by L. B. Dunbar
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Her soft voice encourages me to speak my piece.
“I’m not going to say it didn’t hurt having all that shit stirred up again, but apology accepted.”
“Really?” Her dark eyes dance in the dim moonlight coming into my room.
“As much as I didn’t like having my private life blasted through the public like that, I can’t change the past. I don’t like what’s been done, but it happened, and I can’t go backward. It’s over.”
Scarlett swallows, and her voice drops as she says, “Thank you.”
“But I have some conditions of my own. I never want you to work for that rag or any other thing that reports in that manner again.” Scarlett can be strong willed, and I expect her to fight me on this concession, but she acquiesces easily.
“I promise. I’ll never go back to work for them again.”
Taking another moment to watch her face, she chews at her lip, waiting me out as if she knows I have more to say. As if she knows I need a minute. As if she knows me, maybe better than I know myself.
“It’s hard for me to trust people,” I admit, as she called me out earlier. “It hurt when Jen left even though there wasn’t much between us anymore. I hated feeling like a quitter. And it stung to stand at that altar waiting on Sabrina, only for her not to show and then finding out it was because of another man. As for Gisela, well, even after spiraling out of control, it was hard to accept I’d made such a wrong assessment of her.”
Sighing, I roll to my back, unable to face her any longer. “How’s that saying go? Fool’s rush in. I’ve been the biggest fool of all. I leap before looking all the time. I did the same thing with you. What’s more foolish than a one-night stand?” Turning back to her, I catch her eyes. “And here we are.”
“Are you saying we made a mistake?” Thickness fills her voice.
“No.” I shift my body to mirror hers. “But . . . I’ve gotten ahead of myself once again.” How do I tell her all the feelings I have for her? I’ll jinx myself by admitting I want more from her. “Just know that I heard what you said, and I’m still here for you and Sprout. I still want us. Parenting partners.”
Even though I termed it myself, I’m getting sick of the concept. It’s not that I only want to share in parenting with Scarlett, but I want to share my life with her. I want to be a part of what she does, and where she lives, and who she wants to be in the future.
“As for the paternity test, I understand why you want it. I don’t like it. I hate that it is another risk, but we need to rule out Shelton.” I’m refusing to believe he’s the father, and if we find out otherwise, I’m prepared to tackle that when it happens. I’m not giving up Sprout without a fight either.
“Okay, Bull,” she agrees softly, reaching out to cup the side of my face, stroking over the heavier scruff I have by the end of a day. I inch closer to her, and she wraps her hand around my head. I’m not certain if she’s pulling me closer or I’m leaning in, but just like when we crashed together in the restroom of the Busy Bean, our mouths meet, and all the conflict inside me seems to subside. This woman is my future. This woman is my home. This woman is my family.
Lost in the tenderness of her mouth underneath mine, I don’t want to talk anymore. Slowly, Scarlett tips to her back, and I lean over her breasts, keeping our mouths fused as one.
Quickly, Scarlett pulls back and glances down at her belly.
“What?” I question, following her gaze. Her hand covers her stomach, but she reaches for my hand and pulls it to below her belly button. “Is that . . .”
Scarlett slowly smiles as my eyes widen. “Sprout doesn’t like it when I’m on my back.”
“Was I hurting you?”
“No, babe. You would never hurt me.” The truth in her words and the trust in her voice have my mouth meeting hers once more, hoping to swallow her faith in me as I work on my faith in her. My hand still presses to her belly, and Sprout rolls again. Quickly, I pull back, staring down at my fingers, spreading over the T-shirt she’s wearing to sleep in. My T-shirt. But I want to feel her skin underneath my palm. I want to feel our baby playing kickball inside his mother.
We both watch our hands over her stomach another second, and my heart races. There’s new life under my hand. A new life with Sprout and Scarlett, and I need to get over my fears to accept what she’s giving me. This is what I’ve always wanted.
“If Sprout doesn’t like that position, maybe we need to get you off your back,” I tease.
“Want me on my knees instead?” Fire sparks in her eyes. Is she flirting with me? That connection we have ignites, and I tug at her hips, drawing her over me.
She straddles me, and my hands sweep under her T-shirt, pushing the cotton material upward to expose her to me in the soft glow of the night. She’s wearing this skimpy bikini underwear, saying it’s the most comfortable for now, as it rests just under her growing belly. With a sharp tug at one hip strap, the material snaps, and Scarlett shifts so I can move the strip of fabric to one side.
Her naked center rests over my jean-clad legs, and the heat of her seeps through the denim.
“You ready for me, sweetheart?”
“Always for you,” she whispers as I lower my hand between her thighs and test her warmth. She’s wet and willing, and I easily slip a finger into her. She rocks over it like she’ll be riding me soon enough, but first, I want to watch her dance. Sliding her hands up her breasts, cupping them and pressing them together, she’s a vision.
When I add a second finger to the first, she gasps. The angle is different with her straddling over me and those fingers upward in her, but she continues to move, running her hands up her chest and lifting her hair. I’m enjoying the private show as her lids lower, but her hips rock faster.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, sweetheart.”
