16. Ryan #3
I kiss her first. Soft because of her lip. Slow because I need to. She tastes like toothpaste and cold air and the walk across the yard. Her hands come up under my shirt and rest on my sides, warm, and I have to close my eyes for a second just to stay here.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her mouth. “Just this. Just us.”
“Okay.”
I kiss her again, longer. My hands stay on her waist over the sweatshirt — my sweatshirt — thumbs moving in small circles like I can calm both of us that way. When I finally reach for the hem, I wait until she nods.
I draw it up carefully, over the bruises I can’t see yet and the small swell I can feel. She lifts her arms. The sweatshirt hits the chair. She’s in a thin tank underneath, and I go still looking at her.
“You’re so pretty,” I say, and it comes out quieter than I mean it to. “Every time. I forget how to breathe for a second.”
Color hits her cheeks. “Ryan.”
“I mean it.” I kiss the corner of her mouth that isn’t cut. “Look at you. Coming over here in my clothes. Letting me take them off. Trusting me with all of this after the day we had.”
I kiss her throat next. Then the place where her neck meets her shoulder. I slide the tank up the same way — slow, checking her face — and when it joins the sweatshirt I have to swallow.
The bruises are still there. Changing color. Finger-shaped. I don’t put my mouth on them. I kiss the unmarked skin beside them instead, like I can draw a new map over the old one.
“I hate these,” I whisper. “I hate that he put them on you. I love every other inch of you so much it doesn’t even make sense.”
Her fingers find my hair. “I’m here.”
“I know.” I kiss the top of her sternum. “That’s why I’m going this slow. I want to remember it. I want you to feel me remembering it.”
The leggings come next. I hook my thumbs in the waistband and look up. She nods again. I peel them down, kneeling to help her step out, and I press my mouth to the small curve of her stomach before I stand.
“Hi,” I say against her skin, the same way I always do. “Dad’s here. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ally’s breath stutters.
I rise and kiss her mouth again, deeper now, still careful of her lip, and walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress.
I lower her onto the bed like she’s something I don’t get to drop.
She looks up at me from my sheets — hair messy, tank gone, bruises hidden again by shadow and the way she lies, that tiny swell I would burn the world down for.
I stay standing one second, just looking.
“God, Ally.” My voice is rough. “You’re it. You’re the whole thing. Let me look at you for a minute.”
Then I follow her down. The bed dips under my knees.
I kiss her mouth once more, then her jaw, then the unhurt side of her throat.
Slow. Like I’ve got all night even though the clock in the other room is lying about that.
No bra. I already knew. Still wrecks me.
I kiss the top of one breast, then the other, open-mouthed and careful.
“So pretty,” I murmur against her skin. “Soft. Warm. Mine. I love these. I love how they’re changing. I love that you let me have them after everything.”
Her fingers slide into my hair when I take one nipple into my mouth, gentle, then the other. She makes a small sound and I feel it all the way down my spine.
“Just feel it,” I say against her.
I kiss lower. The line between her ribs. The place above her navel. Then the small swell of our baby, both hands framing it while I press slow kisses there like a promise I don’t say out loud this time. She already heard it in the other room.
“Ryan—“
“I know.” I kiss the inside of her hip. “I’m going. I’m not rushing you.”
I hook my fingers in her panties and look up. She lifts her hips for me. I draw them down her legs and toss them aside without looking where they land. Then she’s bare on my bed and I have to sit back for a second just to see her.
“Fuck.” It comes out wrecked. “Look at you. Laid out for me. Carrying my baby. Trusting me with this body tonight.” I kiss the inside of one knee. “I’m going to take care of you. That’s all this is. Let me.”
I settle between her thighs. The first kiss is soft. Just my mouth against her, breathing her in. Then I lick a slow stripe up her center and her hips twitch.
“Easy.” My hand spreads over her stomach, grounding her. “Stay with me.”
I take my time. Long, lazy strokes of my tongue. No rush to the spot that makes her shake. I kiss her inner thighs when she starts to tense, then come back, circling her clit without giving her enough. She tastes like her. Like home. I make a sound I don’t mean to make.
“You taste so good,” I tell her, low against her. “I could do this for hours. I want to. I want this in my head when I close my eyes.”
“Ryan—please—“
“I know, baby.” I slide my hands under her thighs and hold her open, still going slow. “Not yet. Stay right here. Let me have this a little longer.”
