The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline(284)

My eyes must have glazed over because the model agency woman was staring at me like I was simple. But then she spotted something behind me, and I saw her suck in her stomach and stick out her boobs.

I could almost predict what she’d seen. Right on cue, I heard Marco’s happy whoop as Sebastian scooped him into his arms.

“Papa! Papa!”

Hearing my son using those words was a bittersweet experience. Now I was a mother, I missed my own dear father so much more. We named our son after him.

“Hey, little man!”

And I turned around as Sebastian plastered a loud, squishy kiss on the top of Marco’s head, causing him to laugh and squeal.

“I can see where your son gets his looks,” said the agency woman, her gaze ravaging Sebastian’s body.

I couldn’t blame her for looking. I’d long suspected that half of the mothers in the park came here at this hour to enjoy the scenery: and I wasn’t talking about the wonderful view across the beach toward the ocean. I was talking about 6’2” of solid muscle, sculpted abs, broad firm pecs, an ass you could bounce a quarter off (which I knew for a fact, having spent an enjoyable pre-baby afternoon doing exactly that), all topped by a face so beautiful that I was used to people stopping to do a double-take. I’m biased, of course, but it was no exaggeration that men and women were drawn to Sebastian’s ridiculous good looks.

But the best thing, the absolute best thing, was that he was always smiling. Happiness radiated from him. And because there was a time when it seemed like he’d never be happy again, each smile was a small miracle, a special gift, and I treasured every one of them.

The agency woman was still eye-fucking my husband.

“Have you ever done any modeling?” she purred, one hand raised as if she wanted to stroke his stomach. “Because I was just telling the nanny—clients would pay a lot of money to use photographs of you and your son in an advertising campaign.” She laughed lightly. “Obviously the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”

The nanny? Good to know that my son’s looks had absolutely nothing to do with me. Although, to be fair, he did look far more like Sebastian than me. Except for his eyes. Marco had my eyes: brown. Well, I called them brown, Sebastian called them hot chocolate, which always made me laugh. His own eyes were a remarkable shade of blue-green, that seemed to change like the color of the ocean.

Sebastian shot me an amused glance as he balanced Marco on his hip, transferring his weight to his good leg.

Even though he’d worked hard to retain a high level of fitness, his injuries from Afghanistan still bothered him; more so when he was tired, or when the weather was particularly cold.

But today it was hot and sunny, and all he was wearing was a small pair of running shorts, his chest and shoulders glowing with sweat. Delicious.

“Yeah, I do modeling,” he said, looking straight at the agency woman as she started to drool. “But only in private … for my wife. Hey, baby.”

Then he leaned down to kiss me, and the agency woman looked as if she had been wading through dog poop in her $600 Laboutins.

“Oh. You’re the mother.”

I raised my eyebrows at her but she didn’t even have the courtesy to blush. She shoved another business card at Sebastian and threw the words, “Call me!” over her shoulder.

“You gonna bitch-slap her, Caro?” he asked, nuzzling my ear, “’cause you really look like you want to right now.”

“Not at all,” I said, primly. “I’m modeling good behavior for our son.”

He smirked at me. “I love it when you’re good, baby, but I love it even more when you’re bad.”

After that encounter, it was nap time. Marco slept soundly while I was thoroughly fucked by 190 pounds of prime manhood.

Sebastian called it ‘practice’. What he meant was that we were hoping to conceive baby number two. He didn’t say it, but I knew that he hoped Marco wasn’t going to be an only child. Sebastian had grown up alone and he didn’t want that for his son. Thank goodness he’d met Ches and the Peters’ family when he was 13. It was the only time he’d known what a real home was like—until now.

But unlike my impossible-to-wear-out 30-year-old husband, I was 43; having a toddler running around who was learning how to get into everything, was exhausting enough. We’d been trying for another baby for the last year. I was beginning to think it would never happen.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t, but still, I hoped.

Every month I’d be disappointed when my period started. Even this morning, my heart pounding like a subway train in rush hour, I’d peed on a little plastic stick. I was two days late, and I had my fingers crossed, my eyes crossed, although not my legs crossed—obviously.