“Baby girl, Daddy loves you so much.”
She just giggled and clapped then pointed at Campbell, directing the room as to who could speak next. Campbell bent down in front of her and said, “I love you, too.”
Tate’s implants have been on for a few weeks, and she’s been doing so well that we asked Jade to come over with her violin and play music for Tate for the first time. This was the best idea Campbell ever had. Tate loved it, and Jade even teared up a little. I can’t remember the last time I saw Jade cry, not even when Tate was sick or diagnosed with hearing loss.
Coming out of Tate’s room, I see Campbell picking up a few things left out from dinner. “Jade leave?” I ask.
“Yeah, Tate asleep?” she asks, and I give her a little nod. She releases a deep breath. “I can’t wait to fall into bed.”
Campbell has stepped right into the role of Tate’s mom. We both took a couple weeks off after the activation, but now we are back at work. So not only is she working full-time, but in her time off, she takes over for Jade, watching Tate. And she doesn’t just watch her. Campbell has a whole regimen designed to help Tate learn to talk. She makes it so much fun that Tate has no idea she’s learning. I think Tate’s really just happy to have a mommy around. Jade is great with her, but it was never a mom/daughter thing. With Campbell, Tate is getting that.
With everything she’s doing, I know Campbell is exhausted, plus she’s not been sleeping well. I made her call a therapist the day she cancelled her surgery. She goes every week, and so far the only thing it seems to be doing is stirring up a lot of shit for Campbell. Sometimes shit just has to be stirred to get through it, but that has meant a lot of sleepless nights, hours on the punching bag, and quite a few tears.
Taking her hand to stop her cleaning, I pull her into me. “That can all wait until the morning.”
“I’ll just do it now, so . . .”
“Campbell, you don’t need to clean my house.”
“I’m pretty much living here, too, so . . .”
She’s been going non-stop for weeks. I think she’s doing some sort of penance for lying to me, but frankly, it’s just pissing me off. Flipping her over my shoulder, she laughs and smacks me with a dishtowel. I give her ass one playful slap, carrying her to our bedroom. Placing her down on the bed, I crawl over her, stalking every inch of her body, but when I reach her face, her eyes are wet with tears again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For leaving you.”
She’s apologized every day for the past few weeks, and each time, I kiss her, tell her I love her and swear I’ve forgiven her. “Baby, you’ve got to let this go. I forgive you. You’ve got to forgive yourself.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“Can we end this long tour of apologies you’ve been on?” I ask. “Because I’m tired of seeing your face wet with tears. I’d much rather make another part of you wet.”
She giggles and covers her face in her hands. “You’re impossible not to love, you know that?”
Slipping my hand under her shirt, my fingers explore the bare flesh of her stomach. Something about that part of her body makes her legs spread for me each and every time. But tonight, she sits up, forcing me back. Without a word, she gets up, standing next to the bed, and lifts her shirt over her head. Holding my eyes, she raises her brows at me, like it’s my turn, so I shed my shirt, shorts, and boxer briefs, cocking a smile in her direction. Checkmate, baby!
It’s not as though I haven’t seen her naked before, but usually I’m undressing her. Biting her bottom lip, she wiggles out of her jeans, her little white panties a perfect match to her bra. Her bra and panties always match. For someone with no sexual history, she takes a lot of care in matching her underwear. She told me it was because as a nurse, she’s seen horrible underwear, and if she ever had an accident, she wouldn’t want people to see ugly panties full of holes. Only a woman would think of such things!
Cocking my head at her in a little dare, I watch as she slips off her bra and panties. I don’t care how many times I’ve seen her nude body; my breathing stops each time. Yes, she’s sexy and beautiful, but the thing that really gets to me is that she’s all mine. For so many years, I didn’t have anything beautiful, so it’s hard to believe she’s really mine to love and take care of. It’s an honor I don’t deserve.
She opens up the nightstand and takes out a condom. Shocked as shit doesn’t really describe my reaction. Mentally, I try to calculate how many days she’s been on the pill. My dick is wondering why she only took out one condom, and my heart is pounding in my ears.
