He waits.
I say nothing more.
His eyes cut over to me, face slack, but I can read him as his eyes drift to my belly. Andrew is a tough, direct, self-contained CEO who schmoozes everyone but is close to few. I'm in his inner circle, at the core, and I know he'll do literally anything to make life better for me.
Including feeling up a plastic pus–
“EEEEEEEeeeee!” Hope squeals, staring at her smartphone screen, the sound one of joy rather than fear.
“Hope?” I ask. She’s standing just a few feet away. When she looks at me, her eyes glisten, mouth broad and grinning.
“One of my students just texted me.” She turns the phone so I can see it.
It's a picture of three little burrito babies, all in the row, wrapped in the classic hospital receiving blankets with pink and blue stripes.
“Triplets?” Andrew gasps, mouth setting in a piqued line.
Yeah, yeah, someone outdid him.
“Vaginal triplets,” Hope says, triumphant. She looks at me–the only person in class not having a singleton–then she looks at Andrew's hand. “See? You never know when you’ll need to feel your way around a vulva.”
Andrew's nose twitches, but he looks at me to avoid making an obvious joke.
“Right, Hope. You never know.”
His hand slides between my thighs as I drift off to sleep.
My eyes fly open.
A kiss on my bare shoulder, then the long, hot, hard length of him up against my back makes me take a deep breath. I don't mean to, but I hold it.
“Amanda?” he murmurs, that hand between my thighs intent on doing more than finding a resting place.
“Mmmm?”
“Are you...?”
Am I what?
Interested?
Willing?
Horny?
Scared?
Turned on?
Desperate?
Aroused?
How about all of those?
“I'm... I don't know.”
His hand stops moving.
“I don't know is a no.” He snuggles in. “Affection's fine.”
The baseball bat between his legs, poking my tailbone, tells me it's not fine.
“In this case, I don't know is... too many feelings to just say yes.”
“Which is a no.”
“It's not a no. It's a...”
“A what, sweetie?” He strokes my hair.
The “sweetie” makes me burst into tears.
“Oh, Amanda,” he whispers, holding me in his arms, palm running from my shoulder to my wrist, a soothing gesture that shows how much he cares. “What's wrong? Did I do something to upset you?”
“No. It's not you. It's me.”
“You were fine until I reached for you, so it's me.”
“It's not. It's... it's a little bit of everything. I'm so big, we can't do my favorite position. I'm so swollen that one touch between my legs and I come–and no, that's not some superpower, because it doesn't feel as good as it did before the pregnancy. Then I worry that I'll never orgasm like I did before the pregnancy, and that I should have appreciated it more when I could come like that. Plus, I'm a house. Literally a house. I'm housing two womb mates. And I know you find me attractive and sexy, and I feel attractive and sexy, but I'm pretty close to either having my vagina split open or my abs cut by a scalpel, so sex is complicated and tough and, Andrew,” I sob, the hitched breaths feeling completely untethered. “I don't know. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what I want. I don't know what this body is. So... I don't know.”
“There's a lot of emotion behind those three words.”
“It's not the only three-word sentence packed with emotion,” I reply. “There’s I love you.”
“And Yes, I swallow.”
Through tears, I hit him in jest, but his comment does what it needs to do. The melancholy that swept over me earlier breaks free, as if I've been bound by tiny ropes of despair that are frayed by his abiding attention and diligent presence. Rolling over is hard now, but I manage, then kiss him, my tongue moving fast to find his, to connect and savor, to thank and rejoice.
Being understood is a luxury.
Being seen is a holy act.
When every part of your body expands to accommodate new life, being touched by the outside world takes on a new feel. Andrew's familiar touch reconfigures to elicit different reactions from me, his hand cupping my full breast something old and new at the same time.
When I move to be closer to him, his hand on my hip and the glide of my calf between his feels heated and arousing, lust rising with fervent emotion. Intimacy is hard. We have to work constantly to keep the threads of connection woven tightly.
My naked skin craves his touch.
“I love this. I love you,” he murmurs, hand going to my belly, then traveling lower. I'm wet and eager, ready for his mouth, his fingers, his thickness in me, but wanting to draw this out, too.
“I love that you love this. Mmmmm,” I murmur, his touch making warmth and energy spread through my ever-expanding body. The aches and tensions of pregnancy fade when I'm under his spell, the constant connection of bare skin sending messages to receptors that say stand down. Relax. Rest.
Release.
His body is never the same twice as I touch him, eyes closing to accept his offer of pleasure, my own senses heightened as I find the smooth curl of muscle in his shoulders, the fine layering of hair along his chest, the deep grooves of ribs and strong abs when my hands take their normal journey into Andrewland.
Every day that I get to touch him like this is another day of joy, and the combination of his touch, his deep stare, and our wild kisses makes me love the world we create in bed.
Lefty kicks me and Andrew moves back, looking down between us with wonder.
“Does that mean I should stop?”
“No! No,” I whisper, moving my hips against his hand, needing to finish what he's started. “You know you can't hurt them.”
Amusement and lust make his eyes dance. “I know. It's still a little strange.”
“Let's stop thinking, then.” I reach down and stroke up once. His eyes close, mouth dropping open, the tip of his tongue emerging.
I want that tongue elsewhere.
“I stopped thinking a long time ago, Amanda. When we're like this, all I do is feel. And there's no one else in the world who can make me just feel. Only you. Only us.”
His hands slide under my nightgown and I reach down, his movement halting.
But I pull my nightgown up over my belly, breasts pendulous and full, the cool chill of the air hitting my nude, ripe body making me shiver until Andrew cocoons me in the covers.
And warms me up.
“I won't last long,” I whisper before he kisses me, a long, lush kiss full of tongue and smiles and heat.
“That's my line,” he says as his knee shifts, thigh mingling with mine, and I feel what he means. “What do you want?” he asks.
“You.”
“Always here.”
My hand strokes him. “I hope I can say the same.”
A sound from the back of his throat makes my heart squeeze. “What does that mean?”
When you're with someone long enough, and love intensely enough, a near-psychic connection makes you damn close to being a mind reader. Or maybe a heart reader? I instantly regret my words.