Her gaze clings to mine and I telegraph everything I feel, everything I can’t say, everything that’s in my heart for her.
You’re the only one for me.
My sun rises and sets on your smile.
My heart beats because yours does.
Her hips cant upward, welcoming every thrust.
“Hold on to me, babe.” Sweat beads on my forehead as I dig a knee into the mattress to drive into her harder, deeper.
She pulls me down until her tits rub against my chest with every plunge forward. “I’m close,” she whispers. “Kiss me. I want your tongue in my mouth when I come.”
Fucking hell.
My mouth crashes onto hers. Our tongues greedily tangle together. This is all I’m ever going to want. Her body beneath mine. Her taste on my lips. Her scent in my lungs.
She cries against my mouth as she comes. I swallow her cry of ecstasy and then allow my own orgasm to rip through me, slamming into her so hard that I’m probably going to leave bruises. After the pleasure finally subsides, I collapse next to her, barely managing to throw my body to the side so I don’t crush her.
“Give me about ten minutes and I’ll be good to go again,” I mumble into the mattress.
A soft hand strokes its way down my spine and cups my ass, sending shivers throughout my frame. My dick twitches with interest.
“Make that five.”
She laughs.
I flop onto my back and tuck an arm under her shoulders to pull her against me. “You’ve killed me, Sabrina. I’m dead.”
She runs a finger along my inner thigh. Predictably, my dick hardens. “If this is you dead, I’m a little afraid of how long our next round is going to last.”
“You might want to get a sandwich. I’m gonna keep you in bed for a long time.”
Her legs twine through mine as if she can’t handle even an inch of her being separated. Which is totally fine with me.
“Everything seems to be working,” she murmurs, her lips moving against the side of my chest. She sounds surprised again.
“Why wouldn’t it? We both want this to work, don’t we?”
I hold my breath as I wait for her answer. It’s as hard as I’ve pushed her lately and I half expect her to leap up and run for the door.
Instead, she inhales deeply. “Yeah, we do.”
“Does that mean I can stop looking for a different woman?”
“It means you have to stop,” she declares. Her delicate fingers dig possessively into my skin, and I grunt with pleasure.
“Good. I’ve already told a few women around here that I’m married.”
“Why?”
“Jamie’s a chick magnet. I’ve never had so many women hit on me.”
And then, as if I’d summoned her, my phone chirps to announce that Jamie’s crying in the other room.
“What’s that?” Sabrina sits up, wiping the hair out of her face.
“Fitzy set it up. There are monitors in the crib that send an alert to my phone to let us know if she stops moving or if she’s crying. I’ll install the app on your phone later.” I swing out of bed. “Stay here,” I tell her as she scrambles to her knees. “I’ll bring Jamie in.”
When I reach the door, I look back. Sabrina has positioned herself against the padded headboard, arranging the pillows around her sides as she gets ready to feed our baby. She lifts her head and smiles, looking like a fucking angel.
This isn’t how I planned my life to be, at least not this soon, but I wouldn’t give it up for all the gold in the world.
Heart in my throat, and feeling happier than any man has the right to feel, I go get our little girl.
38
Sabrina
December
I limp into the apartment after my study group, an hour late and feeling guilty about it. I call out an apology to Tucker as I swing inside, my arms full of books and a small bag of groceries, which contains only half the items I was supposed to bring home an hour ago. “I’m so so sorry. I had my phone turned off and—”
The rest of my excuse dies in my throat when I find Tucker’s mother in my kitchen.
She turns a death glare in my direction and speaks up from her spot behind the counter. “John went to pick up some things from the store. He tried to text you to see if you’d pick up the items on your way home, but you never answered.”
Her words are colder than the winter winds off the bay. I shiver under my down coat.
“I thought you weren’t getting in until Friday,” I stammer.
“The wedding I was supposed to style was postponed, so I decided to take advantage and come early. That way I get to spend extra time with my granddaughter.”
“Oh. Cool. That’s…cool.”
