Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

Your hands aren’t free when you have to concentrate on that thing, Master!

“You know what I wanna say,” I replied.

He shot me a sly grin. “That I can’t give you road head in my dad’s automatic.”

I inclined my head.

Instead of slinging back a witty retort, he merely smiled and rested his cheek on my shoulder.

As we left the outskirts of Mclean behind us, I let the contentment flow through me and the determination solidify my plans for the day. I had to tell Tate about Franklin, and it wasn’t going to change a goddamn thing. We’d get through that too. I’d already decided what to say and how to say it.

“We’re really together again, Lee.” He hugged my arm.

“We really are.” I kissed the top of his head. “You know what this means most of all? We can use the HOV lanes again.”

Tate burst out a laugh and slapped my thigh.

I grinned to myself, pretty fucking pleased. I could be funny sometimes.

“Fuck, I just wanna crawl under your skin.” He squeezed my arm tightly and made a strained, almost growl-like sound to demonstrate he was hugging me as hard as he could. It was damn adorable—and showing me a glimpse of how carefree and playful he used to be.

“You never left, baby.”

“It’s not the same. I’m literally sitting here missing you when you’re right next to me.”

I smiled and dropped another kiss to his tousled hair.

“By the way, I want all that too,” he murmured against my shoulder. “You’ve been my for-now for six years. Now you’re my forever. So marriage and all that, sign me up.”

I drew a deep breath and couldn’t really believe I was feeling bliss again for the first time in… Well, this was a whole new level. No plan was temporary anymore. We were going to allow ourselves to create a future side by side. I was all in. He was all in.

That was the kind of man I could picture myself starting a family with.

Once we were back in Arlington, Tate asked if we could swing by Harris Teeter.

Abso-fucking-lutely. I missed our kitchen adventures.

“I’m making your favorite dinner tonight,” he said decidedly. “And dessert.”

I pulled into an available parking spot near the entrance and rubbed my jaw. I had an actual ache from smiling so much—it was ridiculous. But this was what we were supposed to do. Reconnect, spoil each other, find our way back but in a new way, steer us in a new direction. Some routines would follow us, and this had to be one of them. Tate had always taken care of the once-a-week grocery shopping where he got most of what we’d need, and then we went to the store together once or twice for extras and spontaneous menu changes.

I could handle quick visits, but he had to take the lead. Stores of any kind weren’t my jam.

“What do we have at home?” he asked as I grabbed a basket.

“Not a thing,” I replied. “Beer and mustard.”

Worry pinched his brows together, and he slipped his hand into mine. “You’ve lived on takeout, haven’t you?”

Pretty much. “I haven’t really felt motivated to cook.”

He sighed and slipped under my arm instead. “That ends now. I’m gonna take care of my Master properly.”

He was going to fuck up my jaw at this rate.

As we ventured into the produce section, he returned to holding my hand again, making it easier for him to pick whatever we were getting. I paid more attention to him than anything else. I stayed close to him, I kissed his neck, I squeezed his hand, and I reminded myself over and over that this was happening. Despite that we had a lot left to solve—hell, we’d barely started—my gut feeling told me we’d ended the ripple effect that’d ruined us. We’d been destined to fail from the beginning by loving each other so hard on a wafer-thin foundation of zero promises and poor communication.

Tate stopped at a display with corn and inspected the selection critically.

“There’s a toy we haven’t played with in a while.” I nipped at his earlobe and hugged him from behind.

“Best dildo in the entire universe,” he commented. “Can you ask Walker if he has more for sale? I wouldn’t mind a longer one.”

Yeah, the one we’d bought had been a little short. “I’ll text him later.”

Hopefully, Walker could get over himself and return to our community. We’d lost our best toymaker when he and Macklin broke up a few years ago. Walker had moved to Boston—though he still visited sometimes—and he’d brought his toy shop with him. Most of our friends had appreciated his work with leather and suede, and as a whip and flogger enthusiast, I was certainly one of them, but Tate and I had gotten a religious experience from his glasswork. For Tate, he’d made a thick glass dildo shaped like corn on the cob. More precisely and appropriately, gem glass corn, with its multicolored kernels. I’d never seen Tate get off so hard with a toy as with that one. I believed his words had been, “You gotta try it, Master! I swear you will feel your asshole stretch over every fucking kernel.”