Unforgettable You (Me, You, and Us Book 2)

by Hall, Deanndra

  My hand trembles as I slip the ring onto her finger. “Second thoughts?” she giggles.

  “No. Afraid you’ll jerk your hand away before I can get it on your finger!”

  “Not happening.” She takes my hand and, before she slips the band on my finger, she holds it up and turns it slightly so I can see the inscription. I can’t read it, but she quietly says as a tear slips down her cheek, “It says, ‘Never forget me.’”

  I take her face in my hands and look deep into her eyes. “You can count on that. I’ll never, never forget you.” Pulling her face to mine, I kiss her. In that kiss I feel the promise of a future I never thought I’d have, and suddenly I’m excited to be going on this journey with this amazing woman.

  Master Steffen is officially out of circulation and, surprisingly, he’s thrilled about it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you nervous?” Sheila’s voice is sort of shaky as she asks.

  “Nervous as hell. You?”

  She nods. “Almost unbearably.” She’s straightening the flowers in the vase, then straightening the throw on the back of the sofa, then straightening the pictures on the walls.

  “Baby, nobody cares about that stuff. Come over here and sit down.” When she sits down beside me on the sofa, I wrap an arm around her and pull her up against me. “It’s going to be fine. Remember, if this doesn’t work out, we’ll just look for another way, okay? Don’t get all freaked out if it doesn’t fly.”

  “I know, I know. But I want it to, I really do.” About that time, the doorbell rings. “Oh, god, do I look okay?”

  I kiss her nose as I rise to answer the door. “You look spectacular. She’ll love you, I promise.”

  I sling open the door and flash that famous Cothran smile, then realize it won’t do me any good. This woman has to be the manliest woman I’ve ever seen. There’s no doubt in my mind that femdom has just arrived on my front porch. “Ms. Abernathy?”

  “Yes! Mr. Cothran?”

  “Yes, ma’am! It’s so nice to meet you.” I extend a hand and she shakes it heartily. “Won’t you please come in? Make yourself at home. This is my wife, Sheila.” Sheila extends a hand and the woman takes it in hers and smiles. “Honey, this is Ms. Abernathy.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sheila smiles warmly at her, and the woman responds. For all her masculinity, she’s very gentle and personable, and I feel comfortable with her immediately. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on, and we have juice and soda and bottled water . . .”

  “Oh, a nice hot cup of coffee would be wonderful!” Before Sheila can ask, Ms. Abernathy responds, “And just black. I don’t want to be any bother.”

  “No bother at all.” Sheila disappears into the kitchen, and I motion to Ms. Abernathy to have a seat. Once she’s in the chair, Sheila appears with her coffee. She takes a sip. “Wow. This is a nice roast. You must’ve paid a fortune for it.”

  I can tell Sheila’s under her spell. “No, not at all. It came from Publix. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It really is.” She pulls some things out of the bag she brought in with her and spreads them out on the coffee table. “Okay, first things first. I’m not Ms. Abernathy; I’m Amy. May I call you Steffen and Sheila?”

  “Please,” I nod.

  “Great! Remember, I’m your ally here, not your adversary. I’ll be the first one to point out if I think a situation is poorly suited for you, but it won’t be to hurt you or anyone else; it’ll be to spare everyone some grief. I’ve been around long enough to be able to spot a bad situation in a heartbeat, and I want the best possible outcome for everyone.”

  “We understand that,” I reply.

  “Good. Now, you both got all of your paperwork filled out and it all looks good. You also turned in your compatibility sheets, so I know what you think will work. So tell me, what provisions have you made?”

  “We have a room ready. I mean, we don’t know how to decorate it yet, but it has new furniture and bedding, the walls are freshly painted, there’s new flooring down, and some plain curtains that can be replaced easily. We didn’t know whether to buy a changing table and a rocking chair, or a desk and chair to go with it, because we don’t know an age or anything, but . . .”