She opted to go on the pill instead of getting an IUD, something about taking it every day giving her some sense of control. She gets on her knees in the bed, and I rise up to meet her, our bodies gently touching each other. “I know you arranged for us to go away next weekend, and that you didn’t want my first time to be while Tate is here, but I don’t want to wait.” She gently puts the condom in my hand. “Please take me. All of me. Just as I am.”
Gently, I run my fingers through her long blonde hair, and her body trembles slightly from nerves. I run through a list of things not to do in my head: Don’t bend her over, don’t mess with her ass, don’t fuck her too hard or too deep. Normally, I don’t think about anything beyond what feels good, but she’s innocent and that comes with some pressure. Taking her down to the bed, my cock rests between her legs. The sweet torture of wondering what she’ll feel like is about to end. She’s warm and wet and waiting.
Looking down into her eyes, I know she’s nervous. I sit back on my heels, rip the condom open, and slip it on. It’s been months since I had one of these damn things on. Condoms and I have a love-hate relationship. Hate wearing them, love sex, so it’s the lesser of two evils. And silently I order the damn thing not to break because Campbell would freak the fuck out. Leaning back down, she lifts her head, her lips gently parting, her tongue softly thrusting with mine. Her body begins to relax under me, and her legs spread wide.
Grabbing my dick, I outline her, needing her to spread open for me. Her body does just what I want. She pulls out of our kiss, her eyes locked on mine, and nods slightly. It’s gonna hurt a little; I’m not going to tell her it won’t. But I’m not prepared for the tears that fill her eyes as I force my tip in. This is the only time in my life I’ve ever envied guys with small dicks. I hate that it hurts her. “I know, baby,” I say, gently, although I’ve got no idea.
Her muscles relax. Hopefully the burning is subsiding. “My orgasm better be off the charts after that,” she teases, cocking a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, letting her warmth slowly draw me deeper until she takes all of me. Being buried in her is like both the excitement and thrill of a vacation to an exotic place, and the comfort of coming back home all at the same time.
I feel her body stretching, making room for me, and I start to slip myself in and out. Her perfect little mouth drops open, but her brow wrinkles slightly, like she’s confused. “It feels . . .” her breath catches. “So good.”
Damn right, it does! She’d told me that she worried she wouldn’t be able to finish, and she didn’t want to disappoint me. I tried real hard not to laugh in her face, but lost that fight. Not finishing is not an option. She thought she’d be too worried the first time, but that is definitely not worry on her face.
Maybe all the damn talking we did about this moment helped. I’ve never talked about sex so much in my life as I did with Campbell. Hell, I don’t remember ever talking about sex with a woman. It was something that we just did; what more is there to it? A lot, according to Campbell—to pull out or not to pull out was an ongoing debate in our house.
But all the talking must have worked, because her nails are digging into my back and her pussy is tight and clenching around me. “Stone,” she cries out, her legs tightening around my waist. Dear God, don’t let Tate wake up, please! Her body trembling, she smiles up at me. “I’m not a virgin anymore.”
I pin her arm
s above her head. “Now you’re in trouble.”
*
I’d given considerable thought to taking Campbell’s virginity, and while she sprung last night on me early, I’m flexible – and lucky for me, so was she. I’ve heard people talk about finding their calling in life. Well, this is mine—loving this woman. This woman who thinks she’s damaged goods. She may be a little more prickly than a woman without her history, but that’s just a reminder to be extra gentle with her. She may be a tough-as-nails ball buster, but that means when she breaks down, she’s really trusting me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life loving all the layers of her—the prickly ones, the tough ones, the sexy ones, the crazy ones, and the shy ones.
Her pretty blue eyes open, and her pink lips turn up. “Good morning,” she says softly.
Laying on our sides facing each other, I reach out and run my thumb across her cheek and ask, “How are you?”
“Happy.”
