Chapter 2
Trent
The shower was much shorter than I wanted it to be, but with the entire family waiting because of our long-standing pancake Sunday tradition, I couldn’t linger—no matter how tempting it was.
‘Course, with my husband all needy and naked, I didn’t exactly hurry either.
Drew might be all fries before guys, but I was more nudes before foods.
He was in even less of a hurry than me, still standing there dripping wet with a towel gripped loosely in his fist while I was already dried off with a fresh pair of sweats covering my lower half.
“I haven’t had enough coffee yet, frat boy,” Drew grumped, water-logged hair dripping into his eyes.
Holding in a laugh, I took the towel and tossed it over his head. “You are such a procrastinator,” I mused, gently drying off his overly long strands. Drew was permanently in need of a haircut and shave, and I was permanently turned on by both.
I laughed at the strands sticking up all over the place, the new silver looking near white. Lucky for him, he was blond, so the gray didn’t age him, just made him blonder.
Working my way down his body, I dried him thoroughly, going as far as sinking to my knees to get his lower half.
He hummed appreciatively, fingers delving into my damp hair, which I’d already combed.
Tingles raced across my scalp and down the back of my neck from the touch, and I took a little longer than necessary to dry his calves and feet because the feel of his hands was my addiction.
The second I pulled back, his voice filled the bathroom. “You missed a spot.”
Amused, I raised my eyebrows, silently asking where. He pointed to a rogue waterdrop high on his chest, so I used the corner of the towel to mop it up.
He pointed to another on his collarbone.
One on his neck.
Puckered his lips and pointed there too.
My stomach dropped as if I wasn’t standing on solid ground because this man—my husband—had the innate ability to rock my world with the simplest of gestures.
Playing along, I brushed the soft towel across his lower lip.
His hand flew up, wrapping around my wrist to squeeze. Our eyes met, and the towel fell from my hand as I roped my arm around him and tugged, bringing us chest to chest and mouth to mouth.
He groaned with satisfaction, entwining our fingers as I deepened the kiss.
Drew was a wildfire that burned fast and bright through my veins, consuming time and reason, with every brush of our lips feeding the flames.
It didn’t matter we’d just had sex and my hands had been all over him.
The craving I knew for him was untamed, something that would never be defeated, only survived.
Only when the begging in my lungs turned to lightheadedness did I rip my mouth away for a few greedy breaths before dragging my burning lips across his stubble.
“I fucking love you,” he rasped, dropping his forehead on my shoulder.
“I love you more,” I whispered, kissing his uncombed hair before forcing myself away to gather up his clothes scattered around the gym.
“Okay, Captain One-up.” His snarky comeback made me smile.
Dropping the clothes in a heap, I tugged the boxers free from his pants and handed them over. Once those were on, I handed him a shirt.
Seeing the fabric, he glanced up. “That’s yours.”
“Yours was on the floor.”
“So?”
“So you can wear mine.”
The dimple I fiercely loved indented his cheek, somehow making his blue eyes sparkle more. “You just want to be all over me.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”
He swiped the shirt and tugged it over his head. “Does it look like I have a problem with it?”
“It looks like you can’t see,” I teased, grabbing my comb to tackle the damp, wild mane.
After smoothing out the front, I gently nudged him around to tame the rest. Comfortable silence blanketed the room, the only sound an occasional drip from the shower.
Finished, I set aside the comb and wrapped around him from behind, rubbing my cheek against the side of his face.
Forever a slave to this man’s scruff.
“You gonna tell me?” I asked.
An exhale moved through him, and he reached into his jeans to pull out his phone. After a few taps, he held it up so I could look at the illuminated photo.
The image was a punch to my midsection, momentarily robbing me of breath. A wave of love rolled through me, and I hugged Drew a little tighter.
Travis sat smiling behind the wheel of the Fastback, the morning sun streaming through the windshield igniting a flame of blue in his wind-whipped, coal-black hair. His eyes, just as dark as his hair, sparked with mischief. He looked weightless in that frozen moment. Free.
Trav was a lot of things. A good son and protective brother. He was smart, stubborn, fiercely loyal, and tended to be impulsive. There wasn’t a single second of any day that I wasn’t proud to be his dad.
But something he wasn’t—at least not often—was free. The first five years of his life marked him. An unerasable tattoo on part of his core personality. And yeah, maybe like ink, it would fade with time, but it would always be permanent.
