Chapter 29
It’s Called Nesting
? Bad Things - Cailin Russo
Griffin
I dip my brush into the third paint sample and swipe it onto the wall next to the others. Angie takes a step back, one of her hands on her hip and the other absently rubbing her bump.
“They looked different in the store,” she says. “But I think I like the second one.”
They all look pretty much the same to me, so I keep my mouth shut.
“No. Wait. The first one.”
“Are you sure?”
She sighs. “No. What do you think?”
“I think I like whatever you like.”
She backhands my chest. “You’re not helping.”
“They’re all blue.”
“No. That one is sky blue.” She gestures to the first one, then points to the middle swatch. “That one is called soft sky. And the last one is morning sky.”
I roll my lips together to smother a smile.
“Remind me again why I keep you around?” she asks.
I offer up a self-deprecating smirk and a shrug. “Orgasms, probably.”
She simply rolls her eyes and ignores the comment.
After an hour-long debate, she narrows it down to the second and third swatches, and in the end, we flip a coin.
“Morning sky it is,” I say.
I head down to the hardware store and pick up two gallons of the stuff. When I get back home, Angie’s sitting in the middle of the nursery floor with pieces of the crib strewn around her as she reads through the instruction manual, her brow furrowed.
“Baby girl, what are you doing?”
“It’s called nesting,” she deadpans.
“I know that. But why are you putting together the crib when we haven’t even finished painting?”
“I needed something to do. Idle hands or some shit. I don’t know. Stop questioning me and help.”
I set the paint cans down near the closet and hold out my hand. “Give it here.”
She hands me the papers, which contain little more than vague diagrams with no description.
Part of me wants to shove all of the pieces back into the box and save it for later, but I know better than to disrupt Angie’s carefully laid plans.
She was headstrong before the pregnancy, and it’s only amplified tenfold in recent weeks.
The closer we get to her due date, the worse it gets.
It takes two full hours to assemble the white vintage-style spindle crib, with a detour somewhere around the one-hour mark when I realized I’d assembled parts of it backward.
Once it’s complete, Angie helps me cover it with a tarp, and we finally start painting the upper half of the wall that’s not covered in wainscoting.
Angie wipes the back of her hand across her brow, leaving behind a blue smudge. She looks sexy as hell in my oversized paint splattered T-shirt tied above her belly and a pair of cut off jean shorts with a hair tie holding them closed.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to eat me alive.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I take one tentative step closer, swiping my thumb through the forehead smudge and holding it up.
She lifts the paintbrush and dabs it on my nose. “There. Now we match.”
I nuzzle against her in retaliation.
She giggles and swipes the brush down my bare chest. All hell breaks loose. I dart over to the paint pan and dip my entire palm into it.
She cocks her head and inches backward. “Don’t you dare, Griffin Hayes.”
I rub my palms together as I stalk her around the room. She tries to sidestep me, but she’s too slow. I manage to get my arms around her and press both hands to her belly, leaving behind two large handprints like some kindergarten art project.
“Mine,” I growl against the shell of her ear, nipping at the lobe.
She bares her neck to me—a blatant invitation.
I happily oblige, pressing kisses along every inch of exposed skin I can reach, but it’s not enough.
Sliding my hands up under her shirt, I tug it off over her head, taking her bra with it.
My palms engulf her bare breasts, rolling her nipples to stiff peaks as I continue to kiss along her shoulder blade.
The paintbrush falls to the ground with a loud thud, and she lets out a quiet moan.
Her scent envelopes me, and I cradle her cheek in my paint-stained hand, turning her face to take her mouth in a languid kiss. Her tongue tangles with mine, slow and deliberate. Tasting and teasing.
She whimpers against my lips.
“Are you aching, baby girl? Do you need relief?”
She nods. “Please.”
Desire unfurls low in my gut at the sound of her breathy plea. I yank on the hair tie that’s keeping her jeans together, only then realizing my hands are still covered in paint. I can’t touch her like this.
But she can touch herself.
I grip her wrist and guide her hand between us. “Get yourself ready for me.”
Angie’s hand slips under her shorts, and I take a step back to watch the show. I’m hard as steel, my cock already leaking at the sight of her touching herself.
I groan. “Goddamn. My wife is a work of art.”
I pop the button on my jeans, releasing my straining erection. Angie’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips as she follows the movement.
“Are you wet for me, Angel?”
“Yes.”
I step back into her space. “Give me a taste.”
She holds up her hand, and I take her fingers into my mouth, the flavor of her arousal dancing on my tongue.
“Fucking perfect,” I murmur.
I tug her shorts down to pool at her feet, and she steps out of them, completely naked save for the smears of paint along her delectable curves.
“Get on your hands and knees,” I order her.
She doesn’t hesitate, sinking to the floor in perfect submission. With her ass in the air, I can see the evidence of her arousal dripping down her thick, dimpled thighs. The view makes my cock twitch, but I can’t bring myself relief. It’s pure fucking torture.
I sink to my knees and grip her cheeks. Spreading her open, I swipe my tongue along the length of her, lapping up the mess she’s made of herself. A low groan escapes my throat as I repeat the motion, stopping to swirl my tongue around her asshole before spearing it inside of her.
