25. Andrea
— ? —
Andrea
The baby is due in three weeks, give or take.
I’m enormous. There’s no other word for it. My belly blocks my view of my feet. I waddle instead of walking. I pee approximately every fifteen minutes.
I’ve never been happier.
Here’s what the books don’t warn you about: third trimester hormones. Kirk reaches over my head for the remote, his shirt rides up, and I nearly bite him. Swollen ankles, heartburn from a glass of water, a bladder the size of a walnut, and I still want to climb my husband and stay there.
He’s being respectful, I remind myself. He’s being patient.
Patience is overrated. Setting down my tea, I tell him so.
“Andrea.” He goes very still, remote forgotten in his hand. “You’re due in three weeks.”
“I’m aware. I’m the venue.”
“The doctor said-”
“The doctor said it’s safe unless she tells us otherwise, and she has not told us otherwise, and you have been treating me like a museum exhibit for a month.
” I take the remote out of his hand and set it on the coffee table.
“I’m not glass, Kirk. I’m the size of a parade float, and I would like to be kissed like you mean it. ”
“You’re not a parade float.”
“Kirk.”
“You’re a very beautiful, very pregnant-”
“Kirk.”
He means it.
He kisses me slow and deep, one hand cradling my jaw, and when I climb into his lap, an engineering project at this stage, involving planning and at least one throw pillow casualty, he laughs into my mouth and helps, his hands spanning my hips like they were drafted for the job.
“Tell me if anything-” he starts.
“If you finish that sentence I’m going back to my tea.”
He grins against my neck, and I feel it more than see it.
His mouth finds my throat, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin there, and I make a sound I’d be embarrassed about if I had any dignity left.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, the hard lines of his chest pressing against my breasts. God, he’s so hot. Even after all this time, the scent of him - sandalwood and warm skin - makes my head swim.
“Still good?” he murmurs against my skin.
“If you stop I’ll kill you.”
“Noted.”
His hands slide under my shirt - his shirt, actually, because none of mine fit anymore - and I arch into the touch like I’m starving for it. Which I am. Weeks of sleeping in separate rooms, of rebuilding trust brick by careful brick, and now we’re finally here. On our couch. In our house. Together.
His palms are hot, sliding over the stretched skin of my stomach. He doesn’t just touch me; he worships me. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers splaying across the curve of my belly, tracing the taut, shimmering skin.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Andrea,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against my collarbone. “I can’t get over you. This - all of this. You’re incredible.”
I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the bunch and ripple of his muscles. I want him. I want him inside me so badly it feels like a physical ache that rivals the pressure of the baby. I reach down, my fingers fumbling with his belt, desperate to get him out of those trousers.
I’m working his belt loose when the baby kicks him square in the stomach.
Kirk jerks back, one hand flying to his stomach like he’s been shot. “Jesus-”
I drop my forehead to his shoulder, laughing too hard to keep my hands anywhere useful. “She doesn’t like getting jostled.”
“She’s got a problem with me already?” He rubs the spot, mock-wounded, but his other hand stays spread wide over my belly, and he goes quiet when he feels her roll under it.
“She’s got opinions.” I lift my head so I can see his face. “Strong ones. She gets that from you.”
“I don’t have strong opinions.” He says it against my jaw, already kissing his way back down.
“You sent a steak back three times last week.” I push my fingers into his hair.
“It was overcooked.” He doesn’t slow down.
“It was medium rare. You ordered medium rare.”
“Their medium rare was wrong.” He pulls back just far enough to look me dead in the eye, completely serious about the steak, and that’s what does it - I’m laughing into the space between us while his hands drag me closer.
I’m still laughing when he kisses me again, and then I’m not laughing at all.
His forehead presses against mine, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my core throb.
He reaches down, sliding his hand beneath the waistband of my maternity leggings, his fingers finding the damp heat of my pussy.
I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively against his hand.
“You’re so wet for me,” he groans, his thumb circling my clit with a precision that nearly sends me over the edge right there. “My gorgeous, glowing girl.”
He works me with a slow, torturous rhythm, his other hand supporting the weight of my belly, holding me close. I can feel the friction, the slick slide of his fingers, and I’m practically sobbing into his mouth. I need more. I need the weight of him.
He helps me shift, guiding me until I’m draped across him, my heavy belly resting comfortably against his thigh. He frees his cock, and I marvel at the sight of it - thick, pulsing, and ready. He doesn’t rush. He guides himself to my opening, pausing for a second to look me in the eyes.
