Chapter 25
25
Verity
The room is dark when I jolt upright, patting the spot next to me. It’s filled with a hard, male body. Wicker.
I gasp. “The baby. Where’s Justice?” I shake him awake, shifting over to make sure I didn’t roll over him.
“Red,” Wick mumbles, coming more awake. He squints up at me through one blue eye. “What are you doing?”
“I was feeding him and fell asleep.” The panic rising into anguish, I shove him over, hands searching. “Oh my god, where is he?”
I’m hot, drenched in sweat, the front of my nightgown stuck to my skin. Wicker rises up next to me, searching the bed with his own clumsy hands.
“I’ve got him,” a whisper carries from the doorway, and when I whip my head around, I see Pace’s silhouette in the doorway. Relief rushes over me. I’m not the worst mother in the world. Just the most exhausted.
“Christ.” Wick shoves his hand in his hair. “Scared the shit out of me.”
I spy the tiny swaddled bundle in Pace’s arms as he slowly makes his way over. He’s shirtless and has been the case since we came home from the hospital, completely engrossed in our child. His dark eyes are fixed on Justice, a soft expression set on his face. “You fell asleep while nursing him, and when I came to put him in the bassinet, I realized he needed a change.” He grins down at the baby. “Once I got him bundled back up, he was dozing again so I just held on to him while I went over some homework to give you two a little time to sleep.”
“Thank you,” I say, noticing the time. Two and a half hours. That’s a record since we got home two weeks ago. “I obviously needed that.”
I’d love to say we’ve been a well-oiled machine, superstars who are killing it at this parenting thing, but the last two weeks have been a total blur. I’ve never been so tired in my life. My body aches, and the guys are grumpy as hell, frequently snapping at each other—and I’m snapping at them. And on top of that, there are the fluids…
So many disgusting bodily fluids.
Although they’re all putting in daddy duty, Wicker and I agreed that Lex and Pace should try to keep the most normal sleep schedule since they’re both still in school. Even though that’s true, they pitch in constantly. I have no idea how moms with only one sleep-deprived dad manage it. Or no partner at all. They’re the real heroes.
“I’d tell you to go back to sleep,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, “but I’m pretty sure he’s getting hungry.”
On cue, Justice squawks, and a heaviness followed by pinprick tingles tightens my nipples. This isn’t like before when the guys had to draw the milk out of me. Justice and I are in sync. When he’s hungry, my tits know it, and it’s not just a dribble. It’s a full-on flood.
“I’ll go get you a towel and a dry shirt,” Wick says, easing out of the bed.
I strip off the one I’m wearing, which is still damp from the last feeding, not to mention the hormonal sweat bath I had in my sleep. The fabric snags on my breast, and I wince from the pain. Pace’s nose wrinkles. “Still sore?”
I groan. “So fucking sore. God, I had no idea.” Chapped, peeling, aching. How did I ever think these things were for pleasure? “Okay,” I sigh, rolling on my side. This is the best way to feed at night. “I’m ready for him.”
Pace unrolls Justice from his blanket burrito, and his little fists start waving. The closer he gets to me, the more he starts fussing, little mouth already making sucking movements as he waits for food. Pace doesn’t quite hand him to me, but rolls him into my side, guiding his mouth to my dripping nipple. The first pull of suction hurts like a mother, but once he starts going, I just feel relief.
Pace takes that moment of stillness to duck down, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“Here,” Wick says, climbing back into the bed. His hand arcs over me, and he gives me a small washcloth to keep my other boob from dripping milk on the little guy before he’s ready to swap sides. “You can change into the clean shirt when you’re done.” His voice is still sleep-thick and slurred, and when Wicker lays his head down, his eyelids immediately fall.
“Thank you,” I rest my head on the pillow, feeling the hormones surge through me. Feeding the baby is comforting to both of us, and at night, it’s hard not to fall asleep.
Wicker’s hand reaches out to blindly smooth my hair. “Rest, okay? Pace and I have this.”
