Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(48)

A limit is a limit is a limit. An entire adult lifetime of polyamory has taught us that. Caleb gives me a helpless look, and I give him a small nod, telling him I understand his frustration, his need to protect our woman from any and all pain, but also that we can’t do that if she doesn’t want us to. And hell, maybe it would be impossible anyway, because I’m not sure how to comfort her. How can she not see how fucking beautiful she is? How devastatingly sexy that body is? How much we want to love and cherish it and her?

We make dinner, and then we make love, shower, and make love again. As I watch her pretend her way through a normal evening, I see the waves of hurt and anger flicker through her like electric currents. I see her swing between the unfocused and unconscious real confidence I’ve grown used to from her and the almost-harsh forced confidence she had in the tavern after we heard Lyle. I see her move from happy and sexy to insecure and worried and then back to happy and sexy again.

And I realize something about myself as I watch her. Something not even years of therapy could teach me—something that seems painfully obvious now that I see it.

People aren’t just one thing.

People aren’t just confident and then that’s it, there’s nothing that can dent that confidence. People aren’t just brave and then free from fear their entire lives. We exist in tangles of virtue and weakness simultaneously—we are the best and worst of ourselves all at the same time.

A soldier who faced bullets and bombs but is now afraid of the dark.

A scared, sensitive boy who made himself so tough he’s forgotten how to be vulnerable.

A man who is fierce possession and cold reserve all at once.

And maybe all that is okay—maybe words like best and worst or virtue and weakness are misleading. Maybe they incorrectly assign value to things that aren’t good or bad in and of themselves; they’re simply human.

And it’s with this epiphany that I climb into bed with the people I love. I wrap my arms around Ireland, one of my hands finding Caleb’s and lacing with his fingers, and I close my eyes against the darkness. For the first time, I don’t fight the fear. I don’t struggle with it. I allow it just to be, bobbing on the surface of my mind along with all the other things I’m thinking and feeling. Like that I love Ireland and Caleb, that I want this to be for the rest of our lives, that I want them inside every wall or gate I’ve ever erected. That Greta-dog is almost out of dog treats, and that once I get the next insurance check, I should be able to order stuff for the new tavern kitchen.

That actually it’s okay to be afraid, okay to be anxious, and it would be okay no matter what, but it’s especially okay with the woman I love nestled against my chest and the man I love snoring gently beside her.

Somehow, by some magic, as I trace the oval glow and shadow of the nightlight on the ceiling, I manage to fall asleep.

And I sleep the whole night through.





Chapter Seventeen





Ireland





He did it.

I wake up wrapped in the world’s warmest, best-smelling blanket, and when I open my eyes to see Ben’s face all open and young-looking as he sleeps, a spike of joy goes right through my chest.

He did it.

He did it for me—for all of us—and suddenly, with a crest of dizzying happiness, I can see the future ahead for the three of us. Me moving in, us sharing sex and sleep every night. Maybe someday we could share even more…weddings and babies and all the things everyone else gets to have. Why not us? It may look different, it may take figuring out, but to share forever and more with these men would be worth it. So fucking worth it.

I slide out of bed and take a quick shower as they doze on. Dawn is breaking and they’ll be up soon, and I want to have a big breakfast waiting when they are. I’m already smiling to myself as I imagine giving them the news. I’ll tell them I’m going to move in, and then they’ll grin—even my broody soldier will be smiling—and then they’ll start thanking me with their mouths and their fingers and their cocks…

With a full-body shiver of anticipation, I grab my phone to go downstairs and the screen goes bright. Notification after notification are stacked—some from social media, some from email—but what strikes me first is a text from my boss, looking like it came in right after my three-hour fuckfest with Ben and Caleb began last night.

Great interview! We’ve already had two potential clients contact Typeset wanting your photography as part of a campaign!!!!





So the interview did go live last night…and presumably the picture along with it. But before I can properly process my panic, I see a text from a contact I should have deleted a long time ago: Brian.

Still look like a cow. Guess you’re a slut now too.





I nearly drop the phone.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I look over at Ben and Caleb—both of them still stretched and sprawled like teenage boys across the bed—and for one painfully acute moment, I want to wake them up. I want them to pull me back into bed, where it’s warm and cozy and where I’m loved without reserve. I know if I tell them what Brian said, they’ll be furious. They’ll scowl and make angry bear noises and threaten to kill him. And then they’ll fuck me with all that pent-up anger—not directed at me but for me—anger stemming from the need to protect me. And I’ll feel better.