Chapter 28
SLOANE
Tucker's mouth is on my neck, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts into me from behind. We're in the kitchen, my palms flat on the cool marble island, my belly hanging heavy in front of me.
"God, Sloane," he groans. "You feel so fucking good."
I should stop doing this. Should remind him we have things to do today—I have reading for my epidemiology class, he has a team meeting later. We shouldn't be doing this again.
But then he hits that spot inside me, and I stop thinking altogether.
"Tucker—" His name comes out as a gasp. “More. Please."
“Yeah,” he promises against my shoulder. "Never stopping."
I come hard, my whole body shaking with it. He follows seconds later, his fingers digging into my hips as he spills inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard. Then he eases out carefully and helps me straighten up.
"You okay?" he asks, turning me to face him. His hair is disheveled, his face flushed. He looks thoroughly satisfied.
"Yeah." I lean against the island, my legs still shaky. "We really need to stop doing this."
"Do we?" He grins, completely unrepentant. "Because it’s pretty great...”
"We've had sex in every room of this apartment."
"Not every room." He counts on his fingers. "We haven't done the laundry room yet. Or the guest bathroom. Or—"
"Tucker." But I'm smiling despite myself.
He pulls me close, mindful of my belly between us. "What's wrong with enjoying each other? The sex is incredible."
“It is,” I admit. "But that doesn't mean—"
"Doesn't mean what?" His blue eyes search my face. We’ve been putting this conversation off for way too long. “Are we together, Sloane?” He seems so vulnerable despite being the size of a lumberjack. “Because you live here, you’re pregnant with my kids, and we fuck six times a day…we’re sort of together.”
Yes. That's exactly what I mean. But I can't seem to make myself say it.
Because the truth is, I want him all the time—morning, night, in between. It's like pregnancy has turned me into someone I don't recognize, someone who can't keep her hands off Tucker Stag.
"We should get dressed," I say instead. "Don't you have that team thing?"
"Yeah." He doesn't move, still holding me. "But I'd rather stay here with you."
"Tucker—"
"I know, I know. Responsibilities." He kisses my forehead and steps back. "But for the record? I really like what we've got going. And I want more.”
I watch him walk away toward his bedroom, completely naked and utterly comfortable. And I think: This is dangerous. This is so, so dangerous.
My epidemiology class is going better than I expected. Professor Newman handed back our midterm exams today, and I got an A-.
"Nice work, Sloane," she said as she placed the exam on my desk. "Your analysis of the outbreak data was particularly strong. Have you thought about what you want to focus on for your final project?"
"Maternal health disparities," I said immediately. It's been on my mind lately—how Black women are three times more likely to die from pregnancy complications than white women. Access to quality prenatal care is still dependent on zip code and income level.
How I'm lucky to have excellent care, and how wrong that is.
"Excellent choice," Professor Newman had said. "Come to my office hours next week and we'll discuss scope."
Now I'm in the library, reading articles about preeclampsia rates and making notes for my project proposal. My phone buzzes with a text from Mel.
Mel
Dinner at my place tonight? Pete's bringing Thai food, and we need a third to referee our legal arguments.
I smile, typing back.
Can't. Tucker has a thing. Rain check?
Mel
You've said that the last three times I've invited you over. Beginning to think you're avoiding me.
Not avoiding. Just busy.
Mel
Busy having sex with your baby daddy?
I nearly drop my phone. Look around the library to make sure no one saw.
Mel!
Mel
I'm right, though, aren't I? You mentioned you were "busy" when I called at 2 pm on Tuesday. Very suspicious.
We're not talking about this.
Mel
Fine. But come to dinner soon. I miss you.
I promise her I will, even though I'm not sure when. Between school, doctor appointments, and Tucker—
Tucker. Who's always there. Always wanting me as fiercely as I want him. Always making me feel good.
Too good.
I push the thought away and go back to my reading. I’m not going to help other women when I spend all my waking energy fantasizing about blue eyes and hard abs.
His mother calls Thursday evening while I'm curled up on the couch with my laptop, working on a response paper for my health policy class. Tucker is at practice.
"Sloane! I'm so glad I caught you." Judge’s voice is warm, energetic. "I asked Tucker for your number so I could apologize about dinner. I know we came on strong.”
“Oh.” I am totally caught off guard by this, not sure how to respond. “Thank you. I … am … not used to people making a fuss over me.”
She laughs, a sound that echoes off the walls of wherever she’s calling from. “Look, I know Tucker said things are … well, that you two are still figuring things out, but I wanted to see if you would come to a baby shower.”
My stomach clenches. “The what? Sorry—I mean, I wasn't expecting—"
"The family is so excited, Sloane! You're having twins! And everyone is dying to meet you." She sounds genuinely excited. "Now, I know Tucker's been buying things—Ty tells me he's been very... enthusiastic about shopping. But there must be things you still need. Have you made a registry?"
I look around the apartment. At the nursery down the hall, it is already fully stocked with everything two babies could possibly need. The snot suckers and nail clippers, the mountains of tiny clothes Tucker keeps bringing home.
"We really have everything," I say. "Tucker's been kind of relentless about it."
"That's my boy." Judge laughs. "Well, what if we do a helping shower instead? The Stag family is very good at providing support—meal prep, childcare commitments, that sort of thing. Would that work?"
A helping shower. Where Tucker's enormous family descends with their schedules and plans and well-meaning suggestions about how I should raise my babies. But they’re also Stag babies, aren’t they? It’s not like I can keep them from his family.
"That sounds great," I hear myself say. My voice sounds normal, enthusiastic even as I panic inside. "Thank you."
"Perfect! How about Sunday? My boys are all off that day, and I think Wes and Cara are both in town. You can meet everyone properly."
Everyone. I’ve been avoiding Tucker’s large 30-person family gatherings, mainly because it feels overwhelming. I keep imagining dozens of white people, all enormous like Tucker, all with thoughts to share about my “exotic” appearance.
Still, I find myself saying, “Sunday works."
"Wonderful. I'll text you the address. We're so happy you and Tucker are doing this together. He's different lately—more settled. You're good for him."
After we hang up, I sit there staring at my laptop screen, the words of my health policy paper swimming in front of my eyes.
You're good for him.
Not: This is good for you. Or: We're excited to support you.
You're good for him.
I close my laptop and go to bed, even though it's only eight o'clock.