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And so she does.

“Yesssss!”

Screaming hard as her second climax pounds in, overwhelming her. Glowing so brightly that I can see every exquisite inch of her completion reflected by the window’s dark glass. Her lips, parted with lust. Her cheeks, suffused with sensuality. But best of all, her eyes—which remain open. She wants to watch too. She wants to see every undulation of my hips and every dominant stab of my cock. She wants to witness how she endures it all, answering my light and lust and passion with equal amounts of her own.

She wants to acknowledge her power.

An understanding that already starts building toward her next orgasm. A perception I share as our gazes connect in the murky world of the glass.

“Good,” I say to it—and her. “So good.” As I grab her tighter and fuck her deeper. “Let it come,” I command from between my locked teeth. “Let it come, beauty. Let me give it to you. All of it.” I flow more energy into my fingers, letting her see my possessive grip across her skin. I change up the rhythm of my rutting, ensuring she gets an eyeful of my cobalt length before I shuttle it back into her tight, soaked walls. “All of me.”

“All of me too,” she whispers back, tears wobbling through her words. “I love you, Reece Andrew.”

“And I worship you, Emmalina Paisley.”

“I know.” She punctuates it with a shudder, bucking her head because I’m gripping too hard for her to gain control of her hips. “Oh fuck, how I know. Oh. Ohhhh, God. Ohhhh, Reece! I’m—I’m going to—”

“I know.” Not a shred of bullshit in it, either. “I know.” My commiseration is beyond sweet syllables of seduction or the physical sync of my body. It’s beyond the taut pressure in my balls, the telltale trembles in my thighs, the harsh ache in my ass. It’s in the flames that take over my blood. The electrical storm that rages through my senses. The connection that zaps into my soul.

The light that races up my cock.

The completion that drenches every corner of my being.

I pour myself into her, letting the quicksilver flow as my vision dances with the diamonds they’re all singing about in the next room. Holy God, even the horizon beyond the windows seems to burst to life, as if all the stars have detonated at once. And even as my orgasm wanes, the room itself seems to shake and roll…

Until I realize that it really is shaking and rolling.

And that the singing has stopped—because it’s been replaced by startled shouts.

“Holy crap!” Emma blurts as soon as I lean over, grab her around the waist, and roll us both away from the huge window. At the same time, in the other room, Lux lets out nonstop shrieks of glee, repeating his favorite expression. Lydia’s yelling the same thing, only with not so much joy. Like Emma, she’s a born-and-raised Southern California girl—and knows to take earthquakes with dead seriousness.

Despite that knowledge, I leap to my feet, ready to sprint down the hall to ensure my son’s safety. I’m yanked back down at once, slammed onto the bed by a forceful gold fireball. “Goddamnit, Emmalina,” I bellow. “Lux is—”

“Not going to be a happy kid if his father is tossed out a seventy-story-high window because he lost his balance in a high roller,” she volleys. “Especially if said father still has certain body parts swinging in the wind!”

I take advantage of my supine position to zip up with a grimace—though I’m unsure if the expression is the pain of stuffing myself back in at half an erection or the jolt of riding out my first major California shaker. I gawk wider while looking out the window to see the downtown skyline looking more eerie than the day Faline commanded Kane to destroy half of it. And the rolling keeps going on, at least for another thirty seconds. Fuck. It feels more like thirty hours. I’ve heard plenty of people say that before, but the truth is never more vivid than experiencing the phenomenon for oneself.

Finally, Mother Nature’s wild ride comes to a full stop. I reach for Emma, who’s been maintaining a strange, quixotic expression through the whole thing, and clutch her close to me. I’m beyond grateful when she sprawls a hand across the center of my chest. “Jesus on a Quinjet,” I croak. “My heartrate’s at warp speed.”

“So’s mine.” But her drawl conveys the unnerving opposite. “But not because of the earthquake.”

As I debate whether to shoot her a glare or a grin, I abandon both when realizing ’Dia’s string of “holy shits” hasn’t stopped in the living room. Weirder still, Foley has joined her. All right, so he’s muttering something more along the lines of “fuck me five ways,” but I’m more concerned about the total shock in his tone.

“What…on…” Emma, clearly discerning the same thing, uses my chest as leverage to push up and then off the bed. She rushes across the room and jerks open the door—as I straighten on the bed like a vampire being hauled out of his coffin at noon. The sight before me is just as surreal—and stupefying.

It’s my son. Flying through the portal that Emma’s just opened.

Not figuratively.

He’s…flying.

At least six feet off the floor—though that figure changes if he decides to do a backflip or a belly roll. He seems to be fond of both already, judging by the gleeful laughs with which he keeps praising himself for the moves.

“Okay.” Emma follows Lux’s aeronautics by turning and shuffling back into the bedroom. “What’s it called when the heartrate goes past warp speed?”

“Galactic demolition,” I blurt out.

“Reece-man for the win,” Lydia mutters. “I was just going to say ‘cuckoo-ville.’”