by Emma Chase
He remembered. Is it weird that that turns me on? Cause it does. A lot.
“You still jonesing for Boston Market?” he asks me. “I can go pick it up and we can eat back here.”
“Sounds good.”
After we get our orders straight, Grams rises from the couch to the bureau, then hobbles back with a stack of photo albums in her arms.
“Let me show you some pictures of Deany—he was such a precious baby.”
Dean stands, lifting his chin at me. “Lainey—keys?” I take the keyring out of my purse and Dean catches them one-handed. “Hey, Jaybird—you coming or are you going to hang with the girls and look at my bareass bathtub baby pictures?”
Jay scrunches his face. “I’m with you, dude.”
“Good choice.”
And it all feels so effortless. Comfortable. Like we’re just sliding forward into this new, uncharted, crazy stage in life . . . sliding into a family.
No sooner does the front door close behind Dean and Jason than my stomach lurches like an anchorless boat—the apple juice I swallowed bubbling like battery acid.
It happens sometimes, the “morning” sickness comes out of nowhere, hits me hard and fast, and then after I get sick, I feel totally fine. Like my schizophrenic body’s saying—okay, we puked, now what’s for dinner?
Grams must see the look on my face, because she leans in and in her wispy granny voice asks, “Are you going to blow chunks, dear?”
I squint back at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Blow chunks, spew, hurl? They showed Wayne’s World at the center last week—now, that’s a movie. That Garth is an adorable boy.”
I would laugh, but my palms are moist and a cold sheen of sweat breaks out all over my body. Pregnancy sucks so much ass.
Grams gestures down the hall. “The bathroom is just over there.”
I stand on wobbly legs and make it to the bathroom just in time before the apple juice that was swirling in my stomach isn’t in my stomach anymore. I rinse my mouth at the bathroom sink and splash cold water on my pale cheeks.
When I step back into the living room, Grams is waiting with a chilled glass of water.
“Thank you. Sorry about that.”
She shakes her head and tucks a pillow behind me on the couch.
“Don’t apologize. They used to tell us the sicker you were, the healthier the pregnancy was. But I think that was a load of crap—something they just say to make you feel better, like rain being good luck on a wedding day.”
Grams drags a photo album onto her lap—and I get a glimpse of Dean Walker: the younger years.
He was a gorgeous baby, and from the look of the pictures, a rambunctious boy, a handsome high schooler. There are photos of Dean playing the drums, scoring touchdowns, being admitted to the National Honors Society, graduating from college summa cum laude. And scattered through all those accomplishments, are photos of Dean with girls.
And then more girls.
Girls to the left of him, girls to the right—at prom, in a car, on a couch, at the lake, in front of a bonfire. There are blondes, redheads, and brunettes—all of them are pretty—but with each turn of the page, none of them are the same. None of them seem to have stuck around for long.
I clear my throat. “Dean had a lot of girlfriends.”
“Oh yes, he was very popular. Quite the ladies man.”
I don’t know what to say about that—how to feel. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel anything at all, so I say nothing.
Grams pats my knee again.
“Cake batter.”
I search my mind for a Wayne’s World quote involving cake batter.
“What do you mean?”
“My grandson is like a bowl of cake batter, Lainey. All the ingredients are there, just waiting for the right flame to come along. Once he’s done cooking, he’s going to be an exquisite piece of cake. I’m old—I know these things. You just wait and see.”
~ ~ ~
It’s after nine when we get home. Dean drives back with us to get his car, but comes inside after we pull into the driveway. Jason heads straight up the stairs without being told.
“I have to shower and hit the hay—it’s a school night.”
I hit the jackpot in the good kid department with him. Though, I guess that means I should be prepared for karma to even things out with baby number two. It’s probably going to be a demon.
“Hey—how was that calculus homework?” Dean calls after him. “Did it kick your ass?”
“Nah, I didn’t even break a sweat.”
“I’ll have to up my game.”
Jason waves. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow . . .” he pauses awkwardly “. . . Dean.” Then he shakes his head. “Still weird.”
“You’ll get used to it. See you tomorrow, Jay.”
After Jason’s bedroom door closes, I move to the kitchen with Dean following close behind. I get a glass of water from the refrigerator.
“Do you want something to drink? Tea or water or lemonade?”
“I’m good.”
The pitch-black night outside the window makes the dimly lit kitchen feel cozy and safe. Being here with Dean, just the two of us alone, fills the air with a close, familiar intimacy. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and my eyes roam over the toned, rugged forearms beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his black sweater. I take a long drink of water as I look at his hands next—those big, sure hands. The remembered feel of them on my body brushes across my skin, and my breasts tingle with an achy need.
A ghost of a smile teases Dean’s lips, as if he can sense where my mind is wandering.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you,” he says.
“Go ahead.”
“Am I really the only person you had sex with in five years?”
I laugh. “Yep.”
A growly sort of sound comes from his throat.
“That’s a goddamn sin. I could cry.” He drops his hands, leaning closer, his chin dipping, and his voice rough. “How is that even possible?”
