Birth of a Baby Daddy

by Piper Rayne

  “This is perfect,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up under my shirt until each hand has a breast in it. “Tell me you have no panties on either.”

  I giggle like the hopeful girl who believes in happily ever afters he turns me in to.

  “Find out for yourself.”

  His hands leave my breasts and slide down my torso into my pajama pants.

  He groans when he finds that I’m not wearing panties and grabs my ass with both hands. “You’re killing me.”

  I swat at his chest and slide out of his hold. “I thought you were catching up on paperwork tonight?”

  He walks past me and sits down on the couch in the living room. Falls into it more accurately, his hand in the popcorn right away.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “I’m too tired to cook,” he whines.

  “Lucky for you, I know my way around a kitchen, too.” His head perks up like a dog’s at the word ‘treat.’ I head into the kitchen. “No judging though. I didn’t attend culinary school.”

  He drags himself off the couch and slides onto a breakfast stool.

  “Is breakfast okay?” I ask.

  “Will you serve it to me in the morning, too?”

  I pull the eggs out of the fridge. “Is that your sly way of asking if you can spend the night?” I narrow my eyes.

  He chuckles and shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Sure, but when Calista wakes up…” I say, although this morning he was here, but he was watching her so that’s different. I don’t want her thinking that every morning she wakes up, her daddy will be here. Maybe Rome and I need to get out of the express lane and head into the slow lane.

  “She has no idea if I spent the night here or not.”

  I crack the eggs into a bowl. “If she starts waking up depressed and crying for her daddy, you’ll be coming here every morning.”

  “I’m pretty sure the party stops once Savannah returns. She can be kind of a buzzkill.” He watches me and I grow nervous under the attention of a professional chef.

  After grabbing a green pepper, onion, jalapeño, and mushrooms out of the fridge, I pull out the cutting board and a knife. He sits up straighter now, and I just know he’s going to tell me how to cut these up properly.

  I point the knife at him. “Let me do this my way no matter how painful it is for you to watch.”

  He laughs and holds his hands out in front of him. “I’m just happy you’re feeding me.”

  I slice the green pepper and get the seeds out. He says nothing, but right as my knife is about to pierce the green vegetable again, he stands, rounds the counter and comes up behind me.

  His strong chest locks me against the island and his hand covers mine on the knife, his other arm around me, positioning my knuckles on the vegetable. “Like this,” he whispers, his hand dictating my movements with the knife. “Use the tip of the knife.” He shows me and I’m trying hard to concentrate, but all I can smell is him behind me. He must’ve showered at home before coming here.

  We get through the green pepper, but he doesn’t leave me, and we move on to the onion. Hey, I’m not complaining, I’m basically doing nothing. We stay like this the entire time he shows me how to properly dice an onion, then the mushrooms. His whispered directions in my ear and his lips, just millimeters from my skin, wrack my body in shivers. By the time we get to the jalapeño, my body is as hot as it tastes.

  Once he cuts the jalapeño in half and places it down on the cutting board, his lips scatter across the top of my shoulder.

  “Hey now, aren’t you supposed to be careful while cutting?” I say, a little breathless.

  He nips at my neck, his teeth scraping along my flesh. “I can’t help myself. I want you so bad.”

  He grinds his hips into me from behind and his hard bulge presses against my ass cheeks. I wanted him before, but now after hearing his breathing and smelling him and feeling how much he wants me, I want to say, screw the omelet, eat me, baby.

  The knife drops onto the cutting board and his hands slide up my shirt.

  “Rome,” I swat them away. “You were hungry.”

  “I’m hungry for you,” he says, turning me around. His lips land on mine and no way am I going to deny him.

  His hand slides down the front of my pajama pants and my legs part. The second his fingers slip between my folds and hit my clit, my breath labors. I pull down his track pants, thankful there’s no buttons or zippers to worry about. I feel guilty that we’re about to have sex on Savannah’s granite countertops, but not enough to put a stop to this.

  I wrap my hand around his length, and he growls, his fingers increasing pace and sliding through my wetness.

  We stand there in the kitchen both fondling each other, our kisses growing more intense and the harder I tug on him, the more pressure he puts on my clit.

  I’m lost in an abyss of his kisses when I register that something doesn’t feel right. It’s hot. Down there. Like super hot. I circle my hips to find some relief, but I don’t get any.

  “You okay?” he asks, kissing my shoulder, continuing to strum my clit. I reach for his balls and fondle them for a bit, only to be met with another growl.

  “I’m not sure. It feels hot down there.”

  He looks up at me and then behind me onto the counter and retracts his hand. “Oh fuck,” he says and moves over to the sink to wash his hands.

  I watch him shift his weight from one side to the other while the burning sensation increases. My hand covers my pussy over my pajama pants.

  “The jalapeños,” he says, drying his hands and going to the fridge.

  I jump up and down. “Oh my God, that’s a thing?”

  “I just touched your most sensitive spot on your body. It’s going to sting.” He pulls out some milk.

  “What the hell is that going to do?”

  “It helps when your mouth is burning hot from wings.” He pours some into a bowl.

