point to the backseat. “Benny’s asleep,” I tell him. “Can you carry him in?”
Without a word, he makes quick work of taking our son out of his seat and carrying him toward the house. I follow him up the porch steps, stopping when I see what he’d been doing out here in the first place. On the floor, in pieces, is a porch swing. The chains from the roof are already in place. “You coming?” Leo whispers, holding the door open for me.
I blink back the tears clinging to my lashes because I know what this is.
It isn’t just a porch swing.
He didn’t just paint the house a random color.
This isn’t just a house.
This is a home.
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “I’m coming.”
He leads the way up a set of stairs just past the entryway and into the second bedroom on the left. The only light comes from the hallway, so I can’t make out too much besides the bed and the covers as Leo slides them down to lay Benny on the mattress. He pulls the blankets up to his chin, kissing his forehead before joining me just outside the room. Carefully, quietly, he closes the door, wincing when it squeaks. “I have to work on the hinges,” he murmurs, and before I know what’s happening, his mouth crashes down on mine, his strong arm wrapped around my waist, holding me to him. And maybe this is what I needed to heal me, because his touch, the hardness of his body mixed with the tenderness of his kiss—it’s all I can think about. I get lost in it. So lost, I don’t even realize he’s moving us to another room. Another bed. He lays me down slowly, patiently, and then he’s on top of me and everywhere around me. And I know we should talk. We have so much to say. But then his hands drift up my sides, taking my top with them, and maybe this is his way of speaking. And my way of responding.
He wants me.
I want him.
And nothing else matters.
Within moments, our clothes are off, discarded, and it’s almost like a race to see who can get the other off first. He overpowers me when I reach for him, holding my hands in a firm grip above my head as he sidles up beside me. “Spread ‘em,” he orders against my neck, his palm between my legs. I open for him like I always do, and when he slides his fingers deep, deep inside, I almost lose it. Almost. But I concentrate on kissing him, on sliding my tongue painfully slow against his, nibbling on his bottom lip when he pulls away. He takes my breast in his mouth, teeth clamping gently on the tip. My toes curl, and I want to run my hands through his hair, hold him there, but he won’t let go of my wrists. I try to fight him, but it’s futile. Slowly, he brings me back to the edge of release, only to stop, let go of my hands. He kneels over me, his hardness close to my mouth. I lean up on my elbows and part my lips, but he pulls back, smirking that way he does when he knows he’s about to win this little foreplay game we play. And I know it, too. Because he kisses his way down my stomach while grasping a handful of my breast, hard. Last time he did it, his fingertips left bruises. And fuck, was it perfect. I moan when I feel his warm exhale replace the coolness of the air against liquid pleasure. “You have to be quiet, baby,” he murmurs, and then he slides his tongue up the entire length of my slit, and I jolt in response, fingers curling against the sheets. His fingers join a moment later, and I can’t—“Leo, I can’t—”
“Then let go,” he says, right before he sucks hard on my clit, and I try. Honestly, I try to be quiet, but the moan that leaves me is guttural and never-ending.
When I finally come down, I rasp, “Come here.”
He slides over me, his weight held up by his forearms. And then he leans to one side, smiling down at me as he runs the head of his cock between my folds, but he never once enters me. Not even the tip. He stops after a few seconds, and I whine in response. Dropping his forehead to my shoulder, he says, “Fuck, Mia, I don’t have