Hold On (Page 42)

Riding that feeling, I slid my lips up, over his jaw, his morning whiskers scraping my lips in a way I felt in my clit. I kept going even as his head twisted, angled. My lips glided over his and locked on.

Then I kissed him, open mouths, sliding my tongue inside.

He let me, not taking over or anything.

He tasted like toothpaste and Merry, an awesome combination.

The last thing I’d had the night before was a Baby Ruth bar and a can of Diet 7UP, but I figured that had long since worn off and maybe I didn’t taste so good.

I didn’t care. I went for it, drawing him in, my insides contracting like they were caving in on an empty that had to be filled or I’d shrink to nothing, and the only sustenance it would accept was a healthy dose of Garrett Merrick.

So I fed from him, trailing my hand up his shirt from his abs to his chest, my fingers clenching in, pulling him closer to me and going for more.

Merry gave it and kept giving until his groan throbbed through my pussy, making it contract.

He pulled his lips away and landed a peck on the side of my mouth before he moved back minutely and looked into my eyes.

“I like how you wake up, baby, but you got shit timing. I have to get Ethan to school.”

I stared up at him and slowly let his shirt go as I just as slowly turned my head to look at the alarm clock.

Ethan had to leave for school in exactly three minutes.

My alarm didn’t go off.

What the fuck?

I looked back to Merry. “Ethan’s ready for school?”

“Got up, got him up, got him doin’ his thing. I made him breakfast. He’s ready to roll. Just didn’t want you to wake up and freak, so I woke you to let you know he’s all good, I got him, and you can sleep in.”

I could sleep in?

Merry made my son breakfast?

Merry had him?

A fog filled my head as this knowledge processed through me.

Since he was born, mornings with Ethan were mine. With my work history, they were the only times that were guaranteed, him and me. For breakfast. When he was a baby, a toddler, a little kid, for cuddles. On the weekend, for hanging together and watching cartoons. Before school, shooting the shit and making sure he was good to face the day.

That was mine.

No one got that.

Not even my mom.

When I worked late, she stayed at my place and either slept on the couch if she was tired or went home when I got home. If I had to count on Feb, Vi, anyone, I went to go get my kid, shuffling him out half asleep to my car, helping him drop into his own bed.

It might not be right, making a kid switch beds in the middle of the night, but my kid woke up in his bed with his mom there to take care of him.

And he did not wake up with some guy in the house that he knew but he did not know what that man was to his mother.

The world might think I’m a stupid, skanky slut.

But my kid did not.

And he was never supposed to get that first inkling his mom was that kind of mom, that kind of woman.

Not ever.

Not…fucking…ever.

“You got my kid up,” I said to Merry.

“Yeah, babe, and now I gotta get him to school.”

“You got my kid up,” I repeated, and Merry’s head jerked.

Then his eyes went alert.

I moved quickly, throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed. I snatched my jeans up, shoved a foot in then the other. Yanking them up, I looked to Merry.

“You don’t get to do that shit,” I hissed quietly, doing up my fly. “You do not get to make that decision, Garrett. He’s my kid. I get his mornings.”

Something flooded his face, a sweet something, but I was not done.

Not by a long shot.

“You shoulda stayed in bed, or you shoulda got me up and got out before he got up. You do not make the decision your own damned self about what my kid knows, what he sees, or who looks after him.” I straightened and jabbed my thumb to myself. “I do.”

He stood, murmuring, “Cher—”

I got in his space, head tipped back, mouth still hissing. “You and I fucked once. Now you’re jackin’ my shit with your fucked-up head games, and that’s okay. That’s the way of the world. That happens to stupid bitches like me who do stupid shit like gettin’ shitfaced and lettin’ a man fuck her who’s drownin’ his sorrows because he’s in love with a woman he cannot have.”

Merry’s expression changed again, but I was too far gone to take note.

“But my son never knows his mother’s a stupid bitch like that. And he sure as fuck doesn’t find out that shit from some asshole who gets his rocks off jackin’ her around.”

His entire long, lean body jolted like he’d been struck, but I turned on my bare foot and stomped out of the room, happy to see that I had to open the door in order to do it, which meant Ethan wouldn’t have heard any of that.

I took a deep breath and another shallower one on my way so I at least had some of my shit together by the time I cleared the hall and came into my living room.

Ethan had his jacket on, his backpack on his shoulder, and when he saw me, he grinned.

“He told you, right?” he asked the minute he could get the words out. “Merry told you that Marty got ’im? Tackled him behind the freakin’ Dairy Queen.”

“Yeah, kid, he told me,” I confirmed.

“Marty’s so cool!” Ethan declared, saying words about Officer Marty Fink that only kids in that town eleven years old or younger would utter. “And get this, you know that waffle iron you bought at that garage sale that we used once and it conked out?” Before I could confirm that I knew the waffle iron he was referring to, he kept talking. “Merry opened it up, messed with some wires, and now it works.”