Monica Murphy - Four Years Later

I’m clad in only my turquoise-blue panties, with a little white bow at the center of the waistband. When I wear them I usually feel like a little girl, but I definitely don’t feel like one now. Not while standing in the middle of Owen Maguire’s bedroom with nothing else on but these panties, my breasts heavy, my nipples hard, and between my legs I can feel myself grow slick and hot.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he finally says, his voice rough. “So damn much.”

“I want you.” Glancing behind me, I start to make my way to his bed and suddenly he’s right there before me. His big hands grasp my waist, fingers pressing into my skin as he guides me down onto the bed, before he whispers against my lips.

“I want you, too. You’re my fucking everything.”

His words wash over me and I close my eyes, my breath catching in my throat when he kisses me. His full, delicious lips are finally on mine again and I want to cry.

But I don’t. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close. Spread my legs and feel him settle between them, his jeans rough against my bare skin, his belt buckle biting into the tender flesh just above my panties.

I help him shed his clothes and he takes off my panties, slipping them down my legs with shaky fingers that skim along my skin, his mouth on my breasts, his hand settling between my thighs. I’m so wet for him it’s almost embarrassing, but before I can push him away or say something stupid, he rears up on his knees, leans over me, and pulls a condom from the bedside table drawer.

“I can’t wait. I want to be inside you too much.” He rolls the condom on and then he’s over me, inside me, filling me completely.

This is what I want. What I need. He feels so good inside me, so right. We’re not perfect, but we’re a perfect fit for each other. It’s all or nothing with Owen and me—and nothing is too hard for us to bear.

So I want it all. Everything. With Owen.

He rolls us over so I’m on top and he tugs the band from my hair so it falls past my shoulders in a riotous mess. “Ride me,” he whispers, his eyes glowing, his expression full of an unnamed emotion I don’t want to label.

Not yet. It’s too soon. It all feels like too much.

I do as he asks, sitting up and resting my hands on his hot, hard chest, my hair spilling all around me, the ends tickling my naked skin. I press my lips together and lick them as I slowly, surely start to move. Hesitant at first, but then Owen’s gripping my hips, showing me how to move, helping me establish a rhythm.

He reaches up to cup my breasts and I arch my back, sliding up and down his erection, my eyes closed. I’m lost in the feel of him. His hands on my breasts, his cock in my body, and I know without a doubt at this very moment, I’m scarily in love with Owen.

“Fuck, you are beautiful,” he whispers as he moves his hands down from my breasts to my waist, then my hips. “Your skin is so smooth, so soft.”

I open my eyes to find him staring up at me, wonder filling his gaze. I slow down, clamp my thighs tight at his hips, and slowly roll my body into his, sending him as deep as he can go.

He closes his eyes, a ragged moan escaping him, and I increase my pace, eager to find my orgasm and give him his, too. I want it. I want mine and I want his. Together.

I want it all.

Falling on top of him, I pump my hips, my mouth at his ear as I whisper how much I want him, how much I need him.

“Chelsea.” His hands are at my back, holding me tight, and then I feel him tense beneath me, his hips lifting. I know he’s close. So, so close and so am I, but I want to help him along.

“I’m in love with you,” I murmur just before I kiss his throat, his jaw, his cheek. “I love you, Owen. So much.”

A choked sound escapes him and he grips my backside, pulling me in so close to him I cry out, my orgasm coming out of nowhere as my clit brushes against the length of him, setting me on absolute fire. My body trembles, my belly clenches as I cling to him, as he clings to me.

This moment … I never, ever want to forget. Making love with Owen in his room while a wild party rages on in his house. We’re locked away in our own little world, where the only things that exist are him and me.

That’s all that matters. Owen and Chelsea.

Chelsea and Owen.

Together.

New York Times bestselling author Monica Murphy is a native Californian who lives in the foothills below Yosemite. A wife and mother of three, she writes new adult contemporary romance and is the author of the One Week Girlfriend series.