“You sure?” I ask. Wicker may say he has this, but he’s a fast and heavy sleeper. He’ll conk out the minute we get quiet.
“Yep,” Pace assures, lingering at the end of the bed. “I have to get up in an hour anyway. Early practice. You two get as much sleep as you can.”
My eyes have already fluttered closed, soothed by the sucking motion of baby Justice and the fact I’ve got the best dads in the world watching over us.
I lie on the table, fifteen pounds lighter than I was the last time Lex examined me, and watch him move fluidly around the room. I swear all three of them have gotten more attractive since the baby came. He’s wearing these pants that are far too snug against his ass, and his sleeves are rolled up in that way that drives me crazy, veins and tendons shifting as he grabs for the clipboard.
As for me, well…
There’s no swell of life in my stomach, just saggy, scarred skin. My tits are huge—like, massive—but they’re painful and sore from overuse. Utilitarian. My once smooth skin is now splotchy and red. A strange rash showed up on my arms last week. Hormones, Lex tells me. Perfectly normal.
“You’re still bleeding?” he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. His hair is pulled back, and although I long to yank that band out, I suppress the urge, looking away.
“Less than the first week I got home.”
He nods and jots it down in his file. “Lactation is going well,” he notes, because he’s witnessed it himself. “I know you were worried he wasn’t getting enough milk, but that’s resolved?”
Sighing, I agree, “He’s a pig.” The hour directly following a feeding are the only moments of the day I don’t feel fit to burst. “I should’ve known he’d pick up on it quickly.” I crack a smile. “Takes after his father.”
Lex’s mouth quirks in a small smile before he sets down his clipboard and pulls on the latex gloves.
“Let’s check your abdomen.”
Ugh.
In all the times I’ve been naked around these men, not once has it felt like this. I know I’m not the most beautiful girl in Forsyth, but I’ve never felt insecure. I knew they wanted me. Even when Lex had his erectile issues, he still made it known. But now? Still carrying the extra weight, the ring of puffy skin around my midsection, and the swollen, bleeding pussy, I feel like a sack of leaking meat.
And the fact none of them have even made an advance on me confirms it.
I’m disgusting.
Eyes laser-focused, Lex presses his fingers into the doughy skin that was once my flat, smooth abdomen. Literally, it’s like he’s kneading dough, but despite my mortification, he’s seemingly pleased with whatever he’s found.
“Looks good.” Meeting my gaze, he dips his chin in a nod. “Remember, it’s common to have abdominal swelling for a while. I expect that will improve soon.” He moves to the end of the table, where he taps my knees and says, “Let’s get a look down here.”
Down here.
This from the man who’s whispered all the dirty things he wants to do to my pussy, even when he couldn’t get it up to do it himself. But it’s not a ‘pussy’ anymore. It’s just a portal to my reproductive organs.
Embarrassed, I spread my thighs for him, feeling the wash of heat over my cheeks. But the moment he touches me, fingers searching my folds, my knees snap together.
His amber eyes rise to mine, questioning.
Exhaling, I force my knees apart. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says in that calm, soothing tone. “You just went through some trauma down here. It’s understandable.”
“Sure,” I choke out, feeling his fingers poke and prod.
He ducks his head to look at what his fingers are doing—entering me—and hums. “It looks like you’re healing up nicely.” Lex’s hands are gentle on the insides of my thighs as he finishes up his examination. I look down, checking his crotch, and there’s not even the slightest hint of an erection. For someone who has zero interest in sex right now, I’m still inexplicably disappointed. “The bleeding may last for another few weeks.”
“What about sex?” I blurt, hating myself for asking. “I’m just… wondering.”
He pulls off the latex gloves one at a time, his eyes searching mine. “The recommended time is two to twelve weeks.” We’re rolling into the three-week mark. “But you know I’m going to always err on the side of caution and say we can discuss it again at your next exam.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure of how to feel. I don’t feel up to sex right now. In fact, it seems absolutely terrifying after giving birth. But there are these little flickers of heat that I get—usually when I see the guys with the baby. I haven’t lost all of my desire, it just feels different, like my maternal endorphins get mixed up with my horny endorphins.
