by C C Monroe
“We can pump, Mama. Want me to go get it?” he asks, pivoting to leave.
Feeling the word-vomit boiling to the surface, I snap before I can fully register it all. “What other choice do I have, Kings?” I bite, my face going red and my palms getting sweaty.
What the hell is wrong with me? As fast as I attacked him, I start apologizing, his face going cold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yeah, no, it’s fine. We’re all just tired. I’ll go get the pump.” As he turns on his heels fast, I close my eyes and shake my head.
I’ve been doing this for the past few days. Anything and everything seems to give me a bitchy attitude. My mom and dad got some of that blunt sass, and I saw my dad physically restraining from putting me in my place like a child.
When they left yesterday to head back to Utah, he bit his tongue, kissed my forehead, and left. Everyone has been doing this, walking on pins and needles. Instead of telling me to settle down, they cower. That must be rubbing off on our son, since he won’t latch.
I try to drown out my thoughts and focus on my little man. My eyes soak in his image, the soft plump lips pouting in and out with his breathing. The green eyes that look just like Kingston’s, and my hell, his chubby cheeks, arms, and legs are the epitome of perfection. Finally, my anxiety settles, my heart rate evens out, and my attitude simmers.
Princeton has a way of centering me. The only time I feel complacent, safe...whole is when he and I are in an embrace. He’s cradled in my arms, the emblem of my happiness.
“Here, do you want me to hold him while you do this?” As Kingston hands me the pump, I nod, reluctant as I let him take Prince.
“Watch his head, Kings.”
“Lana, I got it,” he snaps back.
I didn’t mean to come off rude; he’s just a little aggressive and not as gentle as I am. “Sorry. It’s just he’s not a football.”
“Really? Thank you. I had no idea.”
I roll my eyes, unpacking the pump and ignoring his comment. Day five, and he and I are fighting. Welcome to the world, Prince.
I watch him move around the room, rocking our baby as he starts to fuss. My hands start to twitch, aching to reach out to take him and make him all better, but I don’t for the purpose of not fighting with Kings. I keep pumping until I have enough for a bottle.
Handing it to Kings, he brings the bottle to Princeton’s lips and he latches instantly, and an aching ping of jealousy attacks my chest right then. Why can’t he latch onto me like that? I lean back and rock the chair softly, my eyes drifting closed while I listen to Kings humming and Prince suckling the bottle. Aside from it being hard on me for him not latching, it brings me comfort to know he’s eating, being nurtured.
“He’s dozing off. Why don’t you go get into bed and I’ll bring him in when he’s out?”
Too exhausted to say no or put up a fight, I nod. Overruling my anxiety with my need for some rest, I forfeit.
“Okay.” Standing, I give Prince a quick kiss on his forehead. Ready to sleep, I drag my zombie feet into our room, flinging myself onto the bed, and instantly, my eyes start sliding shut.
Kingston and I are both irritable. It seems that having Princeton ripped away from us before we even had a chance to have skin-on-skin or greet him got the best of both of us. That has to be why I’m moody as all hell and why he isn’t putting up with any of it. We should be enjoying this time with our newborn, instead of fighting and bickering at every turn.
Watching them whisk him out of that room, though, was enough to make any person mental. At first, I assumed the worst. I mean, I could hear the crying and healthy screams. He looked healthy from what little glimpses I saw, leading me to worry about why they pulled him away.
There is nothing, no pain, no fear, no situation that I have ever faced like that one. Princeton Troy Donovan is my purpose, and the second I heard that cry, I knew it was the sound of my heartbeat. Without him, my heart would never beat again. When it echoed down the hall and disappeared slowly, my heart slowed down with it, vanishing with him.
“Are you hungry?” Kingston pulls me from a fog, placing little Prince in his bassinet next to the bed.
“Oh, um, what are you thinking? I can whip something up.” I go to stand, but he stops me.
“No, I was thinking about just ordering in or running to pick something up. You need to relax. It’s been a hard couple of days.” His eyes wander to Prince, and I see those eggshells under his feet cracking as he fails to dodge them. I take a few relaxing breaths, not wanting to fight, and I look back up at him.
