Page 2 of Love Wells Kept
She gives me a coy shrug, lifting her hips off the mattress so I can tug those pesky bottoms off, then settle myself between her thighs, to make sure she has a really good start to her day. God knows she deserves it.
We found out about Kate’s pregnancy after she’d been sick all week. Kate doesn’t get sick. Honestly, I think germs are too scared of my wife to even consider invading her body.
Blowing a cool breath on her hot skin, I feel the vibration of anticipation run the length of her thighs. Her back arches like the slow pull of a bowstring, begging me to be the one to let it snap. After sixteen years, I know her every move, every sound, every want better than I know my own.
I kiss her about a quarter of an inch from where she wants my mouth to be. “How’s that, Kit?”
She palms the back of my skull, urging me into her at the same time her legs spread impossibly wide. And just as that first savory lick up her wet entrance floods my senses, her fingers knot in my hair to sharply yank my gaze to meet hers. There’s a hiss in her tone when she quietly says my name.
“You okay?” I ask.
With a disgruntled sigh, she hooks the thumb of her free hand toward the bedroom door. I prop myself up on my elbows, training my ears.
Sure enough. There’s an uneven thud of small feet heading down the stairs. On any other morning, I’m thrilled to have a moment with my wife and at least one of our kids snuggled up in our king-size bed before the chaos of a day on the ranch begins. Before I head out to do ranch work or train horses, and Kate becomes so busy tending to the kids and the ranch hands there’s barely time for a brief kiss when we cross paths.
But this morning, the last people I want walking into the room are our children. Love them, but goddamn, we need a lock on the door.
Pressing a firm kiss to my wife’s gorgeous pussy, I help her shimmy her pants back up and return to my still-warm spot next to her.
“You tease.” She cups my chin and kisses me.
I shift the erection in my boxers, willing it to go away, just as the door swings open and our three-year-old, Rhett, saunters in. At least he’s a little bit less hell-on-wheels than our seven-year-old daughter, Odessa, which is a great thing during a moment like this, when my brain’s still hazy and sluggish.
Ignoring Rhett for a second, I lock eyes with Kate and say, “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow after Odessa and I get home from the auction. I’ll do bedtime and meet you right here afterward.”
Then I pop a final kiss on her lips before sitting up and returning my focus to Rhett. “Morning, buddy. How’d you sleep?”
“I had a dream about donuts that fart.” He scrambles to pull himself onto the bed, clutching at the thick comforter until Kate offers her hand as a lifeline.
“Wow. Sounds like quite the dream.” I plant my bare feet on the worn wooden floorboards, working up the energy to fully remove myself from the bed. A few minutes ago, I had the energy—and virility, apparently—of a twenty-year-old man, but now that I have to get up and do things I’d rather not do, it’s taking everything I have. With a stretch overhead, I look at Rhett in my periphery. “Did they poop sprinkles?”
His small, freckled face twists to match the disheveled state of his hair. “No.”
Kate snickers.
“Right. Because that would be too weird.” My palm scrubs my jaw, and I stand, setting a weary hand down on his head to tousle his short brown hair. “Let’s get out of Mommy’s hair—let her fully wake up.”
Spreading my fingers, I grip the top of his head and gently veer him toward the open doorway. Seems like yesterday I could hold his entire body in one outstretched hand.
I don’t loosen my hold on him until we’re stepping into the kitchen, because Lord knows he’ll head back to the bedroom to talk Kate’s ear off about donut farts if I don’t keep him on track.
And I’m hoping Kate takes the few minutes of alone time to finish what I started, but even if not, there’s a good chance she’ll be nauseous when she gets out of bed. Given we haven’t told anyone about her pregnancy yet, it’s better if the kids don’t see her sick.
Slanted sunlight streams through the windows behind our kitchen table, silhouetting an abandoned coffee cup left behind on the wooden tabletop, and pours across the island’s white counter. Besides Rhett’s rustling through cereal boxes in the walk-in pantry, the only sound is a sharp hiss as the coffeemaker finishes its timed brew. Careful not to let the kitchen cabinets squeak too much, as they’re apt to do—particularly when the house is quiet and everyone is sleeping—I grab a clean mug and pad across the cool floors to fill it.
Once Rhett and I have our morning necessities in hand, we settle in at the table. Covered in dents and stains and scuffs, this table has seen multiple generations of Wellses. Rhett and Odessa ate their first meals here, just like me and my father before me.
Mid-sip of strong, black coffee, I look up to see our kitchen manager, Beryl, enter the room. Dressed in dark-wash jeans and a Wells Ranch T-shirt, she beams at me. “Morning, boys.”
“Morning,” I say into my coffee mug, watching as she finishes tying off a long gray braid and tosses it over her shoulder on her way to kiss Rhett on top of the head.
He scrunches his freckled nose, but there’s no denying the way he relaxes into the feel of her lovingly sifting a hand through his hair.
Beryl came to work for the ranch when Kate was pregnant with Odessa and could no longer keep up with the demands of cleaning bunkhouses, prepping lunches for the ranch hands, and running the house by herself. But she quickly became so much more than an employee to us. It had been a few years since my mom died at that point, and I don’t think my brothers and I realized how badly we needed a maternal presence in our lives again until Beryl showed up.
Now my kids call her Gran.
Without a moment to waste, Beryl starts on her morning routine, because within the next fifteen minutes or so, a herd of noisy, clumsy ranch hands will clamber into the spacious kitchen in search of coffee, bagged lunches, and whatever else they can get their hands on.
