Dad looks at me, studying me, but says nothing. After a few beats, I turn to go. Not in anger, but to let him think about what I’ve said to him.
The evening draws to a close as the kids start to get cranky, and most everyone needs to get home for bedtime. Frankie and I get into my car, and I drive her home. Rain starts to leak from the sky, coating the car’s windows, and she sighs into the seat. I watch her discreetly as we pass under streetlights, the orange light illuminating her almost sleeping figure. She looks so peaceful with both hands resting on top of her bump. I itch to reach over, to rest my palm where my son sleeps, too.
When we pull up to her house, a small ranch just a few blocks from downtown, I park quietly as not to rouse her. For a few moments, I simply stare, soaking in her beauty.
Frankie startles, sucking in a breath, and then stretches the sleep from her bones. “Oh God, sorry. I nod off anywhere these days.”
I smile, looking away. “Don’t apologize. I like letting you rest.”
The rain thunders down on my car, her house a blurry image as we sit in her driveway. There is a pause between us. I don’t want her to go, and she doesn’t seem like she wants to leave.
“You told your father you love me.” Her voice is small, and she’s looking straight out the windshield.
My heart ricochets into my throat. “You heard that?”
“I heard everything.” Now she turns to me, those violet eyes showing me everything she can’t say. “Sin …”
I don’t hesitate. My hands dive into those scarlet curls, my body smashing into the center console between us until I’m right there, my lips capturing hers.
I’m not waiting anymore. She knows now how I feel, and this is the last thing left to do. I’ve wanted to kiss her for months. Ever since the first day I saw her in Packton. Since the moment I left Florida.
Our mouths slide over each other in sloppy, passionate caresses. We can’t kiss fast enough, can’t express the pent-up emotions our bodies have been holding back for so long. My tongue slips into her mouth, and we’re making love with our teeth, lips, and sighs. My heart feels like it could pop out of my chest at any moment, that’s how hard it’s banging against the cavity of my ribs.
“Please. Take me inside.” Frankie’s voice is breathy and full of lust.
“I’d follow you anywhere.”
And it’s true. I’m hers. Heart, soul, and otherwise.
32
Frankie
I’m seven months pregnant, and I’ve never felt like a more sexual being in my life.
Sinclair’s hands are running up and down my sides, over my clothes, and one plants on my breast over the fabric of my sweater. I can’t get to my bedroom fast enough, and everything south of my waist is vibrating.
“I love you,” he whispers as we enter my darkened room.
My heart flies, soaring somewhere above my head. But the words are trapped in my throat, all of the emotions and sensations being hurled at me too much to keep up with. But every time he says it, it’s like neither of us can hear it enough. I want more, more, more of those perfect words.
We undress hastily, racing to a finish line both of us desperately need to cross. Sinclair’s hands are all over my bare skin, as are mine on him. Fingers in every divot of muscle, curve, or dip, tracing every line of our forms, committing it to memory. How has it been this long, yet it feels like just yesterday since he’s touched me?
There is no time for foreplay, no slow seduction, no preamble. We’ve had all of those things for weeks, months. In our conversations, in our shared looks, in the heat we feel each time we’re within five feet of each other.
“I’m not sure …” As I sit on the bed, ready to welcome him between my legs, I’m suddenly self-conscious. I haven’t done this, had sex with this baby in my belly. “I haven’t done this.”
That sharp jaw tics in satisfaction from what I can see in the dark. The smug asshole is happy that I haven’t been with another man. But then again, if he was with another woman …
“There has been no one else. There will never be anyone else.” His eyes blaze scorching blue heat into my own, answering my unasked question.
Sinclair climbs onto the bed, gently pushing me back and then turning me until I’m on my side. He lines himself up behind me, our bodies spooning together. One hand trails down my round abdomen and between my legs. Without warning, he pushes two thick fingers inside me, and my teeth grind together in a hiss. I’m so wet, he doesn’t even need to warm me up.
There is no talking, no need for preparation or conversations. We both know what we need as it crackles in the air.
With one last reposition of my leg and his hand gripping my hip, he slides home.
“Oh God!” I cry out, feeling every inch of him.
Sinclair curses, a mumbled string of expletives as he tests out the girth of himself. “You’re so goddamn tight. So tight.”
He’s not wrong; I feel like a virgin getting my cherry popped for the first time. Maybe it’s the baby putting pressure on all of my organs or my vagina getting ready to fight against the labor about to happen in a month or so. But he’s massive inside me, bigger than he’s ever been before.
Not that I’ll bruise his ego like that. He’s always been perfectly sized, right now, it’s just more.
My fist grips the sheet at my temple, the other one covered with Sin’s fingers splayed on top of it as he moves it from my hip. His other hand reaches under me, cradling my body, to come up and play with my nipples as he thrusts in and out.
I can’t really move, both from the position I’m in and the roundness of my pregnant body. But that doesn’t matter because Sinclair is worshipping enough for the two of us. His hips grind into my ass, rutting up against me as the full, delicious length of him hits the very back of my inner walls. I gasp, unable to fully inhale or exhale as he pulls out and pushes back in.
Sinclair’s lips press into my temple, my hair, my cheeks. I turn my hand up and lace my fingers through his, anchoring us together as he stokes and stokes my climax.
My orgasm steals over me so swiftly, I’m scared for a moment that it might do something to the baby. It’s so intense, full-body tingles and shakes controlling my muscles without me being able to stop one second of it.
And then Sin is groaning, burying his face in my neck and pulling my hips back onto him as he spills himself inside me.
We’re both panting as we lie there, completely spent. I turn my face up, and Sin greets it, latching his mouth to mine. We kiss endlessly, still connected in the most intimate of ways.
After a while, it gets too uncomfortable, and I have to roll to my other side while Sinclair walks to the bathroom to clean up. He brings me back a washcloth, and I wipe the stickiness from between my legs. When I’m not sure how the aftermath will go, he lies down right next to me, answering the question.
Sinclair rests his palm against my belly, and our son responds immediately.
“He kicked me!” Sin exclaims with sheer joy.
I can somewhat make out his eyes in the dark, since we’re still lying on my mattress after he made my toes curl in the best way possible. But I know how excited he is. It was how I felt the first time I felt our little boy jab my stomach with one of his body parts.