Page 122 of Everything But Mine

Then, his body tightens under my touch, and the kiss freezes. The ridges of his cock strain against my skin—bigger, longer, harder. He’s so close it’s hard to breathe until he… whimpers.

Everything stalls. Instead of an explosion, there’s just a slow, excruciating deflation. He trembles and softens. This is his honesty too.

I wait for him to pull away, and withdraw or apologize. He stays exactly where he is, forehead against mine, hands still on my skin. Because he understands this moment isn’t a failure, it’s part of us.

So we pour back into the kiss. No trace of shame or embarrassment as we keep touching, stroking, kissing throughout the moment. The tenderness between us is palpable in every stroke of skin, the desire lingers between my legs and in his softness. And more than anything else, there’s love. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him tighter. Eric exhales against my temple. Tonight, we healed each other, just a little bit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ERIC

In our apartment, my bedsheets smell like her. Every night now, she comes into bed and lies next to me. I don’t ask to feel the baby move anymore. My hands always find her belly, and hers always find me. So why can’t I just tell her to give up on this baby swing?

“These swings are all hideous,” she mutters, arms crossed over the rise of her belly. “Why do they all look like spaceships?”

I smirk as I crouch to check the label. “You’re nesting.”

She gives me a flat look. “Don’t patronize me.”

She leans back against a shelf stacked with diapers, shooting her hands to her lower belly and pushing up against gravity. I step beside her and hold the weight of her stomach as if I can carry it for her. The skin pulls taut under my hands, and my breath hitches.

“That’s just Braxton Hicks.”

She’s thirty-four weeks and three days, cantaloupe-sized. I know it’s all normal: the tension of her skin; Beckett’s kicks against the contraction; the frequent breaks when we walk. Still, anxiety takes hold of me if she so much as looks out of breath. The tale of her own birth and how rough it was on her mom, Sandro’s every word in a tale I begged him to recount so I could be ready. Preeclampsia’s heritability is high, but you can’t live in fear, he said.

“You know Diego’s sisters would love to throw you a shower. We don’t need to do this ourselves.” I glance at the checklist Val made us print out.

“We’ve had enough dramatic gatherings to last us a lifetime.” She fists her hands on her hips.

“Let’s look for a bassinet.” I pull her around the shelf to the next aisle. “The swing can wait.”

She tilts her head. “Why are you so good at this?”

I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of time to read.” And worry. And plan.

“So…” She brushes her thumb against the inside of my palm. “How do you like to have your dick sucked?”

I choke on my own saliva, coughing, while she pats my back. This is our homework to “normalize and demystify sexual intimacy.” It’s been… enlightening.

“You want to talk about this at the baby store?”

“I like to multitask.”

I snort. “O-okay.” Here we go. I scratch the back of my neck. “If I’m honest, my foreplay repertoire isn’t… extensive.”

Amanda snorts now, pressing her lips sideways.

“Look,” I explain. “Sure, when I was a teen, I wanted to try things. So, yeah, I had a few blowjobs and went down on a girl or two.” Heat gathers on my cheeks. “Then, college came and… well, sex hasn’t been intimacy for me.”

Her brows pinch. “You’ve been…” Her gaze shifts around, searching for the right word. “Active all this time.”

I nod and take a deep breath. “But I haven’t slept with the same person twice since I was twenty.”

Her mouth falls open, and I kiss it closed. I tug her forward to look at the bassinets.

“Why?”

I tap my fingers on the outside of my thigh and look down. “Because I wanted you.”