“I was . . . busy.”
“No one is that busy.”
I was working two jobs, trying to save up for a place I could afford on my own. My parents never gave me a hard time about living with them, but I knew it wasn’t how they wanted to spend their retirement years. They’d raised their kids and when I had Jason, they had to start all over again. And babies are bossy. You’ll see.”
Dean takes his glasses off and sets them on the counter. Then he gazes down at the bump between us—but there’s nothing tender or paternal in his expression now.
His eyes are heated. Possessive.
I know that look, I remember that look. I saw it above me, behind me—it’s the expression he wore when he couldn’t wait another second to push inside me. To have me, take me, make me his.
He scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip and my own lips part in answer. His eyes drag up over my breasts, my neck, settling on my mouth.
“What are your plans the rest of the night?”
I try to play it cool even though my muscles are strung tight and every cell in my body is reaching towards him.
“I’m going to get changed, get into bed . . .”
“I like where this is going . . .”
I smile. “And then I have some videos to edit. Sketches for the nursery to finish.”
Dean inches even closer. So close I can feel the heat of his chest, sense the ripped muscles hiding beneath his shirt, smell the seductive scent of his skin.
If I lift my chin and lean just a bit—I could kiss him right here, right now.
He touches me with the tip of his finger—just the tip—dragging it along my collarbone, and that soft brush of a touch is almost enough to make me moan.
“Want some company, Lainey?”
Yes. God yes. Please, please, yes.
The words are right there on my lips, waiting for breath. Because I want his company—in my bed, in the shower, here on the kitc
hen counter—I know firsthand how blissful Dean Walker’s company can be.
“I . . .”
My heart thrums quick and hard, and I lick my lips . . . but then I shake my head.
Because I have to be smart about this. We have to be smart. Adult. Responsible.
No matter how much it sucks.
“Dean, I think it would be a mistake for us to get involved romantically.”
His brow furrows. “Again, I’m going to go with ‘a little late for that, don’t you think’ for $500, Alex.”
“Jeopardy?” I raise my eyebrows. “Cute.”
“I can be adorable when I want to be.”
“I’ll rephrase—I think it would be a mistake for us to get involved romantically now.”
“Ah, I see.” He mulls that over. And he shrugs. “We can just fuck, then.”
My pelvic muscles clench—and my vagina thinks this is an amazing idea.
The last inches between us disappear as Dean presses his forehead to mine, stroking his thumb along my chin and across my bottom lip. His voice is a plea and a promise.
“I’ll make it good, Lainey. It’ll be so fucking good.”
And I know it will be.
I close my eyes. “You could do that? Stay unattached. Just make it physical?”
I feel his nod. “I could do that. You won’t regret it, I’m an awesome fuck buddy.”
I open my eyes—and stare into the scalding blue waters of Dean’s gaze.
“I’m not. A fuck buddy, I mean. I was telling the truth when I told you I don’t do one-night stands. I’ve had sex with four people in my life and you’re number four. I’m a relationship kind of girl. I get emotional when it comes to sex.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the problem. You literally just decided to do this with me, Dean. We’re going to be involved in each other’s lives forever—and we’re just starting out. To bring sex into that mix now is . . . not smart.” I press my hand between us, on my stomach—the feel of the firm bulge helping me focus on the right things. “It could end up being a disaster for all of us.”
Dean closes his eyes a moment, then he straightens up and steps back, tilting his head to the ceiling and blowing out a deep, frustrated breath. He scrubs his hand over his face, like he’s trying to wake himself up.
“Okay, I see what you’re saying. You’re right.”
He turns toward the door—but then changes course and spins back around to face me.
“But I’m putting this on the table . . . anytime you feel like being not smart, I’m your guy. You change your mind and want to hook up, for one night . . . or ten . . . I am up for that.” He gestures to his groin. “Literally, up for it. Just say the words.”
A giggle tickles my throat. “What words?”
“Yes, Dean. Please, Dean. Now, Dean. Supercalifragilisticexpiali-fuck me, Dean. Any combination of those will work. Don’t be shy—I’m a sure thing. Okay?”
And now I laugh—not just because it’s funny, but because being around Dean already makes me happy too.
“Okay.”
“Good.” His movements are tense and quick—horny—as he takes his glasses off the counter and slides them back on his face.
Then, smoothly he reaches over and kisses my cheek. I savor the feel of his firm, full lips—and he seems to linger there just a second longer, breathing me in.
Then he’s backing up toward the door.
“Don’t stay up too late editing. You’re percolating our kid—that requires energy. You need your sleep.”
I smile. “Okay. Bye, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Lainey.”
And then my wild drummer boy, sexy professor, baby daddy slips out the door.
Chapter Ten
Dean
Lainey’s killing me.
As sure as a gorgeous, incurable, stage-four disease.
After I left her house last night, her scent followed me, haunted me. I had to jerk off three times before I could finally lay on my stomach and fall asleep without my hard-on poking me in the gut. It’s a new record—and not one I’m particularly proud of.
