Chapter 20 Are We Living Together?
ARE WE LIVING TOGETHER?
ENYA
Idon’t notice it at first. I blame pregnancy brain.
It was gradual—quiet and sneaky, like the way fog rolls in without you realizing the horizon is gone.
One day, Nick says he must sleep at my place because I fainted, and next, he’s sleeping in my bed every night, and suddenly, Dominic Delacour is living in my apartment.
How do I find out? He’s getting his mail here. His mail.
“Why is your name on top of my address?” I ask, holding up a letter from the IRS.
Nick looks up from my stove—my stove—where he is flipping pancakes like Jamie Oliver but with a better body. “The lease on my apartment ran out.”
I gingerly sit at the kitchen island, my hand on my belly. “Ran out?”
“Yeah, last month.”
He says it casual, like no biggie. “I didn’t agree to you moving your mailing address here.” Or you.
He shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he slides a plate in front of me. Perfect pancakes. Lush strawberries. A perfect drizzle of maple syrup.
“This is manipulation,” I mutter.
“This is breakfast,” he corrects.
I want to be irritated with him, but then the baby rolls, and Nick’s eyes go wide like he’s witnessing a miracle. And it’s not the first damn time the baby has kicked. Nick just looks like this every time.
He presses his palm gently to my belly. The baby stirs again.
Nick’s breath catches. “Hi, little one.”
I melt. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
Days turn into a rhythm.
He wakes me up with tea.
He insists I can’t carry anything heavier than a pillow.
He reorganizes my fridge, because he’s cooking and he’s damn good at it.
“My parents own restaurants, and I grew up shucking mudbugs,” he told me arrogantly when I complimented him.
He reads baby books at night in bed with me and asks me questions that lead to weird conversations.
“What’s the circumference of your ankles?”
“What?”
“Just so I know when they start swelling.”
He then gets a measuring tape. Weirdo!
He rubs my back when it aches.
He holds me as I fall asleep.
He talks to my belly when he thinks I’m asleep. It’s so freaking cute.
“Daddy’s here.”
“I can’t wait to meet you.”
“I’ll always take care of you.”
“I love you and your mama very much.”
He’s living at my place—i.e., we’re living together, but we don’t talk about it. I pretend I live alone, and he lets me pretend. The mailman, however, knows the truth. Dominic Delacour lives in my apartment on top of Lucille’s.
I should put my foot down and get him out of here, but then I watch him fold teeny-tiny baby clothes that Daisy shipped to us, and….
“Nick.” I lean against the doorway of the room that’s going to become the nursery.
He looks up from his gentle folding of a yellow onesie with a sunflower on it. “Yeah?”
“You’re living here.”
“Literally or physically?”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve been in my bed for weeks.”
He sets the onesie down and meets my gaze, nervous in a way I’ve never seen him. “If you want me to leave, I will.”
Do I? I try to swallow the truth, but it rises anyway.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to leave.”
His shoulders loosen. “Okay.” His eyes soften. “What do you and Junior feel like for dinner?”
And that’s that. There’s no major news alert, no talking it through, just: okay, what do you feel like for dinner?
He’s started calling the baby Junior. Apparently, it works for a boy or a girl. I asked him what he’s hoping for, and he said, “A child that has your big heart.”
Yeah, he could write dialogue for romance movies. Maybe Daisy should hire him.
There is an intimacy when you live together.
Your toothbrush touches another.
Your bathroom smells like his cologne.
You wake up in the morning to a soft kiss.
You are falling asleep wrapped in warmth and affection.
“Nick,” I murmur a week after we decided he indeed is living in my apartment, and we are now living together as a couple.
“Yeah, baby?” He looks up from the paperback copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I swallow. “Do I look ugly?”
He frowns, places the book aside, and moves closer, his face now level with mine. “Where did that come from?”
“I’m big as a house.”
He smiles. “There’s just more to love.”
I’ve been thinking about having sex with him for days…weeks.
Okay, fine, I think about it all the time.
We kiss. We hug. He’s hard against me in the morning when he spoons me. He does nothing about it. He’s careful about not sexualizing any of our touches, and it’s driving me a little loopy.
I put my arms around him. “So…do you…ah…want me?”
He looks confused for a moment, and then he brushes his lips against mine. “I’d have to be dead to not want you, Enya…and even then…I probably still would.”
He deepens the kiss, his tongue is hot and wet against mine, making love to my mouth.