If I have to watch any of them shirtless while lovingly rocking our son one more time, I’m going to burst.
Lex sighs, resting a palm on my knee. “I’ve already told the guys, and they’re fine with it. Good, actually. No one is in any rush,” he assures me. “Right now, the focus is on Justice and your recovery.”
It’s not until he turns away, giving me the opportunity to change in private, that I realize this is the first time in months that he hasn’t taken his hair down for me.
Maybe all that talk about wanting to fill me up again when he could was just that—talk. Maybe their attraction to me was just about the creation of it all, and now that the baby is here, they’re not interested.
The rational part of me understands it’s not reasonable. I haven’t even had the opportunity to mourn Laura, worry about Stella, or fret over Ballsy not being able to get bail. There are a million things happening in my life, and god knows the last thing I want right now is sex.
But all I do is nourish our baby, and I can’t—I just can’t—only be that.
Except maybe that’s really all a Princess is.
Fumbling with the laundry basket, I approach the nursery to the sound of low, haunting cello notes.
The melody is both mournful and soothing, resonating in my chest like a wisp of shadow. As the melody swells and recedes, my eyes flutter closed, allowing the music to paint vivid pictures in my mind. The corridor fades away, leaving only the rich, velvety sound that wraps around me, each stroke of the bow pulling me further into repose.
When I peek inside, it’s to the sight of Wicker in the rocking chair that Story and her Lords had gifted to me. In front of him, Justice is resting in the bassinet, silent and still.
Wicker is shirtless, and even from the doorway, I can smell a hint of his body wash, my body unwinding longingly at the scent. He looks deep in concentration as he draws the bow over the strings, his blonde hair damp and unruly, muscles shifting with each note.
He’s fucking exquisite.
With a lump in my throat, I enter, going straight to the closet, and abruptly, the music ends.
“Hey, Red.” There’s a clatter, and then the sounds of him setting the cello against the wall, but I don’t see it, engrossed in folding the laundry. “This kid goes through more clothes than a hockey team during an entire season,” he says, coming up behind me. I wait for something—a kiss, a lingering touch—but nothing comes, and I take a small step to the side to open the dresser drawer and tuck a stack of onesies inside.
“Preaching to the choir.” Picking up the basket, I start for the closet door when his hand clamps down on my arm.
His blue eyes pierce right through me. “Let me do that.”
“I’ve got it.” I wriggle from his grip and continue my chores, willing the lump in my throat away.
Sighing, he props himself against the closet door, his body a long, muscular line. “You okay? You seem… agitated.”
Hot tears prick at my eyes. Dammit. “I’m fine.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then asks, “Did something happen at the exam?”
“No,” I answer, recalling that Lex sent me off with a promise to buy more pads. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired.”
He cocks his head, glancing at the bassinet. “Then stop cleaning and go take a nap. I just put J.J. down. He’s kind of like the old fogies I played for at that insurance fundraiser over the summer. Hearing me play puts him right to sleep.”
I shake out a small shirt. “The minute I fall asleep, he’ll want to eat. It’s just easier this way.” I blink away the tears and focus on organizing the baby items over the changing table. Wipes, powder, rash cream, diapers…
“Red,” he reaches for me again, this time wrapping his arms around me. His fingers graze my belly, and I try to push him off.
“Don’t.” I inhale, flinching away. “Please, don’t touch me there.”
His blue eyes are wide, palms held up in the air. “Why? Does it hurt?”
My fists clench. “No, Whitaker, it doesn’t hurt.” Humiliatingly, a tear escapes, and I watch as he realizes, his stunned gaze following its track down my cheek. “It’s… gross. I’m gross. I’m fat and smushy,” I wave my hands around my body, “my tits feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and my vagina had the equivalent of a watermelon pushed through it. I’m an abomination and you know it. You all know it.”
