Hi, Guys! I know it's been a while, but my muse has been a fickle little bitch. I haven't been able to write a dang thing since last year. So when the request for this O/S came in and my creative juices finally started to flow again, I had to take advantage.

A huge thank you needs to be said to Jenn and Bibi for pre-reading this thing for me. This piece is COMPLETELY out of my comfort zone and their suggestions helped me out big time.

Hope y'all enjoy it! Especially you, Bella and Jenn… and you too, Kenna.

Welcome back to the CHAS universe. Things are about to get a little dirty.

WARNING: THERE IS BACK DOOR ACTION IN THIS. If that's not your cup of tea, please don't read.

Life is busy.

Dance recitals. Little league games. Promotional events. Parent/Teacher conferences. Book launches. Business trips. Working lunches. Family dinners.

You name it, it's on our schedule. And lately it's felt like we live from one event to the next.

At one point, the speed of our daily lifestyle would have overwhelmed me. The chaos sending my fingers twitching, desperate for a rag and can of Pledge. A simple task to tidy the mess of it all.

Now it just makes me smile.

Because dance recitals mean my daughter is passionate about something. Little league games mean my son gets to smile each time he successfully whacks the ball off the tee. Promotional events mean my husband cherishes his business and the career he's established. Book launches mean my publishing business is thriving. And family dinners mean that despite everything happening in our lives, we still find the time to come together and appreciate what we have–each other.

For my family, a busy life means a fulfilling life. Sure it can be messy. Sure it can be complicated. Sure it can be scary as hell. But I learned a long time ago that sort of life reaps the most promising of rewards. And it continues to. Every day.

So as I wipe down one of my cherished bookshelves, maneuvering Ellie's set of Harry Potter books out of the way as I do, it's no longer out of necessity. It's out of pleasure.

The 'hits' station plays over the radio, pulsing out beats I can swivel and shake to. Because I like the smell of it, Damon's t-shirt drapes to my mid-thigh and the soft cotton sweeps against my bare skin with each motion. With Ellie at camp for the week and Jackson spending the day at a friend's house, I've been granted a rare afternoon alone at the house, and I'm taking advantage.

Sparkling counters, spotless floorboards, and clean laundry are in my near future. Along with something else.

"Hey, babe."

I turn to see Damon closing the front door. Streaks of onyx grease are smeared across his dark grey t-shirt and jeans; evidence of the maintenance he's been performing on his beloved food truck at the garage around the corner.

I smile. "You're back earlier than I expected." It's a lie. I knew the moment I sent Damon the text about Jax heading to Trevor's house he'd cut his day at the garage short. He's easy like that.

His cerulean eyes sparkle with mirth, alighting the smirk spreading across his mouth. "Our little hellions are gone for the afternoon."

"Yes, they are." He takes a step off the front mat, making his destination clear, when I point at his feet. "Boots."

He sighs and removes them with remarkable haste. Then he's breaching the space between us like a predator. His eyes are focused on me and the carnal set of his gaze has my skin buzzing with anticipation.

We've reached the 'something else' portion of the afternoon.

"They're never gone," he says.

"No, they're not."

He reaches around and cups my neck, the heat of his fingers seeping through my skin. "So I said fuck the repairs. I can do them tomorrow." He leans in so I can taste his breath as it whispers along my lips. "You and me are top priority."

That's something that's never changed.

Careers and children have a way of stealing intimacy. You lose it in the routine. Time slips away, leaving none for yourselves and the relationship that kick-started everything. For most couples, it's an inevitable fate.

Not for Damon and me.

Days are for the kids, delivering them a youth we never had, but nights are when everything stops and we strengthen our connection. When the sun sets and the rest of the world slip into slumber, we awaken. His hands find my body, my lips find his skin, and, together, we ascend.

"You and I," I correct with a smile, because that's something that's never changed as well.

"Yeah, that too." He coaxes my lips to his and they part, eager for his tongue and the same rush I get every time we kiss. It's never diminished. Not once in the fifteen years we've been together.

Especially not now.

Our tongues touch and that rush soothes me like a caress. Heat spirals through my limbs. My fingers tighten around the can of Pledge and the muscles of my thighs clench. I'm remembering the feel of him between them, the decadent grind that never fails to make me quiver.

