Those legs wrapping around me while I’m pounding into her. Those legs jacking up over my shoulders while I bury my face in her— “Ma!”
I charged into the living room, and there was Becca—face wet and red, punching her feet into the floor of her playpen, arms stretched ferociously over the railing. I followed her line of sight to where her pony lay on the floor. I picked it up and brought it to her. Her knees bent and popped up as she shook the whole playpen.
“Here he is, Becs. Mr. Pony is back.”
Her blue eyes widened like little full moons. Her mother’s eyes. Eyes I had just now gotten lost in, melted in for a stolen split moment in time.
Stolen is right.
“Bo-Bo!” She raised her arms at me.
My chest squeezed.
“Bo-Bo!” she repeated, her lips pouting.
“You want me to pick you up? Okay.” My hands grabbed on to her sides, and I lifted her high in the air, her legs and arms stretching.
My muscles stiffened as I waited for tears, panic.
She burst out laughing.
I gathered her back into my arms, a hand at her back, another under her rear end. “That’s me. I’m your Bo.”
She chattered to herself as she fluffed out strands of my hair and tugged on it, wrapping her fists in it. Becca took her other thumb in her mouth, slobber sliding out of the corner, and sank her head against my chest.
“Let’s find Mommy, huh?”
We turned around, and there stood Jill, watching us, her cheeks pink, those beautiful eyes of hers soft, hair mussed. I had done that to her, and my chest surged with heat all over again.
Her lips pulled together. “You awake, honeybunch?”
“She threw the pony, and then she wanted it back.”
“She does that all the time.” Jill tucked a finger in Becca’s diaper. “Still dry. You want some juice, sweets? I’ll get you some juice, okay?”
Jill went back into the kitchen and came back with a spill proof plastic tumbler with a thick straw sticking out of it. Becca almost launched from my arms at the sight.
“Put her back in the playpen, and I’ll give her the sippy cup.”
I put Becca back in. She grabbed the brightly colored sippy cup from her mother’s hands and drank as she swiveled on her hips. The sweet scent of apple juice rose in the air. Her entire being was about consuming that juice.
Jill’s beautiful little girl, who looked just like her, except for her dad’s dark hair. Jill, who was pregnant now with Grace’s kid. Jill, who I should be looking out for, not fingering her on Rae’s kitchen counter or jacking off to her picture on my cell phone in my kitchen and in my own bed.
That was this morning.
“Jill—”
“Let’s be friends, right?” Her voice was tight.
My eyes met hers.
“You can’t say it, can you?”
I grimaced. “I don’t know what to say first.”
“I do. We, us? This feels good,”
“Jill, you’re my fucking Madonna. Not—”
She let out a laugh. “I’m sure she’s done it on a kitchen counter or two.” She picked up the baby doll off the floor and a large multicolored velvety worm.
“No, that’s not who I’m talking about.”
Her face flushed again as she dropped the toys into a straw basket. “You did make me feel ‘like a virgin’ just now, I have to admit.” She sang a line of the infamous lyrics. “That’s going way back now. See how I know my pop music?”
“Not that Madonna!”
Her brows bunched together. “What are you talking about then?” She stared at me, her jaw slowly slackening. “Oh, oh, you mean—” The blood drained from her face. “Oh.”
“I shouldn’t be pinning you down in your kitchen. You-you need to be worshipped.”
She moved toward me, her blue eyes leveling with mine. Her hand landed on my chest and slowly rubbed up and down. The heat rose up my neck, my face.
“The way you touch me, kiss me, is worship,” she whispered. “Believe me, I’ve never had that before. Ever. I can feel your heart pounding through your mouth, through those fingers. I can only imagine what it would be like when—”
I put my fingers over her lips.
She blinked and clasped my hand, her lips nuzzling my fingertips. “I’m not the Virgin Mary, a divine goddess, or some delicate fairy princess. I’m just me.”
Her lips brushed over the thin skin of my wrist where my pulse raged. Something shimmered in my gut at her soft touch, the heat in her eyes.
“You’re not just anything. Not to me.”
“I spread my legs for you just now. I urged you on.”
“Yeah, you did.” I peeled her hand off me and forced out a laugh. “You need a fuck, little girl?”
Jill punched my chest. “A, I’m thirty-two years old, not a little girl. B, I need you to fuck me.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, my mouth dried. “We both know—”
“Save it!” She marched into the kitchen.
I stood still, my eyes shutting closed like a castle gate against the cavalry of possibilities of me and Jill rising before me.