She rolled her eyes, sighed her annoyance.
“Still think feminism’s not complicated?”
“Shut up, Flynn.”
He laughed.
“‘My body, my choice’—that’s about the right to have an abortion, not about women being the ones who have to make the decision for a couple.”
“This little clump of tissue or whatever it looks like—if you decided to turn it into a baby—is going to have a bigger impact on your life than mine. It’d derail your career for the next couple years at least. It’d force you to figure out how serious you are about me, and probably sooner than you planned to.”
“Sure.” She hadn’t thought of that. She was stupid in love with Flynn, but that wasn’t the same as being ready to marry him. They made each other happy, here in these early months of new attraction and sexual exploration, but that couldn’t compare to living with someone for two or three years. She wanted to know how they’d be when the honeymoon lust mellowed to something more companionable. More than that, she wanted to be able to enjoy that shift, with only the relationship at stake.
But my body seems ready. And there’s no other man I’d want to leap into the terrifying unknown with. Plus Flynn really would be a great father. No doubt strict and a little controlling, but fierce and loving, too.
Fuck, she had no clue. But having him at her back, literally in this moment and in whatever decision she decided was best for her, she felt strong, if still uncertain. He was the only one she could imagine being this lost with.
She turned in his arms, draping her legs over his thigh and putting her hand to his jaw. It was Sunday night and he was as stubbly as he ever got, and she admired the rough bristle of it, of this tiny little taste of letting go from a man who gripped the reins of his life so tightly.
“What?” he asked, voice so soft the movie all but swallowed it.
“Just admiring you.”
“Thought you were annoyed with me.”
She smiled. “Never for long. Thank you, Flynn. For being so calm about this. I know a lot of guys would be losing their minds.”
“Who says I’m not?”
She studied his eyes, shook her head. “Nope, no freak-outs hiding in there.”
“Maybe not any freak-outs. But my brain’s goin’ a mile a minute.”
She looked to his chest, traced the little triangle hem at the center of his thermal’s collar. “We got thwarted this morning.”
“We did.”
“You want to pick up where we left off?”
He laughed. “You want to fuck?”
“I think so, yeah.”
He moved, above her in a blink, cupped hand guiding her head to a pillow.
“Well,” he said, and kissed her softly, “I hope you feel like getting fucked for six hours, because I can’t remember the last time I was this distracted.”
She laughed. “Maybe five and a half.”
Flynn slapped the laptop shut and moved it aside, and they shed their clothes between deepening kisses.
Laurel searched for signs that it was different this time. It didn’t feel heavy or angsty. It didn’t feel monumental, but it didn’t feel like usual, either. There was something delicate—no, not delicate. Vulnerable. There was something vulnerable in the way they touched and the way he watched as she slicked herself with lube. Something even akin to fascination, his eyes narrowed as though he were seeing her in some new and remarkable light.
Or maybe that was just hormones.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
He sank deep, slowly. No cramps met the intrusion and she stroked his neck and his hair, sighed her pleasure. He dropped low, resting his forehead against hers and merely holding there for a time, that wild body tame and patient. She let her hands wander his chest and ribs to settle on his hips, and she tugged.
He gave her his cock in smooth, steady strokes, silent at first, until a soft shudder of a moan filled the air between them. She shivered, melting, pussy welcoming him deep.
As he found a pace she studied his face, the tendons in his neck, the shapes of his chest and arms, a rush of startling clarity making it feel as though they were standing in the broad light of day. This is a man who would absolutely defend and protect my child. The truth of that thought struck her in a deep, visceral place, vibrating on a wholly animal wavelength.
She changed beneath him, hands gripping him tight, thighs hugging his hips, urging him to go faster, deeper, to make it rougher. Not so much as a twinge this time.
“Feel okay?” he whispered.
“I need you.”
“You get me.”
“Harder.”
“How hard?”