Chapter 4 #2
My mouth went dry. My Kteer, which had been a contented purr in my chest as I jammed with my new stepson, uncoiled with a low, visceral thrum I struggled to contain. I’d spent two months battling this need, trying to ignore the memory of her lips under mine…
Heat flushed under my skin, sudden and urgent. It was a primal, possessive surge that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with that sexy little noise she’d made when I kissed her at the altar, and the way she’d pushed up to try to keep me pressed against her.
What would she sound like when she came on my tongue?
My eyes closed tightly as I struggled to maintain control of my cock.
How come Mom can’t just move in with you?
Because I’m a coward.
Because I promised her no expectations.
Because she’s so gods-damned strong and ferociously independent that if she wanted me, she’d have walked into my room and taken what she wanted from me.
Because I had my one chance at a Bond, and I burned it to ashes, and this—this careful, friendly distance—is the penance I deserve.
Because if I let myself want her, really want her, and she doesn’t want me back, I’ll break this beautiful, fragile world we’re building for our sons.
The wanting was a constant, low-grade fever. I’d memorized the scent of her, desperately chasing the tantalizing hint of the occasional whiff of arousal around her.
I lay awake in my big, empty bed, imagining the weight of her beside me, the softness of her curves under my hands, the taste of her skin. I was hard more often than not, a state of perpetual, frustrated readiness I hadn’t experienced since I was Jay’s age.
And I bore it because my word was all I had. Because Kesha deserved safety, not a horny, grieving orc who saw her as a consolation prize.
“It’s… complicated, Milo,” I finally said, a coward’s answer.
“Your mom and I, we got married to make a family for you and Jay. To be a team. Sharing a room… that’s something couples do when they’re together…
uh…romantically. We’re still figuring that part out.
” The explanation sounded hollow even to me.
Milo processed this, his nose scrunching in thought. “But you like her.”
It wasn’t a question. My heart hammered against my ribs, a traitorous drum. “Of course I like her. She’s… incredible.”
“And she likes you.” He stated it as if it was obvious.
“She smiles way more now. Her worry line—” he pressed a finger between his eyebrows— “is almost gone. Aunt Jossy says it’s ‘cause you’re so…
” He searched for the word, then found it with triumph.
“Reliable.” He said it like it was a superhero’s power.
“So if you like each other and you’re already married…
wouldn’t sharing a room be the next thing? Like leveling up?”
A choked laugh escaped me. “Leveling up. Yeah.”
I dragged a hand over my beard, the coarse hair a familiar anchor.
How to explain the minefield of adult fear, past grief, and self-denial to this small, logical creature?
“Sometimes, even when you really want to level up, you have to wait for the other player to be ready. You can’t force it. Or you lose the game.”
He considered this, then nodded slowly, the video game logic apparently making perfect sense. “Okay. So we’re in a co-op campaign, and we’re grinding for trust points before the boss fight of sharing a closet.”
This time, my laugh was real, bursting out of me and filling the sunroom. “Something like that.”
“Well,” he said, hopping off the stool with sudden, electric energy. The serious moment was over, replaced by the imperative of a ten-year-old’s agenda. “While we’re grinding… can we go to the beach today? The big one by the library?”
The beach. With Kesha.
The fantasy unfolded in my mind, vivid and instantaneous. Kesha in a swimsuit—I’d only seen her in one once, two weeks ago when she and Jocelyn had dragged our Colorado asses to the beach, and the image was etched on the back of my eyelids.
Kesha laughing, head thrown back, sun on her mahogany skin, silver Lycra clutching at her curves. Kesha lying on a towel, that glorious body stretched out, and me beside her, allowed to look my fill. Maybe I could offer to put sunscreen on her back.
My claws retracted so sharply at the thought that I felt a sting in my fingertips.
My Kteer roared its approval, a raw, hungry sound that vibrated in my bones like a bass note pushed too hard, rattling every string.
Yes. Take her. Be near her. In the sun. In the water. Show her she is yours—
I slammed the door on the thought. But the simple, pure appeal of the idea remained. A whole day with her. Not as housemates or co-parents, but as a family. Making memories in the sun, with the roar of the ocean as our soundtrack. A chance to just… be.
“That,” I said, standing up, the decision settling in me with a rightness that felt like fate, “is a fantastic idea, if your mom’s up for it.”
