Chapter Nine #3
A nice, quiet, easy life was what I wanted.
Where the biggest problem was how to get hair off clothing that wouldn't come off even after a wash and dry cycle, how to keep the house from being covered in muddy paw prints, exactly what was the right ratio of liver treats a day to give an ever-growing pack of dogs.
I wasn't naive about it, though. I understood that if my future involved Kingston—and I was sincerely hoping it did—then I would never be completely protected from dangerous things.
His world came with a certain amount of risk.
There would be nights when I would sit up, a knot tied tightly in my belly, wondering if he was okay, if he was going to come home to me.
It was a small price to pay though, I decided, as he climbed in bed that night, curling into me because I couldn't curl into him, running his fingers over me like he needed to remind himself that I was there, that I was okay, that I wasn't going to disappear on him.
--
"What's this about?" Atlas asked the next morning, having shown up with a hot take-away coffee when I was still wiping sleep out of my eyes.
All the Rivers brothers looked alike. Tall, strong, dark-haired, dark-eyed. But there was a boyish—or playboyish, to be more accurate—charm to Atlas, a lightness that made his features seem more approachable, yet completely unattainable somehow at the same time.
Quick to smile, quick to laugh, quick to disappear in the middle of the night after giving some girl the orgasm of her life. That was what Atlas was about.
It was practically an honor that he was there at my bedside when he could be charming some girl out of her clothes.
"What's what about?" I asked, slow blinking at him as I cradled my too-hot coffee between my hands.
"The sock," he clarified, sitting down next to my casted leg, propped up high on four pillows.
"My foot was cold," I lied. Badly. My voice crackled in the middle and everything. "Fine. My toes are fat," I told him.
"Babe, it's pretty clear you two have hit the sheets. I'm sure King has seen your fat toes... and loved them."
"My toes are not normally fat!" I objected, voice getting high. "They're swollen," I clarified, voice calmer as his lips curled, revealing a deep set dimple to one side. Just one. He only had one. Which kept him from looking too boyish. "And my polish is all chipped."
"Alright, let's see what you have going on," he started, peeling the sock down.
"No!"
"Oh, stop," he said with an eye roll. "You don't want to fuck me, so what do you care about what I think of your fat toes?
" And, well, he had a point there. So I let him pull it off the rest of the way.
"The swelling isn't that bad, considering.
Must be how high King has your leg propped.
I didn't think he even had this many pillows. "
He didn't.
He had called Rush first thing this morning when I woke up in a lot of pain to bring over a bunch of pillows so we could get the ankle above my heart, so the fluid would drain.
"Alright. You want me to deal with the polish?"
"If I wanted polish all over my feet, I could call one of the kids over to paint them," I told him, tone light, teasing.
"If you tell my brothers this, I will find some way to make you suffer, but Scotti used to make me paint her toenails when she was little. She'd throw this epic fit, screaming and stomping and threatening to tell Mom if I didn't. So I did. Got good at it. Just gotta pop out for polish."
Had you told me a month ago that soon I would be living with one Rivers brother while another delivered groceries to me and yet another painted my toenails, I would have suggested you maybe go seek some mental health treatment because you were clearly deranged.
Yet here we were.
Kingston had gone to the office to handle a few things. So when Atlas came back with a bright purple polish, we were alone while he took off my old, cracking stuff and put on a pretty good new coat.
"Smells weird in here," Kingston declared when he came back in half an hour later, sniffing the air.
"I was just helping beautify your girl," Atlas informed him, waving the bottle.
"She doesn't need your help to be beautiful," Kingston declared. It was both sweet and a little pointed at the same time.
But Atlas let it slide right off, as he always did, moving to stand.
"I have to get going. Take care of those fat toes, babe. I will see you at Sunday dinner."
"Your toes aren't fat," Kingston offered immediately, like he needed to boost up my confidence, like he thought Atlas had knocked it down.
"Just the first three," I told him, shrugging. "All five were this morning."
"Which I didn't know because you wouldn't let me see them," he told me, crushing the idea that I had been pulling off the cold feet lie pretty well considering my terrible track record of lying convincingly.
"You don't need to be insecure about that shit," he added, coming to sit off the edge of the bed near my hip, looking down at me.
He wasn't wrong. And I had to quickly get over it because I was relying on him completely. To help me do things. Like the shower he had mentioned before heading out when Atlas arrived.
"You ready?" he asked, somehow reading my mind.
"No," I admitted.
"It won't be so bad. We have the cast protector. Which I was told by the nurse to tape down to be extra sure. But that's not a big deal."
"I don't know how I am going to stand up that whole time," I admitted, wondering if we should have sent Nixon out to pick up a shower chair.
I didn't understand the light in his eyes as he assured me that we would figure something out.
But ten minutes later, in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid in a tee and panties after Kingston finished securing the protector to my leg, as he stood and reached to start pulling off his clothes, I finally understood.
I was taking a shower.
With Kingston.
A low, whimpering, pained noise escaped me as his hands worked his pants and boxer briefs off, leaving him beautifully naked before me.
"Believe me," King said, pulling me up, yanking my shirt off of me, "I know," he told me, nodding.
"It's not forever," he added, hands sinking into my hips to lift me the short distance to the shower, reaching in to run the water before looking down at me as his hand slid down my back, over my ass, then inward, snagging the waistband of my panties, dragging them down.
Torture.
It was downright torture to be there with him, naked, climbing into a hot shower, and not being able to do anything about the aching need in my belly, the pooling wetness between my thighs, the hardness of him stabbing into my ass cheek.
But we both breathed deep, gritted out teeth, tried to calm the chaos in our systems.
His hands worked shampoo into my hair, making confused noises as his fingers got tangled, as long strands got caught between them.
But there was no giggling at his expense when his hand reached for a new bar of soap and started running it over my upper chest.
"I can..." I started to object, voice airy.
"I want to," he cut me off, hand moving circles over my breast, then the other, down my belly.
I'd never had someone wash me, would have found the very idea weird, awkward if you so much as suggested it before.
But I was pretty sure there was nothing in the world more erotic than a man running a bar of soap all over your body, suds and water slipping down your skin, his breath warm in your ear, his hard body against your back.
Unable to help it, my head fell backward onto his shoulder, turning into his neck, letting out a small whimper.
His hand stilled where it was halfway down my thigh, his breath shivering out of his chest before he started a path back upward, gliding inward, running the bar between my legs.
Testing me out, I thought.
And when a moan escaped me, his hand moved up, anchoring across my middle, his other hand slid down between my legs, sliding up my slit, finding my clit, working it in excruciatingly slow circles.
My arms went up, winding around the back of his neck, steadying myself as the pleasure started to course through me, build, crest.