by Kennedy Ryan
“Whoa.” I carefully set my beer beside hers. “Back up. You said you—”
“Removed my birth control, yeah.” She peeks at me from under her lashes. “Is that okay? You said whenever I was ready—”
“We could start trying, yeah.” A foot-long grin stretches between my cheeks. “So you’re . . . are you saying you’re—”
“Ready to have a baby, yes.” She worries the corner of her mouth with her teeth. “Your baby, yeah.”
Being married to Bristol has made the last year of my life the best. To think of us adding children to this . . . so many emotions rocket through me. A girl, a boy—could be both. Bristol’s a twin, and her father and her Uncle Grady are twins.
“We could have twins!” The words fly from my mouth before I think better of it, and I can tell it hadn’t occurred to Bristol, though I don’t know how that’s possible.
“Two?” Her eyes stretch. “At one time?”
“Your father’s a twin. You’re a twin,” I remind her gently. “If your mom, who has the maternal instincts of a barracuda, can do it, I’m sure you’d be fine.”
“Oh, God.” Her dazed eyes fixate on the table. “Two.”
She snatches her bottle from the table, tipping it back until the last drop is gone. Without missing a beat, she grabs mine and does the same. Before she starts raiding Matty’s small refrigerator for cheap liquor, I decide to stop her.
“Baby, come here.”
I hold my arms out and wait for her to settle on my lap. The mere thought of Bristol having my baby has me horny as hell, so when she squirms to get comfortable in my lap, I’m anything but comfortable as my dick swells into the curve of her ass. I had the best intentions when I asked her to come to me. I wanted to soothe her fears, wanted to reassure her that whatever we have, however many kids we have, we’ll be fine.
But damn.
Now with her in my lap and her scent surrounding me and the satiny skin of her throat silently begging to be licked and bitten, reassuring her is the furthest thing from my mind.
I just want to fuck her.
“We have a couple of options,” I mutter into the sweet-smelling curve of her neck.
“What are they?” she asks breathlessly, tipping her head back so I can take more of her skin into my mouth. “These options, what are they?”
“I can lock that door, and we can hope no one needs to come back here to microwave a Hot Pocket.”
She pants against my lips, turning so she’s facing me, her thighs splayed over mine while she grinds her wet heat into me.
“And the other options?” She feathers kisses over my cheeks and plunges her tongue into my ear.
Holy hell. I’ll come in my pants like a pubescent boy if she does that shit again—and that’s a promise, not a threat.
“We can go in the alley, or maybe even the bathroom, but folks use the bathroom a lot around here.” My voice is so husky it’s scraping the bottom octave. “What we’re not gonna do is wait till we get home, because I can’t.”
Our eyes tangle, an electric charge in the air, breaths getting heavier the longer we feel each other, smell each other.
“Alley,” she rasps, standing and practically running toward the back exit.
“You sure?” I ask like she has a choice now, but my hand is already at my belt. I’m already calculating how much time we probably have before someone invades our quiet alley. In my head, I’m already doing a stellar job of fucking her against that brick wall.
Small mercies, she’s wearing a dress. With our eyes locked, she raises it over her thighs to show me her panties, and with slow, steady movements, she eases them over her hips and down her legs. They encircle her shoes in delicate lace and silk. She widens her stance a few inches and reaches back under the dress. I can see her hand moving at the juncture of her thighs and her eyes are still fixed on me, though they start going hazy with the pleasure of her own fingers.
“Did I tell you to touch yourself?” I ask, trailing kisses down her neck, pushing aside the collar of her dress with my chin, sucking the skin tattooed with Neruda into my mouth to make sure she is as sweet as she was this morning.
Just as sweet.
“You didn’t want me to get started without you?” Her fingers slide up and down her slit under the silky material.
“Oh, you can get started.” I slide to my knees. “As long as you know I’m the one finishing you off.”
