Chapter 13 PSL Ever After #2
I looked at him, at the vulnerability in his eyes, the hope mixed with fear. This man who'd built a life from grief and responsibility, who'd raised two kids on his own, who'd learned to be strong because he had no other choice. And here he was, choosing to be vulnerable with me.
“I'm all in,” I said. “Have been for a while now, if I'm being honest. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
His laugh was relieved, almost giddy, and he pulled me into a kiss. It was different from the others we'd shared. Deeper. More certain. A promise rather than a question.
When we broke apart, both of us were smiling.
“So what now?” Richard asked.
“Now?” I took his hand, leading him away from the window. “Now we stop overthinking and just enjoy this. Whatever this becomes.”
“That's surprisingly zen coming from you.”
“I have my moments.”
We moved to the couch, settling into each other with the ease of people who'd already learned each other's rhythms. Richard's arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I let myself relax into him.
Outside, the fireworks continued, each burst of color painting the windows in gold and orange.
“Think our sons are watching the fireworks?” Richard asked.
“Absolutely not. They're probably in the back of Derek's truck doing things that would horrify us if we thought about them too hard.”
“You're probably right.”
“I'm always right.”
“There's that ego again.”
I turned to look at him, taking in the silver in his beard, the laugh lines around his eyes, the way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think love at any age tastes the same. Sweet. A little reckless. And very, very spiced.”
“That's either profound or you've had too much wine.”
“Can't it be both?”
Richard laughed, pulling me closer, and kissed me again. Slower this time. Deeper.
The fireworks continued outside, orange and gold painting the darkness, and somewhere in town our sons were probably causing chaos of their own.
But here, in this moment, it was just us.
Two men who'd thought their chances at happiness were behind them, finding something unexpected and precious in each other.
I pulled back just enough to meet Richard's eyes. “You know what the best part about all this is?”
“What?”
“I was right about pumpkin spice being irresistible.”
He groaned. “That's what you're thinking about right now?”
“I'm thinking about a lot of things. But primarily, I'm thinking about how I orchestrated this entire situation with the precision of a master strategist. Two rivals, one festival, a carefully applied dose of meddling, and voila. Two happy couples.”
“You're taking credit for our relationship now too?”
“I reconnected with you at the festival. Encouraged the rivalry between our sons. Created opportunities for them to be together. This entire autumn of romance is my doing.” I paused. “Well, mine and pumpkin spice. Mostly mine.”
“Your ego is going to suffocate us both.”
“You love my ego.”
“I love you despite your ego.”
“I love you too,” I said quietly. “Even though you wear flannel to everything and think dollar store vampire teeth constitute a costume.”
“The teeth were ironic.”
“The teeth were tragic.”
He kissed me again, swallowing my laugh, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into this new chapter of my life that I hadn't seen coming and wouldn't trade for anything.
The kiss started gentle, all laughter and soft smiles, but desire crept in like a slow-burning fuse.
My fingers tangled in the silver at Richard’s nape, tugging him closer, refusing to let the moment cool.
His hands gripped my waist, broad and sure, thumbs stroking circles through my shirt as our mouths danced from playful to hungry.
One low sound in his throat—that desperate, aching note only I ever got to hear—made me lose my patience.
I pressed him back against the cushions, body flush to his, knees bracketing his hips.
The velvet of my cape slipped sideways, pooling between us, but I didn’t care about drama anymore, not when I could taste the want on his lips.
“God, you're insatiable,” Richard muttered, breath hitching when my hips ground against his. I smirked into the kiss, lips brushing his jaw, beard prickling my skin.
“Only for you,” I murmured, dragging my teeth along the angle of his chin.
My hands explored without shame—palming the solid heat of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath soft flannel, greedy for every tremor.
I pressed my thigh harder between his legs and was rewarded with the subtle, unmistakable roll of his hips.
“Been waiting for this?” I teased, letting my mouth roam. “All evening, all festival, pretending you weren’t thinking about this?”
He caught my mouth in a bruising kiss, hands fisting in the fabric at my lower back. “Every damn night. Couldn’t get you out of my head if I tried.”
