Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
She glances down the length of our bodies to the erection poking through my shorts.
“Speaking of considerate,” she says, her hand drifting to my belt. She gives me a questioning glance, like she has to ask permission.
“I hope you don’t think I’m gonna turn down whatever you’re thinking.” My shoulders shake from the laugh rumbling in my chest. “Because I won’t. I’m down for whatever.”
“Good,” she purrs, sitting up, rising over me with her breasts out and mischief on her pretty, kiss-swollen lips. “Because I—”
“Dad!”
We both freeze. Kimba takes her hands from my belt and the entire lower half of my body violently objects.
“No.” I shake my head, denial preserving my erection. “He’s fine. He—”
“Dad!” Noah screams again, his voice carrying from his bedroom through the upstairs window.
“Shit.” I swipe both hands over my face and haul myself to a sitting position on the trampoline beside Kimba. “I better—”
“Yeah.” I could weep when she pulls her shirt back into place. “Sounds like you’re needed.”
“If I don’t want him to maim his classmates,” I say, pulling the net back and standing, “I better not ignore that.”
She scoots to the edge and starts to climb out. I take her hand to help her down, more out of desire to touch her again than necessity. When she’s on her feet, I pull her into me. Barefoot, she’s much shorter than I am. I can’t help but remember our first kiss when our faces aligned almost perfectly because we were the same height.
“It really was a perfect first kiss,” I murmur, smiling.
“It was.” She glances down at our joined hands. “Ezra, I don’t mean to send you mixed signals, but just because we…”
Her gaze drifts back to the trampoline, a steamy reminder of what took place.
“Like I said.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and focuses her stare on the ground between our feet. “I need time to think about this.”
Disappointment deflates the hope in my chest. I take her face between my palms gently. “I have to fly Noah to my mom for camp, but I’ll be back in a few days. Let’s talk then?”
Reluctance and desire war in her eyes, and she finally nods. “Okay. When you get back we’ll talk.”
“That’s mine!” Noah’s near-hysterical voice from upstairs interrupts us again.
This kid.
“Sounds like a battle royale. You better go.” She chuckles and drops my hand. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ezra
“He looks just like you the first time you went off to summer camp,” my mother says tearfully, watching Noah get in line for check-in. “I hope he’ll be okay.”
I study my son objectively. There are some physical similarities, but Noah is a lot more self-assured than I was at that age.
“I bet he’ll be just fine,” I say wryly. “He usually is.”
“Like you in that way then, too,” she says, casting one last look Noah’s way before starting with me back toward the car. “You were so confident.”
That startles a snort out of me. “I was confident? Which kid were you raising, Mom?”
“You were small for your age, and not sure where you fit in,” she says, a defensive note on my behalf in her voice. “But you had a strong sense of yourself, though you may not have realized it at the time.”
“Kimba called it self-contained,” I tell her, sliding into the driver’s seat.
My mom shoots me a sharp look that I ignore while I adjust the mirrors. We drove Stanley’s Cadillac, a huge boat of a car. I can’t imagine why he keeps it, living in the heart of New York City.
“I know you said Kimba’s on TV sometimes,” Mom says carefully, “but I haven’t seen her. You know I avoid politics whenever possible. How is she?”
How is she?
So pretty it makes my heart hurt to think of everything I’ve missed. Every questionable fashion choice, bad haircut, and acne breakout through high school. All the contouring and shaping and discipline it took to form her into who she has become.
How is she?
Powerful. Vulnerable. Brilliant. Kind. Ruthless.
“She’s great.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Mom says, an unspoken “don’t ruin your life” woven into her statement.
The memory of Kimba panting and writhing under my hands on the trampoline rushes back in a wave. The sounds she made, the scent and wetness of her on my fingers, the texture of her skin—velvety and sugar-scrub sweet. The sensory recollection lands on my chest and heads immediately south. I shift because I’m in the car with my mother. This would only be more awkward if she could read my mind.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
I turn my head and meet her narrow-eyed stare. I’m convinced women are imbued with extra senses upon giving birth.
“Nothing,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the road ahead. “Why?”
“You had a pinched look.”
“I just dropped off my son at summer camp for the first time,” I say, trying to sound concerned even though I know Noah will end up holding the conch if things were to go all Lord of the Flies at Jewish camp. “Any parent would have reservations.”