Sometimes it made me angry, knowing it didn’t matter we’d had him for three times the amount of time his birth mother had, that we loved him infinitely more, but what she’d done would be ingrained in him forever.
It taught me that some scars can’t be loved away. That truly loving someone meant loving the dark parts of them and understanding that sometimes no amount of light would ever penetrate that darkness.
And that I didn’t need to erase that darkness but instead love it too.
“Mm,” I hummed, still looking at the photo. “He’s just like you. Happiest behind the wheel.”
Drew lifted his face in my direction. “Not true, frat boy. I’m happiest with you.”
“Sweet talker,” I accused, enjoying the way my teeth ached from the sweetness.
“It’s true.”
I closed my lips around his ear and tugged. “I know, baby.”
He fell quiet, gazing back at the photo.
“Just because he’s just like you doesn’t mean you are just like him.”
“You always know,” he whispered.
It was my job to know. To take care of him. Not just physically but emotionally. Taking the phone, I set it aside and then moved around to lower onto the closed toilet seat. I tugged his hand, and he came forward, straddling my thighs and surrendering his weight.
“If this toilet falls through the floor, you’re explaining it to the fam.”
“Ivy would just use it as an excuse to remodel the entire house.”
Drew groaned. “She just did that last year.”
“If we aren’t ready, we aren’t ready,” I said, bringing it back before he tried to avoid the conversation more.
“He’s ready.” Drew’s baby blues met mine, and the love he had for our son was right there on the surface. “God, T. He’s a good driver. Gonna be better than me. I can feel it.”
“Of course he is.” I agreed, rubbing my palm up his spine. “Because you taught him.”
Drew shook his head just once. “Some skills can’t be taught. He’s a natural. You can see how much he loves it.”
“If we aren’t ready. We aren’t ready,” I repeated.
“We.” He scoffed. “You mean me.”
I gripped his waist, emphasizing my words. “I mean us. Because if you aren’t ready for Travis to have his own car, then I’m not either. We’re a team.”
“Aren’t you scared?” he whispered.
My heart tumbled a little, as it always did when Drew showed his vulnerable side.
It was a side I saw a lot more of after he’d nearly died.
That accident changed us as a couple. The weakness it forced on us only made us stronger.
And even though it had been many years, it didn’t matter.
Every time Drew was more openly dependent on me, more willing to show me that secret place he kept tucked behind his heart, something in me shattered and then quickly rebuilt so I could be stronger for him.
“Of course I am, baby,” I murmured. Handing Trav the keys to his own car felt like a big deal. Not just in the regular sense of watching him drive off to school or knowing it was one step closer to him being an adult.
There was also a sense of worry because Trav could be impulsive and was a certified adrenaline junkie just like his father.
At times, he had an explosive temper and carried a lot of deeply rooted anger.
It was one of the reasons we encouraged him to play football because it was a good outlet.
But football wasn’t his passion. Cars were.
And even though we basically lived and breathed fast cars, it was scary to hand our child a set of keys, especially after what we’d been through with Drew.
“But you think he’s ready?”
“As ready as he can be,” I replied. “You’ve made sure of it.”
“What if it’s not enough?” He worried.
It would be easy to say it was enough because Drew was always enough. But that wasn’t reassuring, and it sounded contrived even if I did wholly mean it.
“Then we learn as we go. All of us. Together.”
He nodded while tracing invisible patterns across my shoulder. “I’m afraid he’s going to resent me. Think I’m holding him back.”
“You aren’t your father, Drew.” I was firm. “You worrying about Trav’s safety is not the same as your father refusing to let you chase your dreams to drive.” Or live any of the life you wanted.
He exhaled. “I know. I’m just…”
Traumatized because your father is an asshat.
Drew had a lot of scars from how his father raised him under such rigid expectations and then later disowned him for loving me.
And even though Drew permanently tossed his parents out of our lives twelve years ago—for damn good reason—he’d become haunted that he would somehow end up like his father and ruin his relationship with his son.
In my opinion, someone who loved like Drew could never alienate his own son, but I understood his fears. I’d rather pluck out my eyelashes with a pair of rusty pliers than invalidate any of Drew’s worries with a lame “that will never happen.”
“I have an idea.”
“Does it involve whipped cream and naked time?”
I blinked.
Drew wagged his eyebrows.