  “Slow down, Steffen! It’s okay. As long as there’s somewhere for a child to sleep, everything else can be done later. I noticed that you said you’d rather not have a baby. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” Sheila echoes back.

  “Well, I have to tell you, that increases your chances by about ninety percent. You won’t have any trouble there. I also noticed that you have no race restrictions.”

  “No, ma’am. That doesn’t make one bit of difference to us.”

  “Well, you just increased that ninety percent by about ninety percent. Better all the time. Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

  Sheila and I look at each other nervously. “Okay,” I manage to squeak out.

  Amy chuckles. “I know you’re not stupid; it’s pretty obvious I’m a lesbian.” When we both nod, she starts to laugh right out loud. “We’ve got that out of the way! And as such, you’ve got a real advantage in having me as your adoption agent. I know all about gender and sexual discrimination in the adoption community. I’m here to help you circumvent that, and there are ways. So tell me about your particular situation so I know what we’re dealing with.” She looks directly at me. “I somehow get the impression that I should be directing that statement to you, am I correct?”

  I nod. “Yes. I’m the Dominant in this relationship.”

  “Yeah. I got that vibe. So are we talking about a TPE, a Master/slave arrangement, a D/s relationship, what?”

  “D/s. And I wouldn’t say we ‘live the lifestyle,’ but elements of it permeate our relationship, and we do scene regularly in a private club where we do so in the public areas.”

  “Full-blown sex acts?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t see that as a problem. It’s not like you’re scening in front of children, and I have no reason to believe you’d do that. Do you have some references from the club who can vouch for your character?”

  I nod. “Oh, yes, absolutely.”

  “My husband’s been a well-respected Dom there for years,” Sheila adds with obvious pride.

  Amy smiles. “To watch you respond in that manner, I know it must be true for the community as well as in this household.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is,” Sheila beams. Instantly I’m so proud that I feel like my chest is going to burst open.

  “Good, good. Now, here at home, what kind of D/s activity do you engage in?”

  “We’re pretty subtle about it. Once we close the bedroom door, it’s no holds barred, but otherwise, we’re pretty careful. I mean, we don’t just do it in the bedroom, but, well, you know, oh . . .”

  Amy laughs loudly. “Steffen, I’m not here to judge. I just need reassurance that you’re not going to intentionally or negligently engage in any sexual activity in the presence of a child, that’s all. If you want to fuck each other’s brains out on the kitchen table, as long as there’s no kid there watching and you wipe it down with an antibacterial agent afterward, I really don’t give a shit.”

  Damn, I like this woman.

  “So here’s what I’d suggest. Don’t volunteer any information, but if you’re asked outright, be truthful but give as little in the way of details as you can possibly give. For instance, if asked if you engage in, oh, let’s say BDSM, you could just say something like, ‘We do enjoy variety in our sexual relationship, but I wouldn’t exactly call it BDSM.’ Because, frankly, you can call it anything you like. I mean, a Leatherman could say, ‘I like puppies,’ and no one would have to know that he meant puppy play.”

  I nod. “I see what you’re saying. Semantics.”

  “Exactly. So we do the placements, but the state comes in and does both a home study and a
six-week monitoring, since it’s more or less private, even though you’re going through the state register. And you can do anything if you have to for six weeks, correct?”

  We both nod and I say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very good. Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” She drags out three large binders and we start looking at pictures and profiles. As we flip through, she suddenly stops. “How many bedrooms do you have?”

  “Three, but one’s a home office.” I look up at her. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. I thought this would be a great fit, but you’d need a three-bedroom house.” She keeps flipping pages, but my mind is running ninety to nothing. It’s just a little home office, and I do have a desk in the living room. Plus Sheila and I had been talking about selling her house and buying something else, something that was ours instead of hers or mine.

  “We could convert the home office back to a bedroom. And we’ve been talking about buying a different place. So could you tell us about your prospect there?”

