by Hart, Staci
“Not a chance.”
I closed my eyes and kissed her, sucked that fat bottom lip into my mouth, pinned it with my teeth, traced it with the tip of my tongue. Melded my lips to hers, angled my face and hers far enough to get deep, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. My determined hand made quick work of those buttons, unfastening them down to the space where her ribs parted ways. Her skin was hot beneath my fingertips, the feel of her breath rasping in and out of her lungs transmitted to me by way of touch. Her breast in my palm, warm and heaving, her nipple peaked and reaching through the delicate lace of her bra—the bra I’d bought, a claim I’d staked.
Stopping the kiss was not an option, no matter how desperately I wanted her naked. Blindly, I unfastened the rest of the buttons, taking my time, teasing every inch of skin once it was exposed until the dress gaped open.
I shifted to stretch my body out next to hers, keeping her hips flat with the help of my thigh nestled between hers.
The touch was gentle, featherlight and teasing. The tip of my finger brushing the tip of her nipple. The slow trace of the curve of her breast. The sweeping line of her rib cage. The gentle swell of her stomach. The hollow of her belly button. Down my thirsty fingertips swept, down to the low flat of her stomach, which had once been soft and giving but now was firm, solid, a layer of protection.
Beyond that space, our baby resided.
It was the impetus to finally break the kiss.
My hand splayed there as my lips tasted her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat. Her hand slipped over mine, holding it there as I kissed her breasts, the curving shadow of her areolas peeking out of the delicate black hem. Down her breastbone, down the undeniably feminine curves of her stomach. Down to where our hands rested.
When I moved mine to replace it with my mouth, hers cupped my jaw, her touch delicate, intimate. It was emotion I felt in her fingertips, a physical connection to relay the connection of our hearts, of the life we’d created together.
It overwhelmed me in ways I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t fathom the depth of it all, the meaning, our future, our past. Who we were and who we would become.
If we should grow together or apart.
But I brushed the thought away. Because I’d known from the moment I first kissed her that this was it. She was it. It was irrational, illogical, and imperative. And that she was pregnant only solidified what I’d only had an impulse of on that night, that first night when everything changed.
She was mine, and I was hers. It was an undeniable fact.
I drew a long breath, one that mingled with the scent of her body, reminding me of the task at my very eager hand.
I cupped her sex, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric, damp from her desire. The sensation set a hot pulse through me, to the place that wanted to delve into that heat until it was buried.
She was already impatient, wriggling out of her dress while keeping her hips consciously still so as not to deter me, unhooking her bra as I teased the threshold of her body, settling the length of my finger between her swollen lips, pressing my palm to her clit, squeezing to stroke her in both places with one motion.
She hummed, the sound strained and pleading, her free thigh opening up, silently asking me to take her, a request I’d grant.
Though not exactly how she wanted.
I shifted, moving until my torso was settled between her legs, her knees up and thighs resting against my shoulders. Her body was open to me, the line of her lips accentuated by her panties caught between them. I could see every part of her through the material, a map of her sex, the mound of her hood, the place I wanted to taste.
So I did.
Silky fabric against my tongue, the tang of her arresting my senses. Her body jerked from the pleasure of contact, a gasp filling her lungs and a sigh escaping them. Her thighs rested in the circle of my shoulders, my hands holding her hips, keeping her still when they wanted to move. But she didn’t fight it.
Because she trusted me, I realized. I’d earned the trust of the girl who trusted no one. That rigid girl was supple under my touch, the cool stone turned to molten rock, hot and pliant and filling whatever space could hold her.
In that moment, that space consisted of my arms.
I hooked her panties, holding them out of the way before descending again, this time to taste her without restraint. The tip of my tongue traced the rippling flesh of her body, drew the edge of her sex into my mouth, teased it until it was swollen and slick. She writhed, color rising in blooms across her chest, her neck, brow furrowed and eyes clenched shut.
So I let her go.
She moaned her frustration, sitting up faster than her languor should have allowed. Her hands captured my face, lips crashing against mine. My hands roamed to her hair, wanting it loose, but I couldn’t figure out how to let it down. Her fingers replaced mine, and so mine took the opportunity to relieve her of her panties completely.
When her hair was down and spilling across her naked shoulders, our hands exchanged places again—mine raking through the silky strands, hers unfastening my belt. We sat, twisted together, a mess of limbs and frantic hands.
She reached into my pants, closed her long fingers around my shaft, and stroked me.
A hiss escaped me as I curled around her, buried my face in her neck, my nose in the hollow behind her ear and lips closing over her fluttering pulse. With every stroke of her hand, I realized I was no longer the one teasing. Her free hand slipped my slacks over the curve of my ass, and when I shifted to press her into the bed, she stayed me, pushing back to keep me upright. Without discussion or influence, I knew what she was going to do, and though I wanted control, my body didn’t. My body wanted what she wanted, and what she wanted was me propped on my knees with my pants out of her way.
