I feel Connor’s blinding grin. “Most assuredly, he’s ours.”
“I’ll get the hose.”
Connor is the one who grabs the wiggling four-year-old, and he brings him towards the side of the house while I pull out the hose and twist the faucet. When Connor places Ben on the grass, our son tries to spring up and escape back towards the mud.
By the way, Ben is completely nude.
That’s my boy.
I snort at Connor. Ben put his little hands on Connor, who just wears navy swim trunks. So two muddy handprints decorate my husband’s chest.
Connor arches his brow. “Yes, darling?”
“Our son has marked his territory. You’re it.” I wield the green hose like a weapon, and Connor eyes the nozzle, then me, his eyes sparking with intrigue.
Ben smiles. “Let’s go play!”
“Not in the mud,” Connor says easily.
Ben pulls at the grass, even his lips caked in mud. “Don’t I get a choice?”
Connor kneels in front of Ben. “Your choices: if we wash you now, you’ll be able to play with Xander; or if you return to the mud, you’ll never be allowed inside ever again.”
“The mud!” Ben doesn’t miss a beat.
Connor shuts his eyes tight. This is the first child that always chooses the option with the worst personal benefit, and Connor has painstakingly tried to tell Ben to do what’s best for him.
“Ben goes with his heart,” I remind Connor.
“His heart chooses wrong.”
Our son tries to spring towards the mud, but Connor seizes him again.
“If you stay outdoors forever, you’ll miss Wednesday night dinners.” For the past four years, our children started counting down to those dinners. The most common question has become: is it Wednesday yet?
Ben hesitates.
“You’ll never see Pip-Squeak.”
“I’ll take him with me!”
“He’s an indoor bird.”
Ben, a little mud monster, gawks at Connor. “Thatsnotfair.” He slurs the words together.
“Every choice has benefits and costs, some greater and some smaller than others. It’s up to you to use this”—he touches Ben’s head to illustrate his brain—“to determine which is better for you.”
Ben plops on the grass, saddened. I’d feel worse if he didn’t look like a tiny creature from the bottom of the lake.
Matter-of-factly, I tell him, “Being clean is more fun than being dirty.”
“Mommy,” he groans and scoffs like I’m so wrong.
I’ll show him. I squirt him just a little, water spraying his body.
He instantly smiles.
“What about now?” I challenge. I spray him lightly once more.
Ben picks himself up and outstretches his arms while sticking out his tongue. As though I am Mother fucking Nature commanding a rain shower for my son. I smile in satisfaction.
Maybe I am.
Connor returns to my side while I hose down our four-year-old. Ben begins to hop and dance in the wet puddle, but at least he’s cleaner than before.
Swiftly, I change direction of the hose and squirt off Connor’s chest and hands. I expect him to flinch, but he practically expected my action. Motionless, stoic.
He begins to grin.
“Richard.” I squirt that grin off too.
And he laughs, his face glistening. “Rose.”
Rose.
I’ll never stop loving and hating the way he says my name.
July 2026
The Lake House
Smoky Mountains
RYKE MEADOWS
I pull my shirt off my head. 10:00 p.m. at the lake house. Everyone is quiet, and if they are fucking rowdy, I can’t hear from our bedroom. Even Nutty is out of it, the white husky fast asleep at the foot of the wooden bed.
I just checked on our two-year-old in the nursery—where all the little girls sleep. Winona recently transitioned out of the fucking crib and has grown the habit of hopping on her “big girl” bed. Making the act of sleep time more difficult than it needs to be.
In a month or two, I hope the fucking novelty of the bed wares off so she can sleep earlier.
On our bed, Daisy splays her arms wide. In constant motion, she moves them up and down like she’s making a snow angel within the bear-patterned quilt. “I have a theory,” she says.
I unbutton my jeans. “Yeah?”
Daisy mock gasps. “Fuck yeah.”
I toss a stitched pillow at her head.
She rolls on her side, facing me with a lopsided smile. “It’s actually two theories. One is wrong. One is right. It’s yet to be proven which.”
