Goddamn.
Will it always be like this? Will just the sight of her, asleep and wrapped inmystuff, inmyhouse, always make me feel this way? Because right now, I feel like the luckiest man in the fucking universe. I feel like every single dream I’ve ever had for my future is lying just inches before me, sprawled out and ready for the taking.
Her golden tan skin and long dark brown hair look angelic under the dim light from the fire, and my mind starts to conjure up visions of what our kids will look like. Will our daughter have green eyes like me or chocolate brown like her mama? Will our son have brown hair or red? Mine’s definitely a strong gene. Just look at my entire family.
Fuck. It doesn’t even matter who they look like. They’ll be perfect, just like my Shiloh.
I’ve always wanted kids and a big family. Growing up the oldest of three wasn’t always easy, but it was awesome. I loved it and knew even from a young age that I wanted the same thing someday. There was a time when I imagined that life with my high school girlfriend, turned fiancé, Sadie.
We’d dated all of Junior and Senior year, broke up for a short time when I enlisted, then got back together one Christmas when I was home visiting. I’d proposed, idiotically and drunkenly, the following Thanksgiving. She’d happily agreed, gushing and crying about how excited she was.
We were good for a while. She supported me emotionally while I was away. Stuck it out during the long months when I couldn’t get back to see her. Called me every chance she got, going on and on about wedding plans and our future.
I thought I’d finally found it. The mother of my kids, my wife, my forever. I was a fool. A stupid, young, naive fool. We didn’t even make it a year into our engagement before she started cheating on me. A buddy of mine from back home sent photos of her fucking my best friend at a Halloween party while I was stationed in Iraq. I ended things over an email with her and a fistfight with my best friend.
I re-upped my contract with the military after that and did another tour. That was the tour that changed everything. Liam enlisted that year, saying he’d wanted to follow in my footsteps. He’d said that if I was happy enough to sign on for another four years, then it was worth a shot for him. Little did he know it was the exact opposite. While I found a purpose in the army, I hated every minute of it. I wasn’t there because of duty or honor; I was there because I didn’t know where else to go.
Finishing out my final years after he’d been killed was hell. Coming home was even worse. My family tried to pull me out of my angry depression, but I was buried so deep in it that I almost gave up altogether. They forced me to get back into the family business, building houses, using my hands and creativity.
We began construction on our homes that year, and honestly, it saved my life. Being in nature, on our family property, with Stephen, Charlie, and our dad, bonded us in ways I’d never expected. We healed from Liam’s death. Enough to function, at least, and grew closer. A year later, we each had our own custom homes, built with our own hands. I was given a second chance at the future I’d always wanted, and though I genuinely thought I’d never get it, I held out hope.
Looking at Shiloh now, I know I held out for the right reasons. It was her. All along, she was the one I was waiting for.
“Logan,” she whispers, her eyes cracking open momentarily before she closes them again, blinking heavily. “You’re back.”
A wide smile spreads across my face, and my heartbeat picks up. My hands reach down, cupping her round cheeks as I drop my forehead to hers. She smells so fucking good. Like vanilla and cupcakes. It reminds me of home.
“I’ll always come back to you, Babydoll. You hungry?” My words are a husky whisper against her. I want to cover her face in sweet kisses just as badly as I want to fuck her into this couch. I do neither, but I also don’t move away.
I realized when I left earlier that I’ve basically bulldozed my way into her life. I forced her to get in my truck, to come home with me. Fuck, I practically locked her in my house like some kind of kidnapping situation. I don’t want to force her into this life with me or take away her choices, but I’ve found that I can’t help it when it comes to her.
I can’t stop. She’s mine, and I’ll be fucked if she thinks she can leave me. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give her space or at least the illusion of it…until she comes around, that is.
She smiles and shakes her head, keeping her eyes squeezed closed. “Sleepy,” she murmurs. My smile widens, and another thought dawns on me. I’ve smiled more since Shiloh walked into my life than I have in the last 15 years.
“Okay,” I murmur, and this time, I do kiss her. She kisses me back, but it’s weak and soft like she can barely move her mouth. My girls exhausted. Fuck, I should have known. She must have barely slept with the shit going down at her place last night. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I slide my hands beneath her body and pick her up, blanket and all. She tenses but then melts into me, curving her body into my chest. My cock hardens to the point of pain, and the thick material of my work jeans rubs against it as I walk, but I don’t care. The feeling of her in my arms is everything.
Reaching the hall, I hesitate. I want her in my bed,ourbed, more than anything. I want to fall asleep with her in my arms every fucking night for the rest of my life. I want to wake up every morning and lazily make love to her when we’re still half-asleep, enjoying each other’s bodies slowly. I want to be next to her for every fucking moment until I die, worshipping her, enjoying her,loving her.
But I meant what I said earlier. It has to be her choice. She has to know what getting in my bed means. When she steps through that door, she needs to know that I’m never letting her go again.
Gritting my teeth, I turn to the right and make my way to the spare bedroom.It’s just for now,I tell myself.Just give her time. Easier said than done. I kick the door open softly, finding it exactly how I’d left it earlier, her bags on the ground and pillows in a pile on the armchair. She must not have moved at all this afternoon.
Leaning down, I gently settle her on the bed, smiling when she refuses to release her hold on my shirt. Reluctantly, I peel her tiny fingers away and hand her a pillow to cuddle instead. I want nothing more than to curl up next to her, but I noticed Porkchop still wasn’t back when I got home, and I need to head out to find her before it gets too dark.
It takes a great amount of effort to leave Shiloh alone in a bed that’s not mine, but I do it. A pit forms in my stomach, clenching and clawing at my guts as I close the door behind me. It feels wrong.
So fucking wrong.
It’s just for now,I remind myself again. I’ll keep saying it as many times as I need to until it sinks in. Let’s just hope it doesn’t take too long for her to decide.
It takes me over an hour to find the big beastie, and I almost piss myself laughing when I finally do. Out of all the places I assumed Shiloh’s dog would be, never in a million years would I guess the dog would be curled up in a ball in my ten-pound chihuahua's doghouse in the backyard.
What’s even more shocking is that Tank, my long-haired, handicapped rescue, is curled up with her, right in the center of their makeshift bed.
“Well, Tank. Looks like you got a new sister, too,” I chuckle, snapping a photo of the two of them for Shiloh to see when she wakes up. Porkchop ignores me, settling her massive paw protectively over Tank’s hindlegs, wheels, and all. “He’s a little wobbly sometimes, but he’s not broken. Just be careful with the little guy,” I say sternly. In response, the huge dog uses her paw to pull Tank closer.