I chuckle. “I meant are you sore?”
She rolls her eyes. “You look a little too proud of yourself.”
“Nope,” I say. “Humbled is more like it.”
“Sweet Stone,” she says, reaching out and touching my face. “I love you.”
Tate’s voice comes echoing through the walls. Our little escape is coming to an end. “Hold that thought,” I say, hopping out of bed and throwing on some sweatpants.
Hurrying to the door, I turn around, seeing Campbell throwing on my t-shirt. I just want to stop for a second and memorize how she looks right now, her hair messy from sex, her skin glowing, in my clothes, relaxed in my bed.
*
CAMPBELL
Lifting Stone’s shirt to my nose, I inhale, not wanting the remnants of last night to end. And I can’t stop smiling. I haven’t smiled this much since before all that mess started with my mother and father. But here I am, smiling and happy and good. That’s it—I feel good, not damaged or destined for darkness.
It wasn’t the mind-blowing sex, either, though that didn’t hurt. It was something Stone said to me last night about forgiveness. It’s so much easier for others to forgive us. The real bitch is forgiving ourselves. That’s the part I need to work on. Forgiving myself for what I said to my mother that day, all the lies I’ve told, the people I’ve pushed away. If I forgive myself, then maybe I can come to terms with the blood that runs through my veins.
I rub the bloodstone hanging around my neck, which serves as a gentle reminder that sometimes the best way to fight is to let go.
And I know Stone will be there, fighting for me each step of the way, reminding me of the person he sees when he looks at me—reminding me of his love. A love I’m not sure I deserve yet, but I’m working on it. The thing is, there are people in your life that are supposed to love you unconditionally. Your mother and father are two of those people. When you grow up without that, you just kind of assume there is something inherently wrong with you—something that makes you unlovable. Couple that with my lousy DNA, and I pretty much took that as proof that no one would ever be able to love me.
Until Stone.
Speaking of, where has he disappeared to? Usually, Tate snuggles in with us in the mornings. Of course, usually the sheets aren’t covered in sex, either. He got up to get Tate nearly a half hour ago. “Stone?” I call out, getting up. Hearing a bunch of movement from the den, I head down the hallway. The patio doors are open, and he’s got a little table set outside with daisies in the center. He comes out of the kitchen with Tate on his hip. “What’s all this?”
“Breakfast,” he says simply. Tate reaches out for me, and Stone kisses me on the forehead, placing her in my arms. “Go sit.”
We all sit outside together and have breakfast as the sun comes up. Tate sits in her daddy’s lap, feeding us Cheerios in between our bites of eggs and toast. It’s the most perfect morning-after I could’ve hoped for.
Tate grabs another handful of Cheerios, reaches out, and tries to shove them in my mouth, but most of them fall to the ground. Laughing, I put my hands to my mouth to try to keep the few left from falling out. Tate giggles, and Stone places her down on the ground then squats down to help her pick up the ones I’ve dropped.
“Just leave them. The birds will . . .” Tate tugs on my shirt, and I look down. Stone’s on bended knee, with Tate propped up on it, holding out a little black box. “Oh, my God, what are you doing?”
“Making sure you know how much you mean to me. Marry me?” He nudges Tate a little, and she struggles to open up the box with her little fingers. White and yellow diamonds set in the shape of a daisy circle the ring, and I remember playing the petal game with him. “He loves me.”
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
CAMPBELL
“Daddy?” There is nothing like Tate’s little voice. Over the past year, her progress has been incredible. She’s still behind in her verbal skills compared to kids her age, but all her therapists seem to think she’ll catch up by the time she starts kindergarten. She even started going to a little preschool a couple mornings a week.
Stone sits up in bed as Tate peeks her head in our bedroom door. “Baby girl, you’re supposed to be sleeping.” She pouts her lip and holds up two fingers, indicating she wants two minutes of snuggle time, and Stone waves her in. She plays this little game each night. We tuck her in, read to her, then she waits a few minutes, comes to our room, and cuddles a little before finally settling into her own bed. She crawls up the side of the bed and bounces right on top of her daddy. “Campbell wants some love, too,” Stone says.
