61. Chapter 61
A ria
The weeks that followed settled back into a rhythm as the thirtieth week rolled in.
Crispin was still busy, but he worked from home more often. Aria quilted in the sunroom, her fingers finding peace in the steady rhythm of her needle.
They fell asleep together every night, Aria tucking her cold feet between his legs, using his body like a human radiator.
Crispin massaged her calves when they ached, kissed her shoulders when she couldn't sleep because the baby was like a champion football player at night. There were also regular spaced vibrations that sounded like hiccups?
He brought her books now. Aria noticed that the books were different-always in fonts that were easier on the eyes, soft-edged, evenly spaced; the kind that didn't swim or crowd the page. Soft backgrounds that didn't strain her eyes.
One day, she looked up and asked, "How did you even know about these? "
He kissed her temple. "I know you're brave," he said simply. "You work harder than anyone I know. And I figured...maybe you'd like to read for yourself like you used to with Ophelia. But if you want me to read to you just like I do for the baby, I'll do that. Anything."
She stared at him for a long moment.
"There's a lot to unpack in your life," he added seriously. "And when you're ready, we'll find someone to help. Someone you could talk to. But only when you are ready."
That night, in the hush of their shared bed, with her back to his front, Crispin's hand slid beneath her cotton nightgown, bunched soft and wrinkled around her waist. He had been touching her like this for days now, casual, always lingering just long enough to remind her she was wanted.
Often, she'd push his hands away with a sleepy murmur or a muttered protest. But that night, she didn't. That night, her body leaned into his instead of away.
Her breathing deepened and a soft moan escaped her lips.
His hand, warm and slow, continued its path, as if it had simply been waiting for permission.
When his hand slid beneath her nightgown and found bare skin, his breath caught audibly. "You're not wearing anything," he whispered, voice ragged, barely a thread of sound .
Slow circles on her thighs, teasing strokes at the soft petal of her inner lips. She gasped when he dipped one finger inside her, to find her wet. Then another, moving in a rhythm that made her clutch the sheets. His hand moved on to trace her sensitive nipples before moving south again.
His thumb found that sensitive nub, circling, coaxing.
His other hand cradled her belly.
His fingers trembled slightly as they traced her soft folds, slow strokes at the edges, learning her all over again. He let out a quiet, reverent gasp, his touch feathering over her outer lips before pulling her thigh gently over his, needing to feel her pressed to him, open and yielding.
She didn't stop him.
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her temple-his lips shaky but tender, like he couldn't believe she was letting him in again.
She arched into his hand, chasing the pleasure, fingers clutching at the sheets as he slipped one finger inside her, then another, curling and moving with a rhythm that had her hips lifting off the mattress.
When she came, it was with a soft moan and a shudder, her teeth catching her lower lip, her entire body trembling as she gripped his forearm and her inner muscles spasmed around his fingers .
Crispin turned her to face him, his eyes dark with emotion before slipping his fingers into his mouth, tasting her.
Then he kissed her slow, letting her taste herself on his lips.
"Don't you want to-" she asked, voice breathless, uncertain.
He shook his head, brushing his nose against hers. "Only when you want it. That was just for you."
But Aria didn't move away.
Instead, she pushed him back before she rose above him, straddling his hips, her eyes never leaving his.
"I want it now," she whispered.
His hands instinctively caught her hips, but she was already moving, guiding him in, her breath catching as she sank onto him slowly, deliberately. He let out a strangled groan, his head falling back.
"Oh God, Aria... You feel-Jesus, you feel so good. So wet. So perfect. "
Her hands braced on his chest as she began to move, slow and deep, every roll of her hips made with quiet determination, chasing her pleasure, claiming him in her own time. Crispin's hands roamed her thighs, her waist, her belly, worshipping her in motion.
He tried to hold on but couldn't.
Neither could she.
Their climax came in pulses crashing, breathless, their hearts racing together in perfect, tangled sync.
When it passed, they stayed there for a beat longer, before he supported her body to lie sideways, still connected. They lay, belly to belly, skin to skin.
Then they laughed, soft and awed.
"Wow," he said against her collarbone.
She smiled. "Yeah. Wow."
After a few quiet breaths, he slipped away from her and padded to the bathroom before returning with a warm, damp washcloth. He knelt between her legs and cleaned her with gentle, practiced hands.
"We made a mess," she murmured .
"I don't care," he replied, kissing the inside of her knee. "I just want to lie here and bask."
He returned moments later with a clean quilt, tossed it over the damp spot, then settled in beside her, pulling her into his chest, one leg between hers, content.
They lay there in the glow of the moment, a little wrecked, a little dazzled, and completely happy.