  “Not prospect. Prospects – plural.” She flips back and places the book open on the table. There, staring back at us, are two little faces. The boy looks to be about eight, and the girl about six. Under their pictures are the names Joseph and Rachel. “These two are half brother and sister. Fathers have never been in the picture, and mom is in and out of jail. She finally agreed to sign them over to the state, worst part of which is that they’ve had to be separated. We didn’t have a foster home for them together, and the only spaces we had were in gender-specific group homes. And it’s killing them to not be together.” I study the little faces, and Sheila leans in with me. “Mom’s white, and Joey’s dad is Hispanic. Mom’s not sure about Rachel’s dad, but looking at her, I’d say it’s a pretty sure thing that he’s black. Two issues with them: Rachel’s got asthma, and Joey’s got a learning disability, but he’s done very well with a tutor.” She stops to let it all soak in. I pick up the book and lay it in my lap so Sheila and I can look it over more closely.

  Then I let out a sniggle. “Joey and Rachel. Is somebody a Friends fan?”

  Sheila lets out a little giggle, then sobers. “It says her favorite color is purple,” Sheila says with a small smile. “She wants an American Girl doll. And she likes ponies.” Her eyes are sad. “What little girl doesn’t like ponies?”

  “And he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up.” I can’t help but grin. “You know, I wanted to be an astronaut when I was that age. And he likes basketball; I can forgive him for that!” I laugh. I’m a football fan. “He wants a bicycle because he’s never had one.” That makes me sad. Every kid should have a bike. Then I see something that brings tears to my eyes. “Oh my god. It says here that if he could have anything he wanted, it would be his own bed, a toilet that flushes right, and clean clothes.” Something catches in my chest and I have trouble drawing in a breath. When I lift my head and level my gaze with Amy’s, I blurt out, “How many kids like these are out there waiting for families?”

  The corners of her mouth turn down and her eyes are suddenly tired. “Thousands. Tens of thousands. More than we’ll ever find homes for. Thousands of people get on social media and in cars every day and do hours of volunteer work to save animals, but there are only a handful of people on this planet helping these kids. They’ll get on a plane and go to China to adopt a child when there’s a whole houseful twenty blocks away who don’t have homes. Hell, the state pays for almost everything related to the adoptions and offers a huge stipend, plus pays for their college educations. Right now, the stipend is,” she says, looking at a paper in the back of her notebook, “eleven thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars per child. The idea is to give you the money so you can do whatever you need to do to offer them a suitable home. Buy another place, knock out a wall and enlarge your home, whatever you need to do. Those numbers change constantly, based on inflation and cost of living per government standards, but they hover in that range.”

  I turn to my wife. “Putting both places on the market tomorrow?”

  She nods. “Absolutely. First thing. We’ll get a realtor out here and over there and get the process started.” Her eyes lock with mine. “Steffen, is this what you want to do?”

  “There’s something about their little faces. I feel like I’ve connected with them somehow. I didn’t get that from the other pictures, but these two, yeah. What about you?”

  She nods. “I feel the same way.”

  “I’ve spent time with both of them,” Amy offers. “They’re adorable kids. Smart, funny, polite. We’ve almost decided Joey’s learning disability is due to some vision problems, and he needs a good ophthalmologist to look into that. As for Rachel, she’s doing well in school, makes friends easily, and she’s a very affectionate child.” She closes the binder. “What about childcare?”

  “I can drop them off at school, and Sheila’s employer has made it clear that her hours are flexible, so she can go in earlier and leave earlier to pick them up from school. And once we can find a babysitter, that won’t be an issue anymore anyway.”

  Amy sits with her head down for about twenty seconds as Sheila and I glance back and forth at each other. Then she sighs, raises her head, and turns to us. “I can make arrangements for you to meet them tomorrow. Is that what you want?”

  Sheila smiles at me, and I turn and smile at Amy. “Yes. Absolutely. We’d love that. We’ll talk about it for the rest of the evening and if we change our minds or have any misgivings, I’ll give you a call, but I’m sure this is the direction we want to go in.”