Off came my shirt in three buttons and a fling of fabric of my own accord—Katherine was busy, and I wanted to see everything without obstruction. She had moved to her hands and knees before me, eyes on my cock and hand still closed around my shaft. I watched the parting of her red, red lips, the pink of her tongue extending, the hot shock of her wet mouth when it grazed my crown, then swept it, then swallowed it.
Dual moans—one deep in my chest, one rumbling around my cock in her mouth. My hand slipped into her dark hair and fisted, my senses on overload. Touch was consumed by the place where our bodies were joined. Sight was hijacked by flash points—her lips, her small nose, the crescents of dark lashes against her lily-white skin. The curves of her shoulders, the valley of her spine. The bend of her waist, the shape of her ass like a heart. I wanted in the split, wanted to touch it, invade it, taste it again.
But there was no denying her what she wanted, and I couldn’t stop her if I tried—not only for her determination, but for my lack of will. She wanted me panting and didn’t stop until I was. Not until I could feel the tight pull from deep in my body or the strained strands of her hair clenched in my fist. Not listening to the suck and pop of her mouth on my cock or the moan in her throat.
A throb, hot and deep, a wet slide of her tongue. And she let me go.
It was a smile there on her lips, held open by her own desire, and she turned around, the cleft of her body I’d wanted so badly a moment before presented to me like a fucking award.
She looked over her shoulder at me, on all fours, back arched, body open and ready. I wanted to grab my cock by the base and slam into her. But instead, I held her ass in both hands, spread her open, stroked the slick line of her body with my thumb.
“Roll over,” I commanded.
She pouted. “But—”
I bent, planting my hand in the bed next to her, fitting her ass to my hips, cupping her breast with my free hand. I tasted her neck.
“In a few months,” I whispered, “this is going to be one of the only ways. So right now, you’re going to roll over, and I’m going to watch you come while I have the chance.”
A labored sigh and a shift of her hips to cradle my cock in her ass
were her only protests. She lay down and rolled over as I’d bidden while I kicked off my pants.
I climbed up her body, snagging one thigh on my way, fitting it to my ribs and spreading her open with the motion. The space between us closed, lips, chest, hips. My crown settled into her heat. Her hips rose. Mine flexed.
I slid into her, her body open and wet and waiting. Filled her, gave and took. Broke the kiss, watched her as her orgasm rose. Rolled my hips against the place she needed me, slipped into the place I needed her. Her eyes were closed, her brows coming together. Her swollen lips, red and parted. My name on her breath, but not the name she called me so often.
“Theo.”
She whispered the name I wanted to hear, the name that told me without saying that I was more. I was more than a night, more than a moment. I was more than a partner to raise a child with.
I was more than that. And that word, my name on her tongue and lips, told me she was starting to see it too.
She came with a series of gasps, a heaving of breasts, her chin pointed at the stars and her neck stretched in offering. She came with a pulse around my cock so hard, so tight, it throbbed with a deep ache of pleasure-pain. That breath froze for a moment, her lips locked open.
When her lungs kicked to life again, the sound of her drawing air sang, a gasp feminine and broken by desire and release.
And there was no holding back, no prolonging my own desire. I came with a deep, thundering groan, a galloping pulse, a pump of my hips. My hand clamped her hip, the other cupped her neck, my thumb forcing her jaw high, my eyes open but my vision dim. Flashes of imagery burned into my mind with every throb of my release.
Red lips stretched wide.
Black hair on white sheets.
Long white fingers hooked on my wrist.
The sound of my name again.
“Theo,” she whispered like it was a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. She was there, speaking my name, her body soft under mine, hot around mine, holding me tight in every placed we touched.
And my lips found hers, swallowed the word, wrapped myself around her so she couldn’t leave.
I’d convince her to stay. I’d be patient until she realized she didn’t want to be anywhere but right here with me.
I kissed her, a long, slow tangle of tongues and flex of lips, kissed her until she was sated and languid beneath me.
When I closed my lips, it was to look down at her, to smooth her hair.
To smugly smirk at her.
“Told you you’d pay for that.”
Her musical laughter filled the room. Filled my heart.
And she tightened her arms around my neck and kissed me again.
15
This or That
Katherine
15 weeks, 5 days
Theo frowned at the display of pacifiers, hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks. “I still don’t understand why we’re at Target for this. I didn’t even know there was a Target in Manhattan.”
“Because,” I reminded him as I scanned three different brands, hoping the baby would like at least one of them, “this way, our friends and family who don’t live here can send something easily. Plus, there are five Targets, and this one is conveniently located enough that even our local friends will be able to come here and get things we actually need.”
He sighed again. I hooked the scan gun under my arm.
“What’s next on the list?” I asked.
He reached into his inside pocket of his suit coat, returning with a neatly tri-folded pack of papers. “Bottles,” he said, glancing down the aisle and nodding in that direction when he spotted them.
We’d been wandering around for an hour, making fairly quick work of our registry. It was unconventional to register at fifteen weeks, but I’d insisted we do it now rather than wait. Primarily so I could sleep at night. Knowing we had to compile this one master list for the baby registry was a task that had been following me around for weeks. We’d done our research, and that list needed to be inputted into the database so I could be rid of the damn thing.
