And I hate to sound like a fucking creep, because that’s how it’s going to come off, but hearing her moan like that takes me back to my birthday, to that night, the way she writhed on top of me right before I made us switch positions.
It’s hard not to think about that night, especially when I can honestly say it’s the best I’ve ever had.
And I don’t know if it’s because I’d wanted her for so long, or if it was because it was my birthday . . . or if it was because it was just her, but either way, sitting across from her in that buttoned-up robe outfit, I find myself wanting her all over again.
“Are you going to eat your cinnamon bun?” she asks, pulling me out of my reverie.
“Oh yeah, uh-huh,” I say as I dive into the bun with my fork. “So what are your plans for today?”
“Reading probably,” she answers.
“Cool. What are you reading?”
“A pregnancy book. You know, just so I know what to expect.”
“Oh, yeah. Do you want me to read it too?”
She vehemently shakes her head. “I’d rather you not know what’s happening to my body. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to keep that a secret.”
“It might help me better understand moments like we had this morning.”
She bites down on her cinnamon bun, leaving a dollop of icing on her finger that she licks off. Like the goddamn pervert that I am, I watch her intensely as she drags her tongue over her finger, envisioning what it would be like if it was my cock instead.
“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes,” she says. “The first trimester, I’m going to be an emotional wreck. I won’t be able to control any of my hormones, so if I’m laughing hysterically one moment and then crying my heart out the next, just know, it’s the little alien baby inside me that’s controlling my every move.” I chuckle at that. “And I’m also supposed to not feel great during the first trimester, which, check, I’ve got that covered.” She makes a check mark in the air. “In addition, I’m supposed to experience severe heartburn, feel incredibly bloaty, and as you might have guessed it from this morning, I’ll be quite farty. So that will be an utter joy for you . . . and me.”
“I mean, we can make the most of it. Do you want a designated fart zone? Somewhere where you can take care of business, thus an area I know to avoid?”
She stares at me blankly. What? I thought it was a good idea. When her nose curls in disgust, I know she disagrees.
“I’d rather accidentally let one out in front of you than have you know I’m going to a designated fart zone to let loose. Jesus, that would be humiliating. Could you imagine? Me entering a taped-off zone in the living room that you should never go near in fear of . . . God, I can’t even finish the sentence.” Her eyes connect with mine and pin me with seriousness. “There will be no zone. Nothing. Do you hear me?”
“Got it. No zone.” I hold my hands up. “That was a completely useless suggestion, and I should never have brought it up.”
“Well, you don’t have to say it like that. I know you were trying to be nice, and I appreciate it, but if we can just move on from all that stuff this morning, that would be great.”
“Fair, we can do that for sure. I just have one more question.”
In a deadpanned tone, she says, “Is this about Dr. Big Pecs?”
“I just need to know how big.”
“Ugh, you’re annoying.” She takes another bite of her bun and answers, “They jut out a few good inches past his chin.”
“A few inches?” I ask incredulously. “Seriously?” I glance down at my chest and then back at Penny. “Do my pecs extend past my chin?”
She picks up her glass of water and takes a sip. “Not like Dr. Big Pecs.” She shrugs and then goes back to her cinnamon bun.
“Do men experience crazy hormones as well?” I ask. “Because I’m feeling pretty emotional and inferior about Dr. Big Pecs.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “His head is too small for his broad shoulders. He has a whole Beetlejuice shrinking head thing going on, so you don’t want his pecs. You are perfect as you are.”
My brows raise in surprise before I lean forward on the table. “Perfect, huh?” I waggle my eyebrows, which only causes her to shake her head at me. “Tell me more about that.”
“You’re perfect, Eli, but you could afford to learn how not to snore at night.”
I sit taller, appalled. “I do not fucking snore.”
And once again, with a grin on her face, she just shrugs her shoulders and continues to eat her cinnamon bun.
