She reaches inside the lace and her back arches as her hand disappears. A low, slow groan slips from my lips. “I told you. I’m going to touch myself. I’m going to make my hands yours the way we talked about so many years ago,” she says. “You can stay or you can go take a cold shower and come back after, but I need you, even if I have to imagine you’re the one getting me off.”

“Fuck, Ivy,” is all I can say.

“Join me or don’t,” she whispers so sweetly and so full of seduction. I can feel the sound echoing in my cock.

When she hooks her thumbs into her matching pink lacey underwear, I chew my bottom lip. Fuck, do I look like a pervert if I do this? When I was eighteen it sounded hot—now I’m not so sure. But I want to do it in the worst way. No, what I want in the worst way is for her hands to be my hands, but I’m not giving in. I’m not f**king her when she’s married to him—I won’t be the other guy.

Her eyes close and she strokes and tweaks her ni**les. I can see them harden and my c**k grows harder with each passing second. The room is so quiet, I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. “Use your thumbs,” I tell her, and her eyes open but remain hooded. She smiles and does as I tell her. I’m almost panting at the sight. “Lie down,” I direct her. But she doesn’t do it right away. Instead she slides her panties off and her whole body flushes everywhere. Once she’s naked, then she lies on the bed. Her head rests on a stack of pillows and my body molds into the mattress. When she spreads her legs and lifts her hips, I want so badly to be the one to fill her that I have to close my eyes.

“Xander.” She calls my name, and my eyes fly open just in time to see her hand cup her pu**y. She runs her fingers through her folds and all my muscles clench with need. It’s an urgency unlike I’ve ever felt before—it’s a need for her.

Her hands continue to move. Fuck, she’s really going to do this. I have two choices: enjoy it or leave and endure the torture of wishing I’d stayed. It’s an easy choice. I unhook the button on my jeans and shove them down just enough to free my cock. I kick them the rest of the way off, then whisper, “Are you wet?” and she lets out a small whimper while nodding her head.

She presses the heel of her palm against her cl*t and then I watch as her fingers circle it over and over. I start stroking myself; concentrating on the fact that it’s her hands, not mine, bringing me closer to exploding. I bite down on my lip and let my head tip back as I feel the intensity of her stare on me and the sounds of her rapid breathing. Once I start and I know she’s watching I don’t stop. I’m doing this for her, for me, for us. Stroking myself, I push my h*ps forward and thrust my c**k into my closed fist.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“More than okay.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what you like me to do to you and then do it.”

“I want your fingers inside me,” she says shakily.

“Inside you where?” I ask, stroking myself faster. Pumping in and out, wishing it was her I was thrusting into.

“I can’t say it,” she says.

I grunt at the sound of her voice. The innocence in it and the thought that she’s doing this with me almost sends me over the edge.

“Add another finger,” I tell her. “Then with your other hand rub circles around your clit, massage it. Find the spot and when you do, pretend my tongue is on it.”

“Oh, Xander,” she moans and lifts her hips, pressing her heels into the mattress. Watching her fall apart makes me come hard with a shuddering release. After a few seconds, she collapses to the bed, and I do the same.

“I need to jump in the shower, alone,” I tell her and she nods at me.

Just as I hit the threshold, she purrs, “Thank you.”

I turn around. “You never have to thank me for that.” I grin.

When I get out of the shower I throw a pair of sweatpants on and head back into the bedroom. She’s back in my T-shirt, under the covers and half asleep. I climb in beside her and find her hand, lacing my fingers in hers and pulling her against me, my front to her back.

I hear her give a sigh of contentment.

I squeeze her tight.

“Good night, Xander. I love you,” she says.

Leaning over, I whisper into her ear. “Good night, baby. I love you.”

I allow myself a soft, sweet kiss to her cheek and slide my mouth to her lips before throwing my body back on the mattress. I close my eyes knowing she knows I’m right—us being together before her ties with him are severed will just muddy up the relationship that we’ve worked really hard at. But knowing this doesn’t make any of it any easier.

• • •

Fingers creep across the pillow and push my hair away. I open my eyes to peer into her beautiful ones. “Good morning.” I grin.

“Good morning.” She smiles, inching closer to me.

I glance at the digits on the old clock radio on my nightstand and hop out of bed.

“Where are you going?” she calls softly, her sleepy eyes gleaming.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, don’t go yet. Come back to bed,” she says, rolling over onto her stomach and rising on her elbows.

“I can’t. When I lie next to you like that, all I can think about is being inside you. I need to take care of the Damon situation.”

She rolls back over and tosses the pillows off the bed. “I’m going to have to touch myself again. Aren’t I?”

“Fuck, Ivy. Don’t talk like that. The shower can’t get cold enough for me already.”

“You could let your crazy thoughts go and spend the day in bed with me.”

“Ivy, stop. Please.”

“Xander, his father is being buried today. My attorney said he’d take care of it as soon as he could.”

I look at her. “Ivy, I’ll take care of it much sooner. I can promise you that.”

• • •

Looking out the car window, squinting against the brightness of the sun, I think I have to get my f**king car back. And what is Bell doing without a car anyway?

Turning the corner to my mother’s house again, I resolve not to be so emotional. I need to know what she knows about Damon and his family.

