Arrive (5 page)

“Oh, God. So good.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, thrusting my hips toward him when he slides a finger into me and sucks on my clit. I start to writhe around, begging him to push his tongue deeper inside me. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I come fast and hard, a cry tearing from my throat as he continues his sensual ministrations until I float back to earth.

Dean gets to his feet. His cock looks rigid as steel, and his shirt is starting to stick to his chest. His gaze flickers to mine for an instant, and I know what he wants, and then I want it too because it’s so fucking sexy…

I squirm back on the bed and fumble to take off my bra. We have to maneuver to get into the right position, then Dean kneels beside me, his hair-roughened thighs brushing against my skin. I push my breasts together to create a deep valley, unable to stop myself from tweaking the taut points. Then I stare down as Dean presses his cock between the globes and starts to thrust.

Christ. The sight alone almost makes me come again. The hard knob of his erection appears through the tight vise of my flesh, his balls slapping against the undersides of my breasts. My body jostles with each thrust. His cock slides in and out, repeatedly engulfed within the warm cavern which is becoming slick from a combination of his arousal and my perspiration. The smooth, veined shaft strokes my skin, the sensation firing my blood hotter.

Above me, his shirt is damp with exertion, clinging to the muscles of his chest. His dark hair flops over his forehead, his jaw tightening with effort and increasing need. I press my breasts together tighter and slip my fingers into the crevice to touch his thrusting cock. When I stroke my thumb over the tip, he groans and pulls away, then grabs my hand and wraps my fingers around his shaft.

Breathing hard, we both stare at the rapid movement of my hand as I rub him to orgasm. His groan deepens before sensation shudders through him and he spills onto my breasts.

I’m hot all over again from this little act, and Dean knows it because his fingers move between my thighs again and soon I’m pumping hard against his hand and shrieking as vibrations rock through me a second time.

I grab his necktie and pull him to me. His mouth comes down on mine, his tongue sweeping inside, his teeth biting on my lower lip. I tighten my grip on his tie and hold on as the pleasure peaks and begins to ebb.

He fondles one of my breasts, tweaking the nipple before easing down beside me. He’s breathing hard. So am I.

Then a sudden cramping clutches my stomach. I gasp. My brain flashes back to the last time this happened, and the internet’s reassurances that it’s normal, but this pain is worse than before, and my stomach feels like stone.

“What?” Dean pushes up to one elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s…” I put a hand on my belly. “I don’t know. A contraction.”

“Not a labor contraction.” He spreads his hand over mine. “Pregnant women can sometimes have cramping after an orgasm.”

“I read about that, but how do you know?”

“I did some research and talked to Dr. Nolan. It’s a post-orgasm contraction of your uterus and abdominal muscles.”

“You asked the doctor about my orgasms?”

“Yeah. She also said that for some pregnant women, they’re very intense. I told her they’re always intense for you, thanks to me.”

“Dean!”

He grins. “Kidding. But really, I did research this. It’s okay.”

Even though he’s still all sweaty with his hair disheveled and damp, he is implacably calm. Me? Not so much. Even though this has happened before, it hurts more this time, and it’s a little scary.

“Liv, breathe. It’ll pass.”

“Once again, how do you know?” But obviously he does know because he’s looked into this in more depth than I have, and his voice is quiet and steady without the faintest hint of alarm.

“Trust me,” he says. “Lie down and wait. If you want, I’ll call Dr. Nolan and you can talk to her.”

I pull on a bathrobe and lie on my side. If the pain doesn’t abate in ten minutes, I will have him call the doctor.

My stomach is hard and tight, and I can feel the slow rolling movements of the baby beneath the cramping muscles. My heart is somewhere in my throat. I have the disquieting realization that real labor pains are likely a great deal worse than this.

Dean climbs off the bed and pulls on his boxers, then heads for the kitchen. In a few minutes, he’s back with a cup of tea. By then, the tightness has eased a little and I’m breathing more slowly.

“Thanks.” I sit up carefully and take a sip of tea. “This happened once before, but it wasn’t as bad. I didn’t even know what was going on.”

“Because you’ve been avoiding reading about pregnancy.” Dean settles his hand gently on my nape. “I can’t say I blame you. There’s some daunting stuff out there.”

Of course, that hasn’t stopped him from doing extensive research. I’m glad to know that, at least. He wouldn’t be so calm if he wasn’t certain there’s nothing to worry about.

He brushes my damp hair away from my neck and forehead. A crease appears between his eyebrows. “Do you want to talk to the doctor?”

“No, the pain is better.”

“But are you okay?”

I nod and drink more tea. Truth be told, I’m still unnerved and not at all sure I want to have another orgasm for the duration of the pregnancy. Which sucks because they really are spectacular. But now that this has happened twice, and the second time was worse, I’ll probably be too nervous to even relax enough to have one.

Dean continues stroking my hair. “Maybe we should ease up on the sex for a while.”

I take another breath and rub my belly. “That wouldn’t bother you?”

“Not if it’s what you need.”

I don’t know everything I need, but I do know I can’t spend the rest of my pregnancy being afraid. I squeeze Dean’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.” He bends to press his lips against my forehead. “Hell, with all that extra time, I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about illuminated manuscripts.”

‡

D
EAN

A
s the Christmas holidays roll around, more baby gifts arrive at our front door and are organized in the corner of the living room—blankets, a fancy diaper bag, photo frames, mobiles, children’s books, baby toys, and clothes. Liv spends most of winter break clearing out drawers and shelves to store the baby’s things. One of her friends gives us a contraption which apparently doubles as either a playpen or crib, and Liv has already it set up in a corner of the bedroom.

When I come out of my office one afternoon, she’s sitting on the floor in front of the bookshelf, arranging the numerous board books and picture books we’ve been given.