“That,” he says, swallowing long enough to gain his thoughts, “that was a lot. And not even remotely true, you are not gross.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror beside the changing table. My hair hasn’t been brushed in god knows how many days, my shirt has spit-up stains on it, my right boob is bigger than the left because Justice, like his father, seems to prefer it. Rubbing my eyes, I admit, “I mean, it's not like I thought I’d look like a celebrity after leaving the hospital, but I thought maybe I’d get to take a shower.”
When was the last time that happened? Two? Three days ago?
Wicker deflates, reaching out to stroke my dry, knotty hair. “Red, it’s only been a few weeks. The book said it’s perfectly normal to take?—”
I snap, “A few weeks, and not one of you has made a move on me.”
He blinks slowly, utterly frozen. “You want… to have sex with us?”
“No,” I admit, not completely sure what I do want.
“Okay.” He tilts his head, mulling over his words like he really doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. It’s like I’ve always said. Whitaker Ashby may be pretty, but he isn’t dumb. “You want us to want to have sex with you?”
I sigh. “Maybe. I just…” I grab my boob with both hands. “I want to be something other than a dairy cow.”
Wicker’s eyes drop to my tits, brow arching enticingly. “First of all, you have to know my cock gets hard when you do that.” Pushing off the jamb of the closet door, he stalks toward me. “And second, I’m hard all the time—probably more than before—I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.” The pandering just makes it worse.
“Hey,” he tugs me closer, “we’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” At my stilted nod, he ducks down, pressing a kiss to my pulse point. “I had no doubt you were strong, but watching you give birth to Justice was next level. Anyone can slit a throat, but pushing out a six-and-a-half-pound baby and then feeding him and taking care of him? You’re a goddamn superhero.”
I squirm, feeling unfairly patronized. “Stop.”
Wicker doesn’t let me turn away, taking my face in his hands. “We know that your body needs to rest and recover.” His blue eyes hold mine. “We’ve had to take breaks before. We survived. We can do it again.”
I blink back the sting of tears. “But… before, I didn’t look like this.”
He stares at me, eyebrows raised. “What the fuck are you going on about?”
“Wicker,” I beg, “don’t be a dick.”
Shrugging, he replies, “I don’t know what you want me to say. Boobs are always hot. Big or small. Sagging or so filled with milk they’re about to pop.” He spins me, dragging my back against his chest, not letting me escape as he points me to the mirror. “Your tummy,” he begins, digging his fingers into the give, “is soft because you carried our son in there. Your ass is wider because you were feeding him, helping him grow strong. The stretchmarks and chapped nipples… it’s all just the story of our family written on your body. Just like Pace’s tattoos and Lex’s scars.” He presses a kiss against my neck. “And if that’s not convincing enough, I watched you eat bacon this morning and turn it into milk to feed our son. That shit is pure wizardry.”
Now I’m crying harder, the tears streaming down my cheeks. Still behind me, his hands move to my face, wiping off the tears with his thumbs. “Look at me, Red.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror.
“If you think I’m going to go looking for someone else, you don’t get me, but that’s fair. I haven’t always put myself out there. Vulnerability isn’t my forte.” He tugs at my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. “I love you, Verity—every part of you—because you made me see that I could be so much more than an object to be sold and traded.” His cheek presses against mine and it’s wet from his own tears. “You made me into a man, and then you gave me the chance to be a father, something I never even thought I wanted, but somehow, you knew I was worth it.”
All those insecurities seem foolish as he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me tight.
“I love you, too.” I tell him. Then after a big sniff—ugh, fluids—I add, “And you’re really not pissed about the no-sex thing again?”
“I’m getting better at being patient.” Since I can feel his boner against my leg, I roll my watery eyes, and he smirks at my reflection. “Okay, I’m trying to get better at being patient.”