Theo had, of course, agreed without question, though he was irritated to be standing in the gleaming white aisles of the big-box store that so many New Yorkers despised despite the aforementioned convenience. He’d rather buy overpriced, off-brand toothpaste from a bodega than step foot in a corporate chain.
Until I’d asked. And then, like seemingly everything else, he’d complied for the sake of my peace of mind.
The last two weeks had been far smoother than I could have anticipated. Once I got past the initial strangeness of living in an unfamiliar place, that was. It had been a long, long time since I woke up in a place that wasn’t my room in the old brownstone, and it’d been nearly ten years since I lived with strangers.
But Theo had been right about that, too. It didn’t feel like we were strangers at all.
We’d found a routine—a simple one, but a routine nonetheless. He made breakfast every morning and packed me a lunch. Cooked us all dinner and spent evenings on the couch with me. Sometimes, we chatted about our days. Sometimes, we watched TV. Occasionally, we sat side by side with our laptops, researching strollers and cribs and the like.
Once, I’d walked in to find him sitting on the couch with music playing over the speakers, his face drawn in concentration and a book about ancient Mayans split open in his lap.
Never in my life had I seen something so gorgeous as that man in that tailored shirt and those slacks with his feet propped on the coffee table and a book on an ancient civilization resting where I would have liked to sit.
But rules were rules. I’d sat next to him where I belonged and just imagined I was that hardbound beast.
As we walked toward the bottles in companionable silence, I was reminded again of just how fortunate I was to have a partner like him. I pictured for a moment that he’d bowed out when I told him I was pregnant. Imagined walking these aisles on my own. And I was so thankful I wasn’t.
I couldn’t imagine being here with anyone but him. Not even my friends. Because with them, I was always the one who had it together. They’d be swooning and soft over the tiny clothes and miniature shoes, and I’d be shepherding us through the ordeal to keep us from having to permanently take up residence in the sippy cup aisle.
But with Theo, I didn’t have to be the mother hen. I didn’t have to have a schedule and itinerary.
I didn’t have to be strong. And the feeling was both a relief and a curse. As blissful as it was to lean on him, the release from sole responsibility left me unsure of myself. I was too used to leading.
But he’d taught me to follow, starting with a dance in a swing club.
Living with Theo had unveiled two surprises—how easy it was and how badly I wanted him. We’d been busy with work, and I’d been exhausted from growing a person, I supposed, and so we really only saw each other at dinner and for a bit at night. He was terribly easy to get along with and terribly painful to look at. Because, heaven help me, I couldn’t even glance in his direction without wanting to throw all the rules out the window in exchange for getting to kiss him whenever I wanted.
We stopped in front of shelf after shelf of bottles. Bottles with liners and bottles without. Fast and slow-flow bottle nipples. Four ounces, six, twelve. Bottles for babies with reflux and bottles with vents and bottles that were just bottles. Glass bottles, plastic bottles, boxes and boxes and boxes of bottles.
I frantically scanned them. I hadn’t researched bottles. I didn’t know how it had happened, but something in my brain had disconnected it from choice, deeming it too simple to require research. But as I stood there in front of an insurmountable choice, my throat squeezed shut, my feet stuck to the spot, and my eyes scrambled for recognition where I knew there was none.
Theo frowned at the boxes, shaking his head. “This is what I mean. No one needs this many choices. Have you been to the paper towel aisle? Who the hell needs twelve rolls of paper towels at once? Where do
you even put that many paper towels in Manhattan? And don’t even get me started on the toilet paper. The math on double rolls is enough to undo the fabric of space. I just can’t understand why the fuck…” He paused.
I thought he might have been looking at me, but I couldn’t stop my mind.
“Kate, what’s wrong?”
The question was so tender, so worried, that tears nipped the corners of my eyes. I looked down at two boxes, one in each hand, that I didn’t remember picking up.
“This one says it’s number one doctor approved, but this one says it’s number one mother approved, and I don’t know which one to choose, but I’m not sure what to do…I don’t know how to choose.” The final word of the rambling run-on broke in my throat, and the vision of the boxes in my hands shimmered through a curtain of tears.
His hand, big and warm, cupped my cheek. He’d moved to stand in front of me, all that shiny white gone and replaced with the black of his suit.
With his free hand, he reached for the scanner. “Gimme the gun, Kate,” he said gently.
I sniffled, relaxing my arm so he could take it.
He took the boxes, scanned them, and put them back on the shelf. “There. We’ll get them both, and we’ll let the baby decide which it likes.”
When he turned back to me, I was still frozen, incapacitated. “It’s too much, Theo. It’s too much. Too many choices, too many things to get wrong. What if the baby has reflux? We won’t have bottles for that.”
Without argument, he swung his arm around and scanned the reflux bottles. “Now we will.”
And then, he pulled me into his arms.
I buried my face in the expanse of his chest, breathed deep to try to calm myself. But instead, traitorous tears slid from my eyes and onto his beautiful suit.
I tried to back away, but he held me still, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. He rocked us, just the smallest shift, back and forth.
“It’s not about the bottles, is it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.