Chapter 56
REID
Laine's thighs are shaking around my hips and I'm trying to make this last.
It's been three-fucking-weeks of sick kids passing a stomach bug between them like a relay baton. Three weeks of middle-of-the-night sheet changes and pedialyte runs and sleeping in shifts. Then falling into bed too exhausted to do anything but pass out.
But the kids are healthy. The kids slept through the night. And Blake woke us up at six with coffee and a look that said I locked the door.
Now Laine's stretched out between us, her head in Blake's lap while he plays with her hair, my hand tracing lazy circles on her stomach. Morning light through the curtains. The house quiet for once.
"I missed this," she murmurs.
"Which part?" Blake's voice is low. Intimate. "The sleeping in, or...?"
"All of it." She arches into my touch as my hand drifts lower. "The quiet. The touching. You two looking at me like that."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like you're starving."
"Three weeks, sweetheart." Blake's hand moves from her hair to her jaw, tilting her face up toward him. "We're not starving. We're dying."
Blake talking during sex used to be rare. Like he thought he didn't deserve to ask for things. Now he makes demands and it's hot as hell. But like in a platonic way. For me. Because, yeah, still no sword-crossing happening here.
I lean down and kiss her stomach. Then lower. She sighs.
"We could fix the starving problem," I murmur against her skin.
"That's the plan."
"No, I mean—" I kiss her hip bone. "Permanently. Another baby."
Blake laughs softly. "Dumb fucking segway."
"I'm just saying." I look up at her. She's watching me with narrowed eyes but she's smiling. "You make such beautiful ones."
"I make exhausting ones."
"Beautiful and exhausting aren't mutually exclusive."
Blake's fingers trace down her neck, over her collarbone. "He's got a point. Iris has your eyes."
"Iris bit her sister yesterday."
"She's got your fight too."
"That's not the compliment you think it is." But she's laughing now, squirming as my mouth moves lower. "You two are relentless."
"We learned from the best." Blake tilts her chin up and kisses her. Slow. Thorough. I watch them for a moment—the way she melts into him, the way his hand cups her face like she's something precious.
Seven years. Still hits me the same way.
I press my mouth between her thighs and she gasps into Blake's kiss.
"Not fair," she breathes. "Ganging up on me."
"Teamwork," Blake says.
"Coordination," I add, then make it impossible for her to respond. By the time I slide inside her, she's already come once on my tongue, and Blake's hard against her hip, his hand wrapped around himself while he watches us.
"God." She pulls me deeper, her nails raking down my back. "I missed this."
"You said that already."
"I mean it more now."
I thrust slow. Deep. Watching her face. Blake shifts beside us, his free hand finding her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers. She arches into both of us, caught between sensations.
"Another baby," Blake murmurs against her ear. "Think about it."
"I'm thinking about—" She loses the sentence as I hit a particular angle. "I'm thinking about other things right now."
"Multitask."
"You're so annoying."
"You love me."
I pick up the pace. She's tight and wet and making those sounds—the ones that tell me she's getting close again. Blake's still stroking himself, matching my rhythm, his eyes dark as he watches where our bodies meet.
"You're so beautiful like this." His voice is rough. "Both of you."
Laine reaches for him. Wraps her hand around his, joins him in the rhythm. He groans.
"One more," I say. "Just one more baby. Then we're done."
"You said that—" She gasps as I thrust harder. "You said that after Iris."
"I meant it then too."
"Liar."
"Optimist."
Blake laughs. It turns into a groan as Laine twists her wrist. "He's right though. One more. A tie-breaker."
"We have three kids. That's not—that's not a tie."
"It's an odd number. Four is better. Even teams."
"Even teams for what?"
"Everything." I lean down, kiss her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "Board games. Road trips. Dividing the couch."
"You're ridiculous." But she's clenching around me, close again. "Both of you. Completely ridiculous."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a—oh god, right there—it's a 'stop talking and make me come.'"
I can do that.
I shift my angle, hitching her leg higher. Blake's hand slides down to her clit, working her in tight circles while I thrust. Teamwork. Coordination. Seven years of learning exactly how to take her apart.
She's close. I can feel it building—the way she tightens, the way her breathing changes.
"That's it, sweetheart." Blake's voice is low and rough against her ear. "Let go."
She does.
Her whole body tightens, her head thrown back, and the sound she makes goes straight to my spine. I grit my teeth, trying to hold on, because Blake hasn't had his turn yet and—
BANG BANG BANG.
"DADDY! PAPA! THE DOOR'S STUCK!"
