Page 263 of Josephine and Clay

I don’t have time to check which one; it could be a closet, and I wouldn’t care, because suddenly there’s only the drag of his callused hands down the backs of my thighs and the scrape of his teeth on my collarbone.

Somewhere in this I lose my shoes. He laughs as I try to keep up, his hands reacquainting themselves with every new curve pregnancy has given me, his own laughter vibrating into the soft skin behind my ear as he hoists me up.

My ass lands on a sturdy windowsill, the sun still squatting low enough that it lights the dust motes as they swirl around us. He looks at me with that expression, wearing that hopelessly smitten look that still catches me off guard, and then he’s got my face in his hands and his tongue in my mouth and I’m clawing for his shirt like I want to drag it straight through his skin.

I’m only half aware of the buttons popping, my hands burrowing beneath flannel and cotton, palms greedy against the ridges of muscle, the scatter of old scars.

His belt makes a sound, a metallic snick that sends anticipation racing through me, and then his hands are under my dress, pulling tight enough that my thighs bunch up around his hips. My underwear lands somewhere in the dust at my feet.

He presses the length of his body against mine. Heat rockets through me, a ridiculous, forbidden teenage indulgence, heightened, not diminished, by the fact that now it’s trusted and wanted and safe.

The sound that comes out of me is more than a moan; it's a gasp laced with laughter and disbelief. I get to keep him. I get to have this over and over, with no expiration date.

He says my name again, low and trembling, and his hands move down to cradle my hips, making room around my belly, never once faltering in their purpose.

He fucks me against the broad wood of the sill, the rhythm full of want and wonder. Late sunlight streaks across his shoulders. The world narrows to his wild blue eyes and the ache I'd carried for years finally replaced by him.

His thumb finds the spot that undoes me every time, circling my clit in slow, deliberate patterns. My hips buck without coordination.

He knows exactly how to touch me like this, and he’s not shy about watching what it does to me, face open and awestruck. I can feel his breath break on my neck, his pulse unspooling in double time. Desperate, maybe, if I wasn’t so completely unraveled myself.

I want him to tear me apart, but I want him to piece me back together slower, with the patience of a man stitching together his own days.

He holds back just enough to make me squirm.

Since getting pregnant, I haven't wanted anything this fiercely. I’m greedy, wanting more, wanting now, all the while knowing I fucking can’t get enough. My name falls apart on his tongue. And when I come, it’s violent and immediate, the kind of climax that claims my whole body and leaves me clinging, boneless, to the man holding me up like I’m the only thing in the world not nailed down. I shudder through it, mouth open, no apologies.

He follows, not long after, teeth on his lip, eyes squeezed shut, a growl so guttural it vibrates through both our bodies. He holds me close, like he’s afraid I might slip away now that the world’s gone soft and electric with aftershock.

We stay tangled on the sill, the window behind us is completely fogged over. He peels his forehead from my shoulder and meets my eyes. A slow, silly smile spreads across his face, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to look at me this way.

“That’s one,” he says.

“One what?”

“Room conquered.”

I bark out a laugh, more animal than human. “You’re an idiot.”

He scoops me closer, so the curve of my belly presses up beneath his heart. “Only for you, Doc.”

We’re both sweating, limbs sticking, too spent to fix our clothes, and suddenly I can’t stop giggling. It's absurd, joyous, and ordinary in the best possible way.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Clay

NOVEMBER 18TH

I used to think eight seconds was a long time. Long enough for your whole life to narrow to one thing. A breath, a grip, a choice between hanging on and hitting dirt.

I was wrong.

Eight seconds is nothing.

Eight seconds is easy.

Eight seconds is a mercy compared to standing beside the woman you love while a monitor beeps too fast, nurses move with quiet purpose, and nobody in the room is telling you enough to make your heart stop trying to claw its way out of your chest.