“I love you,” he breathes. “Both of you. All of it. Even the parade float.”
“Take it back.”
“Never.”
“I’m serious. Take it back or this parade float is closed for business.”
He laughs into my hair, but the sound is cut short as he pushes inside me. I let out a long, shuddering breath, my eyes falling shut. He sinks in to the hilt, stretching me in a way that feels like coming home. It’s a tight, heavy fit, made more intense by the pressure of the pregnancy.
He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, mindful of my body but driven by a raw, desperate need. Every time he pushes in, I feel the connection - not just between us, but the way our daughter reacts to the rhythm. He groans, his hands gripping my ass, pulling me harder against him.
“You feel so good,” he pants, his voice strained. “So tight. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a bruising kiss. I can feel the muscles in his back flexing, the sweat beginning to bead on his skin. I move with him, a slow, grinding dance, the friction of our bodies creating a heat that consumes everything else in the room.
He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent, though he never loses that tenderness, his hand always returning to stroke my belly, praising me between gasps.
“My perfect wife,” he whimpers, his pace accelerating. “My beautiful, sexy girl.”
The tension builds low and unbearable until I can’t breathe. I feel the first wave of the orgasm crash over me, my internal muscles clamping tight around his cock. I scream his name into his shoulder, my whole body shaking.
Seconds later, Kirk follows me over with a broken groan, grinding deep as he spills inside me, warmth radiating through my entire pelvis.
Afterward, wrecked and warm, I lie against his chest while he traces circles on my belly. Our daughter rolls under his palm like she’s greeting him, and his breath catches every single time.
“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my temple.
“I know,” I murmur, drifting off to the sound of his heart beating against my ear. “Now go get me some water. I’m parched.”
“We should pack your hospital bag,” he says.
I groan into his chest. “Kirk. We packed it two weeks ago.”
“I know.” He’s got his phone out, scrolling something, and I realize it’s a list. “I just keep thinking of stuff we might need.”
“Like what?”
“Chapstick. Snacks. A blanket, in case the room’s cold.” He counts them off on his fingers, which would be adorable if it weren’t midnight.
“The bag has chapstick.” I don’t lift my head. “You put three in there. That’s a chapstick for every stage of labor.”
“Okay, but batteries. For the-”
“For nothing. Nothing in that room runs on batteries.”
“What if your phone dies?”
“Then it dies, and I have the baby the old-fashioned way.” I pat his knee. “Women did this in covered wagons.”
“Andrea.”
“Kirk.” I push myself up so I can actually see his face. His jaw’s tight. His eyes have that look, the one they get when he’s winding himself up. “You can’t buy your way out of being scared. There’s nothing in a store that makes this not scary.”
He lets out a breath and sinks back into the couch. Caught.
“I’m nervous,” he says. Quiet.
“I know.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if the cord’s wrapped, or the heartbeat drops, or-” He drags a hand down his face.
“Hey.” I catch the hand before it can go again. “Look at me.”
He looks. His eyes are wet.
“We’ve got the best doctor in the city. We’ve got a plan. We’ve got a bag with three chapsticks and batteries for nothing.” That gets me half a smile out of him. “We’re as ready as two scared people can be.”
“But what if-”
“Kirk.” I wait until his breathing slows down. “When it happens, I’m going to be scared and it’s going to hurt, and I need you to be the calm one. Not the other scared one. The calm one. Can you do that?”
He thinks about it for a second, actually thinks about it, which is somehow the thing that gets me.
“I can do that,” he says.
“You sure? Because I can put Melissa on backup-”
“I can do that.” He pulls me back into his side and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be whatever you need. Even if I’m freaking out on the inside.”
“You’re allowed to freak out on the inside. Just keep it there.”
“On the inside.” He nods, like he’s filing it away. “Got it.”
“And maybe leave the batteries home.”
“The batteries are coming.”
“Kirk-”
“They’re coming. That’s final.” He says it into my hair, so it loses most of its authority.
I laugh. “Fine. And when nothing needs batteries and we look like idiots-”
“Then we’ll be idiots who came prepared.” He kisses my temple and stands up, stretching. “Where’s your tea? There’s a garbage reality show with my name on it.”
“Your name? You hate that show.”
“I’ve come around on it.” He’s already halfway to the kitchen.