Chapter 20 - Dina #2
The fayre lasts all afternoon. There’s sack races for the kids, and a pie-eating contest that degenerates almost immediately, and at some point, Ruby convinces me to join a circle dance that goes on for so long I’m sure my lungs will collapse.
Every time I try to slip away for a breather, someone else pulls me back in, and I find I don’t really want to leave the chaos.
Alora is passed from lap to lap, arms to arms, her cheeks sticky with fruit and her hair wild with flower petals.
She looks deliriously happy, but increasingly sleepy.
Caleb seems to notice at the same moment and catches my eye, and we know it’s time to wind down.
We slip away as the sun starts to dip, the air cooler now, the shouts and laughter trailing after us carried on the wind.
Alora is heavy in my arms, limp with exhaustion, her bluebells drooping from her fist. I hold her close as we walk, Caleb’s hand warm at my back, until we’re out of the square and back on the quiet, flower-edged paths toward home.
The house is calm and dim when we get inside. I take Alora to the bathroom to change her and then carry her down the hall to her room. Caleb sets the security alarms and then follows, watching me with that same look he’s had all day. Happiness.
I lay Alora in her crib, smoothing her hair one last time.
She’s out cold in seconds, mouth open, and content.
For a moment, neither of us moves. There’s a charged feeling in the air, and I realize my heart hasn’t slowed since the fayre.
I rest my hand on the edge of the crib, and when Caleb steps up behind me, I feel the heat of him before I hear his breath.
I whisper, “She’ll be out all night,” knowing it’s true.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. “She’s tough,” he murmurs, voice muffled in my hair. “I think she’s learning that from you.”
I laugh, quietly so I don’t wake her. “She’s learning it from both of us. That’s the problem.”
He rests his chin on my shoulder, and we just stand there, listening to Alora’s soft snuffles and the peacefulness of the house.
My hand migrates to his, fingers threading together.
I want to say something about today, about forever, about how I never thought I’d get this, but the words are too clumsy and too big, and I’m afraid to mess this moment up.
Instead, I turn in his arms, my face so close to his we’re breathing the same air. In the dim light, his eyes are darker than ever, and there’s so much want in them it makes my knees go soft.
“I need to tell you something,” I whisper, my lips almost brushing his.
He blinks, and I feel his hands tense a little on my waist. “Anything,” he says, and I believe him.
I hesitate, then tiptoe up so my mouth is directly at his ear. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper, the words so small I almost expect them to disappear before he hears them.
He goes still, every muscle in his body turning to stone.
For a heartbeat, I’m terrified; maybe it’s too soon, maybe it’s too much, maybe I’ve ruined the best day of our lives.
But then he exhales, not a sigh but a laugh, and it’s so quiet and so full of joy that I almost don’t recognize it.
His hands are on my face now, gentle and almost trembling, and he’s staring at me like no one ever had before.
“Say it again,” he says, voice thick.
“I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a dad again.” My hands are on his cheeks, and I’m struggling to see through the tears, but his eyes are so bright it’s like they’re shining in the dark.
He kisses me, hard and fast, then pulls back just enough to whisper, “Are you sure? How long have you known?”
“Since this morning. I made Skylar promise not to tell anyone, not even you. I wanted to be sure, and then…” I wave a hand, helpless, at the memory of the square, the blue cord, the whole pack watching. “I didn’t expect any of it. Not today.”
He’s so happy it’s almost painful to look at him.
The joy in his smile rearranges his whole face, makes him boyish in a way I’ve never seen.
He scoops me up, laughing, and I wrap my arms around his neck and let myself be carried out of the nursery, both of us trying to muffle our happiness so we don’t wake Alora.
He sets me down gently in the hallway, but we don’t make it any farther.
He pins me to the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head, kissing me like he’s memorizing me all over again.
I’m flushed and shaking with adrenaline, and I can’t stop grinning, which seems to encourage him more.
He kisses my mouth, my cheeks, my jaw, my throat, and I can feel the vibration of his laughter everywhere he touches.
“You’re really happy?” I ask, suddenly uncertain, because it’s too much, too good.
“I’ve never been happier in my life,” he says, and there’s no hesitation, no armor, just the raw truth of it.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, every step deliberate, slow, so we don’t wake Alora.
His bedroom is cool and calm, and he leads me to the bed.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands pressed to my belly like maybe I can feel the new life already, and he kneels in front of me, resting his head on my knees.
