18. Beatrice #2
Ralphie stares at Kenneth for a long moment. Then he picks up his water glass and raises it, just slightly.
“Okay,” he says. “That was actually a decent answer.”
“Thank you?”
“Don’t get cocky. You still have a lot to prove.” But there’s no venom in it anymore. Just honesty. “The bisque was good. You’re still paying. And if you hurt her again, I will destroy you with a creativity that will make your mother look like an amateur.”
“I believe you.”
After lunch, Kenneth drives me home.
Home. The house that’s mine now, the house he signed over without asking for anything in return.
I still haven’t fully moved back in - most of my things are still at Celia’s, held hostage by my own indecision - but it’s starting to feel less like enemy territory and more like something that could be mine again.
“That went well,” Kenneth says as he pulls into the driveway.
“Ralphie still doesn’t trust you.”
“I wouldn’t trust me either. But he’s trying. For your sake.”
“For my sake,” I agree. “Not yours.”
“That’s enough for now.” He puts the car in park but doesn’t move to get out. “Bea, can I ask you something?”
“Maybe.”
“These past weeks… the dates, the lunches, the therapy… is it working?” His voice is careful, like he’s afraid of the answer. “Am I doing this right?”
I look at him.
This man who’s been showing up every day.
Not with grand gestures, but with small ones.
Coffee in the morning, brought to whatever location I happen to be.
Texts that don’t demand anything, just checking in, just letting me know he’s thinking of me.
Real conversations about real things - his fears, his failings, the ways he’s trying to change.
“You’re doing it right,” I say quietly. “I don’t know what that means for us yet. I don’t know where we end up. But you’re doing it right.”
Something eases in his expression. Relief, maybe, or hope.
“The gender reveal is tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Can I come?” He holds up a hand before I can respond. “I know I’ve been coming to all the appointments. I know you haven’t told me to stop. I just… I want to be sure. I don’t want to assume.”
“Of course you can come.” I reach over, take his hand. “You’ve been at every appointment. You held my hand when we heard the heartbeat. Why would tomorrow be different?”
“Because tomorrow we find out who we’re having. Tomorrow it becomes real in a different way.” His voice catches. “I want to know if it’s a boy or a girl. I want to know who our child is going to be. I want to be there for every second of it.”
I squeeze his hand. One. Two. Three.
He squeezes back. One. Two. Three.
“Pick me up at nine.”
That night, alone in the house, I sit in the old rocking chair by the window.
I think about Kenneth’s face at lunch today, trying so hard to earn Ralphie’s respect. The way he asked, “Am I doing this right?” with such desperate hope in his voice.
I think about the night we spent together, the way he held me, the way he whispered against my hair that he wasn’t letting me go again.
For the first time since the dinner, I let myself imagine a future where Kenneth is part of it. Where we rebuild what we broke and make it stronger.
It terrifies me.
But not as much as it used to.
I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
“Come over.”
“What?” His voice is rough with sleep. I woke him up. “Bea, it’s midnight-”
“Come over. Now. Don’t ask questions.”
He’s at my door in twenty minutes. Still rumpled from bed, wearing a shirt that’s buttoned wrong, hair sticking up on one side, looking at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever had. There’s already a thick bulge pressing against the front of his sweatpants. He doesn’t try to hide it.
I pull him inside. The second the door clicks shut I fist the front of his ruined shirt and kiss him.
This time is different.
Not desperate. Not angry. Slower, gentler, like we have all the time in the world.
He lets me set the pace completely, lets me walk him backward through the dark house, up the stairs, into the bedroom, kissing the whole way.
When the backs of his knees hit the bed he sits.
I straddle his lap and roll my hips against the hard line of his cock while I peel his shirt off.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice reverent and already wrecked. His hands smooth up my thighs, over my hips, settling on my waist. “Soft and glowing. I’ve dreamed about you like this every night.”
I just lift my arms so he can pull my sleep shirt over my head. My breasts are full, nipples dark and almost painfully sensitive. He groans at the sight and leans in, cupping them gently, brushing his thumbs over the tight peaks until I shiver.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs.