  “Well then, that’s that.” She closes the binder and loads all three of the thick vinyl tomes back into her bag. “I have every reason to believe that you’ll make fine parents, and I have no qualms whatsoever about recommending you as adopters. I will warn you, however, that until we get absolute dissolution of parental rights, consider them your foster children who may be removed from your home at any time. That will be best for everyone involved.”

  “We understand. How long will the dissolution take?”

  “Hard to say, but I’m guessing under six weeks. If I’m not mistaken, this time the mother was involved in a bank robbery and she’s not getting out until after they’re grown, so she has no reason to hang onto custody. And so far, none of the relatives have shown any interest at all in them. So I don’t foresee a problem.” She stands, and we both rise too. “All right then – tomorrow, if nothing goes wrong, we’ll set up a meeting for the four of you at about four thirty at the child protective services office downtown. You’re welcome to bring small gifts with you, nothing elaborate, maybe a comic book or coloring book and crayons, some cute little barrettes for her hair, maybe an inexpensive watch for him, something like that. This is not about giving them something to win them over. Trust me, if they could come home with you tomorrow night, they would; they’d jump at the chance. In the meantime, I’d suggest you do whatever you need to do to get two bedrooms ready, because social services will not let you adopt them unless they have a bedroom apiece.”

  “Got it. I’ll get on that tomorrow,” I promise her.

  “Good. Listen, it’s been great meeting the two of you. I wish you a lot of luck and I’ll be with you every step of the way. And call me if you have any questions or concerns. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure this goes smoothly.”

  I shake her hand as she stands in the open doorway. “Thank you, Amy. Thanks so much. We’ll be looking forward to your call tomorrow.”

  Sheila echoes with, “Yes, thanks, Amy. We really appreciate it.”

  To my surprise and delight, Amy reaches to hug Sheila. “I’m a mom too. I know how anxious you must be. Trust me, it’s all going to work out. Big smiles and fingers crossed,” she grins as she heads down the steps. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am! Thanks again!” I call out as she gets into her car. When I close the door, I lean against it and blow out a ragged breath. “Oh my god, I was nervous, but she’s so nice.”

 
“She sure is. I like her a lot.” Sheila sits back down on the sofa, perching on the front edge with her elbows on her thighs, leaning forward and rocking to and fro. “Oh, god, Steffen, we’re about to get two kids.”

  “Yeah, but Winstead’s been doing it alone for years, so how hard can it be?” I snicker.

  “You’re awful!” she giggles.

  “I know. I give him so much shit.” About that time her phone rings, and I recognize the ringtone. “Yep, Trish. She wants a blow-by-blow. Talk to her. And no squealing. You know how I hate that,” I grin.

  “Hello? Yeah! It went great!” I watch her walk down the hallway toward the bedroom, and I know what she’s doing. When she and Trish get on the phone, she lies down across the bed on her stomach, props up on her elbows, and kicks her legs up and down, ankles crossed. They’re like a pair of teenagers gushing over a boy in the latest edition of a fashion magazine. I do the smart thing and just go into the kitchen to order Chinese delivery. That’ll keep us from starving. She won’t be able to concentrate long enough to cook tonight without catching the house on fire anyway.

  By about nine we’ve both calmed down. I’m sitting on the sofa reading an article in an architectural magazine when she saunters into the room. Kneeling in front of me, she unbuttons and unzips my chinos, and I lift my hips enough for her to pull down my slacks and my boxer briefs to free my cock. Not a word is said as she leans in and pulls the head of my manhood into her lips, and I take a deep breath and blow it out as she begins to suck. Five minutes in, she stands, slips off her panties, and mounts me, her dress fanning out and over my lap as she slides down over my shaft with that hot, slick cunt that somehow always makes me insane with need. Leaning in, she kisses the hollow at the base of my neck, and I breathe in the scent of her hair. I’m the first to speak when I groan out, “Damn, girl, you turn me on. I’d rather fuck you than breathe.”