“She will be!” Milo declared, already darting toward the door to the backyard. “She doesn’t like swimming in the salt water, but she loves the beach. She says it smells like…” He paused, fetching the word from his careful memory. “Potential.”
Potential.
The word resonated in the deepest part of me, a tuning fork struck true. Yes. That’s what this was. What she was. Not a replacement, not a consolation. A potential so vast it terrified me.
“Alright then,” I said, following his eager path. “Let’s go ask her.”
Kesha
I’d always hated the way a helmet squished down my hair.
When I’d regularly played hockey, I was almost always the only Black woman on the ice, and I used to keep my hair braided during the season. It still wasn’t exactly comfortable, but at least I didn’t have to deal with all these natural curls being contained by a helmet.
In the heat of summer. Outside. A mile from the beach, where the air was practically roasting, and I thought it was an ideal time to strap on pads and a helmet and go outside to practice with a twelve-year-old.
A bike helmet, because it’d been years since I’d played for anything other than fun, and I didn’t own my own equipment anymore. Still, there was no way I wasn’t going to model good brain protection to Jay, right?
If he was going to have to wear full gear in this wicked sun, then I would do the same.
Even if I was fairly certain I was melting.
“Okay,” I said, positioning myself in front of him. “Give me your stick.”
He handed it over with the skeptical expression of someone who had been skating since before he could read, which, fair. But I’d watched him wobble through three backwards crossovers and nearly take me out, so the skepticism could wait.
I held the stick out between us horizontally, one hand on each end. “Grab it. Both hands.”
He did, and I felt the difference immediately; his grip was firm and automatic, a hockey player’s grip, nothing hesitant about it. Good. That part transferred.
“The problem isn’t that you don’t know how to skate backwards,” I said.
“You do. The problem is your edges. On ice, you’ve got a blade.
One clean edge to push off. On these”—I gestured down at our rollerblades—“you’ve got four wheels in a line, and your brain keeps looking for an edge that isn’t there. ”
Jay glanced down at his feet, that skepticism clearing to something more thoughtful. He knew as well as I did that last summer he’d still been in Colorado, with much easier access to an ice complex for all his off-season training. The kid could rollerblade, but not with the same skill.
And definitely not as well as someone like me, who’d spent the last decade in Texas. Actually, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d played hockey on ice instead of a street game.
“So instead of pushing,” I continued, “you’re going to drag. Toe out, heel in, and let the wheel friction do the work.” I demonstrated slowly, rolling backwards a few inches. “Don’t push back. Just open.”
“That looks weird.”
“It looks weird, and it works. Ready?”
He set his jaw—good Lord, he looked so much like his father when he did that—and nodded.
We started slow, me rolling forward, him following, the stick a straight line of tension between us. His first few strokes were too sharp, the old muscle memory kicking in and looking for an edge to bite, and he lurched sideways. The stick caught him.
I knew that he’d had regular practice and games on the mainland up until recently. But off-season training was up to each player and their family, and even Jay could admit that it was easier to practice here in the cul-de-sac than take the ferry off the island.
“Again,” I said. “Softer. Like you’re spreading peanut butter.”
He made a face. “Nobody has ever described hockey skating like that.”
“Nobody taught you on rollerblades before.” I raised my eyebrow in challenge. “Softer.”
Jay scowled—stop thinking of Korrad—and tried again.
This time I felt the drag instead of the push, the subtle shift in his weight. The stick went almost slack between us, and for four, five, six feet, he was doing brilliantly.
“There,” I said quietly. “That’s it. That’s the feeling.”
He didn’t whoop or celebrate the way Milo would have. He just did it again, jaw still set, eyes down, making sure.
We kept skating, and I turned us slowly, looping around the empty cul-de-sac. “Hey,” I said gently. “Look at me.”
When Jay’s dark eyes lifted to mine, I smiled. “You’re a good enough skater to not have to look at your feet, right?”
He snorted, lips twitching. “I haven’t had to do that since I was a kid.”
Not reminding him that, despite his new Big Brother standing, he was still very much a kid, I just joined him in a little snort and turned him again.
“Good, then don’t look down now. It’s a different kind of skating, but once you get good at it, you’ll feel the similarities. Then we can train here this summer every day. Easier and cheaper than getting to the mainland.”
“Hotter, though,” Jay scowled, his grip on the stick loose. “I miss the snow.”
“Yeah, me too.” I shrugged. “But Eastshore is really nice, and I’m glad to be here.”