Page 45 of Child of Mine

Just one more day.

On top of all this? Even though I’m running on empty, even though my brain and heart and imagination are fully engaged, Henry’s goddamned address is burning a fucking hole in the zippered pocket of my purse.

So, the Friday night of our second weekend, when a downpour has us canceling a show, I decline the invitation for an impromptu game night with the cast and crew. Agreeing with Izzy that I need to go home and go to bed, I nevertheless let Quinn take the wheel. She turns left instead of right when I exit the parking lot, having already memorized the address, having already located it on the map of Boston in my glove compartment.

Before I know it, I’ve parked on the street, taken a set of porch steps two at a time, and knocked softly on the door. With Izzy hissing that I should leave and Quinn howling with need, I’m frozen halfway between dread and desire.

When the door opens, I push my way inside. “Just. One. More. Time.”

* * *

HENRY

Angrier than a wet cat, she drops her bag and kicks off her shoes. Before I can offer her anything—a drink, a snack, a towel—she finds the bedroom. By the time I cross the threshold, she’s stripped out of the thin tee and cotton skirt that I couldn’t help but notice clinging to her curves like I’ve fantasized my hands doing every moment of every day since the last time I was allowed to.

If I’m going to be let in once more, I want to slow down and savor this. In case it never happens again. But she has a different idea.

Pointing a finger up and down my body, she orders, “You too. Take it all off.”

What can I say? I obey.

Once I do, she pushes me onto the bed, drops to her knees, and proceeds to play me like a fucking saxophone, her mouth and fingers working up and down my pipe in perfect harmony. Hanging onto the bedspread for dear life, I manage to stop her before the horn blows. Her mouth is awfully talented, but if I’m to have a ghost of a chance of changing her mind about that “just one more time” pronouncement, I need to make her come before I do.

Grinding out a “Hang on there, missy,” I pick her up and chuck her onto the bed before spreading her knees, planning to bring her to the edge I’m teetering on. But my fingertips have barely grazed her inner thigh when she growls, “Inside. Now, Hal.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Rolling on a condom in record time, sliding my torso up hers—both of us already slick with sweat—I’m inside before she can say another word. When I tweak her nipples, her nails scratch my ass. When my mouth finds her neck, she orders me to bite.

She wants it a little rough? I’m happy to comply. One hand traps her wrists, the other pushes her knee practically to her armpit. Circling my hips, I rock into her. She arches to meet my thrusts, inner walls tightening, heel driving into my butt cheek, driving me to the edge of pleasure, of control, maybe even the edge of my sanity.

* * *

BELLA

When I open my eyes to the darkness of a strange room, a heavy male arm draped over me, I’m thrown back to the worst of my junkie days: when I was out of control and a danger to myself and everyone around me.

Even when my brain stutters awake and clocks that I’m neither high nor hungover and that the body is Henry’s, it doesn’t change the threat level. I obviously can’t control my urges with this man. I don’t have time for sex addict rehab—if such a thing exists—so I’m just going to have to go cold turkey. Somehow.

Right now, though, I have to get home.

As quickly and quietly as possible, I pull on still-damp clothes, write him a quick note, and make the short drive home.

Sneaking into the house the way I used to sneak into the apartment I shared with my dad after partying late as a teen—at least until I figured out that my dad usually stayed out carousing later than I did—I think I’ve gotten away with living on the edge. Again. But when I reach my hand into the den to turn off the light, I find my mom on the sofa. Awake. And angry.

“Isabelle.”

So much subtext in just three little syllables.

“Mom.” Before she can launch in, I raise my hand. “I’m fine. Everything’s okay. I’m really sorry if I worried you. We had a rainout and...”

Izzy urges me to tell her the truth, but with Quinn telling me it’s not really her business and, besides,Are you really going to tell her you just had head-banging sex with the father of your child?even Izzy concedes,Good point.SoI lie like the addict that I have to admit—even if only to my two inner selves—I still am. “There was a game night at Deb and Pam’s, and I fell asleep on the couch. Burning the candle at both ends these days, you know.”

My yawn is real, and fortunately—or unfortunately?—my mom buys the story.

Hand to her heart, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I was just so worried, and I didn’t even know who to call.”

Reaching out a hand to help her up, I say. “You have every right to worry, Mom. I put you through a lot. But I’m okay.”

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