Laine freezes mid-orgasm. I freeze mid-thrust. Blake's hand stops.
We stare at each other.
BANG BANG BANG.
"I'm HUNGRY." That's Caleb. Our five-year-old. Persistent as hell.
"Papa, Iris is touching my stuff!" And there's June, our three-year-old, already lodging complaints.
A high-pitched shriek. Iris. Two years old and absolutely feral before breakfast.
Laine's still clenching around me, her orgasm stuttering to a confused halt, her face caught between bliss and frustration. I haven't come. Blake is visibly hard, his hand still wrapped around himself, frozen.
"I'll go." Blake's already rolling off the bed.
"You sure?"
"Yeah." He looks down at himself. At the very obvious situation. "Give me a minute."
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't make it weird. Old Blake would've kept score—filed this away as evidence he gives more than he gets, not that he'd have ever admitted that to himself or anyone else. New Blake just grabs his sweatpants and deals with it.
I love New Blake. Old Blake was kind of an asshole.
He rolls off the bed. Takes a breath. Then another. I watch him try to will his erection down through sheer stubbornness. It's not working.
BANG BANG BANG.
"PAPA!"
"Coming!" Blake calls, then mutters under his breath, "Unfortunately not."
Laine snorts. I drop my forehead to her shoulder, trying not to laugh, trying not to move, trying not to come.
Blake grabs his sweatpants from the floor and pulls them on. They do absolutely nothing to hide the problem. He adjusts himself with a wince, then grabs a long t-shirt and tugs it down.
"You two better be done by the time I get breakfast on the table."
"We'll try to pace ourselves," Laine says sweetly.
"I hate you both." But he's smiling. Can't help it. He leans down and kisses her forehead, then mine. "Save me some hot water."
He opens the door just enough to slip through, blocking the kids' view of the bed. I hear Caleb immediately launch into a detailed description of what he wants for breakfast. June is still complaining about Iris. Iris is still shrieking.
The door clicks shut.
Laine looks up at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair a mess, her eyes bright.
"Where were we?"
I start to move again. Slow. Deep. Watching her face.
"Right about here."
"Mmm." She pulls me closer. "For the record—the answer is still no. On the baby thing."
"The answer is 'stop talking and make me come.' I remember."
"That's not—" She loses track of the sentence as I hit that angle again. "That's not the same thing."
"Sounds the same to me."
"Reid—"
I kiss her. Swallow whatever argument she was building. We can talk about babies later. Or never. Three is good. Three is plenty. Three is more than I ever thought I'd have.
Right now, I just want to be here. Inside her. Part of her. Part of this life we built.
I don't last much longer. Neither does she.
By the time we make it to the kitchen, Blake has Caleb set up with cereal, June is eating a banana, and Iris is in her high chair gnawing on a piece of toast with fierce concentration.
Blake's at the stove, making eggs. He shoots me a look.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Twelve," Laine corrects, sliding into a chair. She's glowing. Satisfied. I probably look the same.
"I'm putting that on my tombstone," Blake mutters. "'Sacrificed so Reid could have twelve minutes.'"
"Fourteen if you count the—"
"I don't want to count anything." He flips an egg with more force than necessary. "I want everyone to eat breakfast and then I want to take a very long shower. Alone. With my thoughts."
"Papa's grumpy," Caleb observes.
"Papa needs coffee," Blake says.
"Papa needs something," I mutter, and Laine kicks me under the table.
"What does Papa need?" Caleb asks, because the kid has bat ears when it's inconvenient.
"Patience," Blake says smoothly. "Papa needs patience. And for certain people to stop talking."
"That's rude," Caleb informs him.
"You're right. I apologize."
"To who?"
"To Daddy. For his personality."
Laine snorts into her coffee. I throw a piece of toast at Blake's head. He catches it without looking.
Showoff.
Iris throws her toast on the floor. June immediately tattles. Caleb wants to know if Santa is coming tonight or tomorrow night, because Marcus at school said tonight but Caleb thinks Marcus is wrong.
Normal morning chaos. The kind I never knew I wanted until I had it.
Blake sets a plate of eggs in front of Laine, drops a kiss on the top of her head, and gives me a look that promises retribution later. I grin at him.
"Merry Christmas Eve," I say.
"Yeah, yeah." But he's smiling. Seven years in and he doesn't try to hide when he's happy anymore.
After breakfast, we divide and conquer. Blake's got airport duty—David and Mary's flight lands at ten. That gives me and Laine a few hours to get the kids organized and finish setting up the big reveal.
The guest house.