  “I am not going to put milk near my vagina! A yeast infection won’t feel much better!” I run to the sink, wet a paper towel and push it down my pants, applying pressure, but it’s not helping.

  “Well, then this is for my balls.” He cringes and strips off his pants, puts the bowl on the floor, sits in front of it and dips his balls into the bowl of milk. “Close your eyes or something,” he says and tries to cover his junk with his hands.

  I’m still burning between my thighs, but I can’t hold back my laughter. I wish I had my phone to snap a picture.

  “So, I have to sit here in pain while you get some relief?”

  “Grab the Greek yogurt,” he says, pointing to the fridge.

  “I can’t, that’s just as bad as milk.”

  “Pass me my phone.” I do as he asks, and his thumbs move like crazy over the screen.

  “Bring me the yogurt with a spoon and lay in front of me naked and spread.”

  “Is this your kinky version of some sex game?”

  “Do you want your pussy to burn all night?” He raises an eyebrow and obviously the milk is helping him because he’s not holding his balls in his hand whispering prayers anymore.

  I do what he says, and he applies the Greek yogurt to the outside of my pussy staying clear of my vagina because apparently Google agrees with me and says that’s a no-no. Relief washes over me right away and my head falls back onto the hardwood floor.

  “Sweet Jesus, that feels a little better.”

  “Yeah, we have about an hour before it totally goes away, I guess.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Google.” I raise up on my elbows. “Shouldn’t you have known this?”

  “Take it as a compliment, I forgot the first rule to sex post food prep—wash your hands.” He snaps a photo of me with his phone.

  “No way! Give it to me, I’m taking a picture of you.” He tosses me his phone because, let’s be honest, he’s a guy and this is probably something he’ll show his friends.

  Just as I snap the picture, the front door opens and from where we’re situat

ed whoever it is will have a perfect view of the two of us.

  Panic seizes every muscle in my body, and I freeze.

  “Holy mother of God, are you two playing some kinky sex game in my house?” Savannah drops her briefcase so loudly that Calista starts screaming through the monitor.

  This night couldn’t get much worse, could it?

  Twenty-Four

  Rome

  This isn’t the first time Savannah’s seen me naked, but it is the first time since I hit puberty.

  If Harley’s eyes could kill, I’d be six feet under right now.

  “I’m so sorry, Savannah,” she says, getting up and leaving a path of Greek yogurt as she grabs her pants from the floor and shoves one foot in after the other so fast she almost loses her balance and hits her head on the counter.

  I stay put with my hands over my junk because I’m not willing to give up the relief the milk is offering.

  Savannah closes her eyes and then as an extra measure of assurance puts her hand over her eyes. Harley runs out of the room, the monitor almost slipping out of her hands.

  “Rome, put some pants on!” Harley yells like I’m a five-year-old who likes to streak for fun. She already knows me well. I was that kid who didn’t care about nudity. Hell, I don’t much care now either.

  I stand and Savannah peeks through her fingers and then slams her eyes closed like they’re shutters. “Rome!” She uses the mom voice she perfected after my parents’ death.

  I take a paper towel and dry off the goods before stepping into my track pants. Then I pick up the bowl because I’m nice like that. “Okay, open up.”

  Not one millisecond goes by before her eyes laser to mine with the same death glare Harley gave me minutes ago. “What are you doing?” she bites out. “My house is not some kinky sex room.”

  “Red room you mean?” I arch an eyebrow.

  When Sedona found Savannah’s copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, she was razzed for an entire year. Then when the movie came out, we all had another good round of jokes at her expense. Fun times.

  She flips me off in true Savannah fashion.

  “You need a more original move. How about this.” I put both my hands by my crotch and keep them straight, hitting my thighs and moving them to the air.

  She flips me off again.

  I dump the milk in the sink and I’m about to wash the bowl and the spoon I used for the yogurt when Savannah intercedes. “Throw them away.”

  I open the trashcan by stepping on the button. “You sure? These are nice.”

  She doesn’t even answer, just gives me a murderous look. God help the man who falls for her. He’s in for a lifetime of ball twisting.

  I let them go and they crash down into the empty trashcan.

  “I thought you were returning tomorrow morning?” I ask, washing my hands because I’m going to make myself an omelet. If I’m not going to get inside Harley, I’m eating.

  “I wrapped everything up early and wasn’t going to spend another night in a bug infested hotel room.”

  “Your room had bugs?” I dry my hands and walk toward the cutting board, wishing my hands were on Harley’s hips instead of the jalapeño that may have scarred me for life.

  “They all have bugs, Rome.” She opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of white wine and then a glass from the cupboard and pours.

  “They really don’t.” She’s a delusional germaphobe.

  “Talk to me when you wake up with a mysterious bite.” She looks between the two of us. “So, what’s up here? Playing house?”

  I flip her off and she twists her face in disgust.

  “We’re… together,” I say, letting the vegetables brown in the pan while I scramble the eggs.

  “Really?” Her face is one of shock—wide eyes, mouth ajar, zero blinks.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. Listen why don’t you make your dear older sister an omelet since you scarred her for the rest of her life.”

  I move to the fridge and grab more eggs.