Sniffling, I try, “I won’t get mad if you want to look at porn, or if you and Pace want to?—”
He cuts me off with a sharp sound. “That is something we do with you, not alone. Seeing you with him is what turns me on, and it’s the same for him. Understood?” I nod, feeling a flush wash over my skin as he assesses me, a divot in his brow. “And porn doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Not when I’ve got the sexiest woman in the world in my bed. But let’s make a deal.” He turns me so he can look at me, head on. “If I get the urge to rub one off before we can do it safely,” he offers, watching as his finger trails down my chest, “then I’ll save it for you. But if you get the urge, you save it for us, okay? If you’re getting off, I want to watch.” In a deep voice, almost a groan, he adds, “And god do I want to watch that.”
The flush returns to my cheeks. “Really?”
I search for any trace of a lie, but he holds my gaze unflinchingly. “You have no idea, Red.”
The idea isn’t unappealing. In fact, I feel a bit of a tingle at the thought. “It’s something we do together,” I agree, leaning into him, “even if ‘together’ looks a little different right now.”
I’ve just woken up from a small, half-hour nap, and I’m laying in bed with Justice, admiring his little button nose as he dozes. I’ve never taken care of a baby before, and I didn’t really have many expectations for him to live up to, but he seems to be a good baby. He cries, but only for the usual things. Hunger, changing, temperature.
Each of the guys has their own way with him. Pace likes to walk him around the palace, through hallways and rooms, and sometimes even outside. When I watch Pace with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him the world as much as protect him from it.
Wicker likes to play for him. I haven’t seen him with his cello so much the whole time I’ve known him. It’s nice, the house being filled with music at the oddest hours. If I wake up, disoriented and alarmed, a calm always rushes through me when I hear Wicker’s cello reverberating down the halls. When I do, I know he has him. When I watch Wicker with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him his heart.
Lex likes to relax with him. He’ll scoop Justice up and take him to the sitting room, laying him on his chest as he watches TV, late at night, after classes are done. More than once, I’ve walked in on him, discovering his glasses askew as he sleeps, Justice fast asleep against him. When I watch Lex with Justice, I see a father who wants to show that time is precious, and he’s eager to spend it doting on his child.
But I like doing this.
Just watching him.
“Good morning, J.J.,” I whisper when he awakens, tickling his tiny feet. He’s a skilled kicker, always full of energy at this time of morning. His gray-blue eyes are just like his hands, frenetic, searching out everything and nothing. I lean down to press a kiss to his tummy, bare since the little spit-up mishap that occurred after his feeding an hour ago. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Today,” comes Pace’s voice, startling me, “you’re going to have a break.”
Looking over, I see him stalking into the room, throwing the drapes open wide. Bright sun fills the room, making my eyes squinch. “Gah! Too bright.”
Pace doesn’t relent, throwing open a dresser drawer. “My first lecture got canceled, so I have the morning free. And since Wick is a hopeless layabout?—”
“Hey!” Wicker squawks, strutting into the room. “I do a lot of work around here, thank you very much. I don’t see you or Lex cooking dinner on the reg.”
Pace tosses him an unimpressed look. “Be that as it may, you’re on Justice duty while I see to Rosi.”
Wicker replies, “Deal,” and zips over to scoop the baby up while I blink in confusion.
“See to what?” But Wicker is already gone, taking Justice with him, and I stare balefully at the empty spot on the bed.
Until I realize that Pace is undressing.
I turn to watch more fully as he pulls off his shirt and unbuttons his pants, shoving them down his thighs. His cock, limp but long, swings as he hops around, tugging the pants from his feet.
“Come on,” he says, yanking the blankets off me.
I reach for them too late, nose wrinkling at the state of myself. My nightgown is crusty against my chest, the scent of Justice’s spit-up lingering around me like a toxic cloud. “Ugh,” I groan, feeling disgusting. “I guess I should do more laundry.”
It never stops.
An infant, three men, and myself? I could possibly be doing laundry every day until I die, and the thought alone is enough to exhaust me.
