24. Pope
TWENTY-FOUR
Pope
The credits roll up the screen, some pop song bouncing through the speakers.
I glance down at Lennon, completely out cold against my side. His small chest rises and falls in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. His face is peaceful in a way it rarely is during waking hours.
I pull the blanket higher around his shoulders, careful not to wake him.
"Do you want me to wake him? Or will you carry him?" Sloane's voice is low beside me, barely audible above the music.
I shake my head. "I'll carry him. He needs the sleep."
The day's evaluation has taken more out of him than he'd ever admit.
Chris's forced enthusiasm, followed by thinly veiled frustration, made Lennon retreat further into himself with each passing minute.
That's when I came up with the movie and picnic idea.
He needed something to help him forget all of that.
The kid deserves uninterrupted rest.
Sloane smiles, her eyes soft as she watches Lennon nestled against me. "You're too good."
Good at this? I never imagined myself sitting under the stars watching an animated movie with a seven-year-old. Now I'm fighting for custody of him against my own father.
I don't answer. I can't trust my voice with her hand still tangled in mine, warm and small against my palm.
Instead, I lean toward her, just enough to catch her mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss. Brief but steady. A promise for when the timing's right.
When I pull back, her lips part like she wants to say something, but I'm already shifting to gather Lennon into my arms. His weight settles against my chest as I stand, surprisingly heavy for such a small frame.
He stirs slightly, sighs once, then tucks his face against my shoulder.
The exhaustion from Jacksonville crashes through me, but holding Lennon keeps me present and anchored. This is real. This matters. The warm press of his body reminds me exactly what I'm fighting for.
"I'm going to clean all of this up," Sloane says as she stands.
"Okay, but leave the blanket. Maybe you'll let me hold you for a while once I put him to bed."
"I can do that."
I carry Lennon up the stairs, his small body warm against my chest. The house is eerily dark and quiet except for the soft pad of my socked feet against the hardwood.
When I reach his bedroom, I push the door open with my shoulder. Only the small rocket ship nightlight casts a blue glow across the navy walls. I move toward his bed, careful not to jostle him as I lower him onto the mattress.
Lennon's eyes flutter open for just a moment as I pull the navy blue down comforter over him. "Night, Pope," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as he turns over on his side, facing away from me.
My throat tightens. The way he says my name tugs at some paternal I had no idea existed.
"Night, buddy," I whisper. "I'm right down the hall if you need anything."
He nods, already drifting back to sleep. I run my hand over his small back, my hand lingering for a moment. His breathing evens out almost immediately, deep and steady.
I stay beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Seven years old. So damn little. His face in sleep looks even younger, the wariness that usually shapes his features completely gone.
After experiencing today, watching Chris, his manipulation on full display, and looking at Lennon now, I know with bone-deep certainty that I have to put everything into making sure he's safe. I'll tear anyone apart who tries to hurt him, especially Chris Carrigan.
I back away from the bed, lingering in the doorway. The dread that's been my constant companion since the custody petition surfaced again.
The hospital crisis, the looming court date, Chris’s fucking grin, they all flash through my mind at once. Everything could fall apart so easily, and it feels like I'm the only one who can do anything to fix all of it.
I pull the door halfway closed, enough that I'll hear him if he wakes. My chest feels ready to explode, pressure pressing hard against my ribs.
I grab the baby monitor from Sloane's room and head back downstairs. I hear her in the kitchen putting the food away. When I walk in, she looks up, a smile that instantly melts all of the anxiety I'm carrying.
I set the monitor on the counter with a soft click and pack the empty cardboard containers in the bag. Sloane glances up from the sink where she's rinsing plates, her hands covered in suds. Her eyes flick to the monitor, then to me, her smile warming.
"You remembered to grab the monitor. You trying to show me up?" The teasing in her voice is soft, but there's appreciation behind it, too.
"I pay attention." I am quite proud of myself for thinking about it.
Truth is, I've watched her carry that monitor everywhere for days. She never puts it down, keeping it nearby like some kind of lifeline to Lennon, making sure she can hear if he needs her. It seemed like the obvious thing to grab it.
I move closer, watching how the lantern light from outside plays across her face. The smell of grilled chicken still hangs in the air, mixing with the ocean breeze coming through the open patio door.
"Leave the cleanup." I nod toward the mess of plates and containers. "It can wait."
Her eyebrows lift. "You always this bossy in the kitchen?"
"Yes." I don't bother softening it.
The space between us shrinks as I step closer. My fingers brush against the counter near her hip, not quite touching her but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.
"I wanted to hold you earlier," my lips close enough to hers to feel her breathing. The confession is raw, almost needy. "With Lennon between us, I couldn't get my fill of you."
Sloane's breath catches. "I thought the same thing. I wanted you to hold me.”
My fingers find her wrist, tracing a slow path up her forearm. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. Water drips from her hands onto the tile floor as she turns fully toward me.
I lean in, our lips touching, now, but I stop just short of kissing her.
I nod toward the open door, where the dark lawn stretches toward the beach. "Come outside with me."
I take her hand, still damp from the dishwater, and lead her toward the door.
The projector screen stands dark, lanterns throwing a low glow across the grass. I drop down and tug her with me, keeping her hand in mine.
We settle side by side, shoulders brushing. The sky is sharp and endless above us.
