To Portland, with Love (The Story of Us #3.5) Read online

  To Portland, With Love

  The Story of Us #3.5

  Cassia Leo

  Contents

  1. Rory

  2. Houston

  3. Rory

  4. Rory

  5. Rory

  Thank you!

  Also by Cassia Leo

  About the Author

  TO PORTLAND WITH LOVE

  The Story of Us #3.5

  by Cassia Leo

  cassialeo.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Cassia Leo

  First Edition. All rights reserved.

  Cover concept by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.

  Cover art by Cassia Leo.

  Stock image from iStock.com.

  Copyediting by Marianne Tatom.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To Portland, With Love is a short story from the bestselling Story of Us series.

  Rory and Houston are living a seemingly perfect life in their picturesque house on the lake, but all is not as rosy as it seems. Rory’s discontent with the new yuppie lifestyle she feels she’s supposed to adopt is bleeding into all aspects of their marriage, and Houston is not at all pleased. Will the stress of Rory’s first book signing bring them to the brink?

  The sunlight penetrates my eyelids and I’m gripped by a sudden fear. Opening my eyes, I fumble around on the nightstand, looking for my phone as my eyes adjust to daylight. I scoop up the phone and click it on, blinking furiously at the time on the display. It has to be wrong.

  My heart pounds as I navigate to the alarm app on my phone only to find that I did indeed forget to set the alarm two hours earlier before I fell asleep last night. It must have been the three glasses of wine I had while writing. Houston is going to kill me.

  I slide out of the silky gray sheets and scurry into the master bathroom of our chic three-bedroom penthouse apartment in downtown Portland. I dial my husband’s number as I turn on the hot water in the marble shower. The line rings twice before he picks up.

  “Where are you?” Houston’s voice is low, but there’s an edge of annoyance.

  “I forgot to set my alarm. Is Karen there? Sometimes she comes early on Saturdays.”

  “No, she’s not here. Is that the shower? Are you still at the apartment?”

  “I can’t leave without taking a shower. I’ll be quick. I promise I’ll be there before you have to leave.”

  He laughs at this. “You’re joking, right? You think you’re going to take a shower and drive ten miles through summer weekend traffic in less than half an hour?”

  Without saying a word, I reach into the shower and turn off the water.

  “Don’t speed,” he replies before ending the call.

  I sigh as I look around the sleek Carrara marble and slate-gray decor. I love this penthouse. Despite the ultra-modern interior, I feel at home here. I love that the apartment was brand new when we bought it six months ago. I love that I can take the express elevator down to the street and choose from a dozen different bars and restaurants, all within a couple blocks. I love that Kenny can come over and entertain me whenever I need a laugh. I love that I can write at any time of day or night without interruption.

  I head into the walk-in closet and pull on a casual butter-yellow dress, some white Converse, and a pair of sunglasses. Portland has been suffering through a mild heat wave in late August. Yesterday, the thermometer nearly exploded when it hit a whopping 87 degrees Fahrenheit. Not quite as blistering as the heat wave in June, which reached 98, but still enough to make me thank the gods for central air-conditioning.

  The weekend traffic on I-5 is disgusting. Hundreds of cars and trucks hauling their boats, surfboards, and Sea-Doos idle in the sultry morning heat. I let out a sigh of frustration as I get off on Terwilliger and take it all the way down to our house in Lake Oswego. My shoulders tense just thinking of our McMansion in “Fake” Oswego.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my life as Mrs. Cavanaugh. And I resigned myself to a life in the suburbs when Houston and I moved into the house my father bought for us more than two years ago. Now that Austin was going to be three years old in a couple of weeks and Dallas was coming up on eighteen months, you’d think I’d be used to the suburbs by now. I guess I just can’t seem to get used to the idea of being a Lake Oswego mom.

  Yes, I live in an obscenely expensive lake house, but I’m not a stay-at-home mom. I don’t prance around the streets of Portland in lululemon athletic wear. I don’t drive a pearl-colored SUV or a flashy sports car. Though Houston would love to buy me something fancy, I still drive the same Prius he bought me when I was pregnant with Austin. Like most residents of this suburb, we moved to Lake Oswego for the low crime rate and superior schools, but I don’t identify with the yuppie lifestyle. In my heart, I still feel like the girl who worked at a grocery store and lived in a tiny, plain one-bedroom apartment in Goose Hollow.

  Forty minutes later, I turn onto Greenbrier Road and the first thing I see is my neighbor, Mindy Walsh, running along the curb with her double jogging stroller. Her light-brown ponytail bounces and she waves as she flashes me an enormous grin. I wave back at her, but I don’t stop, telling myself that I can’t afford any more distractions today. As it is, I’m thirty minutes late and there’s no way Houston will make it to work in time for his weekly staff meeting.

  I pull into the driveway and type my PIN into the touch pad, which sits on a metal pedestal off to the left side of the drive. The black iron gate automatically disengages and slowly swings inward to allow me entry. I pull into the curved driveway and park right in front of the door, making sure to leave enough space for Houston to pull his truck out of the garage.