But then Pace says, “Already did it,” and grabs my hand, tugging me from the bed.
“You washed my clothes?” I ask, dubious as he leads me across the room.
Into the hall.
“Lex did,” he explains.
“You’re naked,” I hiss, but Pace doesn’t look bothered at all.
He just smirks at me over his shoulder, guiding me toward the staircase. “No one here but us, Rosi. Look all you wanna.”
It’s not a bad sight, the muscles of his ass shifting artfully with each step. His training must be going well because Pace’s body is hard and more chiseled than ever. I feel even more insecure about my own body as I watch his, so tight and fit.
I’m so distracted by it, I don’t even realize where he’s leading me until we arrive.
I pause in the doorway, watching the candlelight throw his features into sharp relief. “What’s this?”
Reaching out, Pace takes both my hands in his, dragging me into the large bathroom that used to belong to Rufus. “We never got to enjoy the jetted tub in the maternity suite,” he explains, pushing my gown off my shoulders. His dark eyes sparkle in the light and he steps close, the gown pooling on the floor around my feet.
“Oh,” I breathe, seeing that the large tub is full of aromatic bubbles.
Palms framing my face, he tips my gaze up to his. “I miss being inside you at night,” he whispers, bending down to pluck a slow, shallow kiss from my lips. “I know we can’t fuck, but I can still take care of you.”
Immediately suspicious, I wonder, “Did Wicker put you up to this?”
Pace frowns, pulling back to search my eyes. “I put him up to this, if that’s what you mean. We have a solid two hours to make ourselves feel human again. I know I’m all,” he grimaces, fingering one of his silky twists, “covered in spit-up and shit, but I swear I can smell good again.”
And with that, he tugs me to the edge of the tub, eyes beseeching.
It hits me then that maybe I’m not the only one who feels tired and gross all the time. Unable to smother my grin, I lift a leg, and then the other, listening as Pace gets in behind me.
“You’ll wash my hair?” I ask, the excitement leaking into my voice.
He chuckles. “Dying to.”
“And my back?”
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, guiding me into the bubbles. “Every glorious inch of you.”
The water is hot—the kind of hot that’s almost too much—and I inhale deeply as I settle into Pace’s chest, letting the warmth seep into my sore, tired muscles.
His deep voice whispers into my ear, “I put some salts in. Lex said it’s good for you, down there.”
Down there.
The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wafts up from the bubbles, instantly relaxing me, and as I glide my fingers through the water, Pace uses a cup to douse my hair with water, fingers scritching along my hairline.
I’m already putty in his hands when he begins lathering it with a sweet-smelling shampoo.
“When I saw your picture on that app,” he says, running his fingers over my scalp, “this was the first thing I was obsessed with. Your hair. It looked so silky and soft. I used to daydream about it against my face.” It’s a quiet, bashful confession that makes me grin.
Humming, I tip my head back, luxuriating in the feel of his fingers, frothing the suds. “It’s all dry and coarse now.”
He makes a small, dismissive sound. “It just needs a little TLC. Let me take care of it.”
It’s impossible to disagree, so I sit there as he tends to it, his long fingers working through the strands first with shampoo, and then a thick, floral cream.
“I miss it, too,” I admit, somewhere in the midst of feeling like gelatin. “You being inside of me, when we go to sleep.”
Pace follows my train of thought with a low, stilted, “It… wasn’t always about sex.”
Nodding, I tip my head back for another rinse, thinking that it’s a lot like this. Just being wanted. Cared for. Touched. Kept. “I’m scared, Pace.” My own confession is just as quiet and nervous, and it makes his movements slow to a halt.
“Of what?”
Turning, I face him, the water sloshing messily around us, and find his dark eyes full of worry. “Do you remember back when the three of you were giving… deposits?”
Pace frowns, rubbing some of the bubbles into my arm. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Exhaling, I say, “You were all so… hungry. For me. For my body.” Holding his gaze, I speak the fear that’s been nestled inside me ever since Justice emerged. “Is that going to go away now that the job is done? Am I just… a mother now?”