Visit Monica’s website at: www.monicamurphyauthor.com

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One year later

Owen

It’s hot as hell outside as we sit under the blazing sun, watching the graduation ceremony. Autumn keeps toddling off, fast as can be on those chubby legs of hers, little screams of joy emitting from her rosebud lips as Drew or Fable chases after her.

I just sit there, a smile curling my lips, occasionally reaching out to snag her into my arms when she buzzes by me. She laughs and shoves at my chest, wanting out of my arms, but I know it’s just a game. She loves me.

At this very moment, for once in my life, I feel surrounded by love. Nothing nagging at me, reminding me I’m a terrible son or making me feel guilty.

Is it wrong that my mother died while in jail and I didn’t mourn her death for long? I was sad—sadder for the loss of the opportunities she’d wasted more than anything. She could have been someone. She could have had Fable and me as her family. She could have had Drew and then Autumn, too. Hell, even Chelsea.

Instead, she died alone, her heart giving up after too much drinking and drugs and bad choices. Fable was completely emotionless when she told me. She was the one who got the call from the county jail and in turn, she called me. I found out over the phone that Mom died without anyone.

It hurt, but mostly I was numb. When had she ever been a real part of my life? A meaningful part? Not in years, maybe not ever.

That night, I let Chelsea comfort me. She held me close and told me how much she loved me. Then she got naked and showed me how much she loved me, too.

I am one lucky motherfucker.

The people sitting around us are irritated with Autumn, but they keep their mouths shut because there’s a superstar in their midst. Freaking Drew took his team to the Super Bowl again … and they won. Again. Two years in a row. The man is a god. Cover of Sports Illustrated, cover of People, cover of … I can’t even remember, he’s been on so many magazine covers. Fable’s been on a couple of covers with him, too.

Crazy. My pain-in-the-ass sister is freaking famous.

The ceremony announcer drones on, and he’s only on the R’s. Sweat forms at my neck, in my hairline, and I breathe deep, trying to pretend I’m somewhere cool, but it’s not working. I’m wearing a button-down shirt and the nicest pair of jeans I own, and I rub the back of my neck, grimacing. I wanted to look nice for Chelsea. It’s a special day for her, one I’m so thankful we’re all a part of.

She’s graduating. It’s a huge step and I’m so freaking proud of her. She’s not going on to graduate school, though, not yet. She’s taking the summer and the fall semester off because she wants some time for herself, for us, but I know she’s scared. She told me so.

I told her as long as we have each other, we’ll be just fine.

The announcer has kicked into the S’s and I sit up straight, craning my neck around the crowd of people that surround me. The bleachers are packed, as are the chairs down on the field. We’re on the field, since I’d pulled some strings with Coach Halsey and got us decent seats. I wanted to be close, so I could run up to Chelsea after the ceremony and hug her. Kiss her. Congratulate her and tell her how much I love her right before I give her her present.

It’s pretty simple, but I think she’ll like it.

“She’s going to drive me nuts,” Fable mutters under her breath as she comes back to her seat for about the hundredth time, a wiggling Autumn clutched in her arms. Drew takes his daughter and cuddles her close, holding her so her head rests on his shoulder. Her hair is dark like her dad’s, but her eyes are green like Fable’s and mine. She’s a perfect combination of her parents, bold and fast, pretty and strong. “And to think I’m going to have another one.”

“You’re pregnant?” I whisper loudly, causing more than a few heads to turn.

Shit. Word gets out like that about them and it makes front-page news.

“Sshh.” Fable glares at me, though her lips are curved in a tiny smile. “Yes, I am,” she admits.

Well, holy shit. Aren’t they just building the perfect little family? “I’m happy for you, Fabes,” I tell her truthfully.

“Thanks.” She smiles, resting her hand on her stomach. “I’m exhausted, sick half the time, but I’m the happiest I’ve been in my life.”

I agree. So am I. We’re fucking lucky, Fable and I. On paper, we should have been a disaster. At certain points in our lives, we were. The fucked-up siblings with the even more fucked-up mother and absent fathers. We should be losers. In jail. No jobs. No education. Nothing. We’d been told that time and again growing up.

Now look at us. We proved everyone wrong.