Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(56)

I’m groaning, because she’s tighter now, squeezing down all around me.

“Please,” she gasps.

Violet grabs for my hand and presses it over her mouth—sealing her lips and the sharp, soaked cry that seeps out behind my palm.

Then she’s gone. Her eyes roll closed and her neck arches—her pussy contracts and her lips open on a silent scream as she loses herself in the cresting white heat of sensation.

And she pulls me right over with her, like I knew she would.

I press my face into her neck, inhaling the delicate flowery scent of her perfume—and pounding into her in blissful, wild thrusts. My mind goes blank and heat claws up my spine as pure, perfect ecstasy tears its way through me.

For several moments neither of us move. I love not using condoms with her—love being able to stay inside her just like this—where she’s wet and hot and sticky with me.

I swallow hard and raise my head from Vi’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes remain closed and her voice is drowsy.

“I don’t know. I think I might be dead. Or I died and came back. Either. Both.”

And I laugh. Because every piece and part and moment with her is so insanely good.

Eventually, I roll over onto my back and Violet cuddles in against me—her leg draped over my hip, her arm across my stomach, using my chest as her pillow.

She mumbles a warning. “Don’t fall asleep. You have to take me home.”

I haven’t had the chance to talk to the boys yet about Violet spending the night. I think they’ll be fine with it, but since she’s the first woman I’ve brought into their lives since the divorce, it feels like a conversation I should have with them.

“I won’t.” I give her a reassuring squeeze. “Just going to . . . rest my eyes for a minute.”


*

“Connor! Connor, wake up—it’s morning!”

What feels like five minutes later, Violet’s panicked voice drags me awake.

Because in the history of the world, “eye resting” has never worked out the way it’s supposed to—even for doctors.

I clear the sleep from my throat and run a hand through my hair.

“Yeah, I’m up.”

The distinct sounds of life—the hum of the television, the closing of drawers, and the clatter of spoons against breakfast bowls—floats up to us from the kitchen.

“Oh my God, they’re awake!” Violet’s eyes dart to the sun-filled window like a vampire who’s lost her coffin. “Should I shimmy down the gutter?”

“No,” I chuckle. “It’s too fucking early to shimmy down anything.”

I dig deep into the recesses of my dad experience—past, present, and future—to come up with a plan.

And it’s so simple it’s genius.

“We’re going to walk downstairs and act like everything is normal. If we don’t make a big deal about you spending the night, they won’t either.”

Vi does not see the wisdom of my plan.

“You want me to do the walk of shame in front of your children?”

“They’re boys, Violet. Men in training. Easily distracted, self-focused, not big on noticing details. Trust me—it’s going to be fine.”

We get dressed. Violet wears her sundress and sandals from last night, washes her face in my adjoining bathroom, and I find a new spare toothbrush in the vanity drawer for her to use.

And then we walk downstairs together—casually, nonchalantly—practically whistling.

All three of the boys are in the kitchen.

“Morning, guys,” I greet them. Then I pull out a chair for Vi at the kitchen table.

She sits down carefully. “Hi, boys.”

“Hey,” Spencer replies, shoveling a spoonful of Froot Loops into his mouth.

Brayden nods, not even looking at us, keeping his unbroken focus on his phone.

But Aaron . . . well, I may have underestimated the power of the teenage snark.

“Didn’t make it home last night, huh?” He immediately smirks.

And Violet looks like she wants to dissolve into the floor.

“You guys had a sleepover?” Spencer glances from Vi to me.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “We dozed off watching TV.”

He nods and goes back to his cereal.

Brayden doesn’t care enough to comment at all.

That’s my boy.

Aaron, I assume, files the information away to be used to his advantage at some later date.

“I’m going to make coffee.” I grab the pot and hold it under the faucet. “Violet, do you want a cup?”

“Yes, please,” she answers, looking slightly more normal and less mortified. “I should bring my French press over—it’ll change your coffee life.”

“Oooh, Franch,” Spencer says dramatically. “You’re fancy, Violet.”

Then he and Brayden kiss their fingers and start saying every French word they know.

“Ooh-la-la.”

“Oui, oui.”

“Bon appétit.”

“Grey Poupon.”

Violet laughs at them, then smiles up at me, relieved that we’ve survived relatively unscathed.


*

Since Violet and I both have the day off, we decide to ask the boys if they want to hit up Great Adventure—and we’re met with yeses all around. Even Aaron agrees to come, which is extra special since he typically avoids “family time” like it’s a death sentence.