I suck her clit gently, then back off, licking around it, kissing, breathing on her until she’s wet and restless and her fingers are tight in my hair.
I don’t let her go over. I just keep her there — mouth on her, praise against her skin, memorizing the way she sounds when she wants me and still trusts me to decide when.
Then I give her more of the same. My tongue flattens over her clit in long strokes, then circles, then sucks just enough that her thighs jump around my head. I slide two fingers into her when she’s ready for it, curling them deep and unhurried, matching the pace of my mouth.
“Let me hear you.”
She does. The sounds start small. Then they don’t. Soft moans. Little broken sounds that go straight through me. My name, wrecked and quiet, like she doesn’t have enough air for anything else.
“Ryan—oh—please—“
“You’re doing so good. So pretty like this.”
I keep my hand over her stomach while I work her, thumb stroking the small swell. My fingers stay slow. In. Curl. Out. I want tonight to be the version she remembers when the rest of the week tries to eat her alive.
“Come when you’re ready. I’ll catch you.”
Her hands fist in my hair. Her hips roll into my mouth. The moans go higher, thinner. “Ryan—I’m—“
“Come for me, Ally.” She breaks on a cry that turns into a sob. It moves through her in long, shaking waves. I stay right there, licking her through it, fingers stroking her down. “That’s it. Breathe.”
I don’t pull away until she twitches too hard and tugs at my hair.
Then I press one last kiss to her, gentle, and kiss my way back up her body — stomach, sternum, throat — until I can see her face.
She’s flushed. Eyes wet. Breathing like she ran here.
I kiss her mouth, soft, and let her taste herself.
I stand. Ally watches me from the bed, still flushed, still breathing like the last thing I did to her hasn’t left her body yet. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it. Her eyes track the movement. I don’t rush that either. I want her looking. I want to be looked at by her and nobody else.
“Come here,” she says.
I step between her knees. She sits up enough to reach for the waistband of my sweatpants, hooks her fingers in, and drags them down with my boxers, and I have to brace a hand on the mattress when she wraps her hand around me.
“Ally—“
“I want to.”
She strokes me slow. Tight. Watching my face while she does it. I kick the rest of the clothes off without looking away from her, lean down, and kiss her again. And again. Soft because of her lip. Deeper because I can’t help it. Her hand keeps moving and I groan into her mouth.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Just like that. Your hand. Fuck. You feel so good.”
I kiss her cheek. The unhurt corner of her mouth. Her jaw. Every kiss is another second I’m stealing from Saturday.
When I can’t take any more without losing the plot, I catch her wrist and kiss her palm. “Lie back for me.”
I settle over her, weight on my forearms, careful of her arms, careful of everything he put on her. I kiss her while I line myself up. The head of me presses against her and we both go still.
“Look at me.” Her eyes find mine. “Just us,” I say. “Right now it’s just us.”
I slide into her slow. Inch by inch. No snap. No rush. I feel every bit of her taking me, warm and tight and shaking a little still from her mouth, and I have to drop my forehead to hers to stay gentle.
“Jesus, Ally.” It comes out wrecked. “You feel—fuck. You feel like home.”
I bottom out and stay there. Kiss her. Kiss her again. Don’t move yet. Her legs come around me. Her hands find my back.
“Ryan.”
“I’m here.” I kiss her mouth. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I start to move. Not much at first. Small rolls of my hips, pulling back just enough to feel her drag along me, then filling her again. She sighs into my mouth. Her nails prick my shoulders.
“Like that,” she whispers. “Don’t disappear into your head. Stay with me.”
“I am.” I kiss the words into her. “You’re all I can feel.”
Her hand slides up my neck, into my hair. “Then show me. I don’t want careful because you’re scared. I want you.”
That undoes something. I give her more. Deeper. Still measured, but there’s weight in it now — the kind that says mine without turning ugly. The bed whispers under us. Her breath breaks on every other stroke.
“Ryan—“
“Tell me.”
“I missed this.” Her forehead knocks mine. “Not the sex. This. You looking at me like I’m not already gone.”
“You’re not gone.” I drive in harder, and she gasps. “You’re in my bed. You’re wrapped around me. That’s what’s real.”
“Then fuck me like you believe it.”
I do. The rhythm changes. Harder. Still unhurried in the way that matters — no slamming, no forgetting her bruises — but I stop treating her like she might break if I want her too much. I hook one of her knees higher and sink in until there’s nothing left between us.
“God.” Her head tips back. “Yes. That.”