“They almost don’t look real,” I murmur. “Like someone projected them up there.”
Sloane laughs softly, her hair brushing my arm. “Knowing you, you paid the projector guys an extra fee to do this."
"That would have been a good idea. I'm not that romantic."
"I might have to disagree on that one. You were amazing today. Stepping up for your brother, putting this together for him. That’s pretty damn romantic."
Sloane nuzzles in closer, her hand still holding mine, her face rubbing against my arm.
My fingers find the spaces between hers, interlocking our hands. The distant crash of waves mingles with the bass note of bullfrogs swelling in the dark.
"This is what I wanted earlier. Just you. Nothing between us."
I roll toward her, finding her mouth with mine. The kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, before something breaks open between us. Her lips part beneath mine, and I'm lost.
My body shifts over hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other tracing the curve of her hip.
"Pope," she breathes against my lips, her fingers sliding under my shirt, exploring the muscles of my back.
My mouth travels down her neck, tasting the salt on her skin. Her back arches when I push her top up, exposing the soft skin of her stomach to the night air. I press my lips to the curve of her breast above her bra, feeling her shiver beneath me.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful," I whisper against her skin.
Her hand slides between us, palm flat against my chest before tracing lower, following the line of muscle disappearing into my jeans. Heat sears through me, and I groan against her collarbone, my hips pressing hard into hers.
“I need you,” she breathes, tugging at my belt. “God, I need you so much.”
My hand slides up her thigh, slipping beneath the hem of her shorts. She trembles when my fingers trace circles higher, closer, teasing where she’s hottest.
“We should go inside,” I manage, though my hands betray me, tugging her shorts down her hips.
“Not yet,” she gasps, fumbling at my zipper. “Now it's time for your reward for your hard day. Lennon got the movie, now you get a blow job.”
Her hand closes around me, freeing me, stroking slowly. I press my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard, my control fraying with every pull of her hand, every soft sound spilling from her lips.
Her hands are pushing my pants down before I can stop her. Hell, I don’t even try. The sound of the fabric pulling against my skin is drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears.
“You've been a very good boy.”
The words nearly undo me. The night air licks coolly against my skin, but her hand is warm, wrapping around me, stroking slowly.
“Christ,” I grit out, my head dropping back against the blanket. The stars spin above me, unreal. None of them compare to her carefully removing my pants and the wind against my naked body.
She drags her mouth across my stomach, leaving my skin damp and burning in her wake. Her hair fans across my chest, tickling as she lowers herself between my thighs. She’s flat on her stomach now, stretched out below me, and the heat of her body on my legs sears my skin.
She licks from my belly button down until she buries her face between my legs. Her tongue slides up my length, deliberate and teasing, until her mouth closes over the head, sucking and teasing.
Heat sears through me. My fists curl in the blanket, every muscle straining to keep still.
“Fuck, Sloane…” My voice is rough and broken as I struggle to keep my voice down.
Her hand closes around me, stroking once, twice, before her mouth slides back over the head. My jaw locks, teeth grinding as her lips seal tight and she drags down my length.
She takes more of me, cheeks hollowing, lips stretched around my cock. The wet sound of her sucking fills the night, obscene against the backdrop of the silence except for nature.
Every flick of her tongue jerks a groan out of me, my hips straining up against her mouth before I can stop myself. Control slips with every wet pull, shredding one stroke at a time.
Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, her mouth full of me, her hair spilling like silk over my stomach. She moans, the sound muffled around my cock, and the vibration tears a groan straight out of my chest. My hips jerk before I can hold them down, forcing me deeper into her throat.
She gags slightly but doesn't stop.
I fist her hair, not to guide her, but to keep myself from losing it. She hums again, louder this time, like she’s savoring the way I throb against her tongue.
“Goddamn, you’re killing me,” I rasp. My thighs tense, muscles twitching, every instinct screaming to fuck her mouth, to take what she’s giving me.
She pulls back just enough to swirl her tongue around the head, messy and wet, saliva slicking her hand as she twists it at the base. Then she sinks down again, slow at first, then deeper, throat stretching, lips straining, until I feel the back of her throat clamp around me.
“Christ—” My vision blurs, stars sparking at the edges.
She doesn’t stop. Won’t stop. Her mouth works me harder, faster, her fist stroking in rhythm at the base, her moans growing ragged like she can’t help herself. Spit slides down my shaft, dripping onto my stomach, filthy and hot.
My grip tightens in her hair, my hips bucking despite myself. She takes it, takes all of it, swallowing me down like she owns me.
“Close,” I grit out, every muscle locking tight. “Sloane, I’m?—”
She groans low in her throat, swallowing me deeper, and that’s it. Control snaps. My hips drive up hard, burying me in her mouth as I spill down her throat.
White heat rips through me, my whole body bowing off the blanket as curses tear out of me, broken and guttural.
She doesn’t pull back. She swallows, every last drop, her throat working around me, and the sight nearly ends me all over again.
When I finally collapse against the blanket, lungs heaving, she lifts her head, lips swollen, and her chin slick.
She swipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming in the lantern light.
“Holy fuck,” I manage, my voice wrecked.
She smiles slowly, wickedly. “That’s the idea.”
Goddammit. That might’ve just shredded the last ounce of control I had left over any of the shit blowing up in my life.