It'll be nice seeing him tremble along with me, instead of simply feeling it happen in the black of night this time.

When I smile at that thought, he pulls back, dragging my lower lip between his teeth.

He releases it and says softly, "I love you in my shirt."

Speaking of clothing, I reach to tug on the black hat he's currently sporting but didn't leave the house with. "What's this?" Not that I'm complaining. He looks sexy as hell with a days' worth of scruff peppering his face and tuffs of raven hair peeking from under the cap.

His mouth tugs into a grin, his age barely showing in the few faint wrinkles that appear. "It's called a hat. You know, a piece of cloth stitched together to salvage bad hair days. If you're willing to splurge, they sell them with this thing called a brim to keep the sun out of your eyes." He releases me and flips his brows towards his hairline. "It's genius."

I roll my eyes. "I mean where did it come from, asshole."

He shrugs. "I swiped it from a kid who thought it'd be a good idea to steal my brake pads from the garage when I wasn't looking."

"You're not serious."

He lifts his pointer finger and thumb into the air, separating them with a half inch of space. My eyes narrow before he chuckles. "Only slightly. I saw a bit of myself in the kid, so I offered him a twenty for it."

My heart tugs at the mention of his childhood. It wasn't easy for Damon, jumping from home to home, growing up through survival instead of love. I often wish I could see what he looked like as a child, freckled with innocence before the world turned on him. But then I realize do. I get to see that piece of him every day in our daughter's bright blue eyes and our son's duplicate little smirk. Just like Damon's now, their lives are full of smiles and laughter. They've made his disappointments a thing of the past.

I lean in and kiss him. "It looks good on you."

He tugs on the hem of his over-sized t-shirt I'm wearing. A smudge of black dirt clings to the white cotton. "Not as good as this does on you." His fingers slip beneath the material to find the bare skin of my stomach. Calloused fingertips skim the surface, tracing the underside of my breasts, until I feel him at the top of my lace boy shorts. There's most likely a black trail marking his path. "Now, where were we?"

He leans down to resume what we started, but I laugh and give him a shove. "I was cleaning. Which is precisely what you need to go do."

He balks. "But I thought we were on the same page here."

"We were." And we still are. I just can't deny myself the opportunity to rile him up a bit first. There's nothing sexier than my husband when he's desperate. "Now I'm on the page where you take a shower and then find me when you're not covered in grease and brake dust."

"Babe, we're kid free and censor free. We can get as dirty as we want."

"And we will."

"We can right now."

We can. Smiling, I bite my lip and say something I normally can't in front of Ellie and Jackson. "Fuck." It's slow, rolling off of my tongue and through my parted lips. The heat it ignites in his gaze tells me I've hit my mark.

He nods. His right hand snakes around my waste, pulling me against his chest. "That's exactly what I want to do. Glad we're on the same page again."

My gaze trails over his filthy shirt that's now pressed against me, over hard pecs and ripples of abs still resting beneath, before landing on the slick appearance of his biceps. They're each coated by a layer of sweat and caked on grime. The imagery of my man stretched beneath his truck as he twists and yanks under the exertions of manual labor may have my toes curling in delight but I don't want the filth of that work smeared all over me.

My nose scrunches. "You're wet."

"I'm not the only one." He licks his lips, knowing the truth of his accusation without even having to touch me.

I still cock a resistive brow. "You know what I meant."

"C'mon," he whispers, leaning in to drag his bottom lip along the crucial pulse point on my neck. His stubble tickles and goosebumps rise along my flesh. "Fuck the cleaning and be impulsive with me."

His voice is low, the rumble in his throat a temptation I can't ignore. When he opens his mouth and traces slow circles on my skin with his tongue, the desire to feel it everywhere suddenly rules me like a god.

Screw the game.

"Shower," I say. I set the Pledge onto the bookshelf and link my finger on his collar, dragging him towards the master bathroom. "Now."

"That's my girl."

He chuckles as I lead him through our bedroom. I'm empowered, riding high on the rare control he's allowing me to have, but it doesn't last long. As soon as we breach the master bath, he snatches the control back and I'm thrusted through the open shower door. The fingers of his left hand fist my hair, those on his right find the shower knob, and his mouth latches onto mine.

