Page 89 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“I wanted to play with someone else,” she says dryly.

I laugh, and it’s painful. Mostly because my balls are aching and my dick is…well, I’d come up with another word for aching except that my brain is currently absent of blood.

“Sorry,” she whispers before calling, “Be right there, peanut!”

“Nothing to apologize for, Pages. He comes first.”

Those eyes lock with mine.

Her expression gentles…then turns just the slightest bit wicked.

“Win that game tonight, and maybe we’ll see about all those things you can show me.”

“Baby,” I choke out. “What happens if we lose?”

A sexy smile. “You’ll owe me.”

And I’ll pay her anything she asks for.

Fucking anything.

Still, I can’t help but ask, “Owe you what?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” A wink. “Win or lose, call me when you get to the hotel, handsome.”

Twenty-Six

Lainey

I pull into the garage, hit the button to close it behind me, and wait for the metal door to slowly rumble down.

Only then do I shut off the engine and gird my loins.

Then I’m unlocking the interior door, propping it open, and unbuckling Ollie from his booster seat.

He stays asleep as I tug him free, curling him over my shoulder and carrying him inside.

I use my foot to slide the doorstop out of the way, hit the lock, then make my way through the quiet kitchen and into the hall.

I pause at the bottom of the staircase thinking the stairs and I have to stop meeting like this—as in, stop meeting with my limp, dead-to-the-world four-year-old in my arms as I climb them, his body growing heavier with each step.

But since that day is not today, I just start making my way upstairs.

Ollie sighs softly, burrows into my chest and neck.

And hell, if my heart doesn’t just melt.

God, I love this kid.

I set him onto his mattress, make quick work of taking off his shoes and swapping his clothes for pajamas so he’ll be more comfortable.

Then I tuck him under the blankets, stuffed Ollie by his side, and slip out of the room, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

I don’t go to my room, however.

Instead, I head downstairs to my office.

The Book That Must Not (Okay, That Must) Be Written will wait for no one.