31. Hugo
Chapter 31
Hugo
Can I touch it?
Did I really ask that?
It's not a puppy at an adoption fair. I wish I could rewind the moment, take it back, but it's too late now because the question is out there. There's no use berating myself.
Mallory said yes, but odd questions require a double check. "Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, Mallory says, "Sit up."
I do as she says. From her propped up on her elbow position, she motions her chin toward her stomach. "Peanut's waiting."
Tentatively, I reach out. I didn't touch Vivi's belly when she was pregnant. What reason would I have? She was married, and as much of a jerk as her husband turned out to be, that guy was all over her belly. I never asked because she looked like she had enough from him. Also, she's my sister. I'll hug her all day long, but touching her stomach felt too intimate.
Too intimate, yet here I am, pressing my uncertain fingers against the fabric of Mallory's clothing. Mallory sits up, covering my hand with her own. She takes over, sending my touch on a path across the top of her stomach, traveling down the other side and under, then back up and across the top.
"It's...firm," I finish lamely. I don't know what else to say.
"It has to be, to protect Peanut. Wild, right?" She keeps her hand on mine, running it in a small circle. Mischievous glint in her eyes, she asks, "You don't have a breeding kink, do you, Hugo?"
Shock sends my head back an inch. "I don't know what that means exactly, but I can use context clues. The answer is no."
She chuckles. "I'm not one hundred percent certain, either. I was just wondering if a pregnant belly is, like, a thing for you."
My hand stills under hers. "Uh, no." Then I realize how I've said it, and now I'm doubling back to fix what I said. "It's not a thing for me, but it's not not a thing, either." Fuck. I've bungled this whole conversation. So I sigh, grab a metaphorical shovel, and dig myself even deeper. "It's more the person the belly is attached to. I mean?—"
Mallory's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. "You can quit while you're behind. "
I slip my hand out from under hers. That's enough belly fondling for today.
Mallory tips her face up to the sun with eyes closed, propping herself up with a hand flat behind her. Her other hand absentmindedly strokes her belly.
The sun dapples her skin, presses into her shiny, dark hair. That suede skirt rides up, showing more of her toned thighs. She mentioned my gym earlier, maybe I should learn some exercises safe for her and Peanut. We can work out together. Already I can picture her on my treadmill, ponytail swinging, face flushed.
"You know, Hugo," she says, eyes still closed, "nobody has ever done something this nice for me unless they wanted to get in my pants." Her eyes open, gaze slicing to me.
I'm not sure what to say. After the breeding kink debacle, my mouth is better off closed. But I can't deny or hide the shade of crimson flashing over my neck. I remember every second of what she felt like in my arms in my kitchen in the middle of the night, and every night I've thought of her. What it would be like to hold her again. Hear those tiny little moans of hers. Make them louder.
Mallory shakes out her hair, gives me the fuckin' cutest look I've ever seen. "Are you trying to get into my pants, Hugo?"
My breath comes quicker. There's an easy answer to this question, but it's not simple. Within that answer are many other thoughts, emotions, considerations. And I should probably say no, though that would be a lie .
Mallory grins lightly. Teasing. She's playful. Flirting. I think I know what she wants my answer to be.
My fingers find her ankle, fall over her skin. Lightly I stroke with my fingers, run circles with my thumb. She swallows, and I know she's trying to appear unaffected.
"I'm not trying to get in your pants ." My light touch travels north, up her calf. Behind her knee.
Her breath hitches.
"This skirt, though? That's a different story." My touch climbs. "I don't need in. Only"—I glance at her, my fingers hovering at the hem of the fabric—"under."
Mallory's tongue slips out, presses against the center of her top lip. A pink flush sweeps over her cheeks. "Yes," she whispers.
Over soft skin my fingers travel, blazing a trail up the inside of her thigh. The heat coming off her warms my hand, makes me hungry for her.
"Lie back," I tell her. I want her comfortable, enjoying my touch. She lowers herself, and I lay out beside her. Her lips are pouty and perfect, and I capture them in a searing kiss. Like last time, it's unbelievable how good it feels. How right.
I find the silk edge of her underwear, my touch slipping beneath. She arches into me, rubbing her hand over my neck. My fingers split her, locating my target, and she gasps when I slide inside. Against her neck, I whisper, "I brought you out here to show you my favorite place, because I knew you would find it special, too. And this?" I curl my finger. Add my thumb and turn circles. "This is because I've spent too much time thinking about your little moans, and how good they would sound if they were louder, and for me."
On cue, she groans. More emphatic than in my kitchen. I kiss her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders. She hangs on and whimpers, nails dragging through my hair.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur. "Always, but especially like this."
She grows slicker, hotter, and then she clenches around me, eyes closing and head tipping back. "Hugo," she moans my name, and it sounds better than when my name was announced during the medal ceremony at the Olympics.
My lips press to the hollow of her throat, not letting up, making sure she's squeezed every drop from her orgasm. When I pull away and find her eyes, her cheeks are bright red.
"I wasn't expecting that," she says. "I...I don't know what to say."
I'm adjusting her skirt, gathering myself and my thoughts. Then I press a kiss to her forehead, because I have found that I like doing that. I don't think I've ever done that before.
"I like you, Mallory, and I'm tired of pretending I don't, or that I shouldn't." Honesty is best, right? I have no interest in playing games with this woman.
"I feel the same, Hugo." Her chest still heaves as her heart rate slows, her eyes glassy with post-pleasure glow. "I have since the first time we spoke. But—" she falters, glancing with concern at her stomach. "Does this not bother you?"
"Should it?"
"I don't think most men would be thrilled about it."
I shrug. It's hard to explain, but I'll try. "I like you, and that's right about where the thought process ends. Not because of your baby, or despite it. I like you, period. Full stop."
She smiles. Not a beaming grin, but something slower. "I'll accept that response."
We finish the picnic Vivi packed us, including the shortbread cookies I didn't notice. Mallory's flush on her cheeks dissipates, but I smell her on my fingers. It makes me hard.
Mallory asks me more questions about fencing, and what it was like to qualify and compete in the Olympics. I ask her about previous podcast episodes, and where she records.
It ends up being one of the best afternoons I've had in a very long time. I'm not surprised.
With Mallory in the picture, everything feels better. Brighter.