Page 42 of The Addendum

“Please,” she whispered.

I engulfed her in my arms, knowing what she needed. To be surrounded by me. To feel every inch of my body pressed against hers as we made love. I tangled one hand in her thick hair, grasping the silken strands, and began to move. We rocked in a hard, fast rhythm, our bodies moving as one, our skin never breaking contact. Katy whimpered and moaned. I hissed and growled, praising her.

“So good, Katy. So fucking good.”

“Feel me. Feel what you do to me. Only you.”

“Like that. Oh God, baby, yes. Just like that. Squeeze my cock. Ride me.”

Katy kissed my neck, biting the skin, marking me. I gripped her hips, guiding her as my movements became faster. Harder. I was desperate for her release. To feel the clutch and pull of her as she came around me. To know I’d brought her pleasure.

She cried out, milking my cock, her body tightening and grasping at me. I shouted her name, spilling inside her, my orgasm an explosion of ecstasy and wonder. It seemed to go on forever before I stopped, the spasms becoming quivers, my loud shouts easing off into low, satisfied grunts.

Slowly, we stopped, our skin slick with sweat, our bodies sated, our minds at peace.

I pressed a kiss to her head. “Make-up sex with you is always epic.”

She giggled, peeking up at me. Her eyes were bright blue, peaceful, and filled with love.

“And messy.”

I stood, taking her with me. “A shower, then, Mrs. VanRyan. I’ll get you clean so I can get you dirty all over again.”

She draped her arms around my neck. “Okay then, my darling. Okay.”

13

ASHLEY

I stared at my reflection, running a hand over my hair to smooth the ends. I wanted to look nice for Luc tonight. He was taking me to a party to celebrate someone’s retirement. His best friend Reed was marrying Heather on Saturday, and this was an added thing they were doing as a family. Having met Reed and Heather, I was pleased to be invited. I really liked Heather—we got along well, and I had enjoyed spending time with her. She felt familiar somehow, and we had connected fast. We had a lot in common, and she was easy to talk with. I looked forward to getting to know her better—I had a feeling we were going to be great friends.

I had noticed the uniqueness of her hazel eyes. Unlike some that were a mix of greens and browns, hers were more blue and green—just like mine. In fact, most people who met me thought my eyes were one color or the other. It depended on my mood and the lighting. Heather’s were similar, and I thought that was cool. She was obviously crazy about her dad, talking about him a lot when we were together. I felt a small ache as I wondered what it would be like to know that sort of love.

I had always been curious about my dad. When I was a little girl, I imagined him showing up, sweeping me into his arms, calling me his princess. I could take him to school with me on parents’ day. Proudly introduce him as my dad. I didn’t care what he did—that never mattered. What mattered was I would be like the other kids and have a dad. Even the kid with divorced parents usually had a mom and a dad.

I only ever knew my mom. We had no other family. She never spoke about him when I was little. When I was somewhat older and asked, she informed me he would never be part of my life. He never wanted children, and he lived on the other side of the country. She told me he wasn’t a nice man, and she didn’t want me to be subjected to him. I asked her what that meant, and she had smiled sadly.

“Some people are selfish and only think of themselves. Your father was like that,” she said. “He wasn’t a good man. He would have been terrible to you.”

“Then why did you love him?” I asked her with the curiosity of a child.

She looked startled at my question. “What?”

“Tracy in class says when two people love each other, they have babies. I used to be a baby, so you must have loved him.”

She shook her head. “Sometimes it doesn’t work that way.”

Then she stood. “Your father isn’t part of our life. It is better that way. I don’t want to discuss him again. He didn’t want either of us.”

Later that day was the first time I saw her, looking sad and resigned, holding the shirt. The one with the fancy embroidery on the sleeve. When she left the room, I opened the drawer and took it out. It was soft and white—the loops and swirls on the sleeve fascinated me. I had no idea what they meant, but I liked them. When my mother found me with the shirt, she scolded me for touching it.

“Is it yours, Mommy?”

“No. It–it was your father’s.”

“Can I have it?”

“No.” She sent me to my room, refusing to discuss it.