“I could go for some pizza. How does that sound to you?”
His hooded eyes leave mine with a quick nod. “Sure. I’ll get the usual.” With that, he makes a hasty retreat, leaving the room as if it were set ablaze and I was the one holding the matches.
Standing, I move to the bassinet and look over my son’s sleeping form. Making sure I won’t disturb his rest, I pull on the bassinet and scoot it close to the bed; that way I can see him.
He only purses his lips and moves his tiny mitten-covered fingers a little before he settles, his eyes still closed and his breathing heavy. I lie back and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of Prince breathing and kids playing outside on the street from our open balcony doors. All those little things are now more noticeable when my senses are on alert. Since Prince was born, I’ve been on full stealth mode, and I have a feeling that will not change.
Prince is four months old today. Lana and I are more distant than we have ever been. No, she never left. She is, in fact, still here, within touching distance, but so far removed from me and us and who we were. The familiarity of us is now forgotten as we dance around each other like strangers passing on the street.
I barely get to spend time with my son because of my crazy work schedule. And when I finally get home, Lana is hoarding him, holding him close and not giving me any time alone with him, without her watchful gaze assessing everything I do. How I hold him, how I change him, how I feed him. All of it is wrong to her.
I find it pathetic that I sneak in his room every night when Lana finally falls asleep, so I can enjoy whispered secrets with my own child. I feel like I’m a prisoner in my own home, like Lana is the warden and I’m only allowed in the yard with Princeton on her watch.
Last night, I craved her, missed her like a drug addict needing his fix after so much time without it. I miss my best friend, the stranger now in my bed. When she got out of the shower, I tried hard to put the moves on her, turn on my Kingston charm after months of fucking blue balls, and I was rejected.
We fucked one time after her six-weeks postpartum was up, and it was emotionless. She practically laid there and took it, her once high-pitched pleasure sounds now mute, her constant connected gaze, avoidant and dull, her familiar touch, like the first time with a strange woman who you never wanted to fuck in the first place.
I felt awful, faking my orgasm not to give her a break, but myself. Watching her lie there under me like I was some John fucking his whore made my stomach sick and my dick flaccid. She never came either, her fake performance just as terrible as mine.
We haven’t really talked much, and when we do, she gets angry easily. If I even mere mention her attitude or lack of emotion, she comes for my head. She’s lost way too much weight. I know hands down she is less than one hundred pounds. I can’t tell you the last time she put makeup on or dressed in anything other than baggy, worn-out clothes.
I’m not trying to be a fucking tool; she still looks breathtaking, but it’s different. She’s different, not the woman I fell in love with. We’re like passing ships in the night, knowing we are both there, knowing we serve the same purpose, but yet we just move along.
Looking over at her sleeping form, her back is to me as I lie resting with my arms behind my head and my legs crossed at the ankles, staring at her. She cut her hair; it’s short, just under her chin. It looks elegant, just like her, timeless like her smile, edgy like the
contours of her thin, perfect body.
I feel oceans between us, mountains rising to block her from me and me from her, except I feel like she wants that. We came so far before Prince. We didn’t just cusp the edges of moving on; we grasped it, held tight, and let it pull us up. But then, like always, Joel—he came in and won, taking ownership over Lana.
Is it wrong to say I’m jealous? Does it make me sick? Sick, because I’m beyond jealous that another man owns her so completely? That part of me wants to do whatever I can to gain her obsession? Joel is in her every thought, her every move, her every decision, while I stand on the sidelines, the poor fool who just wants to be her every necessity.
Sure, he gained his by abuse, but it’s still more than she gives me, and I think that makes me the sickest man alive. I would do anything, even beg for her to fear me, just to get her to notice me in some way.
He hasn’t contacted her, and I’m optimistic to say that he wont. If he’s smart, he learned I will kill him without a second glance or thought if he ever comes near her or our child. I will end him for not only physically scarring my woman, but for causing her much more emotional damage. The bipolar switches of Lana and I are maddening. We found love, we found peace, and then we lost it again.