“Wuv, Momma,” Tate says, reaching out to me.
Stone and I both freeze. She’s never called me that before. When Stone and I discussed what she should call me, we decided to just see what Tate called me naturally. We didn’t want to force anything on her. Of course, we both hoped it would just happen organically, and now it has.
“Mommy loves you,” I say, pulling her into a tight hug. “So much.”
Then just like that, she hops off the bed, reaching for Stone’s hand. He gets up, gives me a wink, and walks her back to her room. When he comes back, he closes and locks our door. “Did that just happen?” I ask.
“Shh! Listen?” he whispers.
“Daddy, Momma, Daddy, Momma,” we hear Tate singing over the baby monitor we still have in her room.
Dada was the first word Tate said after her implants were turned on, and Stone still lights up each time.
“How’s it feel?” he asks, pulling me to his side.
“I love her so much,” I say. “I couldn’t love her more.”
His lips brush my ear as he kisses my neck sweetly and rests his hand on my belly. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It’s been a year since my little stunt with the surgery. He knows it. I know it. And the pink elephant in the room knows it. It’s time to make a decision about whether or not I’m willing to get pregnant.
Taking his hand, I move it to my hip. We’ve been married a little over six months now, and Stone was right about a lot of what he said that day in his house. I’ve been in therapy this whole year, too. It’s helped, but I’ve got my bad days just like everyone else. I don’t think I’m as dark as I did before, not as much of a bad person. I still have moments, though.
He moves his hand right back to my belly and asks, “Why can’t I touch your stomach?”
“Why the sudden interest in my stomach?” I bite back.
His lips find my neck, and his fingers graze the flesh underneath my shirt. “It’s not sudden. You spread wide open for me when I touch you there, always have.”
“I do not.” But I realize my protest is futile when his finger slides under my panties. “Tate’s awake.”
“She’ll be asleep soon,” he says, slipping his finger inside me. “I think you need this.”
“All problems cannot be solved by fucking!” I snap at him, pushing away.
“Then I must’ve been fucking you wrong,” he says, smirking at me. “What problems?”
His fingers gently comb through my hair, waiting. A smart man knows when to push and knows when to back the hell off. Stone is a very smart man, but I’ve been holding out on him for a week now. It’s time to talk to him. His eyes follow me as I walk into the bathroom, reach under the sink, and get the plastic stick I’ve hidden there. It takes a minute or two for my legs to start moving again.
My hand trembling, I walk back into the bedroom and stop at the foot of our bed. He sits straight up when his eyes land on my hand. “Is that what I think it is?” I can only nod. “Did you take it yet?” he asks, earning another nod.
“I’m freaking out,” I say.
“So it’s positive? You’re pregnant?”
“No,” I say, turning it to him. “It’s negative.”
“I don’t get it. Why do you have a negative pregnancy test?” he asks.
“I missed my period last week, so I took a test. The doctor said sometimes the pill makes you not have periods at all. I guess that’s what’s happening.”
“Last week? So why’d you keep a negative test?” he asks.
“Because I keep waiting to feel relieved. I look at it every day, thinking I should be happy it’s negative, but I’m not,” I say, throwing my hand up in confusion.
“Because you wanted to be pregnant?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. I was so scared taking it last week.”
Here I am on Thursday night, smiling, having wistful thoughts about bringing a life into this world when not long ago, I would’ve been on a street corner with a gun in my hand, looking to take out a life. But not anymore. Now I spend my nights as a wife and mother, refusing to let who my father is, and how I came into this world, define me.
Like I said, I still have my issues, but I’m changing for the better. And the kaleidoscope of colors in my closet proves it. It’s strange how fast life can change, and how one word can alter the rest of your life. Using the word hate changed my life. Stone saying the word love changed it again. It’s like my heart started to beat again in that moment.
Layers of Her Page 15