His hands drift up, tracing the lines of my thighs, my hips, the curve of my waist. He looks up at me, and I see every emotion he’s ever tried to hide, all of them written plain as day on his face.
I run my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he’s looking at me again. “I was scared to tell you,” I admit. “I keep thinking I’ll ruin things.”
“Never,” he says, kissing me again.
He kneels between my legs on the floor, looking up at me with that dark, hungry focus I’ve learned he reserves for when he’s about to do something unspeakably good.
He runs his palms up my calves, then my thighs, bunching the fabric as he goes until the skirt is high on my hips.
My underwear is nothing special, just plain cotton, and I flush with embarrassment for half a second, but his eyes burn, and he says, “You’re so fucking beautiful.
” Every time he says things like that, it disarms me, making me feel larger than life.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of my knee, then the other, slow and deliberate, as if he’s making a point.
His breath is warm, and his hands are so big on my flesh that it makes me shiver.
He doesn’t rush. He charts a course up my thigh with his teeth and tongue, leaving a trail of heat, and by the time he reaches the crease where my leg meets my body, I’m shaking, every nerve ending a live wire.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls my underwear down, and I help, desperate to be bare for him.
The cold air hits first, then his mouth, and I nearly come apart at the first touch.
He just rests his tongue flat against me, then moves with the slow, unhurried precision of someone who could do this forever and never tire of it.
His tongue is hot, his stubble rasps against my skin, and he knows exactly where to put the pressure, when to go soft, and when to go rough.
He murmurs my name against me, the vibration rolling through my whole body, and then he slides a finger inside, then another, crooking them so perfectly I think I might pass out.
I try to muffle my sounds, biting down on my own hand, but he looks up, meets my gaze, and shakes his head; he wants to hear me.
Wants me to let go. So I do, muffling my cries against the pillow, and he groans in response, doubling down, sucking and fucking me with his fingers until I’m writhing, helpless, my body shivering in pleasure.
When I come, I see stars, and the world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his hands holding me open. I’m still shaking when he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s indecent and only makes me want him more.
He doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over me, kissing me everywhere, hands never still, and when he lines himself up at my entrance, he pauses, rubbing the head against me, teasing me until I’m frantic.
“Please,” I whisper, and he gives me what I want, pushing in slow, so slow I think I’ll die from the stretch.
He fills me, inch by inch, watching my face the entire time, and I can see the pleasure and the awe, like he’s never felt anything as good as being inside me.
When he bottoms out, he laces our fingers together, holding my hands above my head, and just stays there for a moment, like we’re both afraid to move and break the spell.
He moves, at first slow, drawing out every thrust, savoring the way I pulse and squeeze around him.
There’s a look on his face I’ve never seen before, and it makes my pulse trip all over itself.
He keeps my wrists pinned above my head, the pressure just shy of rough, and every time he thrusts in, the headboard rocks with a low, steady thump.
I’m still so sensitive that every movement feels electric, so good it borders on pain, but I want more, want all of him.
He finds a rhythm, and it’s relentless; deep, grinding, like he’s determined to etch himself into my body.
He keeps his eyes on me the whole time, and it’s so intense I have to look away, but he just laughs, low and filthy, and bends down to bite my jaw, my earlobe, the place where my neck meets my shoulder.
“Look at me,” he says, and it’s not a request. I do, and the sight of him above me, face flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with hunger, is enough to push me right to the edge again.
He lets go of my hands and slides his palm down my side, rough and hot, until he finds my thigh and hooks it over his hip.
The new angle makes me cry out, and he moves faster, rutting into me with a single-minded drive that feels incredible.
I dig my nails into his back, dragging them down until I know I’ve left marks, and he growls, actually growls, and snaps his hips harder.
The sound of it, the way he loses control, undoes me.
The orgasm crashes through me with no warning, violent and overwhelming, and I clamp down around him so hard he swears, the word lost in the skin of my neck.
He chases me through it, pace never faltering, and when he comes, he bites my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to leave dents that will bruise.
I love it. I want the marks. I want to remember this, every second, every time I move tomorrow.
He collapses on top of me, all sweaty heat and shaking limbs.
We lie tangled for a while, neither of us able to speak, just breathing and laughing and occasionally shuddering when the aftershocks roll through.
At some point, he rolls us so I’m sprawled half on top of him, his arms tight around my back, his lips pressed to my temple.
“I love you,” he says again, more quietly this time, as if it’s a secret for just the two of us. I close my eyes, memorizing the moment, and say it back, letting it hang in the air between us.
This is everything. This is home.
*****
THE END