There's a squeak and then cold water sucks the breath from my lungs. Or it could be Damon. Probably a mixture of both.

We're in the over-sized shower, both fully dressed with our bodies fused together, clear water transitioning into brown as it washes the grime now covering us both and falls in beads onto the tile floor. We're a hot mess. Emphasis on the hot.

His lips leave mine for a second. Just long enough for me to laugh and point out, "You could have given me a second to undress first."

"Where's the fun in that?" His gaze lowers to my shirt, the material clinging like saran wrap. He's particularly focused on my hardened nipples, on their distinct outline as they strain beneath the fabric. Then he rips the shirt over my head. "You know, there are few things I appreciate more in this life than removing your clothes."

There's a slap as the wet shirt hits the bathroom floor. Under normal circumstances I'd be thinking of the shower door still open, of the puddle I'll be mopping, of the cleaning I'll be doing after we finish making our satiating mess.

These are not normal circumstances.

I stare at my husband; the way his drenched clothing accentuates the details of his chiseled body. Dark water drips over his cap and down his sharp jawline. Raw desire flares in his eyes. His erection bulges beneath his jeans.

I swallow, hard.

"It's a mutual appreciation," I say before fisting his t-shirt between my fingers and thrusting it over his head. It sends his cap toppling. Next come the jeans. They're unbuttoned and yanked to the tile floor. I don't get the chance to touch the boxer briefs before I'm snatched into his embrace and his mouth's on my nipple.

He teases the perked bud. His hot tongue swirls and laps, mixing with the perfect pinch of teeth. It's repeated on the other as I reach down and stroke him. There's a layer of cotton between him and my touch, but it's thin. He's still perfectly defined–long, bulging, strength in the palm of my hand. And when I focus my efforts on the mushroom head, he shudders.

It's followed by a groan and soft chuckle before he leans forward. His forehead rests against mine, his lips ghosting my own. His eyes are closed as the water drips down our faces.

"You know me too well," he says, reaching for my hand so it's halted against his dick. "A few more minutes of that and I'll be coming before I'm inside you."

"It comes with years of hands-on insight." I apply pressure with my fingers, squeezing him just slightly until his mouth falls open in pleasure. "Plus, I'm just that good."

I reapply the pressure and a rumble sounds from his throat. "You're fucking remarkable." His grip loosens, allowing me full access to his length. I take advantage, running twice from the base to the hilt. "Too goddamn remarkable." I attempt a third pass when he drops to his knees and slips my panties down my legs.

He looks up at me, a smirk resting on his lips. Water drenches his back. "But so am I."

He spreads me in the shower, licking while his fingers grip the cheeks of my ass. My back is pressed against the cool glass and my fingers fist in his hair. I release a moan, which makes him grin against my aching heat.

Need coils in my abdomen with each flick of his tongue. It's a powerful weapon. My legs shake. My body arches. My eyes roll back in my head. He passes my entrance, teasing the flesh with the drag of his lower teeth, and then he thrusts his tongue in. It's warm, and soft, and so fucking good.

"Damon."

His name falls from my mouth, a gift to the god refusing to show me mercy between my legs.

I'm rewarded by his finger as it replaces his tongue. "I fucking love it when you moan my name." He spirals it in and out, building friction, as his mouth returns to my taut bundle of nerves. It's the ultimate combination.

"Do it again," he demands.

I do. I moan it when he sucks my throbbing clit between his lips. I chant it when he drags his finger along my g-spot. I scream it when he inserts a second finger and pumps. But I stop to suck in air when his other hand sneaks between my cheeks and his thumb applies pressure to my other hole –the one that's remained untouched my entire life.

It's not that he's never asked. He did. Once. But never again after I shot the request down with a firm, "Absolutely not."

I'm astonished he's finally pushing his luck again, and also a little furious.

But I can't deny the thrill it sends down my spine or the heat that blooms with each graze of him along my tight opening. He's working me, adding slight pressure to have me opening like a flower. I'm reaching sensation overload, my mind's going fuzzy with bliss, then I feel him breach my entrance with the tip of his thumb.