I sit beside her and pick up
Goodnight Moon.
“Would you believe I had this when I was a kid?”

Liv smiles. “Wow. It’s older than the bible, huh?”

I tweak her nose. “I believe
classic
is the preferred term.”

I leaf through some of the other books. Most of them have rhythmic, musical language. I try to imagine reading the words aloud, holding a baby in one arm and a book in the other. It’s still not an image that comes easily, maybe because none of my feelings about fatherhood are easy. Then again, the best parts of my life have also always been the most challenging. I reach out to put my hand on Liv’s belly.

“To the side a little.” She puts her hand over mine. The baby shifts and moves. “It’s kind of rolling now more than kicking.”

I follow the motions for a few minutes. Awed.

I get to my feet and reach down to help Liv stand. We’ve been taking regular walks together, as a replacement for the hikes we used to take on weekends. We shrug into our coats and head outside into the unseasonably warm December day. The light snowfalls we’ve had so far haven’t stuck yet, and the streets are clear of ice. We walk along one of the lakeside paths, where a lone sailboat dots the still-unfrozen water. The sun glints off the bare trees forking upward into the clear blue sky.

Liv and I sit at a picnic table by the lake, tucking our hands into the pockets of our coats. She watches the sailboat. I watch her.

Her long hair, several strands escaping her ponytail, drifts around her face. The extra pregnancy weight has rounded out her features, which combined with her thick-lashed brown eyes makes her look kind of doll-like. I let my gaze travel down her neck to the V of her open coat and the swell of her breasts beneath her ruffled blouse.

My cock twitches.

Damn.

I force my gaze away from Liv and look out at the water. Even though the no-sex thing was my idea, I don’t want her to think it’s tough on me. We’ve had days of self-imposed abstinence before, but always at Liv’s insistence.

The summer after we first met, she booked us for a week-long stay at a Maine bed-and-breakfast. We both had visions of long drives in the countryside, sailing, eating fresh lobster, lots of sex. But when we discovered that the bed-and-breakfast was a rickety Victorian house run by a little old lady, and that we were the only guests, Liv balked at the sex part.

Really.

“This will be your room.” Mrs. Beechworth led us up the creaking stairs and opened the door of a second-floor room with a flourish. She was a tiny woman with sensible black shoes, a floral dress, and graying hair pulled back into a bun. She looked like she belonged in a black-and-white movie playing the part of the town’s postmistress.

“This is lovely, thank you.” Liv dropped her bag on a chair.

It was a nice room with an iron-framed bed, lace curtains, oak furniture, and a woven rug covering the uneven hardwood floor. Mrs. Beechworth went around showing us the wardrobe and the adjoining bathroom (the size of a closet), telling us breakfast was served at seven and to be sure and have dinner one night at a restaurant called The Crabby Clam.

After Mrs. Beechworth made her way back down the stairs, Liv bustled around unpacking her bag and opening the windows.

I sat on the edge of the bed and tested the springs. They creaked loudly, like an engine needing to be oiled. Liv turned from the window to look at me.

“We’ll make it work,” I said, shaking the bed experimentally a few more times.

“Dean, we are not having sex in that bed.”

“What, you want to try the window-seat instead?” That sounded promising.

“What if Mrs. Beechworth hears us?” Liv whispered. She moved to sit beside me and bounced up and down. The springs protested with a screech.

“Liv, the woman must be ninety years old. I’m sure she’s had sex sometime in the last century. In fact, I know she has.”

“Dean!”

“What, you think it would shock her to hear us?”

“Of course it would,” she said. “I swear these walls are paper-thin.”

“Nah. Houses like this were built rock-solid. You can’t hear anything through these walls.”

“Oh, yeah? Listen.”

We both fell silent, only to hear Mrs. Beechworth’s wavery voice drifting through one of the vents from the kitchen. She was apparently talking on the telephone.

Liv pinched my arm. “See?”

“We can be quiet,” I said. “At least, I can. You’d have some trouble with that.”

She glared at me. I grinned. I loved the sound of her gasping little cries that built into shrieks as her arousal grew. Yeah, so neither of us was much for being quiet during sex. Just one of the reasons it was so awesome.

“So, what, we’re not having sex for the rest of the week?” I asked.

“Not if Mrs. Beechworth is in the house,” Liv said. “And not if she’s not, either. What if she comes back while we’re doing it and knocks on the door to tell us tea is served?”

“We’ll tell her we’ll be down in a minute. Or eighty.”

“Dean.” She looked stern.

“Aw, come on, beauty. This is supposed to be a romantic vacation, right? What’s romance without hot sex?”

“You could try to
woo
me, you know.” Liv pushed away from the bed and went to the dresser. She peered at herself in the mirror and started to brush her long hair. “Actually this might be good for us, now that I think about it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t think about it.”

“I’m serious. We can just enjoy each other’s company without sex getting in the way.”

Now it was my turn to glare. “You think sex
gets in the way
? Of what?”

She turned from the dresser and gave me a very sweet look intended to melt some of my irritation.

“I just mean that it’ll be an experiment to see how we do without it, that’s all,” she said. “We’ll have fun and avoid shocking our nice proprietor.”

I must have still looked annoyed because she approached and put her hands on my shoulders, then insinuated herself between my thighs. Her breasts were level with my face.

“If you’re trying to get my mind off sex, this isn’t the way to do it,” I remarked, curving my hands around to her round ass.

She dropped a kiss on the top of my head and pulled away. “Let’s go find out about the lobster boats. I also want to see if there are any tide pools around. I love tide pools. Mrs. Beechworth has a bunch of brochures in the foyer.”

She grabbed her satchel and headed out the door. A minute later, I heard her talking with Mrs. Beechworth in the kitchen. Resigned, I shoved off the bed and followed her downstairs.