“She’s been standing beside her empty chair since dinner ended. Her feet hurt. Her back hurts. She hates you but not more than she hates me, and she wishes we’d both stop discussing her body. I know Rose,” I tell him. “I don’t have to blatantly stare at her to understand. You’ve confused me with you.”
His jaw hardens. “I don’t blatantly fucking stare.”
“Yes you do.” I’ve seen him stare for longer than she’d allow most people.
Ryke rubs his unshaven jaw. “This is fucking hard for me,” he admits.
“That’s obvious.”
He glowers.
“Yes?” I begin to smile.
“You could’ve just fucking said me too.”
I arch a brow. “So you’d like me to lie to you.”
He groans and throws a dishtowel at the sink faucet. We both never signed up for a marriage with one another, but here we are: washing dishes together, having a baby in some fashion together, and bickering like we’ve known each other for far too long.
Which we have.
“You’re making it hard on yourself,” I tell him. “Take a breath. Relax. Maybe try yoga, I hear that helps for expecting mothers.”
“Fucking hilarious.” He does relax at my words. He understands. Rose is the one pregnant, and if something were wrong, she’d tell him. She wouldn’t outwardly alert me because she wouldn’t have to. I’d know immediately, and I wouldn’t be anywhere but by her side.
I check my watch. I’ve distracted him for long enough. “She’s sitting now.”
He tries to subtly check, and I see his shoulders drop. “Thank fucking God.”
“Or you could thank someone who actually helped.” Me.
Ryke stays quiet just to piss me off, but I don’t grant him the satisfaction.
“Oh crap!” Moffy shouts, followed by more guys groaning in defeat. Behind us, two flat-screen televisions are side-by-side, two teams on beanbags. Girls vs. Guys. Jane and Moffy have the only two game controllers, pounding the buttons quickly.
Sorin-X from The Fourth Degree comics is on each of their screens, both playing the identical game and tracking how far they go into the storyline. It’s the game Garrison created. The one I invested my resources and time in. It launched at the beginning of November to record sales, and the reviews validated his talent.
An original masterpiece…
Gaming has never seen an adventure quite as fascinating as this one…
You’ll never want it to end…
He coded the game, which means that the functionality, the storyline, the gameplay all originate from his mind first. I don’t think anyone was prouder than Lo.
“A-B-pull-backwards,” Charlie coaches Moffy, trying to help him move along in the game. I’m no more surprised Charlie memorized special moves than I am at Tom’s disinterest. My three-year-old looks like he jumped on the beanbag, face-first, and just never moved from there.
Rose stands up, a few three-ring binders in hand.
A timer buzzes. “Switch,” Garrison calls to both teams.
Moffy passes the controller to his dad. Then Jane tries to pass hers to Lily, and she hot-potatoes the controller, not expecting to be asked to play.
Ryke and I both dry our hands on dishtowels as Rose slides towards us, one of her hands perched on her lower back. With each pregnancy, her body becomes sore sooner than the last. The cause is a combination of her heels and forcing her back straight with the extra weight.
I don’t approach her yet, but she stops between the island counter and the sink. “Does this look even? I polled the girls, but the results are extremely biased.” More people placate Rose when she’s pregnant.
She raises the black binder and shows us the title scrawled across the front.
The Evolution of Tom Carraway Cobalt’s Style
“Carraway is crooked, darling.”
Her eyes flame at her work.
Ryke gestures to the binder. “It looks fucking straight to me.”
I cut in, “If you don’t trust me over Ryke then we have a bigger issue than an off-kilter title.”
Rose skims the title again. “I trust me more than both of you combined…is this smudged?” This time, she just asks me.
“No.”
Rose’s piercing eyes flit to my lips. Her nose flares, less fight in her eyes and more softness, like hot magma. Not sparking fire, not blistering flames. Just molten lava. Her rare melting expression consumes me.
I cock my head. She shifts sideways like she means to return to her chair, but she lingers here. Rose is unquestionably overly aroused.
I wait for a moment or two longer, and she turns to me and asks, “Is this ugly?” She has the binder opened to the second page. She called Tom her fashion soul mate until he went from a plain black wardrobe to a black wardrobe with gothic elements: ghosts, skull-and-crossbones, headstones.
He’s three and severely influenced by his older brother, though Rose will rebut that Eliot refuses to wear prints like Tom, and he likes deep red, green, and purple before black.
I hear the faucet behind me, Ryke continuing the dishes.
“The entire page?” I question.
“The way the three-rings jut out. Should I go with a different binding?” She flips it back towards herself, her gaze darting from me to the binder. Tension spindles between us.
“No.”
She inhales shallowly and steps towards me, but then shifts away.
I come up behind her, sliding my hand along the base of her bare neck, my other hand skating across her collarbone. I whisper in her ear, “You want my advice, Miss Highest Honors?” She’s hot to the touch. “Then I advise you to walk to the bathroom, keep your legs together, and wait inside.”
Rigid, unbending—I scan the length of her legs, one of my hands descending to her ass. “Dépêche-toi, chérie.” Hurry, darling.
She sets her binder on the counter, and instead of glaring, she keeps her back towards me, heels clapping against the floor. Rose heads to the bathroom.
I roll up the sleeves of my button-down higher, and I put her binder on a barstool, safe from the dirtied counters.
“Is she alright?” Ryke asks me, his concern unable to retreat.
“She’s better than you are.”
Ryke flips me off.
I tell him that I’m checking on Rose before I leave. I slip down a very short hallway, the whole kitchen and living area still visible from here. I knock. “It’s Connor, darling.”
I hear the lock click.
I open the door and then lock it back. The minimal bathroom has a tub, toilet, and concrete sink, industrial-styled like the rest of the loft.
Rose grips the sink behind her, neck elongated as though her own vulnerability frightens her. I reach her in seconds, towering above her frame. My hands drift tenderly along her shoulders and waist.
I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” You’re safe with me.
She clutches fiercely onto my biceps, and then she covers her face with one hand, as though trying to hide how submissive she is. She’s not trying to impale me with her eyes. She’s not spouting off death threats and resisting on purpose.
I tear her hand away and then stroke her hair. “Relax,” I murmur in my smoothest tone. “I’d never hurt you, Rose.” I always keep reassuring her when she feels this way.
Her breath shallows again, and I guide her head to my shoulder. While she calms, I slip my hand beneath her dress and hook my fingers in her panties. I rip them off. She shudders and lifts her head up a fraction.
I run my fingers between her legs.
She’s soaked.
Rose is unmoving, her joints locked tight.
“Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” I massage her head and then I kiss her hard. She whimpers against my mouth. Her neck flushes at the noise she made.
I harden instantly, my cock begging to be inside of my wife.
I adore all of Rose, this moment as much as the enflaming, raging ones.
Effortlessly, I lift Rose to the concrete sink counter, my cock at perfect height with her pelvis. And now she isn’t straining in her heels. I still have a clear height advantage, needing to stare down. She doesn’t combat me.
Rose grips the waistband of my slacks with white knuckles, legs spread wide open. I have to rip her hands off, just so I can remove my pants. I set her palms on my shoulders. I step out of my slacks, and then she tries to bury her face in her arm.
“Rose, Rose,” I whisper. “I’d never hurt you.” I lift up her head.
She tightens her eyes closed.
“Breathe, darling.”