I don’t dare tell Lana that I have gone to see Dr. Moore, Trey’s therapist, about us. When my own home became a war zone, I had no other choice but to look outside our relationship for comfort. Most men cheat, but I go and talk about all my shit to an unbiased stranger, because the only woman I want is Lana. I do this a couple times a month, a secret she doesn’t know.
Dr. Moore has hinted that she believes Lana may have some sort of PTSD or postpartum depression—possibly even both. I looked into them a couple times while working at the studio, my office becoming my detective lair. Sure enough, a lot of her attitude or reactions to things follow suit with many of the symptoms of not one but both of those conditions.
She doesn’t want to go back to work. She is constantly depressed whenever she is not within touching distance of our son. She finds anything a reason to be angry it seems, and her nightmares have come back. I know for a fact the PTSD is from the abuse, a trigger whenever anxiety or depression is present. Lana never received help after Joel. She just left it all behind in Utah—or so she thought.
He has consumed every part of her life up until this point, and I now know that her relationship with Joel isn’t over, because she has not moved on. No matter how much she says she has, no matter how hard she tries to hide it, I see it. I feel my soul mate drowning in the weight of her past, and I do not have the power to save her like we both hoped I did.
I just need to find a way to get her to agree with meeting the therapist and maybe, just maybe, what we have can be salvageable.
I want to salvage us, save us from the wreckage. I want this, because I love Lana, my napalm, my weakness, my Achilles’ heel. Regardless of the past nearly five years of emotional abuse and psychological fuckery, she is still my queen, and I want to make us work. Especially now, with our little man. God, I love him.
My mind shifts to a much more pleasant train of thought. My son, the epitome of me, the reason I’m whole. Becoming his father has been the greatest achievement in my life. I’m obsessed with knowing he’s mine. A swirl of pride welling deep in my chest outwardly exudes my confidence. I want to bang on my chest like Tarzan whenever I see my Princeton. I made that. We made that. Me and Lana, our love, the product of our desire, love, and obsession with one another was made into a human—a product of us and a physical representation of my very purpose on this earth. I love my fucking son.
Thinking of him, my mood much more settled, I look back at Lana. Thinking about our mating to make my perfect son has me hard for the first time in months. I want to thank her with my body, tell her how fucking grateful I am that she made me a village. I am the alpha, the fucking ultimate. I don’t just love Lana, because she possesses my thoughts daily. I submerse myself in her, and I never want to let my dainty, tiny, womanly queen out of my fucking reach.
I am sick.
Turning on my side, I scoot into her, nudging her back to my front and my hard cock into her ass. Gliding my hands down her smooth arm, I watch with animalistic lust as her body reacts to me in her sleep. Her arms break out in goose bumps. Her tiny nipples pebble under her silk nightie, calling to me.
Skating my hand up over her hip and down between her legs, I lift the material of her nightie enough to let me feel her bare pussy against my knuckles. She’s creamy, so fucking creamy. Taking the tip of my finger, I run it between her lips and drag it from her center, all the way up her stiff fucking clit, barely wet with a sleeping arousal. My lips find her neck as my fingers begin to draw light circles around her lips.
Not opening up for me, yet, still trying to decide if this is a dream or reality, her eyes move behind her closed lids. Her lip goes between her teeth and she moans deep in her throat. My eyes hood, watching her like a fucking psychopath. I’m horny, fucking wound tight for her. I nip her ear, never taking my eyes off of my hand on her pussy.
“Wake up, baby. Daddy is hungry,” I growl into her ear, making her ass lift and tilt back so my hard cock nudges between her ass cheeks. She begins grinding and, like I wanted, finally opens up. Still fucking sleeping, her legs open, giving me the honey. One of her legs lifts, creating a ninety-degree angle, separating her pussy for my fingers.
Jackpot.
I’m so turned on and so is she—even in her sleep—that my confidence is spiraling to the point of no return. We may be goddamn strangers, but when we fuck—when we both want it this bad—we’re in sync, like the same fucking human being.
