25. Lucy
25
LUCY
I know Court is going to kiss me a split second before he does it.
My body sinks into him as his lips brush against mine.
For a second, I think, that’s all it’s going to be. A gentle, friendly gesture.
But then he pulls me against him, and there’s nothing soft about it.
My body buzzes as we connect, all the round parts of me pressing into the wall of him. He cups the back of my neck and draws my face more tightly to him. His tongue parts my lips.
I’m falling into him, like he’s the cool river I need to dip into after a long, exhausting trek through hardship.
And he is. Everything that was a struggle is easy now. Food. Shelter. Care.
Court Armstrong isn’t salty at all. He’s perfect.
Memories of him from eight months ago flood through me as he wraps his arms around my waist. His mouth is warm and demanding, and every few seconds, the ground seems to move beneath my feet on his kitchen tile.
This kiss goes on and on, sending showers of anticipation arcing through me. His fingers find the base of my shirt and slip beneath it, sliding up my back.
I was prepping for bed, so I didn’t put on a bra. There’s nothing to get in the way of his tender exploration.
My skin tingles in the wake of his touch. He wanders upward until the shirt is pulled tight on my belly and stops his progress. He moves his hand down and around, slipping the fabric up as he goes.
Cool air hits the base of my belly and inches its way up. My mind gets distracted by visions of my pale, stretched skin being so visible in the harsh overhead light. I press my hands on top of his.
He stops immediately. “I’m sorry. Of course.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Can we go to some other room?”
Relief floods his features. “Absolutely.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, past my guest room, to his.
We enter without turning on the lights, the dim glow of the hall leaving soft shadows across the floor and bed.
He turns to me and draws me in for another kiss.
My senses are heightened without the worry over the lights. His beard is a tickle against my cheek and chin and nose. His mouth is warm and minty.
I shiver when his hands return to the bottom of the T-shirt and slowly lift it. The hem slides along my skin like a caress, over the curve of my belly, at the base of my breasts, then slipping across my nipples.
I suck in against Court’s mouth, trying to suppress a cry. Everything is more intense than I ever remember. The pressure of his mouth. The air on my skin. The moment of release when the shirt lifts free of my body.
So much of me is bare, the breeze of a ceiling fan brushing against my cheeks, my shoulders, the tips of my breasts.
Court doesn’t return to the kiss but presses his mouth against my neck, my collarbone, and down to the sensitive swells. He lifts them both and captures one nipple, then the other in his mouth, gently, so gently, as if he understands how tender they are, how exquisitely delicate since I’ve been pregnant.
There’s no way he can know, of course, unless he read about it when he was learning about pregnancy, but he seems to be tuned into me, attentive, knowing when to intensify and when to go lightly.
I flash with different needs every few seconds. Be fast and hard and intense. Be gentle and careful and good. I’m whirling, my head swimming, but Court’s there, adjusting, understanding each grip of my hands on his shoulders, or when I go still.
How does he do it?
I can’t think on the question, because I’ve squeezed his hard bicep, and he’s responded by gripping my butt and dragging me against his hips, grinding me against the erection I know I’ve dreamed about in the months since New Year’s Eve.
It feels too familiar to have only known once, as though my mind has mapped each inch in the time between. I lift a leg and prop my foot on the end of the bed, allowing more intense grinding right where I want it.
I’m so desperate for him. So needy. I squeeze his arm again, and that’s it, the yoga shorts are gone, leaving me in pale-green panties that fit below my belly.
He growls against my chest as his finger slides along the perimeter of the stretchy band. “I remember what you like,” he says.
“You do?”
He scoops me up from the floor and places me on the bed. “I remember everything.”
I press my hand to his cheek. Does he?
He slides a pillow beneath my head and kisses my mouth, the center of my chest, each breast, then skitters down my belly. For a moment, he presses both hands on the sides of the mound, then he whispers, “Hello in there.”
A quick tear dashes down the side of my face that he’s acknowledging the baby directly.
Then my mind is erased as the panties slide down. They hit the floor with a soft whisper, and he leans down between my legs, shifting them apart with strong, determined hands.
His beard tickles my thighs, then I can think of nothing else as his tongue slides against my skin, slipping inside.
I grasp the bedding with both hands, tilting my hips up. I can’t see him, not even with the pillow under my head. My belly is too big. I think I will get uncomfortable in this position for too long, but then I don’t think about anything but his hands spreading me wider, and his mouth hot against me.
My body ignites. Parts of me buzz again as my blood pounds, my head, the tips of my breasts, my fingertips. I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt.
Where he works me starts to tighten, gathering strength. I gasp, sucking in air, more tears coming. It’s so intense and beautiful. I’m overwrought with emotion. It’s Court. It’s the baby. It’s the three of us finding our way.
It’s attention. It’s closeness.
And it’s peaking. I gasp and cry out, saying Court’s name, spilling gibberish, the pulses heavy and intense. I see stars, like the sky has been revealed.
I’m high, so high, like I’m flying and happy and can’t contain it all, not in this room, this building, this whole wide world. I want to reach down and hold his beautiful head, get him to come up to me, but I’m too big, and my hands won’t reach.
But he knows, just as he’s known everything this whole day. He takes my hands and kisses his way back up the globe of my belly, crawling over me.
“You have your shirt on!” I cry, snatching at it to pull it over his head.
“I was busy,” he says, grinning over me as he tosses the shirt away from the bed.
I want to touch him, everything. Those muscled shoulders, that honed chest, the tight belly. I can’t get very far before I encounter the limit of my belly, so I shift to my side. He lands beside me on the bed, and now it’s much easier. I can reach all of him, and I do, pushing his shorts out of the way until he’s out and in my hands.
His head drops back as I reacquaint myself with him, long and hard and hot. I get familiar again with the length and breadth, the fat tip and thick veins.
“We don’t have to penetrate if it makes you worry,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “The one time I can’t get pregnant. You bet I’m taking advantage of that!”
“Do you want me to wear a condom, anyway?”
I don’t pause in my attention, but I think it over. “This would be a terrible time for an STD. How prolific have you been since New Year’s?”
He hesitates, and I think it’s because the number is so high. Yeah, condom it is.
But then he says, “I haven’t, actually.”
I let go of him and sit up. “What? Why?”
He props his head on his hand to face me. We lie side by side in the faint light. “I haven’t been in a very good place since then. Since before then.”
I run my hand down his arm, bumping along his muscles and the turn of his elbow. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He rolls onto his back and covers his face with one arm. “I don’t do that.”
There’s a whiff of his salty self in the words, but I won’t let him go there.
“Then let’s not talk about it.” I sit on my knees and drag his shorts down his legs. “Can the mother of your baby talk dirty, or would that ruin everything?”
His laugh is rumble. “I think it’s incredibly hot.”
I straddle him and lean down until I’m inches from his face, my belly pressing against his. “Then shut your damn mouth and fuck me .”