  “You think I’m joking?” I ask her.

  Denver, I would’ve expected this response from. Liam maybe. But Savannah, no. She’s always believed in me. Shit, half the reason I’m a chef is because of her. She pushed me to follow that dream when Austin kept harping on about baseball and college.

  “No, I can tell you’re serious. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” She speaks low, which I’m sure is so that Harley doesn’t hear her.

  “Why would I get hurt?” I add the eggs for what will be Savannah’s omelet and then some salt and pepper.

  “What if she leaves? This town can become too much for some people. This family can be too much for some people.” She sips her wine and stares over at me.

  “She wants Calista to have a dad in her life. I’m her dad. We’re giving this a shot.”

  “And what makes her so different?” Her eyes judge me over the rim of her glass.

  “She calls me on my bullshit.”

  She nods. “That puts her on a pedestal?”

  “Yeah.” Okay, she gets it, we don’t need to beat around the bush here.

  “Can you step down from yours?”

  Whoa. Call the fire department, my older sis who has always had my back just threw a match right at me. What the hell?

  “Meaning?”

  She presses her lips together before answering. “You like your life. You make yourself a priority. Now you have a daughter who takes top spot and a girlfriend who has to be second.”

  Her words sear their meaning into my brain and though I didn’t really think of it before now, of course I’d put both their feelings first. Hello, I’m not selfish. I’m a child of nine. No one can be selfish in a big family.

  “Yeah, they’re first.”

  She nods. “Okay, because if they’re not Rome, you’ll see their taillights leaving Lake Starlight.” She touches my shoulder, squeezing once and heading over to the table, waiting on me to feed her. It’s pretty much the pot calling the kettle black here, but I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.

  I pour Sav’s omelet into the pan then prepare one for myself.

  “Poor girl,” Savannah says.

  I look over my shoulder to see Harley carry Calista in. She’s much like she was last night—matted sweaty hair, red cheeks, and half-closed eyes, sucking on her pacifier.

  “I’m so sorry, Savannah.” Harley sits down at the table and positions Calista on her lap. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks embarrassed, hardly meeting my sister’s gaze.

  “It’s okay. I’m used to this stuff with Rome.”

  She’s being way too cool about this which isn’t really Savannah’s style. Maybe she got laid when she was away. Yeah right, like she’d ever let her genitals touch hotel sheets.

  “Grab a wine glass.” She nods toward her glassware.

  Calista wakes up a little when Harley gets up from the table. “Dada,” my daughter coos when she notices me.

  “Hey baby girl, hungry?”

  “Yum yum?”

  “She shouldn’t eat now,” Harley says, grabbing a wine glass.

  “She’s going to grow up as a chef’s daughter and chefs have weird hours where you eat at…” I glance over at the clock. “Ten o’clock.”

  Harley brings her over to me and I kiss her on the forehead before she nuzzles back into her mom. I doubt she’ll even stay up to eat.

  Savannah pours Harley’s wine and Harley sits Calista in her high chair and puts some puff things on the tray. She starts going to town like she hasn’t eaten all day.

  “You know I can’t keep this story to myself, right?” Savannah says. “Care to explain exactly what you guys were doing?” She laughs.

  Harley glares at me. This isn’t my fault. I didn’t… okay, maybe I did. Yeah, totally my fault.

  “It’s a long story.” I plate her omelet and hold it out of her reach. “Try to keep it to yourself, okay?”

  She leans forward, but I bring the plate closer to me. She blows out a breath. “Fine. I’ll try.”

  I hand it over. This story will be like gold in my family. The Fifty Shades thing with Savannah is minuscule compared to Harley slathered in Greek yogurt and my balls in a bowl of milk.

  I’ve already accepted defeat. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t bite my tongue either.

  “But it’s gonna be really hard not to tell anyone. If only I was like Phoenix or Sedona and had my head buried in my phone all the time I could’ve snapped a picture.” She laughs, cutting her omelet with her fork.

  “Yum yum!” Calista says in her high chair, squirming around.

  Harley gets up and pours a sippy cup full of milk for her.

  “How’s work going?” Harley asks Savannah and sits back down.

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. Busy. Grandma Dori is driving me crazy. One of you two need to get her to watch Calista or something. She’s coming in every day and last time there was this guy from a lumber yard there. He’s the son of the owner and we had a meeting set-up to see if we could use them up north.”

  She takes a bite of her omelet and chews for a minute.

  “Anyway,” she continues. “The entire meeting as I’m trying to talk numbers, she’s asking the guy why he’s not married and telling him how I’m single and that we should go out. That I could use someone like him in my life.”

  “Was he good looking?” Harley asks.

  I flip my omelet in the pan. My stomach grumbles.

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  I’m surprised at how comfortable Harley’s become with Savannah since moving in. I think in my mind I’d assumed they stayed out of each other’s way.

  “Even I know I shouldn’t be with a workaholic and this man is the guy version of me. Our Sundays would be filled with our computers on our laps and formulas in our Excel spreadsheets or something.” She takes another bite of her omelet. “This is awesome Rome. You still amaze me.”

  I smile and plate my own omelet then turn off the burner.

  -->