More Than Words

MORE THAN WORDS

RORY

T here's nothing like it, first thing, as the sun rises over the trees, casting slender shadows of limbs and leaves over Berry Lake, our lake. Morning light warms Reed's broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin—the best view of the best man I know.

"Can't believe I'm going to miss this weekend. The lobster bake. Hearing about Emerson's latest boy drama. Star-Spangled Blueberry Sours at sunset. While you're camping under the stars, I'll be on"—I sigh—"this deadline. It's my own fault for dragging my feet."

"I wouldn't call those months dragging your feet." Reed passes me a cup of decaf coffee with extra cinnamon sprinkles—my favorite. They float on the surface like seasoned sunbathers and slow my internal spiraling, for the moment.

My fingers tingle between his hands and the cerulean ceramic.

Self-deprecating thoughts before a writing or revision session isn't a good sign. It usually means a day of pacing, crumpled sticky notes, and blank pages. Fitz swerves around my feet, nudging to be fed.

Reed knows I haven't been sleeping well; adjusting to new sensations and anticipation. He even went and bought me one of those side-sleeping pillows that's basically like having another person in our bed. It ends up on the floor most of the time, and Reed wakes up pinned under my thigh. He says it's the only wrestling match where losing is winning.

This deadline amplifies the sleep issue. Anytime I'm expected to perform, the adrenaline either works to motivate or debilitate me. My personal brand of generalized anxiety isn't predictable. It doesn't show up waving a red flag. Often, it acts as an invisible thread woven through the fabric of each day, little signs and disruptions, creating a zig-zag pattern—impossible to trace its origin point.

My mom assures me it's common to experience a fluctuation in my emotional state, and with the added self-pressure for this book to do well, to not fail, I'm in my head more often these days. Which isn't doing me any favors.

"I'm sorry," I say, then raise my spirits with the help of Reed's encouraging smile. "I'll get it done. Crap timing over Fourth of July weekend, that's all. It's always been your family's biggest celebration."

"Our family," he corrects me.

It is our family. Can't imagine life without them or our small New Hampshire community. I rest my hand on my heart and tap, breathing in. One, two, three, four . Exhaling. Five, six, seven, eight.

"Hate to miss it," I confess, sticking out a playful pout, tilting my head for dramatic effect, which causes Reed to run his tongue over his lips, leaving behind a shine that begs to be kissed.

"Deadline Rory is my favorite."

He leans into me, and I close my eyes. Pine and cedar and mint wash over me, mixed with—wait, is that lavender?

"Did you use my shampoo again?" I laugh at the idea of Distracted Rory—the antidote I need right now.

"This way, I smell you all day, babe," he whispers, tugging gently on my earlobe.

My skin erupts in chills, and my abdomen flutters. My final read through is now the furthest thing from my mind.

"How about we press pause and spend the holiday naked in bed? We can pull a Chelsea and Seth?"

Zero points for Deadline Rory.

All the points for Distracted Rory.

Amusement tickles at the corner of his mouth. "Wow, you're bringing out the big guns—fictional characters. Are you proposing we compete with them? If I remember correctly, Seth's a pretty competitive guy."

"Bet we can give them a run for their money? Or at least spend all weekend trying? What do you say?" I raise an eyebrow and nod over to the staircase that leads to our bedroom.

He knows this look, mostly because it's blatant. Also because it's the one I use when I'm excited to try new things and appeal to his exploratory side. In addition to being a man of his word, Reed is and has always been a man of adventure.

He shakes his head and contemplates, reaching to top off his to-go cup. He rests against the kitchen counter, the morning light stretching across the tight cords of his rowing arms. "Did you seriously say you would miss camping under the stars? You must be desperate."

"I like camping. Last August, we slept on the beach for three nights. I was one with nature."

Reed laughs. "You bathed in calamine lotion for a week after we got back. And," he adds, his lashes lifting, a memory sparking in his eyes, "proceeded to burn citronella candles at dusk every night for months until it snowed. It's okay to admit that the outdoors isn't your thing."

He knows me well. "I do love nature." I smile. "It's just that, well, nature doesn't love me. And anyway, lying under the stars with you, I'd brave all the bugs out there. Besides, my latest plan to scrap it all and head upstairs is still on the table."

"As much as there's nothing else I want more than to ravish you, I refuse to be the reason Fenway doesn't get his walk in and you don't get your work done."

"But—" I protest, placing my mug down so I can feed Fitz.

Reed smirks. "Let's make it interesting."

I scoop out Fitz's food, my interest piqued. "How so?"

Reed moves in close, pressing his body behind mine. His arms steady on each side of me, our skin brushing and blending together. My back arches as he traces soft kisses at the nape of my neck. My toes curl on top of the uneven oak floorboards.

"Text me. Every time you finish fifty pages, I will . . . consider it an incentive for what's to come."

My sharp inhale lands heavy in the air as I grip the counter edges. My palms slick over the smooth tile. "I see what you did there."

"Benefits of being married to a wordsmith." Reed's teeth find my pulse.

"Well, the word on the street is that writers are also skilled with their fingers," I suggest, pausing to restrain a giggle. "But I've never been one to believe gossip. I need to sample this incentive firsthand before I agree to anything."

Reed goes around me, taking the cat dish and lifting it in the air. The stainless steel clinks as it lands on the floor. If Fitz thanks him, I miss his predictable purr as familiar hands grasp my hips and turn me to face him. My heart vibrates like a strong bass in my ears. Reed guides my chin with his touch, grazing his knuckles along my jawline. My heart rate climbs as his lips part. We are staring, savoring, wanting, imagining peeling off every layer of cotton separating our bodies.