“Baby, wake up.” I lick the shell of her ear and then slide home, going knuckles deep with two fingers inside her tight center.
I’m vulgar tonight, ready to shred my insecurities and fuck her like a real man does, like a king after returning from battle.
“Ohhh,” she moans, stirring to reality. Her brown eyes adjust the sleep from them.
I keep pumping my fingers in and out of her, the sound of her arousal seeping from her. God, that’s sexy. I start grinding against her, cum leaking from my cock. I’m so full I could come over and over again and still be full; it’s visceral.
I want to forget the past four months for one night, and feel like I own her in the slightest still.
“Kings? What are you...? Oh...”
I don’t let her ask questions. I use my thumb and circle her clit while I finger-fuck her. My eyes are dark and hooded over her shoulder, hers closing and my mouth falling open, my tongue sticking out to wet my dry lip. I’m beyond aroused watching her fresh from sleep, being lazily fucked by my thick fingers.
I don’t speak; instead, I watch her face as she starts to move against my hand, my hips still thrusting against her ass, between her cheeks. Her eyes squeeze shut and she starts to moan, that familiar sound of my porn star roaring back to life.
“Yeah, baby, there it is. Fuck my fingers, sweetheart,” I moan into her ear, the moon casting some light over her baby-blue nightie, silky against her smooth skin, the material cool against my heated body. I inhale her scent, breathing deep and filling my lungs with her smell. Honeysuckle, my honeysuckle smells like honey while she drips hers onto my fingers.
“Mmmm, Kingston. God, that feels so good,” She groans, and I lower my voice in her ear, egging her on. I want her to come so I can make her complete with pure fucking euphoria. If I get her off before she fully wakes, she will be fucking sated with my touch and crave more of it. She won’t push me away like she has in the past. At least, I hope.
“Tell me you want it.” Finally I give in, scooting backward and turning her on her back, my fingers still taking their sweet time on her greedy cunt.
Her eyes fly open as I curl my finger up and against her G-spot. “Fuck, I want it!” she screams, and my free hand flies up and covers her mouth. I don’t need her waking up our little man.
“Shh, i
f you wake up Prince, we can’t fuck all night,” I groan, pulling out my fingers and bringing them to my lips. I moan when her sweet, potent taste makes its first mark on my waiting tongue. She’s been eating fruit; she’s sweet and tangy as fuck. Goddamn, it’s like drinking straight from the juice jar.
My eyes roll back open and my head drops to look down at her. Under me, she watches in amazement as I lick her clean from my fingers.
“Your cunt is such a slut for me tonight, baby. You practically begged my fingers to stay there. How about some cock?” I ask, my low, gravelly voice thundering deep in my chest.
I start to reach down to release my angry cock that’s been desperate for his woman, when she sits up and pushes against my chest. I fumble back a bit, excited, thinking she is ready to ride her man, but that’s short-lived as my eyes draw near to hers.
Lana’s chest is red, her face screwed tight in anger. I shake my head, confused. What the fuck happened?
“Lana?” I ask, going back in to bring her to me. When she stops me, I push back on my calves.
“No, don’t! I’m not a slut, Kingston. How dare you call me that!”
Wishing I had realized my mistake in the heat of the moment, I drop my head, my shoulders slumping. She hates that. How could I be so fucking forgetful?
“Fuck, Lana, I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to get you going. I forgot, baby. Please don’t push me away.” I do all but bang my head against my palm as I beat myself up internally.
“No, that was bullshit. I’m not a slut, Kingston. Fuck you.”
Slapping me would have hurt less than her words. Closing my eyes, I release a breath as she stands and moves to the bedroom door. I debate giving her space, but the caveman in me overrules that. Getting up fast, I go after her bounding figure down the stairs. She gets to the living area and stops in the middle of the room. Her back is to me as I rush in, my breath picking up due to the mix of arousal I had moments ago and taking two stairs at a time.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she snaps over her shoulder.