His hand slides up my nightshirt that barely fits.
My belly’s swollen, round with our baby, and his fingers tremble as they glide over my skin, tracing the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist that’s softer now, fuller.
He rolls atop me, keeping his weight on his forearms, and presses his cock against the notch between my legs.
I can feel the heat through his boxers and my panties.
He licks the seam of my lips. “Does that tell you how much I want you?”
“Yes.” I moan into his mouth, grinding my hips against his, feeling the ache between my legs, the slickness already pooling there.
He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down my neck, sucking and biting, leaving marks that I’ll not regret tomorrow.
“I missed this,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his breath hot against my skin. “Fuck, Enya, I missed you so much.”
“Show me,” I whimper, tugging at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.
He takes it off. I run a finger over his pecs, muscles flexing as he moves, over the scar that could have taken him away even before I had a chance to meet him.
He helps me out of my clothes and groans when he sees my breasts. They're heavier, the nipples and aureoles darker.
He suckles softly. I all but come off the bed.
“Sensitive?” He blows on a nipple. It hardens almost painfully.
“Yes.”
“I can’t wait to see our baby drink from here.” I have no idea why that sounds so hot, but it does.
He palms the heavy globes, kneading, suckling. “I need to taste you,” he murmurs against a wet nipple.
I’m so ready to come, and I know the minute he puts his mouth on me, I will explode. And I cannot wait.
His fingers brush against my clit, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I moan, arching my back, my hands gripping the sheets as his tongue flicks against me, teasing me, driving me insane.
“Nick,” I gasp, my hips grinding against his face, wanting more.
He gives it to me, his tongue pressing harder, lapping at me, fucking me with it. I’m squirming, whimpering, my fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as he eats me out.
“You taste so good,” he growls against me, his breath hot, his lips sucking on my clit, making me cry out.
He slides two fingers inside me, curling, finding that spot that makes me see stars, and I come, my whole body shaking, my thighs clamping around his head as he milks every last drop of pleasure from me.
He stands and takes off his boxers. I look at his erection and lick my lips.
His eyes glaze over with excitement. “You want to taste, baby?”
I nod.
“Next time,” he promises. “This time I want to fuck you into the mattress.”
Nick was my first lover who talked dirty, and it turned me on something fierce. It surprised me how much I like his sexy voice telling me what he wants to do to me, what he wants me to do to him.
He climbs up my body, his cock brushing against my thigh, leaving a wet trail.
He kisses me as he settles atop me, keeping his weight on his forearms and up off of my belly.
I can taste myself on his lips, salty and sweet, and it’s erotic.
“I need you,” he growls, his voice rough.
He rises and grips my hips, lifting them slightly to accommodate my belly.
My breath comes in short gasps, my body still trembling from my orgasm.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and I’m so wet, so ready for him.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching me, filling me, and I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He’s thick, so thick, and it’s almost too much, the way he stretches me, the way he fills me.
He pauses, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath ragged.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You feel…God, you feel amazing. Like…home.”
“Move,” I beg, my legs wrapping around his waist.
He does, his hips rolling, his cock sliding in and out of me, slow and deep. My hips meet his, thrust for thrust, with the bed creaking beneath us.
“Open your eyes, baby.”
I do, and he holds my gaze.
There’s so much emotion there, so much love, so much need. I can feel it all, in the way he’s moving, in the way he’s touching me, like he’s trying to tell me, with his body, what he’s said so many times—words I haven’t responded to.
“I love you,” he breathes, his voice breaking.
Tears prick at my eyes. And finally, I give him the words I haven’t since he came back to me.
“I love you, too,” I whimper, my hands cupping his face.
He fucks me harder, his thrusts deeper, faster. My body tightens around him, my orgasm building again.
“Come for me, Enya.” His hands grip my hips forcefully.
I’m so close, so very close, and when his thumb presses against my clit, rubbing in tight circles, I’m gone.
My body convulses around him, my cries muffled against his shoulder.
He follows me over the edge, his cock pulsing inside me, his groans guttural against my ear.
As we come down from the high, we cling to each other, aware that everything changed between us with those three words I gave him.
He pulls out, and collapses onto the bed beside me, his hand resting on my belly.
I can feel our baby move, little kicks and flutters, and I smile, my eyes closing as I press myself against Nick.
“I’m not letting you go again.” His lips brush against my forehead. “Not ever.”
I believe him.