I duck under her dress and, as gently as I can with a dozen horses galloping through my veins, push her hand aside. Get that shit outta here. Not tonight. When she comes tonight, the first time we make love without a net, it’ll be all me. As hot as it is to watch my wife touch herself, I’m holding myself personally responsible for all her orgasms tonight, kind of like a designated driver, except I’m already drunk on the smell of her and the liquid desire pouring from her pussy while I eat her out in this dark alley. The possibility of discovery heightens every second, like there’s barely time to suck her clit. Barely time to get three fingers inside of her. Barely time to pull these lips into my mouth, except I do take my time. I’m thorough with this, and it’s time well spent when her thighs tremble around my cheeks. She forces my mouth deeper into the V of her body, an act of pure desperation, primal instinct compelling her fingers into my scalp. She thrusts frantically against my face.
I love the scream that rips from her throat as she gushes into my mouth, and I don’t even try to stifle the sound. Anyone who comes back here is getting an eyeful and an education. She starts sliding down the wall, her legs giving out, but I bracket her slim waist with my hands.
“Not yet, baby.” I trap her against the wall with one hand and fumble to get my pants undone with the other. Her eyes are cloudy and sated, but when I jerk her legs up and around my back, she blinks and lust filters back into her stare. I thrust up, deep and hard and sudden, making her breath hitch.
“Grip.” She squeezes her eyes closed, her face wreathed in pleasure. “I do need to walk tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” I press into her, holding her hostage between my body and the brick wall. “Well you should have married some other guy if you need to go around walking all the time.”
“Marry some other guy?” She breathes through a smile. “Never.”
I surge into her again and again and again, relishing the startled sound she makes, like she had no idea I could tunnel deeper into her body than the last time, but I keep making a way. She hooks her arm around my neck for leverage, taking my lips between hers and biting hard enough to sting.
Tension stiffens my back and legs, seethes in my balls as I get closer. Every time I thrust in, those slick walls cling to me, like they don’t want to let me go. Tight and perfect, even Bristol’s pussy is possessive, holding on to me, reminding me who I belong to.
“Grip,” she slurs, drunk on our love, like a shot of moonshine, wild and potent. “Oh, God.”
And then it happens. She goes first, her body clenching and shuddering. Her head drops back against the wall and her eyes slide closed on pure passion. I’m next, and it doesn’t even feel real. Every day is a fantasy with this girl, not just the sex—though . . . dayuuuum, the fucking sex.
But it’s more than that. It’s the depth of this feeling, not just when our bodies lock together, but with every glance, every touch, with the things we tell each other without saying a word. It’s life with her. I’ll never get enough of the emotion careening through my heart right now. I link our hands, pressing them into the wall so I can see the calligraphy tattooed into my ring finger.
When I make love to Bristol knowing that someday soon, she’ll have my child, the vow I spoke to her a year ago today echoes through my mind just as surely as it’s inked into my flesh.
Always.
Evermore.
Even after.
Still.
29
Bristol
I’m having a bad day and Grip is making it worse.
“Would you just sign the contract?” I pop an ibupro
fen for the headache from hell vising my temples.
“Nope,” he answers calmly, eyes fixed on the gigantic television. “I told you I don’t like those dates.”
With the remote aimed at the television, he flips through several channels, all of which start with ESPN. ESPN 2, ESPN News, ESPN Classic—how many ESPNs do we need? He’s the picture of relaxation, feet up on the table, and that only serves to agitate the bee in my proverbial bonnet. I’ve been working all day for him, setting up show dates, speaking with college administrators about the Contagious tour he and Iz launch in a few months, finalizing a new headphones endorsement deal—and that’s just today, and that’s just him. There’s also my list for Kai, Luke, Rhyson, and Jimmi, getting things set up for Kilimanjaro’s release. It’s a shit ton, and I’m only asking him to do this one little thing.
“Please don’t give me crap on this.” I stand beside the couch, trying to remain reasonable. I’ve been doing a good job of being reasonable lately.