  Racing up the stone-paved pathway toward the arched front doors, I’m not surprised when Houston opens the door before I get there. He looks me up and down for a moment, as if he’s examining my entire body for signs of guilt.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I blurt out before he can say anything.

  “Did you get a lot of writing done?”

  I swallow hard as I think of how I wrote a grand total of two chapters in four days. I would have written more if it weren’t for Kenny dragging me to two different dinners to schmooze some “patrons of the arts,” as he referred to them. Not that I resent him for it. After all, he is officially my new marketing assistant.

  Yes, my best friend now works for me. He maintains all my social-media profiles and he’s been coordinating with my publisher’s marketing department for the upcoming book tour for The Distance Between Then and Now, my debut young-adult novel loosely based on Hallie’s life. I would be joining readers at six p.m. tonight at Powell’s bookstore for their monthly Young Adult Book Club meeting to read an excerpt and sign some books. It would be my first book signing and I was beyond terrified.

  “I didn’t get as much done as I wanted to,” I reply, tilting my head back to look up at Houston. At six-foot-four and built like a rock, his stature can seem imposing, but even when he’s standing over me with that signature look of disappointment, he always has a way of making me feel completely safe. “Kenny booked a dinner for us with some local artists and another one last night with Glenda Brown. She’s the librarian who works in the teen center at the library. She promised to book an event for me when I get back next month.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re leaving on a four-week book tour in nine days and you just spent half the wee
k in Portland. Now you’re coming home late and making me reschedule staff meetings because you can’t wake up on time. What the fuck is going on with you, Rory?”

  I turn and head for the staircase, but Houston follows closely behind me. “I said I was sorry and I don’t want to argue with you, Houston. It will just make you even later,” I say, grabbing the handrail. “Are the kids awake?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” he says, following me up the stairs. “Are you tired of being married?”

  “What?” I shriek, turning around to look at him when I reach the second floor.

  He doesn’t take the last step up, so he’s only a few inches taller than me at this level. “Answer the question. Are you sick of being married?”

  Now it’s my turn to shake my head in utter disbelief. “That could not be further from the truth. I am not sick of being married. That’s actually really offensive.”

  “You know what’s even more offensive?”

  I brace myself for another criticism of my recent absence from the Cavanaugh estate, when his lips begin to curl into a seductive grin.

  “The kids are still asleep, the nanny doesn’t arrive for another four hours, I haven’t fucked you in four days, and you haven’t showered. That’s fucking offensive. Go get in the shower.”

  My mouth drops and I stalk off toward the bedroom as he laughs. “Very funny. You think I’m going to fuck you after you tell me my odor is offensive?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not giving up that booty,” he says, closing the door behind him as he follows me into the bedroom. “I can smell your yearning.”

  I shake my head again as I try not to smile. “What you’re smelling is the earthy musk of my disgust. It’ll go away as soon as I’ve showered.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he says, catching me around the waist and burying his nose in my auburn hair. “I distinctly smell the scent of vanilla and lust.”

  I let out a soft gasp as his large hand slides down and cups my mound. “You’re not gonna let me shower?” I breathe as he slowly gathers up my skirt and slides his hand inside my panties, his deft fingers quickly finding my spot.

  A low chuckle rumbles in his throat, reverberating in the shell of my ear, lighting a fuse that sizzles through me and explodes in a pulsing ache between my legs. He doesn’t answer my question, he just slides a finger inside me as his other hand comes up to sweep my hair aside. His lips brush softly over my neck as his finger moves in and out. I know what he’s about to do. And no matter how many times he does it, I never tire of it.

  He slides his finger out of me, stopping to massage my clit for a bit before removing his hand from my panties. Without hesitation, he pops that same finger into his mouth to taste me. Whenever he performs this ritual, I have a strange feeling there’s something deeply primal compelling him. Like he has to taste me to make sure no other man has marked his territory. As demented as it seems, it makes me feel owned, and nothing gets me hotter.

  “I don’t think you’re dirty enough for a shower yet.”

  His voice is a low growl that echoes in my core. He grabs my waist and spins me around, then he presses me against the wall between the mirrored dresser and the bathroom door. One of his large hands clasps my jaw as his other hand undoes the front of his jeans. My body trembles with anticipation as he holds my face, his gaze locked on mine as he lifts my skirt again and slowly slides his hand inside my panties.

  “I missed you,” I whisper.

  A confident smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “You’re soaked.” I try to regulate my breathing as he brushes his lips over my jaw then takes my earlobe between his teeth. “Do you want me to fuck you, Rory? Do you want me to dirty you up?”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Yes…please.”

  His finger slowly circles my clit as he kisses my ear and neck. My muscles begin to twitch and spasm as ripples of pleasure cascade through me. My hips buck against his hand, seeking my release. Then he chuckles, a rich, sexy guffaw that makes me want to cry out, as he locks his arm around my waist while his other hand continues to encourage the impending orgasm. Finally, my knees buckle as my thighs weaken from the onslaught of raw bliss.

