Chapter 16 #2
I close my eyes. Instantly—she’s there. Naked in my shower, soapy water sliding down every inch of her.
Her body, all curves and softness. The way her ass rounds out as she bends over, daring me to lose control.
The arch of her back, the little shiver she does when I touch her just right.
She’d look over her shoulder, mouth open for whatever filthy command she’s about to give me.
I imagine gripping her hips, spreading her wide, my fingers slipping between her legs. I know how she’d sound—impatient, bossy, begging me to get on with it already. In my head, she’s dripping wet, needy, squeezing around my fingers as she nears the edge.
“Like that,” she’d moan. “God, yes, right there—don’t you dare stop.”
The fantasy’s so vivid I can smell her—sweet and sharp and so fucking real I almost believe it. Slick with need, her body would clamp down on me, her thighs shaking as I work her over until she can’t think straight.
In my head, she comes for me first. She always does.
But then—she wants more. She looks back, eyes wild, and tells me exactly how she wants it. “Fuck me now.”
I don’t waste time. I push inside, filling her in one savage thrust, and she takes it—she wants it—she rocks back against me, greedy for every inch.
Her ass collides with my hips, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing off the bathroom walls.
I ram into her, again and again, knowing exactly how she needs it.
Deep. Relentless. Like I’m trying to ruin her for everyone else on the goddamn planet.
She arches, and her head tips back so her hair’s plastered to her spine and she’s moaning my name. Not the polite version—she orders me, grinds her hips, tells me when to angle just so, and I’d do anything for her.
I’m pounding into my hand so hard, the wet crack of it bounces around the shower stall. My muscles lock tight. Red burns behind my eyes. I’m so close.
She cries out—bossy, greedy, desperate for more.
I explode. Not “oh, that’s nice” and done. No, we’re talking the kind of orgasm where my cum hits the opposite wall. Then again, and again—more than I ever thought possible. It’s raw, convulsive, and I have to brace myself on the wall to keep standing.
Eventually, the world goes fuzzy at the edges. My ears ring. I exhale so hard my ribs hurt.
When it’s over, I look down at myself—still half-hard, still twitching, and I feel like the world’s most pathetic cautionary tale. I grab some soap and scrub down the scene, but all it does is remind me how much I want to do this for real. My balls ache. My muscles ache. My heart—yeah, that too.
This? This is my life now. All the longing, none of the actual sex.
I shut off the shower and towel off with enough force to exfoliate a rhinoceros. I stare in the mirror—a guy with too much muscle and not enough finesse.
God, I’m a disaster.
I need to find a self-help book.
Eventually, I yank on sweatpants and stomp out into the hallway.
The house smells like coffee. No voices—peaceful, but not in a good way.
Last night was a shitshow, but also… kind of incredible?
Eli actually reached for me in a moment of panic and let me stay with him instead of telling me to fuck off.
And Zoe—she made it seem like less of a disaster, somehow. She always does.
I can’t let another night go down like that, though. Eli deserves better.
I need a plan, and it can’t be me buying my way out of this problem.
I’ve got to go full dad MacGyver and fortify his entire sleeping situation against the monsters in his brain.
I hit the linen closet first. Every blanket I own—donated from my mom when I moved in, which means it’s a hodge-podge of striped, flannel, and the weighted one Zoe ordered off the internet after reading an article about sleep therapy—goes over my shoulder.
Next, pillows. I’m talking enough to cushion a hockey brawl.
I raid the living room, the guest rooms, and even yank the pillows off my own bed.
The stuffed animals come next, a haul of shit Zoe “accidentally” bought in bulk last week.
There’s a dinosaur, a bear in a hockey jersey, three generic woodland creatures, and—for reasons known only to Zoe—a plush hedgehog holding a tiny microphone.
I set the bear and the hedgehog at the entrance to Eli’s room.
I sneak into the garage while Zoe and Eli are in the kitchen, and I hear her calling him “Chef Supreme” and I can’t believe I got so lucky getting her to be my nanny. And let’s be honest: the only thing helping me with my sanity right now. But I’m not going to overthink that.
I dig out the camping headlamps I bought two years ago but never used. Back in Eli’s room, I tape those suckers to the ceiling, along with the string of LED stars Zoe picked up, and boom, we’ve got mood lighting.
At one point, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror to see that I’m shirtless with sagging sweatpants, but I’m grinning. If my college teammates could see me now: Jonah Holt, NHL tough guy, constructing a glittering fortress out of throw pillows.
