“Rafe—”
“It’s hopeless Bunny, there is no brain activity, hasn’t been for three years. But that doesn’t stop them from visiting every day acting like their kid is just in a peaceful fucking sleep. What kind of parents do that? Let their own child stay on this earth so cruelly?” Turning to me, Rafe opened his arms, almost begging me to give him the answer.
Jumping to my feet, I stepped into his open arms without hesitation and wrapped my hands around his biceps. He was a tall man, so I had to lean back to see his face. I had no idea what this friend was to him. I mean, obviously they were close, judging by the passion coming from him about his mate being in a coma.
“Honey, you have answered that question already yourself. They are his parents, a parent would and should do anything for their kids. Some admittedly don’t.” I thought of my own parents, so callously hiding me from their lives so they didn’t feel shame for having a pregnant teenager. They should have fought for me and my baby, but their first thoughts were for themselves and their reputations and good standing in the community. My own brush with motherhood taught me one important lesson thanks to my parent’s treatment of me. I learnt that I would have done anything for my son, from the second the nurse put him in my arms, I vowed to guard him with my life. What I didn’t know was, there were some things you couldn’t protect your children from, no matter how hard you pray you can.
I remember begging God to let my son breathe again, let his little chest move with some sign of life. I sat on the floor of my room in that beach house for hours, holding my blanket wrapped little boy to me, desperately whispering into his ear to come back to me. So in a way, I understood this poor family’s determination to keep hoping and not turning off the life support. No parent should ever have to make that decision. I felt bad for them, and I didn’t even know them, I knew what they were going through, what they wished for more than anything.
“I just can’t understand their motivation—"
“I lost my son when he was three months old from SIDS,” I blurted out in a rush, stopping Rafe. This wasn’t exactly how I planned to tell him, but you go with it when an opening presents itself.
“What?” Rafe gaped at me.
“I did. For three months I was a mum. And for a brief moment in time, I was a pretty good mum, until I wasn’t. So what I am saying is, I understand your friend’s family not wanting to admit he is dead to them. I get their pain Rafe, I’ve lived it every day for seven years. No parent should ever feel what it is like to bury a child, no matter the age of that child.”
“I buried my son in a pale blue onesie with little giraffes printed on it. A dark blue wool beanie I knitted while I was pregnant, a blue and green receiving blanket and a picture of him and I’d taken minutes after he was born.”
Rafe tightened his arms around my back, his hands splayed at the base.
“Pey, I am so sorry.”
“My little boy is in the ground in a cemetery over an hour away from here. He died the day after my eighteenth birthday, I had him for three months and I loved him fiercely. I can imagine how hard it would be for a mum and dad who had years and years with their child only … having to choose to let your child die. Be patient with them Rafe, you aren’t in their position. Making the decision to officially end the life of someone you love can’t be easy.” I could feel the wetness on my cheeks, talking about Dean did that to me, which is why I never spoke of him except when I was alone, but Rafe not only needed to hear my secret for my own good, but also for his. Hearing the side of a parent might just give him the encouragement to be more accepting of his situation. Plus, I felt a sense of relief for coming clean about Dean, there was still much to tell, and if I knew Rafe, he was going to have questions. Dean’s father being the one I was expecting first, and I would answer them truthfully and honestly because if Rafe and I were going to act upon this chemistry between us, then we were going to do it with a clean slate.
Dropping my head to Rafe’s chest, I slid my arms down his arms and under so I was cuddled into him, our arms firmly around one another.
We have the spark, now it was time for everything else.
I wanted to be Rafe’s.
I was ready to be something more to him—if he would have me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAFE
I stood there in the middle of the lounge room, Die Hard on in the background, one of my favourite movies but I couldn’t concentrate on anything else than Peyton’s fingers drawing lazy circles on my back through my shirt.
All the information she just kit me with swarmed around in my head, yet I couldn’t even begin to process any of it, all because of her touching me.
This wasn’t the first time Peyton put her hands on me, or in fact, the first time in my arms; however, there was something different about this moment. It was as if an electrical current was surging between our bodies, very different to our usual cuddles on the couch or falling asleep with her head on my shoulder.
Running my hands soothingly up and down Peyton’s back, I waited for her body to stop trembling. I wasn’t too sure why she felt the need to keep her son a secret from me, I didn’t feel any different towards her just because she was a mum. Losing her baby so young and at a young age herself, it made sense the way she went at life, at least to me. Everything from her career choice to the way she looked after her car and now mine. Peyton valued the things in her life, she cared for them, protected them. But at the same time, she guarded herself against hurt. After what she just told me, the pieces were falling into place.
Peyton was afraid of loss, and to make sure that she didn’t lose anything ever again, she kept to herself. Getting close meant caring, and caring in her mind lead to the chance of having that something special taken from her.
Justin came close to taking her from me. That night, I saw the terror that she wasn’t going to live through the fire in her eyes. That night had been the first time I ever laid eyes on Peyton Singleton. It was also the night I felt real God-fearing terror. One look into those exquisite amber eyes, and for the first time in my life, I felt a desire for a woman like I never thought existed. My balls haven’t been the same since that night, constantly in a state of blue. My dick forever hard and painful.
“Rafe?” Peyton murmured, her face pressed into my left pec.
“Hmmm, Bunny?”
“Honey, do you know that you are massaging my butt cheeks?”
Stilling, I looked over her shoulder and saw that indeed my large hands were, in fact, covering her denim-clad arse, my fingers sliding over the worn material as if they had every right in the world doing so.
Fuck! That would account for why my dick was hard now.
Unable to help the press of my hips into her, I caught her low suppressed moan, and … fuck! Did she just sink her teeth into my pec muscle? My dick jumped behind my button fly, the sexy bite pulling a moan of my own from my throat.
“Bunny, fuck me that was … fuck!”
I liked sex with a little roughness, not crazy shit, but gentle biting was definitely on the cards. Light spanking and some tying up now and again also part of my repertoire. Although, not for the last five years. Before Angie and I divorced, we stopped all sexual activity a year or so earlier. Angie used her body as a bargaining tool, and if I was honest, I played the same game with her. I refused to give in when I came home from missions or training, spending most of my nights at home on the couch. There were times when I stayed in Queenscliff, not even bothering going home to her, not that she gave a shit. Phone calls from her telling me that Daddy had bought her a new car or a new Master Card pissed me off enough to stay away. Our marriage at that stage was a farce, all communication broken except when a fight ensued, then the both of us had plenty to say.