I step in the back door again. This time Brigitte is in the kitchen. Her shoes clatter against the floor as she runs to greet me. “My Xander. My Xander,” she says, hugging me.

“Brigitte. How are you?” I respond.

“Very well,” she answers. “Your mother will be so pleased to see you.”

I kiss her cheek and make my way through the house. I find my mother sitting in her leopard-print chair at the oversized desk in her office. This room is her domain. The carpet is the lightest of beiges. The walls are a deep red with three large shadow boxes strategically placed behind her desk. They are lit from within. One houses my first basketball jersey, another River’s pint-sized first guitar, and the third one holds Bell’s pink ballet slippers. Our most prized possessions that she just couldn’t part with. Photos plaster the walls. On one wall, photos of the three of us kids are hung, and on another, photos of her parents and sister. There is one large photo of my mother and Jack on her desk.

She looks up at me from over her reading glasses. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve already crossed the room and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her, because I know I don’t let her know this often enough.

She stares at me, squeezing the hand I leave on her shoulder.

“I’m okay, Mom. I am. But I need some help.”

“I know all about Ivy and Damon,” she says.

“Mom, I need to understand him. What makes him tick?”

“Power and money.” She looks at me and then picks up a letter on her desk. Running her finger over the edges, she hands it to me and says, “I think this is what you’re looking for.”

I take a shaky breath. My hand grips the envelope tightly for a few seconds. “What is it?”

“It’s your inheritance.”

My mind is running in circles. “What do you mean, my inheritance?”

“Josh Wolf was a good man. He never knew Dylan was your biological father until Damon blurted it out one night in the heat of anger. He came to see me afterward. You were around seven. I made him promise to leave you alone, and he did as I asked. His only request was that I send a photo of you once a year on your birthday with a few words about you written on the back. He wanted to know you even if he couldn’t really know you.”

She looks at me, studying my reaction before continuing. “This came this morning. It’s a letter from Josh’s attorney telling me it was Josh’s wish for me to use my best judgment in determining if you are ready for this. Ironic that his son couldn’t even let him die in peace. He had to tell the world about you before his father could. I’m really sorry for that.”

“Mom, I told you I’m okay. And I am.” I take the letter and have a seat. I open it and a number of pictures fall out onto the thick carpet. I bend to pick them up—they’re of me, with words written on the back. A picture of me in a Poison T-shirt at eight years old with the words “Loves Ninja Turtles” on the back. Another of me with my new guitar, the words “Loves to jam” scripted on the reverse side. I pile them all together and sit back in my chair.

“I stopped sending them when you turned eighteen. At that point I figured you were a man and I couldn’t stop him from telling you if he wanted. I thought about telling you so many times after Daddy’s death because I was afraid Josh or Damon would, but I couldn’t get the words out. Like I said, Josh was a good man and he respected my wishes.”

I understand why she couldn’t tell me. I don’t have to ask. She knew how much I hated Nick then. And she didn’t want me to hate him. She wanted me to love him like she loved me. She was right not to tell me because I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I shuffle the stuffed envelope between my hands until I decide to pull the letter out. The note itself is a short handwritten one . . .

I’ve watched you grow into a young man. I’ve watched you take control of your life. I wish I could have been a part of your life, but you have a family that loves you more than anything, so it’s only in my death that I’m able to tell you how proud of you I am. By all rights what I’m giving you is yours. Take care and never forget who you are.

Love, Your Grandfather

I unfold the thickly folded pieces of paper and read the bottom line—he’s left me half of Sheep Industries. I stare in disbelief. I stand up with a huge grin on my face.

“Xander, where are you going?” my mother asks.

I look at her. “To take back what’s mine. Do you know where the funeral is taking place?”

• • •

The afternoon sun is warm on my face. I take a left turn and slam right into the congested part of the city. I quickly change lanes, wishing I had my own car because every time I accelerate, this little putt-putt car goes nowhere. Exiting the highway, I see a steady line of cars pulling into Evergreen Cemetery. The media are following right behind, but a police barricade turns them away. I turn on my headlights and slip into the funeral procession without a problem. Once I’m in, I ease off toward the east side of the cemetery with the processional cars heading south. I park and watch as men in suits and women in dresses spill from their automobiles. They’re all engaged in their own conversations as they walk through the cemetery to Josh Wolf’s final resting place. I watch the pallbearers pull the casket from the black hearse and an uneasiness creeps through me. I didn’t know the man lying in the long rectangular box, but he was my grandfather and he left me half of his company.

I sit in the car and watch until everyone assembles for the burial ceremony. Once everyone has gathered, I see him. He stands front and center—smug, black suit, sunglasses, and a rose in his hand. Fuck, a rose. I laugh to myself, thinking Roses are so cliché. Getting out of the car, I lean against the door and just watch. The sound of his muffled voice courses through my body and lures me closer. From a distance I watch as people with tearstained faces throw roses on top of the casket. The ceremony is soon over and everyone seems to disperse quickly. I take the opportunity to blend into the crowd and make my way toward Damon. His bodyguard is a few feet away and I wonder why he has one—I thought he had hired the ninja for Ivy.