Page 62 of Louder Than Words

At first he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there in the silence with my fingers running along his scalp.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze meeting mine from the corner of his eye. I catch the flicker of a smile he’s trying to bite back, and raise a brow. “What?” I ask softly.

“Felt fucking good to hit him, though,” he murmurs.

My mouth falls open. “Jax,” I say, eyebrows lifting. “That’s not funny.”

“I know, I know,” he says quickly, holding up a hand in surrender. Then he turns fully in my lap, those beautiful blue eyes locking onto mine. “It just happened. I wasn’t even thinking.”

He reaches up, his fingers brushing lightly along my cheek, and my heart stutters. “It seems like every time we go away, something happens,” he murmurs.

I let out a soft laugh and sweep the fallen hair from his eyes. “Maybe we should just start staying home.”

He smiles wide and nods. “I’d love that,” he says. “Just you, me, the girls. We could make movie nights a more regular thing.”

At that, my chest tightens—but I’m not sure if it’s in a good way or not. Because as perfect as that sounds, we still don’t know if that can happen.

Not wanting to ruin the moment, I smile anyway. “I can’t wait.”

He carefully cups my cheek in his hand, and I lean into the touch, closing my eyes and drawing the deepest breath I can manage. “Everything will be okay, love. It’s only one more week.”

I nod slowly. When my eyes open again, I press a soft kiss to his palm.

“Speaking of,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheek, “who has the girls this year?”

“I have them for Thanksgiving. Trevor’s taking them for Christmas.”

He lifts a brow, the corners of his mouth tugging into a warm smile. “Can’t wait.”

“Are you ready for your first Thanksgiving?” I ask, smirking—because I already know the answer.

“Ehh…” He laughs. “Are you sure you want to host? The guys get pretty rowdy under the same roof. Especially when there’s food involved.”

I nod. “I’m actually looking forward to it. What’s better than watching you carve a turkey while I scold James to use a spoon for his mashed potatoes?”

He carefully lifts his head from my lap, then shifts, bracing himself on one arm as he gently coaxes me down until my back hits the pillows.

Looming over me, his eyes lock onto mine with that same mischievous grin lifting at the corners of his mouth.

“And what’s for dessert?”

My brows pull together. He just laid me back like I was made of glass, and now he wants to talk about what we’re having for dessert a week from now?

Before I can respond, the back of his hand glides slowly down my arm where my skin pebbles.

I blink up at him, still trying to follow the shift in conversation.

“Probably some apple pie,” I finally answer. “Why?”

His hand travels down until it lands on my thigh, and my eyes lock with his. “That sounds really good,” he says, and the way his voice just dropped like three octaves? Suddenly I’m not thinking about the damn apple pie anymore.

And as if he’s reading my mind, his hand shifts, slowly trailing higher until it pauses and his eyes are back on mine.

“What else?”

I raise a brow. “Maybe some ice cream?”

His hand inches just a little higher.