“Let’s hear it, Calloway.” My attention is hers. I stop unzipping my jeans for a fucking second.
She sits up on the heels of her feet, wearing a thin white tank top that says Shell Yeah with two waves beneath. Her yellow cotton shorts ride up her fucking ass. Last year, she chopped her blonde hair in uneven layers but let the strands grow past her chest.
Daisy has always been beautiful, but for reasons beyond looks. She brightens at the simplicity of tonight. The fact that we’re alone in this room. The fact that I listen to all of her fucking theories. The fact that when she rises to her feet, standing on the mattress, I only edge closer.
“First theory.” In her dramatic pause, she watches me as I watch her.
My muscles flex, and my cock begins to harden.
“The lake house has magical sleeping properties that produce erotic dreams.”
I raise my brows at Dais. “I missed the part where you moaned out the words lake house when you orgasmed in your fucking sleep last night.”
Her smile stretches. “Second theory—”
I yank her ankle out from under her. She thuds onto her back and radiates with happiness. I climb on top of my wife and nuzzle her cheek. She lets out a throaty noise, her hands dipping down the back of my jeans. I hold Daisy’s jaw and kiss her hungrily, our tongues tangled. I pull her up against me, and she inhales until she can’t breathe.
I break apart so she can catch her breath. “Second theory?” I ask.
She pants, “Second…theory.” Her hand playfully descends towards the crack of my ass.
I don’t flinch. “You fucking exploring, Calloway?”
“Do you like it?” She wags her brows.
I grind my body forward, putting pressure between her legs, and she cries out. I nod to Dais. “I like that fucking sound more.”
Daisy removes her hand, just to hold onto my shoulder. “I have this theory…” She bucks her hips, and my muscles strain, my erection pushing against my jeans. “…that having sex with someone before sleep produces really, really…erotic…dreams.”
That can be fucking tested.
I lift her in my arms so fast that she gasps against my shoulder. I carry Daisy to the circular rug, our luggage and clothes scattered all around the fucking room. I kick a toddler scooter aside. Winona’s.
When I set Daisy’s back on the rug, I already start quickly undressing her. Tank top off. Small, cute fucking breasts exposed. Her hands feverishly roam my abs, my biceps—my hair. I nip her lip and slip off her cotton shorts. Then I hook my fingers in her cotton panties, sliding them down her long, slender legs.
Her big green eyes travel across my hard jawline.
She’s physically so much fucking younger than me. I’m physically so much fucking older than her. That’s never changing. Neither is me caring about her body, her heart—her whole self.
I knead her breast with my fingers before replacing my hand with my mouth, kissing. Then I suck her hardened nipple, my tongue flicking every nerve. She trembles—fuck me.
Again, I pull Daisy’s entire body up against my fucking body. She lets out a high-pitched noise, and my large hand races to her mouth, muffling the sounds.
Daisy tries to tug off my jeans. I help her shed them and my boxer-briefs.
Both buck-naked on the rug.
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I stretch her legs over my fucking shoulders.
“Guess what?” I say lowly. I slide two of my fingers into my mouth, hovering partially above Dias, not lowering my full fucking weight on her.
“What?” she pants beneath my palm.
I pull my fingers out. “I’m going to fuck your theory right…here.” I push my two long fingers inside of Daisy and pump them, my thumb toying with her clit. Her pleasured cries vibrate against my hand. Fuck, a groan rumbles my throat. All the blood wells in my fucking erection.
Her breath shortens, body shakes.
Fucking…my muscles sear, sweat building as fast for me as for my wife. Daisy watches my fingers, how they disappear deep inside of her body. Her reaction fucking kills me in the most visceral, primal way. My muscles answer with fuck her like she wants to be fucked. Kiss her like she wants to be kissed. Love her like she deserves to be fucking loved.
I hold her body like it’s the most precious fucking thing in this world.
When her eyes begin to roll back, I swiftly stand and lift Daisy to my shoulders. The extra weight is nothing to me. Not when I’ve gripped my weight with only a fucking finger on a sliver of rock.
I lean her back against the wall, her body more at an angle. I eat out Daisy Meadows.