She gasps at the slight intrusion. “I need you.”
I straighten and line myself up at her entrance, reveling at the sight of the palm prints decorating her round ass. Angelina Hayes—my wife—the eighth wonder of the world, and the only one I give a damn about.
I slide home in one long thrust, unable to contain my feral hunger any longer. Her back arches as I watch my cock disappear inside her swollen pussy again and again. Her ass ripples with each hard thrust, pussy clenching around my rigid length.
I’ll never get enough of her lush body and the way we fit together. It’s like every delicious curve was sculpted for my hands by master artists.
She looks over her shoulder, and I nearly lose all composure.
Her lips are still swollen from my kisses, her cheeks beautifully flushed.
Blue paint adorns much of her body, from the tip of her nose to the globes of her ass—each mark like a claiming, evidence of where our hands and bodies have touched.
My hand trails up her spine to grip her hair. I give it a gentle tug, and a quiet whimper escapes past her parted lips.
“I know, baby. I know,” I soothe. “You’re taking me so well, my beautiful wife. Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come around my cock.”
Her right hand snakes beneath us, and she circles her clit. Her quiet sighs and moans of pleasure drive my need ever higher.
I lower my voice to a husky rasp. “That’s it, baby girl. Make yourself come for me.”
Her deft fingers part around my cock, and I lose all sense, driving into her harder, faster than before.
“Oh god. You’re so deep,” she whines. “Yes. Keep going. Just like that.”
Seconds later, she comes on a cry, her tight walls clenching around my length, wrenching the orgasm from me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to. I pull out, stroking myself over her perfect body, and painting her with my release.
The sight of my cum overlayed with my handprints on her body is enough to make me hard all over again. But a much more urgent feeling is clawing at me—guilt at how rough I’d been with her. I’m usually much more careful and attentive.
I let out a ragged exhale and gentle my hands. “Come here, Angel.”
She shifts off her hands, and I pull her against me.
“Was I too rough with you?”
“No. You were perfect,” she says, breathless and so perfectly mussed.
God, I love this woman.
I sweep away a few errant strands of dark hair framing her face and press a gentle kiss to her lips, savoring the moment as we come down from the high. My palm engulfs her bare belly, overwhelmed by the need to make sure they’re both okay after the rough fuck.
A soft hand drifts over my beard as Angie forces me to meet her gaze. “We’re both perfectly fine,” she says, her lips curving into a devious smile. “Actually, I’m much better than fine.”
I stand first, then help her up. The sight of her, body covered in my handiwork, stops me in my goddamn tracks. I stare for a long moment, needing to commit her to memory.
She echoes the sentiment that started it all: “You have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Never.”
Angelina
“Close your eyes,” Griffin says, his large frame encompassing the doorway to the nursery.
I hate surprises.
I pin him with a hard stare, my hands firmly planted on my hips. “Griffin Hayes, if you fucked with my nursery plans, I’ll have your head.”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “You can have my head right now, baby girl. All you gotta do is ask.”
“That’s not… You know what? Move.” I shove past him, grasping the doorknob.
His dark chuckle follows me, and I try not to let on how the rich sound makes my stomach turn to jelly. The room still smells of fresh paint, which is odd since I left the windows open and the box fan blowing so the smell would dissipate.
As the door swings open, my heart expands, and my chest tightens. The earlier annoyance instantly evaporates. “When… how…”
He leans against the doorjamb, his forearms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. Fuck. Why is that hot? “Ivy painted it while you were at work. Do you like it?”
The ever elusive Ivy Roberts, local artist and honorary member of the Hayes family. She lives with her husband and their two daughters in their large home situated farther back on the ranch. “I thought they were visiting Luca’s family in Canada.”
“They’re back.”
I tilt my head to the ceiling and walk in a slow circle, following the meticulous brushstrokes making up the cloudy sky above. “It looks so real,” I say, awestruck by the artistry. “It’s amazing.”
His strong arms band around me from behind, and his comforting warmth follows soon after. “Now you can stare at the clouds anytime you want.”
“I love it. Thank you.”
He rests his chin on my shoulder as his palm swipes across my belly. “Anything for you and tater tot.”
I lean into his embrace, still looking up at the ceiling mural with a dawning realization. “Is that a horse? Did she actually make some of them into shapes?”
I feel him nod against me. “That was my idea. I thought it would be fun to find them all with Jessie when she’s older.”
When she’s older.
The words promise permanence—a future with Griffin in our lives and at our side. First steps, first words, first everything. He wants to be there for all of it.
It’s not that he’s ever given me cause to doubt his sincerity, but the closer I get to my due date, the more everything is starting to sink in.
This isn’t some elaborate dream I’ve created for myself in the wake of Tyler’s betrayal.
This is my life now—every bit as real as the man holding me in his arms.
I thought going from living with Tyler to living with Griffin would somehow mean I’d be settling all over again. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t feel like I have to compromise myself for his benefit, and there’s an unexpected freedom in that.
I can’t quite pinpoint when everything changed for me—when this place and this man started to feel like home. Maybe it wasn’t one moment, but a gradual merging of his life and mine to create something uniquely ours.