I stare at the ceiling.
My heart is pounding, but from guilt and not from an amazing release.
How do we start this co-parenting thing with me lying to him?
Foster stays on top of me, taking care not to put all his weight on me. Still, he’s heavy and warm, breathing hard against my skin. Then he lifts his head, eyes soft, a satisfied little smile tugging at his mouth.
“You good?” His question is quieter this time.
This is the moment to tell him.
I force my lips into something that resembles a smile. “Yeah.”
He rolls to his side, pulling me with him as though he can’t stand not touching me. His arm wraps around my waist, and he kisses my shoulder.
And this moment would be perfect.
If I wasn’t racked with guilt.
The room is quiet except for our breathing as it slows. His fingers trace absent circles on my hip, and I stare at his tattoos while the confession sits like a boulder in my throat.
I tell myself to let it go. To keep and bury the secret.
He got what he needed.
He thinks I did too.
It’s easier than watching him leave because I’m such a disappointment to him.
No harm, no foul.
Except there is harm. It’s in the way my body still feels tight and not fully satisfied. It’s in the way my chest aches because I’m lying to him.
It’s in the way I can already feel resentment trying to take root, not toward him, but toward myself.
And I refuse to let that happen.
I take a deep breath, then I turn my head to look at him.
Foster’s eyes are closed, his face relaxed, as though he finally released some of the weight he’s been carrying around.
My stomach twists. “Foster.”
His eyes snap open. “You didn’t, did you?”
The way he’s able to read my tone unnerves me.
I shake my head. I hate that my reflex is always to lie about it.
For a beat, he looks at me. My heart hammers. My entire body braces for him to be offended. Embarrassed. Annoyed. For him to make a joke about how something’s wrong with me. Worse, for him to retreat.
“I didn’t want to.” The words tumble out, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fake it, I mean. I just—you were right there, and I could tell you were close, and my brain just wouldn’t turn off?—”
He touches my cheek, stopping my spiral with one gentle gesture. “Hey, look at me.”
I do, and I see none of what I assumed would be written on his face. If anything, I see only concern.
“You having an orgasm isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
