Chapter 7 #3
State Street Station is a cavern of tile and fluorescent lighting. The platform is packed. A busker plays a carol on a violin, "Greensleeves," maybe? Sound distortion makes it hard to tell, and I don't have the inner bandwidth to figure it out.
The train rattles in and we pack inside.
At the next stop, a very pregnant woman steps on, one hand on her back, the other on the pole. Her coat gaps enough to show the curve of a belly that is weeks away from changing everything. I smile because, in 30 weeks or so, that will be me.
Everyone sees. Everyone pretends they do not. Finally a teenage boy in a Celtics hoodie stands.
"You want my seat?" he asks, voice cracking, eyes shifty, as if he knows he's doing the right thing but doesn't want a shred of attention for it.
She blinks.
"Thank you. That's so kind." She sits and he stares at his sneakers, doing his best to act like this is nothing.
My tears return.
My own hand moves to my stomach, palm flat, pressing through wool and doubt and stress. The tears prick and hurt the corners of my eyes. Blinking hard, I stare at the subway map until the colors blur.
By the time I climb the stairs of our building, the cold air has frozen my cheeks dry. I hurt, and I need warmth and home and Hamish. Boundaries are all well and good but sometimes you need to not have them.
Inside, our apartment smells like tea and toast. Hamish stands in the kitchen in track pants, brace on, T-shirt rumpled, tea towel over his shoulder. The ends of his auburn hair curl up slightly, wet from his shower.
He turns. When he sees my face, something in his expression softens and sharpens at the same time.
"Hey," he says. "There she is. Ma favorite pregnant wife and bouncer."
"That is a depressingly specific superpower," I say, dropping my bag.
"Come here, pet." He opens his arms. I go. He wraps me up, big and steady, his chest a wall against the day.
"He made it sound so reasonable," I mumble into his shirt. "Family. Opportunity. He said we share a bed, like that's part of Anterdec's organizational chart."
"Aye. Sounds like Uncle." Hamish snorts, and I pull back.
"I stumbled through it. I was so nervous."
"Did ye give him what he wanted?" Hamish asks.
"No."
"Then ye did it nervous and ye still won. One of ma coaches once said, a win is a win, no matter how sloppy. Ye learn from it and get better."
He limps to the couch and I follow, carrying two mugs of tea. His small brace hisses quietly when he props his leg up.
"Och," he says. "Rule one. If anyone wants me for work, they contact Jody. They dinna go through ye."
"Even James," I say.
"Especially him," he replies.
"Rule two," I add. "If someone tries to use me in any way, I tell you. No trying to protect your feelings or theirs."
"Rule three." His eyes soften. "We ne'er, e'er act like I am a perk o' yer job. Ye're there because ye earned it. Ye marrit me because ye love me. We dinna mix the two."
Something inside my chest eases.
"Rule four," I say. "I am not just your wife in rooms like that. I am Amy. No more headlines that say 'World renowned football player Hamish McCormick and his wife....'"
"I canna control what the press says." He smiles, but slowly.
"No, but we can have PR teams who follow up and finesse it."
"Aye," he says, eyes bright. "I'll task Jody wi' that."
"Thank you."
I stand, grab my laptop from my bag, and flip it open. The Anterdec logo glows on the lid, a constant reminder.
From a side pocket, I pull out neon sticky notes and a pen.
Own the project.
Own the boundary.
Own my name.
I write each phrase, then stick them just below the screen where only I can see them during presentations.
Hamish watches, head tipped, like he's memorizing them. Then he pats the cushion.
"Come here, Mrs. Own Ma Name."
I roll my eyes, but my feet are already moving.
He pulls me into his lap, being careful of his knee, one hand finding the bare skin at my lower back, the other sliding under my top to rest over my stomach.
"Hi," he says quietly to my belly. "It's yer da here. Yer mum telt ma uncle ta awa' an bile his head. Ye picked a good mum."