My whole body locks up and I call out, "Hey asshole." It's still my endearment of choice, but right now I'm referring to the intended location of his finger, not a slightly offensive inside joke.

Damon stills. It's quiet, the only sound is the water still streaming from the showerhead. I blink and glance down, meeting sky blue eyes and a mischievous grin.

"Sorry, just going with the flow," he explains before pressing a kiss to my slit. The spot still hums when he lifts to his feet. "I thought you wanted it this time."

I swallow and level him with a glare. "You thought wrong."

His brows dip. "Are you sure about that?"

I open my mouth to speak, but the protests don't come. I'm utterly silent.

Holy shit. Do I want this?

The shockwaves of lust wreaking havoc on my sex certainly seem to say I do. But this is new, unchartered territory. It's never had me curious before.

He sucks me from his fingers, and when he's done, a smirk plays on his mouth. "Because the yanking on my hair and the moaning and the sinking down onto my finger kinda suggested you did."

Yeah, it kind of did. But my mind is a battlefield right now. The rational side is arguing that I'm a mother. That this is going to hurt like hell. That I'm not 27 anymore with a body capable of bouncing back quickly. But everything else pulsates with want. Lust has taken over; I'm operating on primal need.

I choose not to overthink it as I step toward him, placing my hand on his chest. "Do you want this?"

"I'm a guy, Elena." He laughs and wipes the water from his face. "We all want this."

Beneath my palm, his heart pumps the truth of that statement. I see it in his eyes–the yearning, the utter excitement of having this moment in his grasp. But I also hear the words he isn't saying.

I want you. That's all that matters. We don't need this if you don't want it too. I just need you.

"How much do you want it?" I ask.

"Trust me when I tell you this." He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "When I'm not staring at your ass, I'm fantasizing about burying myself inside it."

At his statement, the pulsing between my thighs kicks up a notch. My thighs clench. My skin prickles. My pulse races. My throat goes tight. Sparks crackle beneath my palm, his touch igniting me in a way no other can, and I realize one very important thing.

Damon's claimed my heart, my last name, my future. This is the only part of me he hasn't claimed. And I want him to.

The now scalding water may have gotten him clean but we're about to get very dirty.

I glide my hand down the taut muscle of his chest. He watches me meticulously, and when I link my fingers through his and glide him towards my backside, I ask, "Is that all you fantasize about?"

I release his fingers, giving him permission. A groan rumbles from deep in his chest and I feel it's vibrations ebb into mine where they connect. "Not even close."

Leaning forward, I place my lips next to his ear and whisper, "Tell me about the rest."

His finger finds my ass again, teasing the entrance. It soft and decadent, same as the touch of his other hand as it lifts to my face. He grips my chin and tilts my head back so I can look him in the eye when his lips dance against mine.

"I dream about your perfect lips on my skin and your throat open wide as you take me all of the way in."

"What else?"

The pressure increases and I feel the tip of his finger as he breaches my tight opening. He maintains eye contact the entire time, watching my reaction, catching my shuddering breath.

"I imagine the taste of your sweet pussy. Your thighs spread, you begging me to suck harder, as you ride my face."

"More."

He dips all of the way in. My breath catches and my back arches at the new sensation, finding it unbelievably satisfying. His nose brushes mine and the blue flames dancing in his eyes capture me in their luster.

"I envision your eyes rolled back in your head, the feel of your fingernails digging into my back, and you screaming my name when I slam into you."

I hiss. "Even more."

It's a steady rhythm now. In. Out. In. Out. With his breath hot on my lips, my tongue feels thick, my throat is dry. I want nothing more than to sink my lips into his and placate this savage need building inside of me.

"I fantasize about what I would look like, drenched across your stomach when I finish."

My eyes close and I whisper, "But those are all realities."

Two fingers now. Stretching. Pulling.

"Doesn't mean I don't spend my time revisiting them."

I press forward, tasting what I've been craving. His full lips meld into mine and I suck on his tongue. He works my ass and by the time he removes his fingers, I'm crazed by my desire.

Pulling away, I tug his boxer briefs down and suggest, "Maybe it's time to make another reality."

He grins, and for a second it's the purest, giddiest smile I've ever seen. Second only to the two he wore during the birth of our children. But then he licks his lips, his eyes dark and hungry.