“Babe, just rework the deadlines.” His eyes flick briefly from the screen to my face and back, like he’s making sure it’s still me, his wife, and not some irate stranger. “I don’t want to be writing during the holidays, and that deadline Charm is proposing would have me doing that.”
“Not if you’re ahead of schedule.” I perch on the arm of the sofa. “Just rework some studio time and—”
“Rework studio time?” The look he gives me is an ounce of disbelief, a quart of frustration. “But that’s when I want to focus on my next album, not some stupid book of poetry.”
“Stupid book of . . .” Words fail me. I’ve worked my ass off to secure this book deal with one of the finest publishers in the business. “Grip, this is how you diversify. This is brand expansion. This is—”
“This is getting on my last damn nerve is what this is doing. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” He scowls, turns up the volume, and gestures to the big ass flat-screen taking up what seems to be half a wall. “It’s the game, babe. I was in the studio till two o’clock this morning and on conference calls with Iz all day. I just wanna watch the game.”
Men. Oh, my God. They slay me with their hobbies and trivial obsessions.
I plant myself directly in front of the television and put my hands on my hips. I know it’s the universal bitch wife move, but I find myself pulling it anyway.
“Now,” I say obstinately. “Let’s get it settled tonight so when Charm gets to the office in the morning, our signed contract is in her inbox.”
“Move.” Grip’s eyes narrow, not even attempting to look around me. “Or I’m moving you.”
I fold my arms over my chest, raising one brow to dare him. He’s on his feet in a flash, his hands lifting me by my waist, hauling me over his shoulder and stomping down the hall to our bedroom. He tosses me on the bed and walks to the door.
“How about you come out when you’re off the rag,” he snaps on his way out. “Because this shit is ridiculous.”
He doesn’t slam the door. He doesn’t even close it, but in my mind, that’s the sound of his anger: a door slamming shut between us. And the most galling thing?
He’s right.
My foul mood has nothing to do with the contract. I can get Charm to make those changes. They’re so eager to have him, they’d let him publish any time in the next century. It has nothing to do with my heavy workload, but it does have everything to do with my period.
I roll to sit on the floor, my back pressed against the bed and my knees up. I drop my head into my hands, and despite all the warnings I give myself not to cry, tears slip from my eyes.
Four months.
My period has come like clockwork the last four months. I know people try for years before getting pregnant so I shouldn’t be this discouraged after a few months, but when I woke up this morning and realized my cycle was here again, it just soured my whole day.
My head is down, my face covered, but I know as soon as Grip sits on the floor beside me. He’s noiseless, and it’s not even his scent that gives him away. It’s that thing tucked away in my heart, hidden in my soul that responds to him every time he’s near. Emotional, sensual, primal, it’s a call and response that I never asked for, but it’s undeniably there. It always will be.
“Hey.” He pushes the hair back from my hot face. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. My nose is probably red. My cheeks are wet. I’ve been an idiot and a bitch all day, and again he’s the one making the first move to fix things. I don’t want his kindness right now. I don’t deserve it.
With gentle fingers, he pries my hands away from my face. I still don’t look up when he brushes a thumb over the tears pooling under my eyes. He pulls me over to him, settling me sideways on his lap and tucking my head into his neck.
“My period came again,” I mumble.
“I know.” He kisses my eyelashes. “Isn’t that supposed to happen? Like to keep all your girl parts working the way they should?”
“I’m a grown woman.” I smile into his T-shirt, which is damp with my leftover tears. “I don’t have girl parts.”
“Grown woman, girl, I don’t care—I like your parts healthy.” He tips up my chin. “So, from what I understand, this is normal, healthy female stuff. So, what’s the problem?”
“I’m disappointed.” I sigh and trace the calligraphy peeping out from under his wedding band. “I was hoping this month . . . well, you know, that my cycle would not come.”
