“We should put one of those swings in here. Permanently,” Mateo says the moment I step out of the master bathroom. He’s on the bed, completely naked and squinting at one corner of our bedroom as he mentally works out the details for whatever epic sex machine he’s thinking of. He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth—the gesture irresistibly sexy—and shakes his head at me. “God, Flowerbomb, we should—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time,” I say, a half-smile splitting my features as I finish hooking my earring. “And we are not putting a sex swing in our bedroom.”

“Fuck, you’re no fun.”

Drumming my fingertips against my hips, I nod down to his exposed body and try not to shiver. His body is toned to perfection—all bronze muscles and hardness—and it’s hard to look at him without getting turned on. I clear my throat. “Why aren’t you dressed?” We’re going to a launch party tonight for one of his clients and my sister had graciously offered to babysit our daughter. “Bailon, stop looking at my breasts. Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Why the fuck are you dressed?” he retorts, skimming his dark gaze from my lacy bra to the matching thong and up to my face. He grins—a cocky, seductive twist of his lips that leaves my heart stuttering in my chest.

“Because we have plans. Stop building sex swings in your mind and get up.” When I start to walk past him and into my closet, his fingers reach out to close around my wrist. He jerks me to him, and a gasp of pleasure falls from my lips.

“We’ve got a babysitter, beautiful.”

“I’ll have to tell my sister how much you appreciate her adventures in babysitting tomorrow morning,” I murmur.

Squeezing my ass, he pulls me on top of him, his fingers pumping my hips as he grinds me against his length. He’s hard—so hard—and my nipples pebble as a wave of desire settles in the pit of my stomach. “We’ve got a babysitter and an hour and a half until the douchebag’s party.”

“Key word being an hour and a half,” I say. “And I don’t think Arrow appreciates being called a—ohhh!” I moan the instant his index finger slides beneath my panties. His gaze never drops from mine as he circles his fingertip over my clit.

“I’ll have to shower again,” I argue as my hips gyrate against his. “I’ll have to straighten my hair and—”

“I love your hair curly.” He flips us over, positioning his body between my parted legs, and slips the rest of his fingers into my panties. He moves his palm back and forth against my sex and lowers his mouth until our lips nearly touch. “Just the tip.”

“Famous last words,” I mutter, but I arch my back and let his tongue claim mine.

The last year has been a whirlwind—achingly beautiful and wonderful.

When we returned to Boston, we had started over from the beginning. He took me on dates—movie nights and dancing and trips to every damn garden in the city. He was with me when I broke the news to my parents, his fingers linked with mine as he promised my dad that we were in good hands. He was at every doctor’s appointment, every ultrasound, and every godawful diabetic test. And halfway through my pregnancy, he became mine.

He had popped the question one night over Purple Rain—a movie that made him roll his eyes a hundred times. It hadn’t mattered to me that I was six months pregnant when we got married. The only thing I could think of was him, and the look on his face as I walked down the aisle was everything.

I loved him—no, I love him—and that’s all I gave a damn about.

I still work at St. Catherine’s, but I had scaled back to part-time after our daughter, Rose, was born. She’s perfect, incredible, and being her mother has changed me. It’s completed me even though I was scared to death about having her. Rose will grow up loved and adored, and she’ll grow up knowing she had a brother—Gabe. That her father loved another woman once.

“So, about that swing?” Mateo rasps against my mouth, dragging me back to the present. “I could have Exley make us something special. We’ll get your name engraved in the seat.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not about having my best friend’s new husband make me a custom engraved sex swing, so I flash him a grin. “No on the engraving, Bailon. Perhaps on the … other part.”

“Perhaps?” One of his fingers plunges inside of me, and he squeezes his eyes closed as I release a moan. “Oh, baby. You’re wet. Why are you so wet already?”

“Because we only have an hour and a half before we have to be at the douchebag’s launch party,” I murmur.

Growling, he barely gets my panties around my ankles before he’s inside of me, his strong hands wrapping my legs around his waist and his mouth on the column of my throat. In my hair. Against my breasts, greedily tugging and tasting my nipples through the filmy lace.

“I love you, Jamila,” he whispers, and I melt into him. “God, I love you.”

He is everything—this man who once told me we were only each other’s distraction.

He is heaven and hell, all rolled into one, and I’m crazy about him.

I drown in him.

“I love you too,” I say.