The predator is back.

"God." His gaze drift down my completely bare body, and he eyes me the same way he always does–like I'm the best damn thing that's ever happened to him. "You're still so fucking perfect."

The compliment constricts around my heart, squeezing life through my veins. I feel it everywhere. I could say it back to him, and after all this time, he'd accept it. But I decide on something cheeky instead. "And don't you forget it."

"Not a chance in hell." Leaning down, he quickly sucks on each of my bare breasts before he lifts and throws two fingers into the air. "Twenty seconds. I'll be right back."

My brows dip. "What?" But he's already bolted from the bathroom.

He's back in ten with a bottle of lube in his hand. He shakes it back and forth. "Silicon based. Optimal for shower use."

My jaw drops. "You've been planning this."

He pops the lid and drips a few droplets onto his erection before smoothing it on. "There's a difference between planning and being prepared." With a wink, he adds, "I'm always prepared."

"And always ready."

"Well, that's a given." The bottle drops to the ground and he eyes me warily. "Are you?"

I suck in a deep breath. I'm ready, but, "Ease me into it again."

"We can start off easy," he says before leaning in to nip my neck, causing me to laugh. "But I make no guarantees once we get going."

The laugh gets trapped in my throat and my muscles tense again. This is actually happening. I'm going through with it. Okay, I'm really not sure if I'm ready.

But his hands find my waist and ghost the flesh, calming the frantic pulsing of my heart. With steady fingers, he eases the tension from my body. It's a composed rhythm –press and release, press and release –until he softly instructs, "I'm gonna need you to turn around."

Surprisingly, I do. The heat of his slick chest presses against my back and I feel him, stiff and eager, on my ass. When he places an opened mouth kiss to the back of my neck, the heat of it spirals south. My legs spread in offering.

"So eager." It's whispered against my skin and I don't miss the pride in his voice. I'm pressed forward until my chest and hands meet the glass of the shower wall and when his fingers reach down to stroke my wet slit, I'm glad for the support.

My legs shake with each slow sweep of his finger. He's not rushing this. He's taking his time, savoring the build-up and echo of my moans. Then he dips a finger in. Then another. And slips them back out.

I'm crazed as I rock myself against his digits, panting with each pass and dip that brings me closer to that magnificent edge. My nerve endings are lit. The fuse is running out. The explosion of satisfaction is imminent. Just two more seconds and I'll be…

He stills. "Not yet." Two fingers linger inside as he traces the length of my spine with his other hand. It descends, reaching lower and lower, massaging the stress from my stiff muscles, until he grabs his dick and places the tip of it against my tight entrance.

His lips ghost the back of my neck again. "You still with me?"

"Yes." It's quick and to the point, because, yes, I'm ready. My body's wound tight, the coil so taut I'd agree to anything if it meant reaching my climax. I just want him in me. Now. I've never wanted anything more.

I feel him push, just slightly, and I hiss under the foreign pressure. At least that's all I think I do. His, "Good girl," certainly seems to support that notion.

When he pushes again, his fingers leave my sex to caress my aching clit. It's a soothing contrast to the pain building in the back. But I don't ask him to stop.

Because the tight pinch is transitioning into a delicious ache with each inch he enters me further. The new sensation fuels me, igniting me with a wickedly delightful power. I'm invigorated, grasping the glass with my fingertips, as I push myself further onto him.

"Holy fuck, Elena," he groans when I push a few more times so he's seated fully inside. I've surprised him. It's thrilling as hell. After fifteen years of monogamy, surprises are rare, and I've just handed him a golden shrine. It makes the sting of his intrusion bearable.

A shudder rocks through his body when I ask him to move, then another when he pulls out and sinks himself back in. The depth is unfamiliar, but exquisite, when he repeats the action. Each time I grip him like I never intend to let him go.

"You're so fucking tight." His voice is shaky, and I smile. This pleasure, it's a result of me. I'm making him feel this way. I'm giving him this moment. I'm bringing this god to his knees.

"Remember this," I say. "The next time we fight and you're mad at me, remember how good this feels."

"It's impossible to forget. Trust me." He dips in again, and I wince. It's not unbearable, just unpleasant, until he strokes my clit with his index finger and I lose myself in the feel of his touch. "It's fucking phenomenal."