I’ve turned into an idiot. I can’t help it, though. Tucker’s mother is so damn intimidating. I haven’t seen her since that disastrous visit over the summer, and even though Tucker texts her daily and arranges for video chats between her and Jamie, she hasn’t once asked to speak to me.
“Why were you late?” It’s an accusation and we both know it.
I gulp. “I was in a study group. Finals are coming up.”
She nods toward the living room. “I suppose that’s why the place isn’t as clean as you’d like.”
I follow her gaze with deepening dismay. This week had gotten away from me, and the apartment shows every bit of my distraction. The kitchen cupboards are embarrassingly bare. Dishes—clean at least—are stacked on the counter. I was going to put them away tonight after Jamie was fed. In the living room, textbooks and outlines and supplemental study guides take up every available surface. Jamie’s bathroom—the one Mrs. Tucker will be using—looks like a hurricane. Everything is terrible because I thought I had two more days to fix it.
Which is what I say to her. “I planned on tidying up before you arrived.”
Her arched eyebrow conveys that my excuse is embarrassing. “You’re trying your hardest, aren’t you?”
The dagger strikes deep. My hardest isn’t good enough in Mrs. Tucker’s eyes.
Breath tight in my chest, I slowly toe off my boots and make the short trek across the open-concept room toward the kitchen, dragging my stocking-covered feet with each step. The apartment is bigger than my childhood home, and on most days I’m giddy over the space, but Mrs. Tucker has a way of vacuuming up all the air in the room.
Silently, I put away the milk, eggs, and butter. The convenience store was over-priced, but it was close by and I was feeling a little desperate. Now? I’m feeling small and incompetent.
“Is Jamie with Tucker?” I ask. The apartment’s as quiet as a study carrel at Harvard.
“She’s in her crib sleeping,” Mrs. Tucker says tersely, not glancing up from the onions she’s chopping.
I make an attempt to smile. “Did you enjoy seeing her in person for the first time?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I did. She’s my only grandchild.”
My half-hearted smile fades. I gulp again. Oh God, this visit is going to be brutal.
“I’m going to run in and check on her.” I shove a carton of juice in the fridge before fleeing the kitchen.
In the nursery, the unmade bed Tucker and Fitzy had hauled up here last weekend taunts me. The sheets stacked on one end only serve to highlight my ineptness as a mother and a housekeeper. If those are traits that Mrs. Tucker values in a daughter-in-law, then I’m failing miserably.
Jamie’s sleeping blissfully in her crib, wrapped up tight in her blanket. I resist the urge to pick her up, despite knowing that holding her sweet, nonjudgmental body will make me feel so much better. But she needs to sleep and I have shit to get done.
As quietly as possible, I make the bed and then creep out to join Mrs. Tucker in the kitchen.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer. She has the onions in a pan, and the apartment is filling with the fragrant smell of sweet herbs and tangy garlic.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Can I help you make your…” I wave my hand toward the stove.
“Chili?” she fills in. “No.”
Okay then. I lick my lips and consider my options. My first preference is to hide in the bedroom until Tucker comes home, but as my gaze falls on the mound of dishes, I decide that tidying up should come first. Even if I have to make conversation with someone who clearly thinks I’m about as low as a slug.
“Has Tucker shown you the bar yet?” I ask, stacking the bowls first. “He’s done a great job and it’s already making decent money.” Tucker’s Bar has been full since it opened its doors.
“It’s early yet. Most bars fail after a couple of years. It’s not what I would’ve wanted for him to spend his father’s insurance money on.” Her lips pinch. “I would’ve told him that if he’d asked me.”
Good thing he hadn’t. Tucker is clearly in love with his bar. He’s already talking about buying another one since his estimated cash flow from year one would allow him enough profit to invest in another business. He’s a businessman, not a bartender, as anyone who listens to him for five minutes can attest to. He talks about leveraging risk, returns on investments, profit margins, and hidden opportunities.
“I think it’s going to be a big success,” I declare confidently.
“You would think that.” She huffs. “Tucker could’ve bought the realty business back home. He should be in an office, not working in a bar.”