Kit
“Stop,” I whisper against him. And then, when he keeps muttering that I’m too strong and a pillar and all kinds of othernonsense about how he’ll hold me up as long as I let him, I mutter, “Shut up,” and shove him far enough back so I can reach for his zipper. He’s hard, thick.
We both watch as I slowly pull him out, the sounds of the world waking up beyond this place too far to matter.
His face right now is lost, his eyes glazed at half-mast.
I stroke him once, twice. His head drops back, those bright eyes disappear behind heavy lids.
I want him lost like this forever, his body—his pleasure—in my hands.
His heart.
Shit. Hisheart.
A tear slides from my eye down my cheek. I don’t bother wiping it. It’s been nothing but emotion today and I can’t imagine that’s about to change.
Instead, I let it fill me. The pain and the tenderness. The affection and all the other stuff I’m feeling for this man who’s already taken on my burdens, who’s shown me with his body and his actions how much he cares.
I reach down and drag my skirt up, catching his light eyes on me. His big, rough hands go straight to my waist, my hips, his mouth returns to take mine like he’s been waiting for just this opportunity.
The kiss builds and builds again and his hand’s on my ass, the other stretching my poor panties to one side, and he effortlessly heaves me up against the rough wall and he’s there, filling me one slow inch at a time. As soon as he’s fully seated, our mouths return to exploring and teasing and tasting, learning to make love under fresh terms.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, my sighs mingling with his on the surface of our sensitive skin. “I’m so scared.”
He hums into my mouth, tightens his hold on me as he thrusts and I tighten my legs as we move together. We both gaspat the tight fit, the swollen pleasure, the quiet intensity of this new position, sharing things that are more than skin deep.
“I’m here,” he whispers as our hips circle tighter, harder, our bodies barely moving under the shelter of my skirt.
“What if…”
“I’m here.”
It’s not the words that eventually get to me, not the way he easily handles my body or his cock fills me to bursting. More than want and relief and the hunger I’d excised from my wishlist a hundred years ago, it’s his gaze on mine that does it, steady and serious and sure of this one thing. Of me. Us.
When he reaches down and rubs me between my legs and I clamp tighter to him, the thing that finally pushes me over is his mouth hot on mine and the words, “I love you,” on his tongue.
By the time the whole thing’s over, only a handful of minutes have passed. We were quick, by necessity, and once we get ourselves straightened up and sneak out from the shelter behind the shrubbery, past the park benches and out to where the hospital’s fully awake, I feel every inch as exhausted and battered as I must look.
I head to the restroom as soon as we get in and clean up as best I can. Jake’s waiting for me when I come out.
“Talked to the social worker.” He holds up a card. “Said she’d update me, if she can.”
We’re in my car, driving us home when, out of the blue, he says, “You done a test yet? Recently?”
“What?” My body jumps so hard it takes an effort not to jerk the wheel.
“Pregnancy test. You done one?”
Eyes glued to the road, I shake my head.
“You, uh… You want to stop off? Get one?”
“Now?”
He hums, a frustrated sound. I don’t know exactly what’s going through his mind, but I understand the sentiment.
“I want to know if I’m gonna be a dad.”
