Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(46)

And Molly.

After two weeks of sleeping in her bed each night, I’d been tossing and turning in my own bed because I hadn’t had my pillow.

“What did you do while we were gone?” Max asked.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I told him quietly.

He nodded and chewed faster before repeating his question. “What did you do while we were with Grandma and Grandpa?”

What did we do while they were gone? Each other.

“Oh, not too much.” Molly’s eyes flicked to mine.

We’d spent the last week on mailbox stakeout duty, which was really nothing more than occasionally looking at it from the window or spending our evenings on the front porch instead of inside.

We were awful at surveillance, probably because we’d get antsy sitting on the porch, mere inches away from one another. The tension would grow thick, the air hot, and we’d retreat to the comfort of Molly’s cool bedroom sheets.

Which was how the last letter had come and we still had no clue who’d dropped it off.

“We actually went and had a game night with Aunt Poppy and Uncle Cole,” I told the kids.

“Who won?” Kali asked. My sweet girl had a competitive streak.

I chuckled. “We did. Duh.”

Max grinned and high-fived me. “Nice.”

We spent the rest of the meal hearing more about the kids’ trip to Alaska, then we all went outside to toss a Frisbee around in the yard before they had to go to bed.

Not once throughout the night did they ask me when I was going home. They didn’t ask what I was doing over at their house.

“Thanks for dinner,” I told Molly as we loaded the remaining dishes into the dishwasher. After dinner, we’d left them in the sink so we could spend the evening outside before the sun set.

“No problem. I’m glad we could both see the kids tonight. I missed them.”

“Me too.” I put the last glass into the top rack and closed the door. “Should I go?”

She glanced in the direction of the stairs. “I don’t know. They start camp tomorrow, and they’re both excited. I doubt they’ll wake up too early, but I don’t want to push our luck.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I don’t want to leave.”

Molly came to lean against the counter at my side, speaking in a hushed voice. “I don’t want you to leave. But . . .”

“I know. The kids can’t know I’ve been sleeping in their mother’s bed.”

We could tell them until we were blue in the face that we weren’t getting back together, but if they caught us, it would send a completely different message.

“Should we just end this now?” she asked.

I stiffened. The immediate answer was no. Hell no. I didn’t want to give this up. But logic began to creep in, like a fog dulling the sunlight.

This was going to end at some point. Molly and I weren’t getting back together, so this fling would eventually expire.

“I don’t want to,” I whispered. “I’m not ready yet. Are you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Not even close.”

Our eyes locked, holding one another captive. Hers were so expressive and hungry. There was something beneath the lust, something familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

Once, years ago, Molly and I could carry on entire conversations with our eyes alone. But that was before we’d learned to hide things from one another—before I started keeping my problems from her, and she started hiding her true feelings from me.

I didn’t try to solve that look. This wasn’t about Molly and me working things out as a married couple. It was about sex.

Only sex.

I leaned closer to her, dropping my chin so my cheek brushed against her hair. It was pulled up into a messy knot, but some of the tendrils had escaped since dinner, dangling loose toward her neck.

Molly drifted my way, her breaths coming faster. The air in the kitchen crackled with anticipation.

“Kiss me.”

She gave me a slight nod, rising up on her toes.

I dipped, my breath coasting down her cheek, but then I remembered where we were. “Wait. Not here.”

She huffed when I pulled away, taking a few deep breaths as I took her hand and dragged her down the hallway to her bedroom. The second we were away from the stairs—with the door closed and out of danger that one of the kids would walk in on us—I framed her face with my hands and slammed my lips down on hers. I swallowed her gasp and let my hands roam from her face and down her shoulders. I pulled her closer, needing to feel her against me.

Her hands went for my fly, tugging the button on my jeans open to dive inside. The feel of her grip, those long fingers wrapped around my shaft, was so incredible I nearly blacked out.

How was it possible for us to go so wrong? We were good together. So. Fucking. Good.

“Finn,” she moaned into my mouth, her tongue sliding along the seam of my bottom lip. Her fist wrapped around my shaft tighter, stroking the velvet flesh inside my jeans. “More.”

I pulled her closer, my hands everywhere. Under her shirt. In her hair. Palming her ass. I couldn’t find the right spot. The right grip so I wouldn’t lose her.

“I can’t . . . I need . . .” She let go of my cock and her fingers fumbled for the zipper. She got it down and then shoved at the hem of my shirt. “Closer. Get closer.”