Her hands fall to her belly, and her face turns away from me as she licks her lips.
“None of that,” I tell her, lifting a hand for her chin and forcing her to look back at me. “Motherhood is only making you sexier.”
“God, Bull. You say the sweetest things.”
“Don’t want to be sweet with you right now, though,” I admit as I want to strip her of everything. Not just her clothing, but her heart and her soul. I want it all to be mine, along with this beautiful body.
My fingers move faster, and Scarlett matches the rhythm, working her body as she swallows them into her. The sound of her excitement becomes the harmony to her movements.
“Bull . . . ermygawd . . .” Her hands fall to my chest as she bounces up and down before she stills, clenching over my fingers, thick within her. Her head falls forward while she comes fast.
As soon as she’s done, she’s fumbling with my jeans, working the button and yanking down the zipper. I sit up with her attention on my pants and tug my shirt over my head, tossing it off to the side of the bed. Falling back, Scarlett wiggles my jeans down to my knees before leaning over and taking me in her hand, holding me at the base and squeezing my stiff shaft.
“Sweetheart,” I mutter before she leans forward, swirling her tongue around the seeping slit and then circling the crown of my head before opening wide and drawing me into the warmth of her mouth. I hiss.
She glides over my length, taking me to the back of her throat before slipping to the tip again and sucking me off with a pop. Opening once again, she swallows me again, swirling her tongue and hollowing out her cheeks until I can’t take it anymore.
“Fuck, Scarlett. I need to be inside you.” She releases me from her mouth but strokes up the hard length as her body moves higher up mine. Positioning herself at my tip, she waits just a beat, dragging me through her wet folds.
“I’m not certain I can go slow,” I warn her, the anticipation of filling her pushing me to my limits.
“Rush in,” she whispers, releasing me and slamming her body down to mine. The thrust is so quick. The angle is deeper. She’s practically kissing my balls with that swe
et pussy of hers, and my eyes roll back in my head. “Grip the headboard,” she commands of me, and I reach over my head, curling my fingers around the wooden slats.
Then I’m fulfilling my namesake, bucking up into her as her hands fall to my chest again. She’s following my lead, letting me fill her with sharp surges. My hips are wild, working off all the anger, all the fear, all the emotion of the past few days. She’s here with me, my heart says. She’s letting me into her body, as she told me. Now, if only she’d let me into her heart.
Not allowing that thought to take over, I thrust into her, and she meets my motion, rocking her body over mine.
“Bull.” Her breath hitches as her clit hits the spot, and I sense the urgency in my name on her lips. She’s ready to go again.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” I say. “Give it all to me.” Give me a life with you, and I promise I’ll make it all good.
“Oh. God. Bull.” She stutters through her orgasm, breathless as it hits her. She doesn’t scream so much as open her mouth wide and ride out the sensation. In an instant, I’m filling her, going off like summer fireworks inside her. She holds still while I pulse within her, giving her my all.
When I’m finally replete and emptied of all that I have, I reach up for the back of her head and pull her down to me. Finding her mouth, I kiss her hard, pouring the rest of me into that kiss.
Be mine forever.
They’re words I can’t say, though I think them all the time. She will be mine as we parent together, but it’s not going to be enough.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I admit to her mouth still over mine. It’s been less than two days, and I missed her in my bed and in my arms. I missed how easily we worked together seamlessly as though she’s been here my entire life.
“I’ve missed you too, honey.” No words sounded sweeter, but I don’t want her to miss me. I want her to know I’m here with her on every day that ends in day and all the nights as well. “I’m not going anywhere, Scarlett. Thanks for rushing in with me,” I say.
“Happy to oblige anytime, partner,” she teases, drawing us back to that first night when she called me that. Her head tips to the side, her cheek pressing over my heart, and a fingertip draws over my chest as I wonder if she’ll ever call me something else—like husband perhaps.
19
Actions Speak the Loudest
Scarlett
Three days later, Bull squeezes my hand as the amniocentesis procedure is done. For those few days, we’ve been shy around one another, still feeling a tenderness from the tension once around us. At night, though, we find our way back together in Bull’s bed.
“The doctor will call you with the results,” the technician says. Bull already swabbed his cheek and sent it to the necessary labs. My doctor explained how things would work with the baby’s sample.
“You might experience some cramping or light spotting, but that’s normal. Any concerns should be addressed with your doctor.” I’ve been fortunate so far in my pregnancy. Other than the swelling of my hands and feet, which dissipates typically once I lie down and lift my legs for a bit, I’ve found the pregnancy easy. At least compared to the horror stories I’ve read about geriatric pregnancies. The label still makes my blood boil.
“Shouldn’t be more than a week.” The technician continues to discuss the lab results. “But normally, it only takes about three days.”
As the technician cleans off the instruments, Bull helps me sit upright.
“Let’s get lunch,” he offers. “And how about some retail therapy?” He wiggles his brows. Bull thanked me for the flowers on the porch, telling me the decorations made the place look welcoming, which was exactly what I wanted.
