24. Ryan #4
I kiss her again. Really kiss her. No listening for the hallway.
No counting minutes. Just her mouth going soft under mine and her fingers in my hair like she’s allowed to keep me there.
She smiles halfway through it, which ruins the angle, so I kiss the smile instead and she makes a pleased little sound that I feel in my chest.
“You’re in a mood,” she murmurs.
“I’m in my house. With my girl. On the floor of our kid’s room. Yeah. I’m in a mood.”
“Our kid’s room is a crime scene.”
“Romantic crime scene.”
She snorts. I kiss her for that too.
I roll her onto her back as carefully as the half-built crib allows and brace over her, one hand in her hair, the other sliding under her shirt just to feel warm skin. She arches into it immediately, greedy in a way she only gets when nobody’s about to knock.
“Hi,” I say against her jaw.
“Hi.”
I kiss down her throat. She tips her head to give me room and I take it, slow enough to be sweet, firm enough that she knows I’m not just being polite. When I find the spot under her ear that always makes her restless, I stay there.
“Ryan—”
“Mm.”
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s research.” I kiss the same place again. “I’m mapping.”
“You’ve mapped.”
“New house. New rules. I have to start over.”
She laughs, then gasps when I bite gently and soothe it with my mouth.
Her hands fist in my shirt and tug. “Off.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I really fucking do.”
I sit back on my knees and pull the shirt over my head. Her eyes go over me like she’s allowed to stare now. No rush. No hiding it. I let her look. Then I hook a finger in the hem of her shirt and wait.
She nods.
I draw it up and off and toss it toward the crib. It catches on a rail and hangs there, stupid and perfect. Ally glances at it, then at me, and we both lose it for a second.
“Classy,” she says.
“Interior design.”
I come back down and kiss her again, deeper, my chest to hers, and the sound she makes is happy. That’s the thing that gets me. Not desperate. Happy. Like this is ours and we get to play with it.
My mouth moves to her collarbone, then lower. I cup her breast, thumb brushing, and watch her face. “Still good?”
“Very good. Don’t you dare get shy now.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
I kiss the soft swell of her, then take my time there—mouth, tongue, a little scrape of teeth—until she’s squirming on the nursery carpet and one of her hands is in my hair again.
“God,” she breathes. “You’re so pleased with yourself.”
“I have a beautiful girlfriend on the floor of a room that used to be empty.” I kiss the other side. “I’m allowed.”
“Claiming the carpet now?”
“Claiming you.” I lift my head just enough to see her. “Everywhere. Kitchen. Bedroom. Right here. Wherever the hell I want, because you’re mine and you live here and nobody gets to take you out of this house tonight.”
Her eyes go hot. “There he is.”
“He never left.” I kiss her mouth, smiling. “He just finally has time to be annoying about it.”
She pulls me back down. We kiss until we’re both breathing harder, until her legs hook around my hips and she rolls against me like a dare.
I groan into her mouth. “Tease.”
“You started it.”
“I’m going to finish it.”
“Then stop talking and put your mouth back on me.”
I do. Laughing. Kissing. Taking my time without dragging it. Two kids who get to keep the afternoon.
The cute part lasts about ten more seconds.
Then Ally yanks at my belt like it personally offended her, and I’m laughing into her mouth while I try to get her leggings down without kicking the crib. We make it worse. My elbow hits a box. A stack of onesies slumps over.
“Come here,” she says, already reaching for me.
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
I kiss her hard and get the last of it—her underwear, my boxers—gone in a messy pull that is not graceful and is extremely us. Bare skin on the nursery carpet. Her bump between us. My shirt still hanging off the crib like a flag.
“Hi,” I murmur, smiling against her mouth.
“Hi. Touch me before I die.”
“Dramatic.”
“Pregnant. Same thing.”
I slide my hand down her stomach—claiming, gentle over the bump, then lower. She’s already wet. The sound I make is embarrassing. She looks smug about it.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s your fault.”
“Good.” I kiss her while I stroke through the heat of her, slow enough to feel it, not slow enough to tease her mean. “Mine. Look at you. In our house. On our floor. Letting me have this like it’s normal.”
“It is normal.” Her breath catches when I circle her clit. “That’s the point.”
“I know.” I ease one finger into her, then a second when she rocks into my hand. “Fuck. You feel perfect.”
She moans into my mouth, hips chasing. I curl my fingers and find the spot that makes her thighs jump, thumb working that same easy rhythm. Not a performance. Just me learning her again because I can.
“Ryan—”
“I’ve got you.” I kiss her cheek, her jaw, her mouth. “That’s it. Let me feel you. Let me take care of my girl in the middle of all this baby shit.”
She laughs, wrecked, then gasps when I stroke deeper. “Don’t say baby shit while you’re—”
“While I’m what?” I grin against her lips. “Inside you? Making you squeeze my fingers like you missed me?”
“I saw you an hour ago.”
“Missed you anyway.” I pump my fingers a little faster, still sweet, still claiming. “This is mine. You’re mine. This room is ours. Say it.”
“Yours.” It comes out shaky. “Ours. Don’t stop.”
“Not stopping.” I kiss her through the next curl of my fingers. “You sound so pretty. I love you like this. Happy. Messy. Home.”
She clutches my wrist and rides my hand, desperate and smiling at the same time, and I keep going—fingering her on the nursery floor like we have nowhere else to be, because we don’t.
She pushes me onto my back. I go easily. Carpet, boxes, the instruction manual somewhere under my shoulder. Ally climbs over my thighs, hair falling in her face, looking way too pleased with herself.
“My turn.”
“Ally—”
“You got to be smug. Now I do.”
Then her mouth is on me and I forget how to be a person. “Fuck—” My head hits the floor. One hand flies to her hair, not pushing, just holding on. “Baby. Jesus.”
She hums around me like that’s the review she wanted.
Warm. Wet. Unhurried only in the sense that she’s enjoying herself, not because she’s being shy.
I look down and immediately regret it because the picture of her—my girl, almost four months pregnant, on her knees in our kid’s unfinished room—nearly ends me.
“Ally. Pretty girl. That’s—god. Your mouth.”
She takes more of me, slow enough that I feel every inch, and my hips twitch before I lock them down. She pulls off just long enough to kiss the head and glance up.
“You can talk,” she says, a little breathless. “I like it.”
“I love you.” It comes out wrecked. “I love you. You’re killing me. Come here—come here—”
She doesn’t, not yet. She sinks back down and I groan at the ceiling, fingers tightening in her hair.
“Mine,” I manage. “That’s my girl. Look at you. Taking me like that. In here. Like this is just what we do now.”
She works me until my thighs start shaking and I’m not cute anymore, just desperate.
“Ally. Up. Please. I need— I need to be in you. I can’t—please.”
I pull her up by the arms, careful of her balance, and kiss her the second I can reach her mouth. Deep. Messy. I can taste myself on her and it makes me a little insane.
“Please,” I say against her lips. “Let me inside you. I want you. I want to feel you”
She’s already nodding, already shifting over me. “Yes. Please. Ryan—yes.”
She swings a leg over me and lines me up herself. Then she sinks down.
Slow. All the way. Until she’s seated in my lap and both of us just… stop. Her hands on my chest. Mine on her hips. Her bump between us, warm and real, and her mouth open on a quiet sound.
“Hi,” she whispers.
I laugh, wrecked. “Hi.”
She starts to move.