22. Fran #3
“So come,” he says into me, plain and filthy and unbearably gentle. “Give it to me. I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got the whole night.”
I come with my eyes open on the Milky Way, not silent, a wrecked sound I let go of, my thigh hooked hard over his shoulder, and he keeps at me until I’m twitching and pushing him off, and he lifts away easy and immediate, kneeling up with his mouth shining and the string lights caught in his hair and a look like being let near me is the only faith he ever kept.
“Come here,” I pant. “I need you in me. And I want to be looking at you when it happens.”
He rises onto his knees to work his jeans off and then hesitates, that old am I allowed flickering across him, and I lose patience and reach for him myself.
Button. Zipper. I drag the denim down his thighs and he springs free hot and hard into the night air, and he sucks in a breath when my hand closes around him.
“Hi,” I say, stroking him slow, watching his stomach go tight. “You can ask about this part too, if you want. The answer’s still yes.”
“Fran.” My name the way he only says it here, half plea. Then, because he is this man now: “How do you want me? I don’t want to put weight on you. I can lie back, you can-”
“Like this.” I push at his shoulder until he sits, back against the cab wall, legs stretched, all that height folded for me, and I climb into his lap.
The geometry takes a second, all belly and knees and mattress.
We laugh, breathless, his hands hovering at my hips until I put them there.
“I want to look at you. I want that-” I tip my head at the sky behind me, at the river of light.
“And I want to be the one who puts you in me. Can I?”
His laugh is wrecked. “You’re asking me?”
“Fair’s fair.”
“Yes - God, yes. Please.”
I line him up and start to sink down, taking the thick stretch of him slow, inch by inch, and we both forget how to breathe.
No cold steel under my hands this time, no palm clamped over my mouth.
Just his forehead dropping to mine and the ruined sound he makes that I get to keep, out loud, mine.
I settle all the way down and we hold there, shaking, my moan going straight up into the field, his mouth open against my cheek.
“Oh my God.” It’s barely sound at all. “You’re so warm, you’re so - Fran. Look at you up there. You have no clue what that does to me.”
I nod. Move. I do it myself, a roll of my hips that makes both of us swear, and then we find it: deep and unhurried and chosen.
I ride him under string lights, his hands on my hips, then one spreading over my belly, greedy and reverent and wrecked all at once, the other sliding up to cup my breast like he’s still asking.
I cover that hand and press it there. Yes.
“Is this all right?” He searches my face in the low light. “You’ll tell me the second it isn’t. Promise me.”
“The baby is fine. I am fine. You feel-” I have to stop and breathe when he helps me, a careful lift and settle that drags him over that spot inside me until my vision whites. “You feel like I get to have this. Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare treat me like I’ll break.”
“I won’t. I won’t.” He rocks up to meet me, still letting me set the pace, still handing me the lead, and it’s filthier for how gentle it is.
The truck barely moves under us. Crickets.
Water somewhere far off. I can hear how slick we are, how easily he moves in me now, and I’m not embarrassed, I’m allowed.
“You can have anything. All of it. Whatever you want, it’s yours-”
“That’s still pathetic.”
“Completely.” A breathless laugh against my mouth. “And you feel incredible, and I’d humiliate myself twice over for this. Tell me what you need.”
“Your hand. Clit. Before I die in a meadow.”
He obeys on the spot, greedy for the chance.
His hand works between us, under the curve of my belly, fingers finding my clit and circling tight and slick in time with the way I ride him, and I’m going to come again in his lap in a truck bed with the whole sky for an audience.
His free arm wraps around my back, taking my weight, holding me up, his lips at my ear.
“There you go, there you go. Come on, let me feel it happen. Soak me - I want to lie out here after with you still dripping down me. God, Fran, that’s all I-”
I come into his mouth this time, kissing him through it, not vicious the way the cooler was, just undone, coming apart in his lap while I clench around him hard enough that he breaks, a groan crushed into my throat, his hips jerking up.
He grinds me through the last of it, deep and slow, and then he seizes up under me all at once.
“Can I - inside, I need-”
“Yes - in me, don’t you dare stop. Logan-”
He goes over a breath later with a wrecked sound he doesn’t have to bury in anything, spilling into me warm and deep while I feel every pulse of it, filling me up, leaving a mess neither of us has to hide out here and neither of us wants to.
His hand never leaves my belly. His mouth stays buried in my hair.
I cradle the back of his neck, and I do not say the thing crowding my teeth.
We stay like that, joined, useless with it, for a long stretch of seconds.
His breath moves my hair. He’s still twitching inside me.
The stars keep up their indifferent wheeling.
My dress is a heap somewhere. His jeans are shoved around his thighs like we’re still two people who might have to bolt, except tonight we don’t.
When I finally rise off him we both flinch at the slick drag of it, and I feel him spill warm down the inside of my thigh, and this time I don’t scramble to cover anything, there’s nothing left to cover.
I let him drag the blanket up around us both.
I let him arrange me against his chest. And I do not call it nothing.