Tears sting yet again, but now they come with a wash of warmth. Whenever he talks to the baby, his accent gets deeper.
"Hamish," I murmur. "What on earth does that mean?"
"It means you told him to fuck off. But politely."
"Oh. It sounded like 'go away and boil his head.'"
"Aye. That's it."
We laugh, my ribs shaking against his big body, the feel of him so good, so grounding. Now I come home to him every day, and while I would reverse time if I could so that he never got injured, it means we see each other so much more.
"Ye ken what would really upset James?" he asks, kissing my cheek. "If the face of his next big resort campaign ne'er signs, and instead that face stays home and rubs yer feet."
"You are a good foot rubber. You could make a career of it."
"Aye. And if ye ever decide ta leave marketing, ye could have a thriving career giving blowjobs."
"HAMISH!"
"What? A clientele o' one, of course." He kisses me hard then and I melt into him, the laughter and closeness and love turning the day's mess into nothing but chaff on the wind.
We make our slow way to the bedroom, his brace coming off with clicks and soft curses. I steady him as he shifts his weight, while he steadies me without even realizing it.
On the bed, his mouth finds mine, and his hands map me with familiar certainty. There is laughter when my elbow hits the headboard, a groan when his knee twinges, a whispered apology from both of us that turns into another kiss.
And with Hamish, there’s always, always another kiss.
"Let me," he says against my mouth, and those two words carry the whole day out of my body.
He peels my blouse up slowly, thumbs tracing my ribs, and I lift my arms to help. My bra follows. The cool air hits my skin and I shiver, but his hands are already there, warm and huge, cupping me with a gentleness that makes my breath stutter. My breasts are tender and heavier now, and he knows.
He always knows.
"God, ye're beautiful," he murmurs, lowering his mouth to my collarbone, then lower. His lips brush the curve of my breast and I arch into him, fingers sliding into his still-damp hair, the curls wrapping around my knuckles, his breath warm on my skin. When his tongue circles my nipple, I hiss.
"Sensitive," I warn him.
"I ken." He softens his mouth, barely there, a tease of heat and air. "Tell me what feels good. I want ta make ye feel good, Amy. Ye’re building ma child in ye, and I canna get pregnant, so all I can do ta return the favor is give ye the best o’ me, which is ma hands, ma tongue, ma heart."
I reach for his cock.
“You forgot a part.”
“Oh, na, I dinna ever forget that.” He inhales sharply. “But it’s about ye pet, first.” He licks my nipple again.
"That. That feels good. Don't stop doing that."
He doesn't stop, taking his time with each breast, alternating between featherlight kisses and the warm flat of his tongue until I'm squirming, my hips moving against nothing, wanting more contact, more pressure, more of him.
I married an endless well of sex.
Hamish McCormick naked is an event. I've seen it hundreds of times and it still rearranges something in my brain, ruining linear thought, making me see the world in images, scent, touch.
He pulls his T-shirt over his head and the shoulders come first, broad and freckled, then the chest, the auburn hair trailing down his stomach, the arms that could hold up a building or hold a baby or hold me.
The scar on his knee is thick and white, the brace marks still faintly pressed into his skin.
He's not the man on the football pitch anymore. He's better.
He's mine.
Hamish unbuttons my pants and draws them down with my underwear in one smooth motion, and I let him because there is nothing in the world I want more right now than Hamish McCormick's full attention on my body.
And I have it.
He kneels between my legs, bad knee be damned, and presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh. The scrape of stubble against sensitive skin makes me jolt.
"Easy," he says, smiling against my skin. "I've got ye."
His mouth moves higher, kissing a slow trail, and my brain does what it always does: tries to file a motion against what my body wants.
You should be thinking about work. About James.
No! God, not James. About the presentation you still need to finish.
About the expense reports you haven’t filed.
My body's rebuttal is wordless and devastating, because Hamish's tongue finds me and every thought I've ever had dissolves.
