“Don’t apologize for bodily functions.” I stroke my hands up her back, cupping the wings of her shoulder blades. I glide them back down, brushing the upper curve of her rear. “Don’t apologize for the fact that the dad you defended left you with a mountain of trust issues. You don’t owe me a single ‘I’m sorry,’ Hazel. Not one damn apology.”
Tipping her head back, she looks into my eyes. “What about penance?”
“Huh?”
Something salacious sparks in her eyes, a gleam that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I really think penance would make me feel better.”
“Uh…okay.” My cock stirs to life as she grinds against me. “You’re Catholic?”
“No.” She licks her lips. “But I do feel like being on my knees would help.”
“Uh…what?”
All the blood leaves my brain as she folds up the dishtowel and drops it at my feet. “Oops,” she says, grinning. “I don’t have time to go get the kneepads, so this will have to do.”
“What are you—oh my God.” I stare as she sinks to her knees, hooking her fingers on my belt buckle. “Hazel.”
“I haven’t always been good to you, Luke.” She unfastens my belt, eyes searching mine. “In fact, I’ve been very bad.”
“The worst,” I grit out as she tugs down my zipper. “Such a terrible, horrible—oh my God, woman.” Gripping the counter, I watch as she draws me deep into her lush, heated mouth. “Are you trying to kill me?”
She giggles around me but doesn’t stop sucking. It’s probably wrong to love watching this act by the woman who’s carrying my children. Wrong to love seeing Hazel down on her knees. So fucking wrong how much I love the hot, slick slide of her mouth.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, gripping the counter. “Please don’t fucking stop.”
She doesn’t.
Chapter 12
Hazel
Spoiler alert: The tryst in my kitchen is hardly the last time Luke and I get intimate.
We have sex in the luxury steam shower in my primary bath.
We have outdoorsy sex in his pickup en route to Portland to purchase an antique changing table. The rambutan we bought on the way gets crushed in the heat of the moment.
We have sex in the butler’s pantry off my kitchen in November, when I daringly host Thanksgiving dinner.
And when my belly swells to uncomfortable dimensions, we have doggie-style sex on the chaise by my Christmas tree with a pillow propped under my middle.
But it’s more than just sex, I’ll confess. As much as I try to deny it. As much as I deeply believe that a platonic co-parenting relationship is the only one that truly makes sense.
Tell that to my idiot heart, which starts banging around like a bug in a bottle anytime I come within six feet of Luke. As my due date draws near, we grow closer with each pregnancy milestone.
We bond over awkward birthing classes and a Lamaze course where one woman farts so loudly the sound of it rings through the room. Luke somehow succeeds in stifling his laughter, but I’m not as lucky. Until I was seven-and-a-half months pregnant with twins, I never knew “laughed so hard I peed” was more than a figure of speech.
Today marks thirty weeks in my pregnancy, and also our final birthing class. Luke holds my hand as our instructor reviews final preparations.
“Does everyone have their labor bag packed and ready to go?” She surveys the room and our fellow classmates. “At this stage, it’s crucial to be prepared.”
A woman beside us in a blue maternity tracksuit raises her hand. “I had questions about one of the items on the packing list.”
“Let me guess.” The instructor smiles. “The goldfish net?”
Luke and I trade a mystified look. Glancing around, he leans close and whispers. “Uh, did we have a goldfish net on our list?”
“No.” Maybe that’s a joke.