But here’s the thing: I actually want to win this one.
I work fast, building the “roof” over his bed with two extra-long hockey sticks. I drape the blankets, arrange the pillows, wedge the flashlight guards in strategic locations. By the time I’m done, it looks like the secret headquarters of a nine-year-old superhero.
Perfect.
The grand finale: a box of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling overhead. I stand back and admire my work, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like maybe I’m not completely screwing this up.
Now the moment of truth.
I creep downstairs, where Zoe and Eli hunch over the kitchen counter, deeply involved in what appears to have been a pancake war.
Flour dusts Eli’s cheek, syrup on the counter, and Zoe’s glasses are slowly sliding down her nose as she cackles at something he just said.
The sight nearly knocks the wind out of me.
This is what I wanted. This is the whole point.
I wait for them to finish eating their breakfast for supper before I interrupt them.
“Hey, Chef.” I nudge Eli’s shoulder. “I need your help with something upstairs.”
He looks up, wary, but there’s a spark of curiosity. A win. “What?”
“It’s a surprise. But only if you’re willing to trust me.”
Zoe raises an eyebrow, but I shoot her a private look. She gets it. She always does.
Eli wipes his hands on his jeans and follows me up the stairs. As we step into his room, I flick off the light.
He just stands there—silent, frozen, jaw hanging open. He stares at the fort, the glowing ceiling, the battalion of plush security officers at the door.
Holy shit, I broke him.
But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. One that starts at the corners of his mouth and lights up his entire face. He turns to me, eyes wide.
“This is so cool,” he says.
I can’t even breathe. I’d take any award, any trophy, any record-smashing game and trade it for this right now. My kid just smiled at me.
Eli dives into the fort, poking at the construction. “How did you make it stay up?” He inspects the “rafters.”
“Hockey sticks. They’re good for more than just breaking noses.”
He snorts and crawls up onto his bed, settling in beneath the blankets. “There’s even a place for Flash.” He wedges the action figure into one of the pillow turrets. “And the lights make it look like outer space.”
I climb in next to him, trying to keep my giant body from wrecking the whole thing. We’re cocooned in this absurd, soft-walled universe, glow stars overhead, the faint scent of laundry detergent and possibility in the air.
Eli glances at the stack of books beside him. “What will you read tonight?”
A few months ago, that question would’ve made me want to sneak away. Now, it’s all I want.
I grab the book with a dragon on the cover, saying, “‘The Dragon’s Code,’” flipping it open. “Are you ready for it?”
Eli nods, tucking Flash under one arm and the plush dinosaur under the other. I read, not putting on the same dramatic reading voice Zoe does, but I try. The story is about logic puzzles, secret codes, and a tiny dragon with a chip on its scaly shoulder—basically, Eli in reptile form.
Every few pages, he stops me to comment. “Why don’t they just use binary?” “That riddle is too easy.” “I bet Zoe understood the twist before you did.”
He’s probably right. When I reach the end, Eli looks up at me, solemn. “She picks good books. Like my mom did.”
“She does. She’s the best. And I’m sure your mom picked amazing books too.”
He’s quiet, and I think that’s it, but then he says, barely more than a whisper, “Will you stay this time?”
A lump forms in my throat, hard and sharp. “Yeah. I’ll stay as long as you want.”
He nestles closer, tucking himself against my side, tiny body finally relaxing, like a pressure valve releasing. My arm goes around him, careful but steady. I’m not moving.
Time passes—soft and slow, nothing like the chaos of last night. Eli drifts off, breathing evening out. I stare at the ceiling, watching the fake constellations, feeling more like a parent than I ever have in my life.
At some point, the door creaks. Zoe’s face appears in the entrance to the fort, the hallway lighting her up like an angel.
She sees us tangled up in the blankets—Eli’s asleep, me holding on—and her whole face changes.
Not just “oh cute kid” happy, but deeper.
Her eyes go shiny, her mouth does this wobbly half-smile, and it’s obvious she actually cares. Like, cares cares.
I give her a thumbs up. She flashes a double thumbs-up back before vanishing around the corner. The last thing I see is the shine in her eyes.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to break the spell. So I don’t. I stay exactly where I am, uncomfortable pillow, dead weight kid, and all.
My son asleep in my arms, jaw slack, hair a mess, and I’d let my whole body go numb for this any day of the week.
I lie there, watching my kid breathe, and hope to hell Rosie’s out there somewhere, seeing what’s happening here. Because it’s fucking good.
It’s real and happening—all thanks to Zoe Lane.