Around us, the fire pops.
The milk bottle gurgles softly.
Racer’s snoring in his bed by the door—long, even breaths that match the rhythm of Taron’s sucking.
I wrap my free arm around his waist, hand splayed over the soft plane of his tummy. He’s warm. Relaxed. Completely surrendered to being his Little self, and I’m loving ever damn moment of it.
My chest aches in the best way.
This—him in my arms, bottle in his mouth, stuffie hugged tight, surrounded by his little toys—is everything I never knew I needed. I’ve spent years alone out here, convinced solitude was safer. Cleaner. Less chance of getting hurt when someone eventually leaves.
But Taron hasn’t left.
He stayed.
He built towers and raced cars and asked for his bottle like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I gave it to him.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Taron finishes the bottle with a tiny, satisfied sigh. I ease the teat from his lips, set it aside on the hearth. He turns in my arms, presses his face into the crook of my neck. His breath is warm and milky and even.
Within minutes he’s out… a deep, trusting sleep. Lashes dark against flushed cheeks. Mouth slightly open. One hand still clutching Lightening’s ear.
I don’t move.
I could carry him to bed right now—tuck him under the heavy quilts, slide in beside him, hold him all night.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I just want to watch him. The firelight dances over his face, turning his skin gold. His breathing is slow and deep. Every so often his fingers twitch like he’s dreaming of chasing cars or hugging woodland animals.
Perfect.
He’s perfect.
I brush a strand of hair off his forehead. Whisper so quiet even the fire can’t hear:
“Sleep tight, baby boy,” I say, my voice low. “Daddy’s got you. All night long if that’s what you need.”
And I mean it.
Tomorrow Robbie arrives. Camping. More laughter. More nights like this, I hope.
But right now?
Right now it’s just a Daddy and his brilliantly sweet, sexy, darling boy.
Chapter 13
Taron
The truck rumbles along the narrow forest track, tires crunching over pine needles and the occasional pothole.
Up front it’s me, Robbie, and Kaleb—me in the middle, Robbie riding shotgun, Kaleb behind the wheel with one big hand loose on the steering wheel and the other resting easy on my thigh. Racer’s in the back bed, head out the window, tongue flapping like a pink flag.
Name a more iconic truck crew? Not possible!