  I open my mouth to voice my ecstasy, but Houston quickly covers my mouth with his to stifle my moans of pleasure. His tongue glides into my mouth, eliciting a helpless whimper from deep in my throat as his finger gently guides me past orgasm. My body, from my core and all the way out to my fingertips, feels raw and listless, unable to reciprocate. I coil my arms tightly around Houston’s neck and he seizes the opportunity to yank my panties down and they drop to my ankles.

  They fall away as he lifts me off the wooden floor and carries me into the bathroom. Without hesitation, he opens the shower door and takes me inside, where he sets me down on the tiled bench then turns on the hot water. He smiles and I laugh as he yanks off his now-soaking-wet Barley Legal T-shirt. He tosses the shirt over the shower door and it lands with a splash on the slate tile floor.

  Kneeling before me, he spreads my knees apart and admires me for a moment before he lowers his head between my thighs. One of my hands clutches a chunk of his wet, golden-brown hair while my other hand grips the edge of the tiled bench seat. My breath bursts out roughly in a sharp panting. I try to keep down the volume of my excitement, but it’s like trying to stop an eighteen-wheeler on a downhill incline. I’m barreling down that hill toward Orgasm Mountain at ninety miles an hour. I need to blow my horn or someone’s going to get hurt.

  Just as he’s about to send me over the edge, he comes up for air and stands up suddenly. “Turn around and bend over.”

  I smile with giddiness as I realize we’re going for my favorite position today. I stand from the bench and turn around, then I bend over, placing my hands on the seat where my ass was two seconds ago. Houston flips my skirt up and I’m so wet and ready for him that he has no problem sliding into me, even with that enormous monster he calls a penis.

  The way he fills me so completely and deeply in this position sets me right back on the path toward orgasm number two. The sweet, hot friction as he moves slowly in and out of me is like cruel torture. He knows exactly what he’s doing as his strong hands grip my waist while he pierces me deeper with each stroke, until he’s so far inside me I can feel him prodding my cervix.

  He drives into me harder and I gasp. “Don’t ever…make me late…for a meeting…again,” he grits out between thrusts as his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my hips.

  “Or what?” I ask breathily.

  “Or I’ll sell the apartment.”

  I gasp as he pounds into me. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Don’t test me.”

  I whimper and bite my lip as his thrusts quicken. “Harder,” I plead. “Harder.”

  With each stroke, his cock digs deeper, until he’s pounding me so hard I can barely breathe from the intoxicating combination of pain and pleasure. He lets out a guttural groan as he finishes inside me and leans against the wall for support as he drapes his body over my back.

  We take a moment to catch our breath as his cock softens and slides out of me. He steps out of his soaked jeans and boxers, which are now in a pile around his ankles, pushing them aside so he can sit on the bench. I peel off my wet clothes and take a seat on his lap, resting my head on his solid shoulder as the warm water washes over us.

  “Would you really sell the apartment without my consent?” I ask, trying to sound as innocent and casual as possible.

  “Since when do I need your consent?” He chuckles heartily when I smack his chest. “Yes, I would. If it meant choosing between the apartment and my wife, yeah, I’d choose my fucking wife.”

  I sigh as I try to come up with any argument that doesn’t make me sound totally selfish, but I’m drawing a blank, so I unfairly resort to appeal of emotion. I lightly stroke his chest with my fingertips then I tilt my head back and look into his gorgeous blue eyes. “Please don’t sell the apartment.”

  He appears
totally unmoved by my plea as he replies, “Don’t give me a reason to sell it.”

  Karen Cole, our nanny, arrives at a quarter past ten a.m. Saturdays are the days where we’re a bit more lax on her schedule. She normally comes anywhere between nine a.m. and noon on Saturdays, depending on her personal commitments. We try to be as considerate of her needs as possible, but it would be nice to have her here at a set time now that Rory is going to be away from the house more often on weekends, with the upcoming book tour and industry schmoozing.

  Rory already has the kids bathed and dressed by the time Karen shows up in her usual floral cardigan and pink culottes. Karen looks more like a grandmother than Rory’s or my moms, but she doesn’t have children of her own. Despite this, she’s far and away the best nanny we interviewed after we bought the apartment and realized we would need some help with the kids while Rory and I were working.

  The purpose of the apartment was to have a place that both Rory and I could escape to when we needed some alone time, either away from the kids or each other. At least, that’s how Rory sold it to me. I don’t need alone time. But I understood that Rory needed a quiet space to write, so I didn’t fight her on it. And I certainly can’t complain about the few “date nights” we spent there over the past six months.

  But the purpose was for her to spend one or two days there every couple of weeks. I know she has her first book signing today and she and Kenny were probably working hard the past four days getting ready for that. But if she’s leaving in nine days to set off on a four-week book tour, the least she could do is spend as much time as possible with the kids before then.

  Rory slips Dallas into her high chair as I help Austin onto his booster seat at the breakfast table. “Did you feed Skippy?” she asks me.

  Every morning, without fail, Rory asks me whether I’ve fed Skippy, despite the fact that I have never once forgotten to feed our five-year-old black Labrador retriever. And every morning, I always respond with “Yes, dear.” Then she responds with “Thank you.”