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“I’m gonna fucking come,” he rasps.
Our bodies are tangled as we both find our climaxes, coming together for the first time.
He moans loudly in my ear as I whimper through my own orgasm, getting off on the reminder that I’ve made him come in his own pants. And something about that is so hot.
“Fuck,” he murmurs into my hair.
“What a way to wake up,” I reply with a smile.
Another day, another line crossed.
As he melts into the mattress to catch his breath, rolling onto his back, I stretch my body out next to him.
Softly, he mumbles, “I need to clean up?—”
I gasp so loud he startles.
“What?!” he shrieks, looking at me with terror.
My hand flies to my stomach. “I felt something.”
It was a tiny pulse, like a flinch but more than a flutter. Quickly, I grab Luke’s hand and bring it to my belly, gently pushing his fingers where I felt the movement.
We stare at each other in anticipation. And after a moment, another tiny bump drums inside me.
“Did you feel that?” I ask excitedly.
Luke’s eyes grow wide as his mouth hangs open.
“Oh my god,” he says in awe.
After another moment, it kicks again. Luke lies back on the bed, apparently unbothered by the mess in his pants, as we lie together, our hands pressed against my stomach.
The moment is quiet and intimate, but I know in my heart that this moment is also cosmic and unforgettable.
Perhaps stuff like this is worse than sex when it comes to lines we shouldn’t cross. Because sex is easier to walk away from. But this will be impossible.
If he keeps letting me get this close to him, he won’t just break my heart—he’ll obliterate it.
Twenty-Two
Lucas
“Dinner is at four,” my mother says through the phone line.
“Don’t we normally eat earlier on Thanksgiving?” I ask as I walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist.
“Yes, but Adam and Sage are running the soup kitchen at the church in the morning, so I shifted ours to later in the day,” she replies. I can hear the whirring of a stand mixer in the background.
“Makes sense,” I say, running a comb through my hair.
“Are you bringing anyone?” she asks with a hint of mischief in her voice.
“Have I ever?” I reply flatly.
“No, but a mother can hope.”
The line is quiet for a moment. There’s so much tension in our family now and it makes the silent moments reek with it. As if the fact that our father is now in prison and our family has endured so much trauma in the last couple of years screams loudest when we’re not saying anything at all.
