He chuckles, lapping his tongue over the bite marks. “So dirty.”
I love this part. Mr. Tick Tock Hurry Up drops to his knees before me. I think he’d forego his own orgasm if he had to choose between it and this moment. It’s my favorite moment too.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers over my belly just before pressing his lips to my little bump, hands on my hips.
Tears fill my eyes today, the way they did yesterday, and the day before that—the way they have since the first time he did this so many months ago.
“It’s me, your dad.” Another kiss to my belly. “You’re loved.” Another kiss. “You’re wanted.” Another kiss. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in twelve years.” Another kiss before his voice lowers even more.
Here it comes …
“Be nice to your mommy. She’s the second best thing that’s happened to me in twelve years.” Dark eyes meet mine as his lips stay pressed to my belly.
I feel loved. I feel wanted. I feel like someone moved Heaven and Earth for me.
He slides down my leggings and panties. I suck in a breath as a shiver jolts up the entire length of my body from his fingertips ghosting along the back of my bare legs.
His touch has had this effect on me since the first time his hand touched mine. At the time I thought it was this craving for any touch after feeling starved of that kind of affection for so long. I was wrong.
It’s Flint.
It’s his touch.
It’s me.
It’s how he reacts to my touch.
It’s us.
We’re that moment of light and whisper of hope that sprouts from the barren ground after the end of the world. It’s not him. It’s not me. It’s us. We defy the laws of existence. We are forgiveness and redemption. What we have is not a victory against all odds, it’s the inevitable.
Just as his mouth moves toward my legs, I shake my hand and give him the same crooked finger he likes to give me. He gives me a questioning look but obeys, standing to his full height. I back him up to the bed, working on removing his pants and briefs.
He steps out of them and sits on the bed.
“I hate how we got here.” I crawl up onto his lap, standing tall on my knees, looking down on him.
His brow draws tight as he palms my backside. We don’t pretend my life with Alex didn’t happen. We don’t pretend Flint didn’t kill Heidi. The pain of our pasts keeps us grounded, focused, and living in gratitude.
“But I’m glad we made it.” I kiss him, and he guides me onto him, both of us letting go of a moan.
Sometimes I like our quick and dirty-talking nooners. And sometimes I like this position where we stare into each other’s eyes and spend our lunch time falling in love all over again.
We kiss. His hand kneads my breast before sliding between us, his thumb making circles on my clit. I can’t see past the little bump between us, but I love, love watching his face as he watches his hand. His tongue makes a lazy swipe along his lower lip, eyelids heavy with lust like he doesn’t know what he wants more—to touch me there or taste me there.
I lean forward and suck in that bottom lip of his, and then I slide my tongue into his mouth. He moans, moving both of his hands back to my hips.
“Flint …” I curl my fingers into his back as this builds into something stronger and erratic. Our breaths quicken.
“Elle …” His grip on my hips tightens, and he slams me onto him as his hips rock up into me. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Our mouths crash together again seconds before we fall apart. I love being in Flint’s world. It’s tragic. It’s complicated. It’s filled with obstacles. But …
It’s passionate.
It’s addictive.
It’s the deepest kind of love.
It’s everything.
His forehead falls to my shoulder and my body collapses into his. “I love you.”
When the tick tock of responsibility approaches, we make our way to the bathroom and piece ourselves back together. Like every day, I button his shirt, tie his tie, and help him into his suit jacket.
“Well, I have to wash some spank rags.” I give his tie one final adjustment.
He chuckles. “Diapers, spank rags, underwear when they have a million accidents during potty training … spit up …” He shrugs. “Cleaning up bodily fluids is ninety percent of parenting.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“Finding ten minutes of alone time to have sex with your husband.” He grins. In a flash it fades, just like the color from his face.
My eyebrows ease up my forehead as I bite my lower lip and nod. It’s funny how we’ve not breached this topic. I never feel like it’s my place to bring it up. Even my dad has managed to not ask Flint if he plans on making an honest woman out of me.
“I see. Well…” I tug on his lapels “…I hope my baby daddy doesn’t get too jealous when I sneak off for ten minutes to have sex with my husband.” I can’t resist tightening his tie just a little more, like a noose. “First I need to find this husband. Maybe Amanda can find a good match for me. I have a thing for guys with wavy red hair. Blue-collar workers. Pet lovers. Pickup drivers. Soccer players instead of American football.”
We have a silent stare off. I wish I could read his mind, but he’s not giving me a single clue. Not one single tell.
Finally, his lips twist and he nods once. “I’ll give Amanda your wish list.”
I smooth my hand down his tie. “You do that.”
His hands claim my head just before he plants a no-question-who-owns-me kiss on my mouth. “Use the sanitary cycle on those washcloths,” he whispers over my lips before disappearing out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Flint
THIRTY-FIVE WEEKS
Elle’s miserable in the dead of summer. Harrison’s showing anxiety as we turn the spare bedroom into a nursery. It’s as if he thought we were joking about the baby until I assembled the crib. Even after seeing the 3D ultrasound, which he thought was extremely cool, he hasn’t shown signs of reality setting in, but the crib—the physical change in his surroundings—has caused a flare up in his attitude and anxiety.
An unexpected surprise to this new life of ours has been Jon. He’s almost made a complete recovery, and he loves working in the garden with me. “Ellen wants me to stay, but I’m better. I don’t need her to take care of me. She’s going to have her hands full. You guys need to settle into your own routine.” He tugs at the weeds that popped up overnight.
“Who would help me in the yard?” I glance over at him with a grin.
“I’m sure you’d manage. I’m itching to get out on my boat, but I won’t leave until the baby gets here.”
I shake my head. “She’s not going to like it.”
“What if you hinted that it might be best if I weren’t here all the time?”
Ten weeks ago I fucked up and said the word husband and we haven’t mentioned it since then, but I see the looks she gives me. “She’s hormonal. Hot. And sometimes I think she wants to rip my nuts off. I’d rather not be the one to suggest you leave. Five more weeks. Just ride it out. She might feel differently after the baby’s here demanding so much of her time.”