Crushed (Breaking the Rules Series Book 5) (12 page)

My wife needs a shoulder to cry on.

I just wish it were mine.

When she begins speaking to him, I soundlessly close the door. I don’t want to invade on what she’s telling him. Sighing, I pad back toward the nursery. Toward my little buddy.

This time, I do ruffle his hair just so I have an excuse to hold him.

I wake to lips softly kissing my neck. My Andi. Another dream. Yet it’s not a dream. Lying here in the quiet, dark bedroom, I feel her fingers skim along my bare chest, and I’m almost afraid to breathe—afraid to break the spell. She’s somehow managed to sidle herself under my arm, and she feels so damn good pressed against me.

God, how I’ve missed her touch.

My hand finds her hair and I stroke her lovingly. I don’t have the words for her right now, but I hope she can feel my love, which is as thick as the blackness that surrounds us. A silent sob hangs in her throat, but I sense it. Her tears slide from her eyes and splash on my bare skin. Searching in the dark with my other hand, I swipe them off her cheeks. With a sigh, she leans into my palm, needing me as much as I need her.

“Andi, baby, I love you so much,” I whisper so softly that I wonder if she even heard it.

But she hears.

My wife always hears.

“Jackson,” she murmurs, “I love you too.”

Needing to feel closer to her, I gently roll her over to pin her beneath me. Somehow in the dark, I find her supple lips and kiss them reverently. God, how I missed these lips. She kisses me as if I might suddenly disappear.

I’m not going fucking anywhere.

Even though my dick is now hard as rock, I know that all I care about is holding and kissing her. Her body is still healing, and as much as I want to sink myself deep inside her, I won’t even try. Kissing her is enough. Touching her is more than enough.

I kiss her softly until I can’t take it any longer and nibble at her lips. She tastes like pure heaven and I can’t get enough. I want to press my lips against hers until her lips are swollen, chapped, and sore as hell. My tongue wants to worship hers and dance with it all night.

When her hands slide into my hair and she tugs lightly, I groan into her mouth. Being with her like this is so fucking amazing. I’ve missed her so much.

I’m completely content with making out with my wife like we’re a couple of love-sick teenagers, but when she slides her hand between us and rubs my cock, I lose my mind. Her hand quickly slips inside of my boxers, and I lift myself a bit so she can grasp me.

Those fingers. So delicate yet powerful. So perfect.

“Baby,” I grunt against her lips.

She works me efficiently. We’ve been together long enough that she knows exactly how I like it. With each stroke, she owns my dick and controls my mind. As she takes me closer and closer, I grind against her hand, and before I know it, I’m shooting my load into my boxers.

She giggles and I swear I explode with happiness.

My wife.

Laughing.

Never thought I’d see the day again.

“Can I touch you? Make you feel better?” I murmur as I roll off her. Then I yank the boxers from my body and clean my mess up with them. Once I toss them to the floor, I roll back toward her, waiting for a response. “Please?”

When she doesn’t answer, I trace my fingers along her belly, but she grasps my wrist, stopping me.

“Just hold me, Jackson. Please.”

I wrap my arm around her and haul her to me, plastering her to my chest. My arms protectively encircle her and I do as she asked.

I hold my wife.

Today was Thomas’s funeral. It was gutting to watch my baby boy be lowered into the ground. Friends, family, and especially Jackson tried to comfort me. But how do you comfort a mother who has lost her child?

Even though Jackson and I spent last night cuddled together and things seem to be improving between us, I’m still avoiding Tyler.

And I feel guilty as hell.

Each time he cries, I have the urge to go to him, but somehow, it feels like a betrayal to Thomas. Even so, I can’t get Tyler out of my head.

When Jackson isn’t looking, I steal glances at him. Sometimes, when Jackson is passed out, I stand in the doorway of the nursery and stare at Tyler from afar. I’ve picked up his sweet baby scent on Jackson’s clothes, and I have the desire to run in there and bury my face in his chest.

These feelings seem traitorous to the son I’ve only buried today.

The ache in my chest is so deep that I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to move on with my life. The pain seems here to stay. Forever.

“Can I get you anything?” Jackson questions as he peeks his head in the doorway of our room.

I want to look away from the beautiful sight, but I can’t. My husband looks every bit the perfect, delicious daddy that he is while standing in his pajama pants with no shirt on, holding a swaddled Tyler in his arms.

“Uh, I, um . . .” I stammer.

I have the desire to go to them. My heart begs me to climb off the bed and hug the both of them. But I don’t.

“No,” I finally tell him, “I’m fine. Was just about to go to sleep.”

As he walks around to my side of the bed, I smell him. Not Jackson. Tyler.

God, he smells so sweet.

Jackson reaches a hand out and strokes my hair. I wish I could find a way to connect with them. I wish my mind could let me wade through some of my grief long enough to allow me to give poor Tyler a chance.

I hold my breath because, if he stands this close to me with that sweet baby in his arms for much longer, I’m going to steal him away. And I’m not sure if I’m ready.

“Goodnight,” I say suddenly and lie back on my pillows, quickly shutting my eyes. Maybe another day. Just not today. Not the day of my son’s funeral.

Jackson sighs in disappointment. “Goodnight, Andi.”

Crying.

Tyler!

When I wake up, Jackson is snoring hard. Poor guy is exhausted. What if I . . . ? No, I can’t—not yet.

“Jackson, wake up,” I whisper urgently as I nudge him with my foot.

But my poor husband is utterly spent. He doesn’t even move when I kick him hard enough to leave a bruise.

Shit!

“Jackson! Wake up, dammit!” I shriek, no longer able to control my anxiety.

He doesn’t wake up though. And the crying only gets louder.

Stop!

I take several deep breaths to calm myself before I make a decision. I’ll feed the baby. That’s all. It’s just one bottle. I’ve watched Jackson make them plenty of times over the past few days. With a stressed sigh, I climb out of bed and stumble through the dark until I make it into the hallway. From there, I can see the nightlight from the nursery spilling into the hallway.

“I’m coming, little baby,” I whisper as I scamper into his room.

Once inside, I turn on the Harry Potter lamp and discover that Jackson has set up a bottle-making station with bottles already pre-filled with water. He even has a dispenser full with proportioned amounts of formula ready to go.

My husband.

Super Dad.

The gaping hole in my heart seems to shrink just the tiniest of bits.

Tyler’s cries become louder, so I kick myself into gear and prep the bottle. Once I get to his crib, I reach in and push on his diaper. Wet.

Well, damn.

His cries simmer down once he sees me, but I avoid looking at his face.
Just change the diaper. Feed the baby. Go to bed.
I’m on a mission.

After finding the top of the zipper of his pajamas, I carefully slide it down and avoid his umbilical cord. Then I make quick work of changing his diaper and pray that he doesn’t pee on me in the process. As soon as he’s changed and zipped back up, reality hits me.

I’m going to have to pick him up.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure if the apology is aimed at him or Thomas.

But then he stops crying, so my eyes fly to his face because I’m alarmed that something’s wrong with him. And when my eyes lock with his, something happens to me.

I can’t look away.

Blue eyes. So perfect.

Wispy, blond hair. So soft.

I need to pick him up. I
want
to pick him up.

“Come here, little one.”

Scooping him up, I choke back a sob. He’s so small. And he smells so good. I bring him closer to me so I can inhale him. With a shaking hand, I find the bottle and take him over to the glider in the corner of the room.