“Don’t try,” I whispered, nipping at his bottom lip, tongue flicking out, catching the taste of wine and the faintest echo of spice. I let my teeth drag over his pulse point, smiling at the way his breath stuttered.
His hands wandered lower, strong and demanding, squeezing my hips, pulling me down until there was nothing but friction and heat and the slide of our bodies.
The air between us thickened—wine and sweat and the unmistakable scent of hunger.
My fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over skin, and I watched the flush climb his throat, watched his eyes grow darker.
“I’ve got you,” I promised, voice gone rough and raw. My lips returned to his, kisses growing wetter, sloppier, more desperate with each pass. My tongue teased his, coaxing him open, swallowing every groan, every plea.
He arched up into me, chasing the pressure, hands finding the shape of my ass, gripping me through fabric.
I let him have it for a moment, let him control the angle, let him feel the power he had—then I took it back, pinning his wrists above his head, leaning in so close I could feel the tremor in his breath.
“Always the control freak,” Richard breathed, but his eyes shone with amusement and want, that perfect silver-fox arrogance barely masking the need underneath.
“Someone’s got to keep you in line,” I replied, letting my nose brush the shell of his ear, teeth scraping down the tendon of his neck. I licked the hollow at his throat, feeling his pulse flutter beneath my tongue.
His chest heaved under me. I kissed my way down, licking a stripe over his Adam’s apple, loving the way his breath shuddered, his legs spreading wider, hips canting up as if begging for more.
“Edward—” his voice broke, raw and wanting, hands tugging at my shirt, desperate for skin.
I let him squirm, let him work himself up, mouth never stopping—pressing kisses to his jaw, biting at the corner of his mouth, dragging my tongue over his beard, teasing and tormenting, savoring every response.
“God, you’re such a tease,” he growled, but his voice was thick, desperate.
“Why rush?” I whispered, lips brushing his cheek. “We have all night. I want you wrung out before I ever get you naked.”
My hand slid lower, cupping him through his jeans, the heat of him unmistakable, and he bucked up, a low moan slipping out.
“Thought you liked velvet capes and slow seduction,” he rasped, trying for humor but missing, lost in the haze of arousal.
“I like making you lose your mind,” I purred, hand squeezing, rolling my hips down again so he could feel exactly what he did to me. “I like you like this—wild, needy, begging for it.”
The look on Richard’s face—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide—sent a bolt of heat through me. Wanting him wrecked, desperate, was more addictive than any vintage red I’d ever poured. My fingers slid down the line of his chest, then I pulled back, forcing myself to savor, not devour.
“Come on, then,” I murmured, rising to my feet, velvet cape sliding off my shoulders in a heavy, deliberate fall. My hand extended in invitation, palm up. “Time for the main event, Dracula.”
A crooked grin cut across his face, fangs flashing—cheap plastic, but the effect somehow devastating all the same.
He took my hand, grip warm and steady, letting me haul him upright.
I didn’t let go, leading him down the hallway, lights low, the soft pad of our socked feet on hardwood, the distant pop of festival fireworks barely reaching us.
My bedroom waited, shadowed and soft, the bed wide enough to lose yourself in. Richard hesitated at the door, but I didn’t. I pressed him inside, hands at his waist, then shoved him gently, playfully, sending him tumbling back onto the mattress with a laugh and a muffled curse.
“Bossy tonight,” he growled, but he was already pulling me down after him.
“Someone has to be,” I answered, climbing over him, bodies aligning, heat flaring everywhere we touched.
No frantic tearing of clothes. No rush. Just slow, hungry, greedy undressing, like we had all the time in the world.
My fingers found the buttons of his flannel, popping them one by one, knuckles brushing over the coarse hair at his chest, letting my touch linger at every patch of bare skin.
I watched his chest rise and fall, watched the anticipation simmer in his eyes.
He sat up, hands reaching for me in turn, undoing the buttons of my shirt, not bothering with finesse. Every brush of his knuckles felt like a spark, every moment a study in how much patience could hurt.
“Careful,” I warned, voice gone low, teasing. “It’s Italian.”
“Should’ve worn flannel. More forgiving,” he shot back, but his touch gentled, peeling my shirt away, baring my shoulders, my arms, the years and lines I’d earned.