Once I’m dressed, I find Bull waiting for me outside the room. As we’re in Montpelier, and it’s a beautiful summer day, we find a place to park and stroll around the area. My hunger is always bigger than my stomach can handle, but a turkey club calls my name. I’ve been told to watch my diet, especially as I’m at risk of gestational diabetes, which could result in permanent diabetes at my age.
At my age. Always my age.
I’m feeling strangely positive about the future results of both the genetics test and the paternity test, and I’m excited to finally know the elephant in the room will have an answer. As we stroll through town on our way to a diner, a baby store looms ahead of us. When we near the shop, it hits me again.
I’m having a baby. At my age.
“Should we go inside?” Bull asks. Staring at the display window, I note the little clothing intended for a miniature human. I’m due in the winter, so the summery outfits aren’t appropriate for my newborn once he or she arrives. Still, everything is so tiny.
“Okay,” I whisper, beginning to sweat from the reality of what’s ahead for me. I’m going to be responsible for a little person, and I really don’t want to screw this up. Will I be nurturing and open-minded? Will I be able to take care of someone other than myself? Can I give unconditionally when I’m sleep deprived, leaking from my breasts, and still overweight a little bit? These are all things I’ve read about happening to new mothers. Sleepless nights. Days without showers. Breast leaks. Sore nipples. Stretch marks. Weight retention. The list goes on and on.
Entering the store, I find it’s a sensory overload of cribs, baby apparatus, and doll-size clothing. Bull looks out of place as he squeezes his large body through the displays.
Eventually, he stops next to a white crib near the back. “We should make some decisions because I want to start working on the nursery.” Bull’s already mentioned turning his upstairs office into the baby’s room. We’ve discussed neutral colors and baby bedding, but staring at a beautiful white crib puts things into perspective. Soon, it’s not going to be just Bull and me.
“Scarlett?” I hear Bull’s voice, but my eyes roam the displays around us. The responsibility to feed, clothe, bathe and love a little person overwhelms me. Diapers and changings. Breast pumps, bottles, and baby bibs. Mini-bathtubs and baby-safe soap. How will I keep my child safe from things that aren’t material, like people gossiping about him? Protecting him from a bully? The possibility of someone hurting him?
My heart races at all the things I’ll never be able to control and scare the ever-living crap out of me.
“Sweetheart?” Instantly, firm arms surround me, pressing me into his chest, and my cheek rests near his heartbeat. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m going to be a mother,” I say, my voice no more than a croak. A firm palm strokes up and down my spine.
“Yes, you are,” he proudly states, calmly as can be while his heart beats rhythmically under my ear.
“I’m going to have stretch marks and sagging breasts. I’m going to lack sleep and smell like dirty laundry. I’m going to feed my baby, from those sagging breasts, like a cow.” My voice rises, but Bull only chuckles, the vibration rumbling against my cheek.
“It isn’t funny,” I snap, but Bull continues to stroke my back. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not going to know what he wants when he cries or how to breastfeed. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life, and I don’t know anything about developmental milestones, or teething, or feeding. Then he’s going to grow up. He’s going to go to school where other kids can be cruel, and he’s going to fall in love with a woman who might hurt him, and no one is going to love him as much as me and . . .”
“Scarlett, sweetheart. Slow down.” He holds me tighter in his arms. “Breathe.” His chest rises and falls, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “Follow me, sweetheart. Breathe.”
As my heart hammers away, I try to do as he says. Closing my eyes to the overload of baby things around us, I follow his lead.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be great, and we’re going to do everything together.”
Together. How strange will it be to share this experience? Even when I was with Shelton, we were two separate en
tities. He was the doctor. I was the reporter. We crossed paths but easily went in separate directions to further our personal drive and strengthen our careers. We did not come together.
Yet here is Bull. He held my hand when I told him about the pregnancy and the possibility it might not be his child, and he still wants the baby and me. He had me move into his home, and he’s provided safety, comfort, and a loving bed. In his own way, I believe he loves me. Maybe he can’t say the words. Maybe he doesn’t think he needs them or believes in them, but everything about Bull Eaton says he’s a man who loves, and loves deeply, and the way he does it is with action and deed.
“Keep breathing with me,” he says, drawing me back to him. He settles my racing heart, easing my concerns. I need him, and it hits me. He’s that someone I didn’t know I needed in my life until he’s standing here, holding me in a baby store while I go into panic mode about my future. He’s going to be the rock I lean on, and I can only hope my need for him feeds his need to be needed.
Because that’s what Bull wants most. He needs to know someone will stay with him, stand by his side and want his support, and as I told him the other night, that someone is me. I meant it all metaphorically the other evening. I said it to stand my ground and stand up for him, but I really feel it. At this moment. In this store. In his arms.
I need Bull more than I’ve needed anyone in my life, and I’m okay with that feeling. I’d like to tell him I love him. I’d like for him to tell me he feels the same way about me, but I’ve lived with those false words from a husband who cheated on me and parents who didn’t believe in me.
I won’t be that kind of parent. I won’t be that kind of wife . . . or lover . . . or whatever Bull wants to call me.
Squeezing him in return, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He chuckles softly against me. “For what, sweetheart?”
“For you being you. For all you do for Sprout and me, and all I know you’re going to be to both of us.”