I swallow fresh tears. Rationally, I know it hasn’t been long. I know there’s sometimes a delay when you get off birth control. I have no idea if I’ll be a good mother, but I want to try. With him, for him, I want to try. There was a time when I saw marriage as just a formality. We had everything else: we lived together, we made love, we shared every aspect of our lives. Really, what could a piece of paper add to what we already had?
But it did.
It does.
Marrying Grip transformed our love, anchored our commitment in a way I hadn’t understood and could not have anticipated. I couldn’t imagine a deeper devotion than what we shared before we married, but marriage to him uncovered fathoms. Instinctively, I know having his children, raising them together will do the same. It will test us in ways, stretch us in ways, bind us in ways I want to explore. I’ll seek out anything that will grow our love.
“I wanna give you a baby, Grip.”
Even in the inky depths of his eyes, my comment sparks light. An answering desire glows back at me. The intensity is magnetic, drawing me in and holding me captive. He wants it, too, but I can tell he deliberately tamps it down.
“You’re just planning to push it out and drop it off?” Grip’s smile lures me even further out of my funk. “What do you mean give me a baby? Are you not sticking around for the next eighteen years?”
“Shut up.” I snuggle deeper into the corrugated plane of his chest and abs. “You know what I mean.”
“This is for us, Bris.” He pulls back only far enough for me to see his face. He’s teasing me into a better mood, but his eyes are serious. “A baby would add to what we already have, yeah, but what we already have is amazing. It’s more than most people ever get because I’m completely content with just you. Do you know how hard it is to be content, to be satisfied in this life? And I found someone who is more than enough to make me happy forever.”
I nod, convinced, but still shaking off the vestiges of my disappointment.
“I don’t want you feeling pressure.” He holds my chin steady between his thumb and finger. “There’s no pressure. I don’t care if you’re not pregnant next month or next year. It’s you and me. Do I want kids? With you? You know I want to see your eyes and my nose and my lips and your whatever all mixed up in beautiful babies.”
My bones, my heart, my muscles—like candles of wax, they melt under the tender heat in his words, the warmth of his stare.
“But if it never happens, I have you,” he says. “Do you understand? You’re it, period—no pun i
ntended.”
He does this every time. He untangles my snarls, uncoils me when I’m tightly wound. Not even five minutes ago, I was teary and sullen, rigid in my hurt and disappointment. Now I’m soft as butter oozing into bread. I’m clinging to him.
“I guess another month, another period.” I hazard a grin when we stand to face each other. “And you’re right, it’s okay.”
“And since you got your period, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
We offer our very different responses at the same time.
“Ice cream.”
“Anal.”
“Well, this is awkward,” Grip says with an unabashed grin.
“Did you say anal?” An astonished, confused laugh pops out of my mouth. “My period comes on, and you go straight to anal? Why?”
“It’s a different . . . door, baby. It’s the back door.” His hand works down my spine, over the curve of my ass, his middle finger slipping into the divide down the middle of my butt. “This month gave us lemons. I’m just making lemonade.”
“In my ass? You’re making lemonade in my ass? That’s your metaphor?”
“More like a segue. I think your period is a great segue into anal. Lots of people do it as a monthly alternative.”
“Um . . . that’s above my lay grade,” I joke. “We’re not doing that.”
“Like never? You don’t want to do anal ever?” Horrified panic extinguishes the teasing light in his eyes. “But I’ve put my thumb in your ass.”
“So?”
“So that was a step to ease you in. Step one, thumb. Step two, cock. My thumb in your ass is like one hard sneeze away from anal.”
I snort, skeptical and unladylike.
“It would take more than a sneeze to get your dick in there.”
“Bris,” he says, patience in his tone and expression. “What’s the difference between my thumb and my dick?”
“Um . . . several inches in sheer girth actually. You are not putting that thing in my ass. You like anal that much?”
“That’s like asking do I like cherry Kool-Aid.”
