Penthouse Prince(51)
As the sun inches toward the horizon, we wander down the beach, our fingers intertwined, laughing and kissing until both the daylight and the ice cream are gone. It’s the epitome of a perfect night, the kind of night I’d like to relive for the rest of the summer.
And I just might.
In fact, I might spend the rest of my summers like this from here on out. I may have let Lexington Dane slip away from me when he was just a boy, but he’s a man now, and I don’t plan to ever let him go.
We find our way back to the car, placing bets the whole ride home as to whether Dak will be passed out on the couch. Lex insists that he’ll be wide awake and raiding the fridge for sloppy joe leftovers, but I’m not so sure.
Turns out, we’re both right—when we get home, we find him snoozing on the living room sectional, a cold, half-eaten sloppy joe on the coffee table.
I gently shake him, and he startles awake, muttering something about Dinky the Dragon catching the ball. Yep, somebody has been introduced to Grier’s favorite board book.
“Toddlers, man,” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while digging his keys from his pocket with the other.
Once we’ve shooed Dak out the door, we tiptoe up the stairs and peer through Grier’s cracked door to check on our Sleeping Beauty. Despite his bemoaning how tough tonight was, Dak seems to have done a pretty good job. Grier is sleeping soundly in her favorite ladybug pajamas, her little chest rising and falling with easy breaths.
“God,” Lex says softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m related to that angel.”
“And I can’t believe I get to be her mom.”
I press up on my toes, brushing my lips against his cheek. Lex holds me there, steadying one firm hand against the small of my back as he captures my lips in a longer, deeper kiss, the kind that sends quick pulses of heat shooting through my veins. It’s the kind of kiss that maybe we shouldn’t engage in with his daughter ten feet away, even if she is asleep.
Lex must be thinking the same thing, because the next thing I know, he’s scooping me into his arms, swallowing my surprised gasp with his lips as he carries me into his bedroom and drapes me delicately across the end of his bed.
“God, you’re beautiful.” He stares down at me with wonder as his fingers work open the buttons of his shirt, exposing his tanned, chiseled chest to me one inch at a time. “But I think I lied to you before.”
I freeze, my eyes narrowing to slits as I assess the wicked smile settling on his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not the penthouse princess,” he says with a growl, tossing his shirt aside and pinning me against the bed. His breath is hot and hungry against my neck as he trails his lips along my collarbone, leaving little chill bumps in his wake. “You, my dear, are the penthouse queen.”
And with that, I’m lost in him. In his words and his heat and his hungry, demanding lips.
I want him. Tonight and every night.
For the rest of my life.
EPILOGUE
* * *
LEXINGTON
Two years later
“You gotta hold still, honey, or Mommy can’t turn you into a dragon,” Corrigan says gently, struggling with Grier’s costume.
It’s a bit of a complicated getup. We suggested a few alternatives that were easier to get into, but the moment Grier laid eyes on the shiny green dragon on proud display at the costume shop, her heart was set on it and accepted no substitutions. At least it has an easy flap for potty time.
Grier manages to calm down a fraction, but she’s too excited to fully stifle her wiggles. And who could blame her? It’s her first Halloween since starting preschool, which means her first time dressing up for class. And on top of that, later tonight there will be trick-or-treating.
It’s a lot for a four-year-old to handle. But, of course, Corrigan’s got the patience of a saint and handles it all like a champ. Just one of the many things I love about her. She’s definitely made my life better in every way possible. When we got married last year, I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, but little did I know I’d fall more in love with her each passing day.
“I’ll come help,” I call, setting down my spatula beside the panful of sizzling eggs.
But Corrigan waves me off when I get close. “I’ve got this.”
I chuckle and back away slowly. I know that determined look in my wife’s eyes. Sometimes she wants me to swoop in and save the day, but most times she really does have it all handled. After all, the woman manages a classroom of thirty first graders on a daily basis. One four-year-old is a piece of cake.
“Mommy? Am I a pretty dragon?” Grier asks, looking down at her costume-clad self.
I glance over from the counter where I’m plating eggs, and my heart squeezes at the sight of them crouched together. My daughter hasn’t outgrown her love of all creepy and crawly animals, but she’s started to become aware of the other little girls in her class who are into the whole princess scene. As far as I’m concerned, she can be whatever her little heart desires.
Corrigan softly touches her cheek. “You’re the best little dragon in the whole, wide world. Beautiful and strong.”
Grier’s smile widens.