Page 80 of Something Like Shelter

“In my humble opinion, for the better,” he said, wrapping his free arm around me as Adelaide made a sweet mewling sound.

Yeah, definitely for the better.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Willa

I felt like a thousand-pound weight had lifted from my shoulders after telling Owen everything about Adelaide, her father, and the situation as a whole.

I should have known he would be his usual understanding self. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard him get worked up about anything. Or become judgmental about the circumstances someone found themselves in.

It took me a long time not to immediately see myself as at fault for the whole situation. For sleeping with someone at work. For not looking into Chase. For ignoring red flags. For not doubling up on protection methods.

Yes, I could have done many things differently.

But I wasn’t to blame for the fact that he deliberately kept so much from me: a whole wife, kids, life.

Maybe part of it was a form of self-preservation. I knew that as far as we had gotten in society, there were still many people who viewed single mothers through a different lens, who judged them for doing it all. When, in reality, the men in their lives often gave them no choice. So if I prejudged myself for all the things I could have changed, everyone else’s judgment or scorn wouldn’t sting as much.

That was why, wasn’t it, that I’d fabricated the lie about being with someone? So my coworkers wouldn’t judge me?

Luckily for me, that lie had led somewhere amazing, somewhere I never could have expected.

“Okay, she is down,” Owen said as he came back down from the nursery, where he’d been reading to Adelaide, who seemed to find his voice relaxing.

“No way. That fast?”

“She’s probably still recovering. Needs a little extra sleep. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Unloading that hot dishwasher gave me a good steam and cleared out my sinuses.”

“Glad to hear it. Now I know you can breathe when I do this.”

His hand lifted, sliding down to cup my jaw before lowering down and sealing his lips to mine.

It was just a brush at first, just a soft, sweet pressure without expectation.

It wasn’t long before my hands were sliding up to grab the collar of his shirt, my chest pressing to his, my lips slanting, silently demanding more, harder, deeper.

Owen turned me, pushing me back against the island, then closing any remaining space between us. At the feel of his hardness against my belly, a low groan worked its way up my throat and muffled against his lips.

His free hand glided down, grabbed me behind the knee, lifted my leg, and spread it wide against the cabinet. Shifting in, he ground against the center of me.

My head fell back on a moan, and Owen’s face chased the movement, his lips teasing up the column of my neck, tongue circling the fluttering, erratic beat of my pulse.

My hands grew greedy, sliding up his strong forearms, over his biceps, shoulders, chest, then downward to gather the bottom of his shirt.

He pulled back, allowing me to drag the shirt up and off, tossing it—already forgotten—to the floor.

My palms slid all over him again, tracing the contours of his muscles, delighting in the way they reacted to my touch, how his breath would catch as I explored him, how his hips would buck harder when my fingers glided over a sensitive spot.

I’d just gotten his pants unfastened and pushed the material down, my stomach tensing in anticipation of reaching into his boxer briefs to free him, when he pulled away to drop down to his knees in front of me.

His head angled back, gaze holding mine, as he reached up, grabbing the waistband of my shorts and sliding them down.

The cool air and the heat of his gaze pricked my skin, making goosebumps rise as a shiver worked its way down my spine.

I lost his gaze as his head dipped, his lips pressing to the inside of my knee, then gliding up my thigh until he reached my panties, where his tongue traced the crease until my thighs started to shake.