I carry her to the bedroom, taking my time undressing her, worshipping every inch of skin I reveal. She’s even more beautiful now than she was three months ago—more confident, more relaxed, more willing to let me see all of her.
“You’re incredible,” I tell her, pressing kisses along her collarbone. “Do you know that? Do you know how fucking perfect you are?”
She arches beneath me, hands fisted in my hair. “Show me,” she says again.
I work my way down her body, taking my time with my mouth until her thighs are shaking around my head. When she comes apart on my tongue, I’m already hard enough to hurt, but I’m not done with her yet.
“Again,” I tell her, sliding two fingers inside her while my mouth finds that spot that makes her hips buck off the bed.
“I can’t—” she starts, but I prove her wrong, making her come again before I finally give us both what we need.
When I push inside her, she’s so slick, so tight around me that I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing control immediately.
“Fuck, you feel good,” I manage, setting a pace that has her meeting me thrust for thrust.
She wraps her legs around my waist, changing the angle, and suddenly I’m hitting deeper, making her gasp my name with every movement.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes against my neck. “Please don’t stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. Not until she’s falling apart beneath me again, taking me with her.
Afterward, we’re sprawled across the bed, sweaty and satisfied. She traces lazy patterns on my chest while I try to remember how to form coherent thoughts. This is my favorite time—the quiet after, when she’s soft and pliant against me, when I can hold her and just listen to her breathe.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, suddenly remembering the conversation I’ve been putting off.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous. Just... something you should know about.” I reach for my phone on the nightstand. “I’ve been getting messages. Since the custody thing became public.”
Her body tenses slightly. “What kind of messages?”
“Look for yourself.” I unlock my phone, opening Instagram to the DM requests I haven’t bothered reading in detail. “I wanted you to see them. So you know I’m not hiding anything from you.”
She takes the phone, scrolling through the notifications. Her eyebrows rise higher with each one.
“Wow,” she says finally. “These women are... direct.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She reads a few out loud. “‘Hey gorgeous, heard you’re dating someone basic now. When you get bored...’ Oh, this one’s classy: ‘Your girlfriend looks like a soccer mom. Call me when you want a real woman.’ And my personal favorite: ‘Saw the custody drama on the news. You deserve someone without baggage.’”
I watch her face carefully, looking for signs of hurt or insecurity. “How do you feel about that?”
“Honestly? Kind of flattered that they see me as enough of a threat to attack.” She scrolls through more messages, shaking her head. “Some of these photos though...”
“I know. I don’t even look at them.”
“You should probably block some of these accounts. This one sent you five photos of her boobs.”
“Already on it,” I assure her, taking the phone back and demonstrating how quickly I can hit the block button. “I wanted you to see them first, though. So you know that I’m getting this attention and I’m not interested.”
She studies my face. “Why show me? Most guys would just delete them and never mention it.”
“Because I don’t want there to be anything between us that you don’t know about. And because...” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Because I need you to understand that all this attention means nothing to me. You’re it for me, Goldie. You and the kids. Everything else is just noise.”
Her smile turns knowing. “I can tell. You get this look on your face.”
“What look?”