That's all it takes. His eyes on me. His commanding tone. The playfulness in our exchange. And I'm wet, craving every inch of him. I stand completely still, not allowing my expression or my hands or my mouth to grant him the satisfaction of knowing how badly I need him. Admitting my arousal wouldn't mean defeat, but the name of this game is to prolong the fun. Flirting with Reed is my favorite hobby.

By the fire in his touch, I'm certain he's eager to show me it's his favorite, too.

His voice drops low, raspy, with an edge that flickers like flames through every part of me. "Fifty pages, Rory. Deal?" He clears his throat.

"Hold up." My lips stop short at his. "Are you planning to—"

Reed closes the gap. "Your screams will shake the pines."

He plants his dark-roast-scented mouth on mine, and still, after three years of kissing him, my knees weaken. I breathe in the lingering mist of our closeness as he holds me flush against his bare chest.

I glide my hands over his stomach, guided by each ridge—rigid wave after wave—traveling until I wrap my arms around his neck.

"You're not making it easy for me to concentrate on my work, Mr. Mentor," I pant, consumed by long caresses trailing across my lower back.

Reed gathers the loose material of my shorts at my tailbone, squeezing it into a tight knot.

His kiss lowers to my breast, tongue teasing the sensitive skin through my shirt. "Nothing worth waiting for comes easily," he reminds me, pulling at my throbbing nipple with his teeth.

He tugs on my shorts, causing the thick denim seam to press between my thighs. The friction sends adrenaline pounding up my spine as a cone of pressure winds within me—tight, tight, tighter. I'm responding to Reed, he's responding to me, like we do, leaping into each other's arms—connecting our souls.

His biceps flex as he releases his grip, and he steadies himself, exhaling hard. He pulls back with a deep groan of skilled patience. "Wait."

But I can't wait. I want him. Need him to lift me on top of this counter and take every one of my pleas and prayers until all that remains are my sated limbs in his arms.

"Wait," he repeats, threatening to break, breathing through it, strong in this moment for the both of us. His chest rises and falls, and his voice follows along to the rhythm, softening along with his shoulders. "Those are my terms and conditions, Rory."

"It's a bit early for legal terminology foreplay, don't cha think?"

Amusement curls at the corners of his eyes, but he stands his ground, staring at me until I give in, which we both know I have to because being an adult means deadlines and walking dogs, raging hormones, and less sleep right now. Growing our family is reality. Reality isn't… Rory, stop overthinking this. You know this story inside and out. Final read through and then your reward: Reed, the lake, the people you love, your toes in the sand.

"Where do I sign?" I ask, grumpy and grateful.

Reed kisses me one more time before grabbing his coffee and Red Sox hat, greeting the day with swagger.

Reed

When Rory shoots me her final text, I book it up the stairs, stripping down to nothing but my evident excitement. The old steps groan under the weight of sheer determination. Before she tries to speak, I dive onto the bed, wrap her legs around my face, and finish strong.

Fifty pages. Fifty licks.

She held to her end of the agreement, and so am I.

Rory insists she's not great at math, so what kind of committed ex-mentor would I be without making her practice? She counts out loud with each swipe of my tongue until she's gasping for breath and gripping the headboard.

"Babe," I say as Rory's thighs shake from aftershocks.

"Yes."

"I lied to you."

"Okay," she mumbles, twisting her fingers in my hair.

I pull back onto my knees, placing her smooth legs softly on the bed. "You're okay with me lying. Since when?"

She smiles, her pupils dilated in the dark room, a dim orange and pink sky fading over our embrace. "This many orgasms in a day . . ." she replies, her voice raw from calling my name, crying out until her sweet torment turned to pleasure. "I don't even know where I am right now. So, lay it on me while I'm floating on my post-O cloud."

My tongue is proof of that, soaked in Rory's scent and satisfaction. "I lied when I told you this morning that Deadline Rory was my favorite."

She squints one eye shut and widens the other. "That's your grand confession?"

"Nope." I lift up and lie beside her, propping my head in my hand, and clear the matted strands of hair stuck to her forehead.

Rory palms the side of my face, massaging my tender jaw with gentle pressure.

"You. Here. This very moment." I lay my free hand on her abdomen. "This Rory is my favorite. Dedicated. Creative. Beautiful. Nurturing. Perfectly you. Bare before me. Every curve," I say, brushing the bright peach color blooming on her cheeks. I lick my lips, tasting her salty, sweet desire, igniting my need.

Kissing her shoulder, I move up Rory's neck while my fingers trace down past her navel until my thumb awakens her once more. Her heat is slick on my hand as I circle again and again, accurate and swift like a match striking with just enough force to spark and spark and build and build.

As I slide and swell inside her, Rory's head falls back, her eyes surrendering. She moans my name through ragged breathing, "Reed, I love you."

I know she worries that parenthood may change us and what we have now, that we may pass our past and fears onto our daughter, but I remind her, whatever happens, we're in this together like always. I vow to keep telling her she's my favorite. In every situation. In every moment. Because she is. Always has been. Always will be. Nothing will change that.

"I love you," whispering the words she wrote to me all those years ago, and I mirror her smile as she recognizes them. "More than scones and coffee and every star in the sky."

Rory joins in, completing my thoughts. "I love you more than words."