“Oh, fuck,” he says as I open wider, rubbing myself where I am swollen and needy for touch. “You touching yourself is the fucking hottest thing I have ever seen.”
Then he shudders and comes in his hand. I bite my lip as I watch him finish, but I don’t stop moving, I don’t stop touching because I am so turned on, I think I may actually slide into another realm of pleasure, where touch and sensation and feelings is all there is. He heads to the bathroom, and I hear the water running, then him washing his hands. In seconds, he is back on the bed, crawling up to me. He presses his hands on the inside of my thighs and spreads me further, then buries his face between my legs, and I scream.
It feels so fucking good.
My head falls back, my shoulders sink, and my grip on reality loosens and falls to dust. He devours me with his mouth, those soft lips kissing me hard and greedily, his tongue lapping me up. He breaks apart for one brief second. “Come on me,” he says hungrily. “Come on my face, now.”
He returns to me, and licks and kisses until my hips shoot off the bed, and I am writhing and shouting his name, screaming out with pleasure that is consuming my whole fucking world. I shatter in a million beautiful pieces and ride this orgasm to the far end of the earth and back.
Then he’s hovering over me, his arms pinning me, his hard length between my legs. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice bordering on a growl. His green eyes are so dark, so intense. I’ve never seen him look like this before, like he’s going to take me.
“I want you inside me,” I say, and I’m still floating on my orgasm, as he enters me in one swift move, filling me completely.
“You are so hot and wet.”
“You got me this way,” I say, as I reach for his shoulders and pull him closer. I wrap my legs around his ass, opening myself up further to him, to take him in as far as he can go. He bends his head to my neck, burning a trail of kisses on my skin, making his way to my ear. “You’ve never been wetter. I could taste you all over me. I felt like I was fucking drinking you,” he whispers harshly, and his words send a fresh rush of heat through me. “I can feel it again. I can feel how hot you are around me. Like just now.”
“You can?”
He nods against my neck, pumping into me. “I love it so much. I love how turned on you get. You touching yourself was so fucking sexy.”
Grabbing his firm ass, I pull him deeper into me, his hard length rubbing against me where I want him the most. “Because I was watching you. That’s why I got so turned on,” I say.
“I told you, that’s why we’re perfect for each other. Because of this. Because of how we are together. Because of everything.”
I grapple at his back, his hips, clutching him, wanting to be closer than we’ve ever been before as he drives into me, so far, so deep, that neither one of us can speak anymore. Words don’t matter. All we can do is feel. I feel him so completely, so wholly that I’m not even sure when my climax begins because it feels like it’s been happening the entire time, as if I’ve been coming since he started touching himself, and now I’m coming again with him again, as we ride the intensity of our togetherness.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Four Months Later
Harley
It’s not a stretch when I say the last four months in San Diego have been happiest of my life. The busiest, too.
I’ve finished my junior year of college, I’ve learned to drive, and I’ve expanded to house-size. I’ve gone shopping with Debbie’s daughter, who lives nearby, and has two kids a few years younger than me. I’ve also spent a winter in shorts and sandals, I’ve served sandwiches when I’ve filled in at Once Upon a Sandwich, and I’ve gone to the movies every Saturday night with Trey, Debbie and Robert. It’s become our tradition and I love it.
We still don’t have a name for the baby, but every night Trey and I toss out new options, and I kibosh his ideas and he nixes mine. I’m pretty sure we’re at the point where we’re blackballing the other’s ideas for fun. But soon, we’ll have to settle on names.
Meanwhile, my husband has landed a job at one of the best-known tattoo shops on Ocean Beach. He entered some of his designs in a contest, and he won his first award as an artist for a cherry blossom tree he inked on a woman’s upper back. He also learned to drive, too, and gave Robert an ulcer in the process, because it turns out Trey has quite a lead foot.
Trey’s better now behind the wheel, and I’ve told him that driving like an old man is much more appreciated by his wife and child. So, as we park at the doctor’s office for my thirty-six-week appointment, gently gliding the Honda into a spot, I pat him on the arm, thanking him for his “feathery touch.”
In the exam room, the nurse weighs me and takes my blood pressure, telling me everything looks good. The doctor listens for the heartbeat, and checks my cervix, then examines my hands, face and ankles for swelling.
“It can be a sign of preeclampsia,” she says in an offhand way.
“Oh. Do I have that?”
“I don’t see any evidence that you do,” she adds. “If you notice any unusual swelling, weight gain, or headaches, let us know and we’ll check you again.”
“Unusual weight gain beyond having to roll me down the hall because I’m so ginormous?”
She smiles briefly at my comment. “Your weight is perfect, Harley.”
Then she reviews the signs for Braxton-Hicks versus real contractions, and I make a mental note to look them up again later because how on earth will I tell the difference?
“Do you have any questions?”
I raise my hand, even though I’m the only one in the exam room. “Can I still have sex? It’s not going to break my water or anything, is it?”
She shakes her head. “You have a perfectly normal pregnancy, and sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So, by all means, enjoy yourself. It’s a great way to take your mind off the final weeks.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I went right up till the end for both my pregnancies. Just find a position that works for you.”
When I’m done, Trey’s waiting patiently in the lobby with other expectant parents, the fathers forming a motley crew of men—some middle-aged with bald patches, some sharp in their suits and ties, one in a blue button-down with a name patch from Bob’s Mechanics, and then my guy, with thick hair I love to run my fingers through, strong arms covered in ink, and that gorgeous face, sculpted cheekbones, and the scar that’s still as sexy to me as it was the night I met him.
My young, handsome, thoroughly in love twenty-two-year-old husband of mine. We are kids having a kid, and maybe some of these other parents think we’re a joke, but I know we have an unbreakable bond. We have a brave and crazy, a messy and honest kind of love. Eight months ago, I was terrified of how he’d react to the news, and I was petrified of having a kid. Now, I’m almost there, just a few more weeks until I’m a mother. A mother. It’s so huge, and so scary, and so amazing. I know so very little, but I know, too, that we have all the essential ingredients, and more—because we have Debbie and Robert by our side.
Somehow, this has become our life, born from the darkest of circumstances, bred from the painful pull of addiction, and even so I wouldn’t change a thing.
Trey closes the paperback he’s reading, stands up, and takes my hand. We head to the parking lot, and it’s still odd to get in a car, rather than to race down the steps to the subway. I buckle, grunting playfully as I stretch the seatbelt over my basketball, and then I turn on the satellite radio, tuning in to a Katy Perry song.