We fly to the moon and back, and waves of pleasure bounce between us as we both come in a rush, and then eventually . . . and slowly . . . we come back to earth.
Our hearts race, and he cups my face in his hands as he kisses me tenderly.
“Did you buy my children a spaceship so that we’d have time to sneak away and have sex?”
“Absolutely,” he pants. “One hundred percent.”
I giggle as I climb off him. I can’t believe this—he cares if they like him. He doesn’t want to be tolerated; he wants to be a part of us. This is the first night in forever that everyone has been happy together at the same time . . . including me. “Genius.” I kiss him softly. “Now get out before they find you in here.”
He flops back onto the bed, arms wide, his zipper undone with his dick hanging out, and I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud.
He looks up at me. “What?”
“Too bad you have to go and build a rocket ship now . . . isn’t it?”
He drops his head back onto the bed. “Fuck. Don’t remind me.” He holds his hand out, and I take it. He pulls me down on top of him. He kisses me softly as he brushes the hair back from my forehead. “It was worth it.”
Ninety minutes later
“This is bullshit,” Tristan snaps.
“Language,” I remind him as I chop onions, and I smile as I look over at the four boys sitting around the dining table.
“What kind of imbecile packages things like this?” Tristan mutters.
They go through the bags and slide them from one place to another as they count.
“Not this way. That way,” Harrison snaps.
“What are you going on about over there?” I ask. “You haven’t even started it yet?”
“There are one hundred and forty—” Tristan mutters.
“Forty-five,” Harrison interrupts.
“One hundred and forty-five ziplock bags of parts in this box, Claire.”
The parts are all perfectly compartmentalized into color-coded ziplock bags. They are trying to locate a missing bag.
I smirk as I watch him lose his cool for the tenth time in twenty minutes. “If it’s too hard for you . . . take it back.”
“No!” the boys all cry in unison.
“Oh . . . we’re taking it back,” Tristan hisses through gritted teeth. “We’re taking it back completely built, and I’m going to stick it in the old buzzard where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m putting an engine on this mofo, and we’re going to fly it through his damn shop window.”
Patrick looks up at Tristan. “What, in the nighttime?” He frowns as he climbs onto his lap.
“Yeah, Tricky, that’s it. Nighttime,” he mutters, distracted.
“Why do you dislike this shopkeeper so much?” I ask as I continue to chop.
“He was a jerkoff,” Tristan mutters.
“Tristan . . . language,” I remind him.
He looks up and frowns. “Jerk off isn’t a swear word. It’s a verb, Claire . . . a doing word.”
I roll my eyes, and Fletcher chuckles.