s got a full head of dark hair just like her mummy, and chubby cheeks.
“It’s okay, I’m not about to ask to have one of my own. Jeez.”
“S-sorry, I just wasn’t expecting—”
“That’s what I said,” the guy who ran our torture session this morning announces, walking into the room and dropping a kiss to the baby’s head, capturing her mum’s attention.
“Your London boy did good, Stella.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks with something akin to pride in her eyes.
“Yeah. I mean, he’s not going to be a real football player anytime soon, but not bad.”
“Real football?” I ask, more than ready to get into that argument again.
“Food’s ready,” Harley says, cutting off any impending debate about the correct shape of a football.
We hang out, eating pancakes and bacon that the girls cooked. It’s nice, and it makes me wonder what it might be like back home if the guys ever find themselves serious girlfriends. It’ll certainly change our dynamic a little.
We’ve spent the past few years partying hard, fucking as many girls as we can get our hands on, and generally acting like the fucking assholes that Stella’s accusing us of being.
I briefly wonder if things are already changing and I’d not even realised it.
I mean, I flew halfway across the world for a girl without a second thought and inserted myself into her life here.