His free hand grips my waist and the pressure of his fingertips as they bite into my skin has a moan escaping my parted lips. It edges him on. He thrusts a little faster.

It's piercing pain and unaccustomed pleasure wrapped in one hell of a package. Ultimately, the pleasure wins out. It's enveloping me, saturating me with fervor. I want more, everything he has to offer. No holding back.

The mumbled plea leaves my mouth, too low for Damon to hear.

"For the love of God, please don't ask me to stop." Desperation leaks into his words, sinking down to the grasp he has on my waist. "You feel too damn good to stop."

"Faster," I pant, loud enough for him to hear me this time. "I said faster."

I hear his sigh of relief over the streaming jet of water. It's filling the shower, coating the glass walls in a glaze of fog my fingers keep breaking through. My forehead lands on the moisture when he honors my request, and I gasp. He's buried deep, so fucking deep it has my toes curling.

Each thrust is reciprocated as I push myself back onto him. Each grunt is met with a sigh of indulgence. Each skim of his hand is met with a clench of my greedy thighs.

"It turns you on, doesn't it?" he asks, marveled. "What we're doing."

I cry out, "Yes." Again and again until it morphs into one drawn out plea. My inhibitions are out the door and I'm drowning in this moment. In the hedonism of our act. In the carnality of his touch. In the blaze flickering deep in the caverns of this person I never knew I could become.

He grips my hair and arches my head back so I can feel the heat of his breath as it skims my ear. "You are the sexiest woman on this goddamn planet."

In this moment, I am. And I tell him so.

My head twists and I devour his mouth. I can't get enough. It's velvet tongues and porcelain teeth, demanding what they want. Taking what they want.

He drives into me harder, pulling out and slamming back in, causing the pressure to build deep in my abdomen. So much I have to rip free and press my cheek against the glass; it does little to muffle my moans. But he stays with me, gripping my chest tightly against his as we near our end.

His fingers wind. His thumb pulses. His cock buries into me.

Again. And again. And again.

He's the fire in my blood.

The shudder in my breath.

The scream in my lungs.

Oh.

My.

God.

I come as relief crashes through me like a tsunami. It's powerful and liberating, and I scream.

He's seconds behind me, pulling out right at the finish. Hot bursts land on my back, accompanying his thunderous grunt of release, as I use all of my strength to remain upright. It's difficult with sated limbs and legs pleading for reprieve, but I hold on long enough for him to eventually guide me into the spray of water.

"Let's get you cleaned up." His hands are soothing as they wipe the remnants of him from my back. My eyes are drooping and with each gentle sweep I'm suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

"It's the only thing we'll be cleaning today," I mumble. "Because of that, I need a nap before Jax gets back."

He chuckles and turns off the showerhead before wrapping me in a towel. I'm cocooned by its warmth, which only increases when his thick arms wrap around me and I'm pressed into his chest. "Yeah, and a bottle of water and Ibuprofen. Wanna head to bed and I'll get it for you?"

"Sounds perfect."

I pull away and start to head to the bathroom when he tugs on my towel. "Hold up." I'm turned back to face him. He's sporting a smile, all content and blissful.

"I fucking love you." He leans forward so his lips brush my cheek, gentle as it transitions into a kiss.

"I love you too." I sashay into the bedroom and because I can't help myself, I add, "Asshole."

He's in the doorway a second later, his hand at the back of his neck. "I think you're gonna need to retire the nickname. Otherwise, I'm gonna be walking around with a hard on every time I hear it now."

I know. This is going to be fun.

"Not a chance." He's glaring at me as I drop the towel, and when I settle beneath the sheets, I grin at him. "Asshole."

He sighs and glances down at his dick. As expected, it's back to full mast before he turns around and shuts the bathroom door behind him. Then he shouts, "It's gonna be five minutes for those meds."

I'm still laughing when he eventually hands me the medicine and water.

I'm lying in bed with my laptop on my stomach. On the screen is a bright image of Ellie, who's giving me the rundown of her day. She's smiling and giggling, a frantic animation of bright blue eyes and long chestnut hair. It evokes the same reactions from me. My child is having a blast at camp. I couldn't be happier.