“Oh, Rosi.” Pace lets out this core-tingling, raspy laugh, tugging me closer. “That hunger didn’t go away. It just… changed.”
“But how?” I ask. “How did it change?”
He pauses, seeming to mull this over as he strokes my wrist. “Sometimes, when I’d fuck you, it’d be so… desperate. To have you.” Brows knitting up, he shakes his head. “It was violent and greedy, but I know you’re mine now. I can wait until your hunger comes back. Until you feel greedy.” He glances down at my body, arching a brow. “And not to pressure you or anything, but I’m sort of counting the days.”
I deflate at the naked want in his eyes. “You don’t think I’m,” I swallow, “disgusting now?”
“Disgusting?” His head snaps back, dark eyes pinning me. “Rosi, that hasn’t changed. You’re still beautiful. Do you see the way these PNZ fucks look at you when they’re over here?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “That’s not about me, Pace. Everyone in East End has huge, throbbing Oedipus complexes. They’re turned on by a motherly figure—not me, specifically.”
He hums, reaching out to graze his knuckles over the curve of my breast. “The motherly thing is hot as fuck, but you’re selling yourself short. You’re a hot, fiery West End chick with a great rack and gorgeous eyes. Pushing out a kid didn’t change that.”
He punctuates this by pitching forward, taking my mouth in a leisurely kiss. He had a point before about our deposits being so rushed and desperate. We never got normal experiences, like dates and slowly building electricity.
But the electricity is building now.
His tongue is hot and slick as it licks slowly against mine, our lips fused in an unhurried, indulgent kiss. He grips my jaw with one hand and my hips with the other, scooting me into the cradle of his thighs as we make out.
“I love you,” he says, easing off the kisses and grabbing the body wash. “And you make me feel safe in a way no one has before.” He squeezes out a small dollop into his hand, rubbing it over my shoulders, and then down my arms, massaging soothingly. “Soon, I’ll be back inside of you, but until then, let me take care of you the way you take care of us and Justice, okay?”
Leaning forward, I kiss him once more, feeling a pounding in my heart that is so different from before. He wanted me back then, hard and relentless, and maybe this feels tame by comparison, but he’s fueled by something better than anger.
Love.
I turn my back to him, letting the warmth ease my aching muscles, and settle into him as he keeps his promise, cleaning every inch of my skin. From my neck to breasts, ribs to hips, thighs to calves, ankles to toes, Pace methodically bathes me, leaving no patch of skin untouched. And after, he sighs in contentment when I wash him back, my palms rubbing down his hard chest, mapping out this new form he’s building. He reclines against the tub, head thrown back as my hand wanders, grabbing the hard, eager length of him.
He groans, but it’s warm and unhurried, and when the water has cooled, I let him guide me out of the tub. Patting me dry, he wraps a fuzzy, purple robe around my body, not seeming to mind that his cock is still standing at full attention.
“Want me to brush it out? Dry it?” he asks, standing before me in nothing but a towel as he assesses my hair.
God, yes.
But also…
I wrinkle my nose, asking, “I wonder what Justice is doing right now?”
Pace dabs a towel over his face, pausing. “You miss him?”
“Is that silly?” I ask, knowing it must be. “We just left him. He’s literally downstairs.”
“Nah.” He grins guiltily, checking his stubble in the mirror. “I was just thinking the same thing. I miss him, too.”
I start for the door, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back, hand wrapping around my neck. His skin is still damp against my nose when I nestle it into the center of his chest, and for a long moment, we just stand there in the fading steam, enjoying the closeness.
And then, voice rough, he whispers, “Fuck, I can’t wait to put another baby in you.”
The idea is terrifying. Horrifying. My pussy actually clamps up at the thought, but then I look at him, those deep brown eyes, his sweet face and gentle hands, and realize there is no sacrifice too big to build a family with these men.