It was bad enough when she was just a memory, but now, with her real and close and in-person, I’m going to be a walking, talking pair of blue balls and a serious case of raw dick by the time our kid makes an appearance on the world stage.
Each time I came, it was more intense than the last, and every time was with Lainey’s name poised on my lips—and the picture of her full, perfect tits, that pouty mouth and pretty pussy in my head. Sometimes all three at once. Then there were the images of her eyes, her smile—making her smile yesterday, that was a rush—the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice. It’s all so damn good.
Too good.
Motherfucking addictive.
Being this close to her and not being able to have her—possibly ever—I’m toast. No way I’m making it out alive. And it’s all because Baby Mama is into relationships. Can’t say I’m surprised—though she gives outstanding dirty-girl in bed, out of it, she definitely gives off the good-girl vibe.
It’s not like I haven’t had girlfriends before. I’ve had plenty. I’ve done relationships.
I just suck at them. Screw them up. Every time.
It became a pattern, in high school and into my twenties. The first few days, I was golden—life was good—the bloom was on the rose. But then I’d start to get that itch, start to get bored.
The pussy would start to look pinker on the other side of the street.
And then I’d fuck around. I didn’t set out be a jerkoff, hurting a woman’s feelings was never the goal. The drama, tears, and headaches that always followed weren’t fun either. Which is why when I was older, wiser and more mature, I swore off relationships all together. I went legit—became a straight shooter. I discovered being direct with a woman, putting my not-interested-in-a-relationship cards on the table was even easier than screwing around and inevitably getting caught.
And now here we are boys and girls.
A hellish situation of my own making where a sex-only, no strings attached arrangement isn’t going to cut it.
Even if Lainey would consider giving a relationship with me a shot, I’m not sure that’s a route we should take. I don’t trust myself not to fall back into old habits—and that’s not an option with Lainey. I won’t risk starting something with her that I’m not certain I can finish. It’s like she said, we’re going to be involved in each other’s lives forever—if I’m going to do the dad-thing right, hers is a heart I can’t afford to break.
And I don’t want to. The thought alone makes my stomach twist painfully in my gut. I’ll punch myself in the nuts before I hurt Lainey.
The rub is—I want her. Badly. More than I’ve ever wanted any woman. I’ve waited for her—gone cold turkey for months, and that’s unheard of for me.
But it’s still too risky. Building a solid foundation with Lainey, for our kid, is bigger than my boner and more important than my sex drive. So, until I get my head on straight or my dick decides he’s willing to play nice with others—it’s going to be me and my hand for the foreseeable future.
Goddamn it.
~ ~ ~
The next day, after school, I give Garrett the heads-up that I’ll be late to football practice. Then I swing by the grocery store to pick up a few things and head to Lainey’s house. Jason lets me in and I find her in the living room—with those long, toned legs peeking out from itty bitty cotton black shorts and a power drill in her hand, standing on a ladder, and Bruce Springsteen singing “I’m Goin’ Down” from a speaker in the corner.
And, dear God—the things I could do to her on that ladder. Wonderful, filthy things that instantly make my heart pound and my cock throb. She’s the perfect height for me to just walk over there and put my mouth between her legs. I picture it, see it in my mind—the way she’d grip my hair and pant my name, arch her back and writhe against my face . . .
“Hey, Dean.” She sets the drill on the ledge and picks up a beeping light green rectangle, running it along the wall.
“What are you doing up there?” I ask.
“I’m getting ready to record—to show The Lifers the finishing touches in the living room.”
I don’t have a decorative bone in my body, but the room looks good—with light gray walls and navy corduroy covered couches, reclaimed wood tables and a dozen different-sized candles filling the white-washed brick fireplace. It’s clean and simple but warm, the kind of place you’d look forward to coming back to every day.
“I’m going to hang up those boards.” Lainey gestures to three square planks, with ornamental arrows burned black into the wood. “I just want to make sure this stud-finder works.”
“If you’re looking for a stud,” I wink, “I’m standing right in front of you.”
“Ha-ha. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She turns back to the wall, reaching up over her head and stretching onto her tippy toes on the narrow step. I move under the ladder to catch her if she goes ass over end, and a stab of terror slices through me at the thought that Lainey would still be doing this if I wasn’t here. Alone. Without Jason even in the room in case something went terribly wrong.
What the hell is up with that?
“I read that you’re not supposed to reach above your head when you’re pregnant.”
“That’s just an old wives’ tale.”
I wrap my hands around her hips, holding her steady.
“Maybe the old wives knew what they were talking about. Come on, come down.”
Slowly, Lainey lowers her arms and turns in my hands. I lift her off the ladder by her hips, tilting my head back and holding her above me for a moment, before sliding her slowly down. And the feel of her softness rubbing against me, the friction—it’s fantastic.
When her feet are on the ground, I dip my head and our faces are just millimeters apart. Close enough to count the sprinkle of cute, light freckles that dust the bridge of her nose.