She pauses after a long-winded story about the terrible taste of the camp's Mac-N-Cheese and asks, "Where's Dad?"

"Putting Jax to bed. He'll be here in a second to say goodnight."

That results in a grin. "Good. My day's not over until I get my goodnight from dad."

"Of course not. Make sure you tell him about your pony ride when he gets here."

She purses her beautiful little lips into a scowl. "Buttercup's a horse, Mama. There's a difference."

"My mistake." I laugh with pride. So bright. So smart. She's going to take the world by storm one day. "Make sure you leave out the part about Brandon."

"Why?"

Because Damon would flip if he knew a boy had given her a dandelion today. While I see the situation as it is –an innocent nine-year-old giving his friend a pretty flower–Damon will see it as the situation it could eventually become. Boys grow up and have intentions. He's a first-hand account of that. And there's no way in hell Brandon's getting his hands on his little girl. I learned my lesson on that front when Lincoln, the boy next door, gave Ellie a kiss on the cheek when she was five. Lincoln wasn't allowed near her for two months.

Her teenage years are going to be a blast.

I'm spared a response as Damon enters the room. "Jax is knocked out. Thank God for The Hungry Caterpillar." He winks. "It does the trick every time."

Lifting the laptop into the air, I twist it in his direction. "Someone else wants to say goodnight to you."

His face alights with awe, his eyes glowing like fireflies, as he closes the space between us and takes the laptop from me.

"Hey, baby girl."

"Daddy!"

He settles in next to me and our conversation turns to stories I've just heard –none of which include Brandon–and even more giggles. The entire time, my eyes shift between my daughter and my husband as I watch their interaction. The joy in Damon's words, the delight on Ellie's face as they talk back and forth, it never gets old. Because there's a heart-eyed innocence to him when he's near our children, especially Ellie, a stark contrast to the dominance he unleashes during our private endeavors. I admire each side of him, but this one, I could sit here and soak it in for days.

However, after five minutes the camp counselor calls for lights out and Ellie gives us her goodbye. "I love you, Mama. I love you, Daddy," she says. "I'll Skype tomorrow."

She blows us each a kiss, which we return, and then powers off.

Damon reaches over me to place the laptop onto the end table. When it's secure, he lays back against his pillow and stretches his arm just above my head, inviting me into my favorite nook. I snuggle in and we lay quietly, comforted by the stillness of each other.

The best thing about being with Damon is how remarkably easy it still is. Eating a pop-tart is more difficult.

He eventually asks, "How ya feeling, champ?"

"Sore."

He twists to kiss my head and chuckles, but it breaks at the edges. He hates hurting me, even if it's accompanied by an absurd degree of pleasure. "I'll take it easy on you tomorrow night."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Don't you dare."

The repercussions of our afternoon may hurt like hell, but they fail in comparison to the reward. I've finally felt Damon everywhere, I'm completely his, in every sense of the word. I don't regret it for a second. Hell, I might ask him for a repeat session someday.

He smiles, and it's blinding. "We'll see." His index finger reaches up to trace my lips and he studies the features of my face, his eyes working from my forehead to my mouth. There's a deep sigh, loaded with contentment, before he says, "I'm happy."

I laugh, because this is a nightly occurrence. We put the kids to bed, we snuggle under our warm sheets, in our luxurious bed, under our secure roof. And Damon pulls me into him, gripping me like he's still marveled by the fact that he's earned this and he's certain it'll fade in the blink of an eye like it was all just a dream.

"Me too," I reply, same as every other night.

"I mean it." His arm constricts around my shoulder, squeezing tightly. "You and me. Our hellions. This life we have. I'm really fucking happy."

My life is a catalog of remarkable moments–each bursting in significance–and not a single one would have been possible without this man. Looking up at him now, I'm aware of the devotion in his gaze, the unwavering faith in the love we share–for each other, as well as our children– and the future we still have left to experience.

We're both lucky as hell. And we're both even more grateful.

"I mean it too." I inch forward to nuzzle his chin. "I'm really fucking happy."

His palm cups my cheek and he raises my face to kiss me. It's passionate and exquisite, with a sinful nip in conclusion.

"Good," he says. "It's how it should be."

"Always."

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