He is thorough. That's the word. Thorough and unhurried and devoted, like I'm the only thing that matters, like making me come is the most important job he's ever had. Wholly present, he comes to sex with an instinct to make me feel good. That’s it.
No checklists, no comparisons, no worries, no distractions.
Just feeling good.
His hands grip my hips, holding me still when I start to move against his mouth, and the combination of his strength and his softness undoes me.
He licks and sucks and listens, adjusting when my breath hitches, pressing harder when my thighs tense around his head.
Attuned in his uncanny way, he’s world-class at sex the way he’s world-class on the pitch, and god, he really does make me feel good.
So good.
One hand slides under me, tilting me up, changing the angle, and I cry out.
"There," I gasp. "Right there, don't move, don't you dare, oh no, just like that—"
He doesn't move. He doesn't dare.
He stays exactly where I need him, tongue working in a rhythm that builds and builds until I'm gripping the sheets with both fists, my back bowed off the mattress, his name coming out of me in a sound I don't recognize.
I'm all ripple and skin, tingle and bone, my body endless as he gives me something I cannot give myself.
The orgasm hits in waves, each one pulling me further under, and he stays with me through all of it, easing me down with slower strokes until I'm boneless and blinking at the ceiling.
"Get up here," I manage.
He crawls up my body, grinning, skin bronze in the fading light, hair glowing at the ends, green eyes smoky and full of lust. I pull him down and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips.
I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, hard and thick and straining, and his breath shudders against my mouth.
"Amy—"
"Shh." I stroke him, slow, watching his face. His eyes close. The muscles in his jaw flex. His hips push into my hand and I tighten my grip, feeling him pulse against my palm, then widen my hold, stroking softly, with a feather touch that drives him wild.
"I need ta be inside ye," he says, rough.
"Then be inside me."
He sinks into me slowly, forehead pressed to mine, and we both exhale at the same time. The fullness of him is everything. For a long moment, neither of us moves, just breathing, his weight on his forearms, his body a shelter over mine.
Then he flattens his palm over my belly. Low, just below my navel, his hand spanning the width of me. He holds it there while he starts to move, slow and deep.
"I think about this," he says, voice so low, it's almost a vibration.
"About watching ye change. Yer belly getting round wi' our bairn inside ye.
Yer hips. Yer breasts. Ach, yer bonnie arse.
" His thumb strokes across my skin. "Ye're already the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and ye're goin' ta become someone new.
I get ta watch that. I get ta touch ye through all of it. "
My eyes sting. He pushes deeper.
"I dinna deserve this," he whispers. "I dinna deserve ye."
"Yes, you do," I say, pulling his face to mine. "You do. We deserve each other."
He moves faster, and I match him, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.
His hand stays on my belly, warm and steady, even as the rest of us becomes urgent.
I feel the second orgasm building, slower this time, deeper, tied to the weight of his hand and the look in his eyes and the way he says my name when he's close.
"Amy. Amy."
I come apart around him, and he follows, his whole body shaking, his forehead dropped to my shoulder, a groan that turns into something quieter, more private.
At one point, still inside me, he lifts his head and looks at me with those green eyes, pupils big, sweat at his temples, auburn hair wrecked.
"Right here," he whispers. "This is the only brand I care about."
Later, tangled together under the duvet, his arm heavy around me and his hand still curved protectively over my stomach, I stare at the ceiling and think of glass.
In that boardroom, everyone who walked by looked in and saw what they wanted: a neat story, a wife with a familiar last name, an easy access point they could leverage to get to Hamish.
They were wrong.
On my laptop, in small neon squares, the truth waits for the next time I stand in front of them.
Own the project.
Own the boundary.
Own my name.
Hamish shifts in his sleep, breath warm against my neck, fingers flexing where they rest over our growing secret. His hair against the pillowcase is a work of art, breathtakingly beautiful, and I stare at him while he slumbers, grateful for each breath.
All that's left is this. Just this.
Me. Him. Us.
And a bigger us inside me.