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I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t speak. And now I was trembling, mentally preparing for my world to end.

“Reg, it’s okay. Don’t freak out. We’ll talk to her. We’ll⁠—”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! This never happened,” I growled.

Coop held his hands up in surrender. Or maybe he was waiting for me to say something more. But there was nothing to say.

Just run, run, run.

I blinked out of the memory, instantly annoyed with myself. I knew better than to go down that road. I’d been such a coward, such an asshole, such a scared little shit.

Sometimes I wondered what I would have done if Rhona hadn’t cornered me later and told me I was safe. Would I have run away? If so, would I be here now in front of my childhood home, guarding the man I’d once been afraid would hate me if he knew my secret?

But I hadn’t run.

I drew an unsteady breath and wished like hell I could tell that kid it was going to be okay.

CHAPTER 29

WAYLON

Reg’s palm pressed between my shoulder blades and he rolled his hips. Not too hard or too fast. Yeah, that was just right. He had me surrounded, pinned to the mattress, his balls slapping my ass with each thrust. So good.

It was better when he rolled us onto our sides and reached around to jerk my cock while he fucked me. I could feel pleasure building—that sweet tingle had spread from the base of my spine to every nerve ending in my body. I was gonna explode, but God, I wanted to hang on for as long as possible. I hadn’t had sex without a condom…ever. This was unreal. No barrier…just Reg.

We weren’t seeing anyone else and weren’t planning to, so…yeah, why not do it all? Now I wished we’d have gotten tested sooner.

“What’s it like?” he whispered, nibbling my ear.

“Mmm.” I hiked my right leg, adjusting the angle of his cock nudging my prostate as I stroked myself. “So…good. You’re next. But first…gimme your cum.”

“Fuck, Waylon. I want you to come, baby. I want you to come for me,” he purred.

And then Reg was kissing me, his tongue flicking the corner of my mouth, his muscles straining as he moved inside me. And all I could hear was baby, baby, baby. And no, I wasn’t thinking clearly, but some part of me was thinking that I really liked the way that word sounded. And I liked the way he looked at me, and the way he gasped as he came, spilling his seed inside me.

We lay panting in the aftermath, grinning like fools at this new thing we shared. I should have been joking about giving him twenty minutes to recover till round two, but I didn’t trust my voice. I just wanted to be close to him, entwined till it felt as if we’d become one entity. He could melt into me, and we could just be one thing.

Eventually, we cleaned up and headed downstairs. The kids were at sleepovers, and we had the whole night to ourselves.

Reg found a recipe for lasagna online that sounded good, and thankfully, it seemed pretty simple. I was in charge of browning onions while he took the casings off the spice sausage. We sang along to a Fleetwood Mac classic with Tate lounging in the middle of the kitchen under our feet. We sipped wine, admired the fire blazing in the hearth and the new coffee table in the adjoining living room.

And of course we grumbled about the weather. It was snowing. Again.

We’d had a solid month of white stuff dropping from the sky. We’d even had an ice storm a few days ago. It made the roads treacherous, and of course, it was a major topic of conversation throughout Wood Hollow.

Beau, griping to his audience at the mill this morning: “An icicle almost stabbed me in the skull. It was freaky, man!”

Dexter at the donut shop with his four-month-old son, Thoren, wiggling in his baby sling and three-year-old, Annika “helping” Alberto in the kitchen: “We haven’t been able to play flag football in three weeks. We have cabin fever like you wouldn’t believe. By the way, you’re on the mill team next month. One of the guys signed you up. Next!”

Troy, reading the coffee-tude of the day at Rise and Grind while waiting at the counter for his caffeine fix: “ ‘The weather outside is…terrible. Just drink coffee.’ Hmm. Honest advertising. Gotta love it.”

I glanced out the window from my perch at the island at the snow blanketing the hillsides and clinging to tree branches and fir needles like a thick coat of primer on an unblemished white canvas. I had to admit, it was pretty.

Reg bit into the lasagna with an orgasmic moan. “Wow, that’s good. We did this?”

I pressed my knee against his, resting my foot on his barstool. “I think I did most of the work. Dicing onions was especially grueling. I almost stabbed myself.”

He snorted. “Poor baby.”