“Everything is.”
He tips me carefully onto my back, arranges pillows under my shoulders and hips so I’m supported, then crawls between my spread thighs like a man approaching an altar. He starts with open-mouthed kisses across my collarbones and the upper slopes of my breasts, soft words murmured against my skin.
Then lower.
He peels my sleep shorts and panties down my legs and tosses them aside. For a long moment he just looks, eyes dark with hunger and awe.
“Christ, Bea… look at you.” His thumbs stroke the soft insides of my thighs, spreading me open. “So pretty. So wet already. Pink and swollen and dripping just from me kissing you.”
I feel myself clench around nothing. A fresh rush of slick slides down.
He lowers his head and gives me one long, slow lick from entrance to clit, flat of his tongue, collecting everything. The sound he makes is filthy - deep, guttural, almost pained with how much he wants it.
Then he settles in to truly devour me.
He starts slow and thorough. Broad strokes of his tongue opening me up, dipping inside, then dragging up to swirl around my clit without quite giving it enough pressure.
He does it over and over until my hips are lifting off the pillows and I’m whining.
Only then does he seal his mouth over my clit and suck with gentle pulses that make my toes curl, while two thick fingers ease into me, curling immediately against that perfect spot.
“Kenneth - oh god-”
He hums against me like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted and keeps going.
His free hand slides up to cup my breast, thumbing the nipple while he works me with mouth and fingers.
Every time I get close he backs off just enough to keep me panting, then builds me up again.
He adds a third finger when I’m dripping down his wrist, stretching me open, tongue never stopping its filthy worship.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my soaked flesh between licks. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good. You’re so wet for me… fucking dripping on my tongue… taste so sweet…”
I’m shaking. My hands are buried in his hair, half pushing him closer, half just holding on. He sucks my clit harder, flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, and crooks his fingers just right-
I come with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing hard around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop. He works me through it, gentling only when I start to twitch from oversensitivity, then immediately builds me toward a second one.
Longer this time. Deeper. He replaces his fingers with his tongue, fucking it into me while his thumb rubs tight circles on my clit, the other hand still caressing my breast.
“One more,” he rasps. “Give me one more, Bea. Soak my face. I want to taste you for days.”
The second orgasm hits harder. My back arches, a helpless sob tearing out of my throat while I grind against his mouth. He groans like he’s the one coming and keeps licking me clean through every aftershock until I’m boneless and trembling and literally pushing at his shoulders.
Only then does he crawl up my body and kiss me deep and filthy so I taste myself on his tongue. His cock is rock-hard and leaking against my thigh, the head smearing wetness across my skin.
“Still okay?” he checks, forehead to mine, voice hoarse. “Want me inside you?”
“Yes.” I’m past pretending. “Slow… but yes. Please.”
He hooks one of my knees over his elbow to open me wider, notches the thick head of his cock at my entrance, and sinks into me inch by inch.
We both shake. He’s so hard it almost hurts in the best way, stretching me open on the slick left from his mouth.
When he’s fully seated he stays buried, eyes locked on mine, one hand braced by my head, the other sliding down to grip my hip.
“I love you,” he says, soft and completely wrecked. “So much.”
He starts to move, rolling thrusts that stay gentle even when they get firmer. Every stroke drags over the spot his fingers found. He never looks away. Every few thrusts he grinds the base against my swollen clit.
I come a third time like that before he lets himself follow. He buries deep with a low groan, forehead pressed to mine, and pulses hot inside me for what feels like forever, filling me while he whispers how much he loves me against my lips.
Afterward he stays inside until he softens, then eases out carefully and cleans me with a warm washcloth like I’m made of glass. We end up tangled under the sheets, my back to his chest, his big hand splayed over my waist.
He presses soft kisses to the back of my neck, my shoulder, the upper curve of my breast, over and over, until his breathing slows.
I let him hold me.
His arm goes heavy across my waist as he falls asleep. I lie there in the darkness, feeling deliciously open and claimed and safe for the first time in months, his release still warm inside me.
For the first time in months, I sleep through the night.