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“No. We’re not fighting. I’ll tuck you back into bed.”
“Can we read more ofMoon Over Manifest?”
“We can read whatever you want.” I kiss her head and carry her to her white canopy bed with a pink polka dot quilt and so many stuffed animals that I don’t know where she finds room to sleep.
As soon as I toss her into the pile of animals, she giggles and hops out of bed, retrieving the book from her white and turquoise flowered bookshelf.
We manage to wedge ourselves into the tiny space, her tucked under my arm, one of my legs hanging off the side. By the time I get four pages past her marked spot in chapter seven, she’s asleep.
I’ve wiped a lot of Amelia’s tears since my diagnosis, but I haven’t shed one of my own until now.
One tear.
Two tears.
Three, four, five tears.
They slowly descend my face, and I let the book drop from my hand to the rug beneath her bed. Where did the time go?
“I’m pregnant!” Amelia squealed, leaping into my arms when I opened the door to our first apartment. It was a one-bedroom main-floor apartment with an old gray carpet and a few mice. “I know it’s not the best timing, but?—”
I kissed her to shut her up. The woman I loved more than any other human was pregnant with my baby. Fuck the timing.
“Are you sure?” I set her on her feet and kissed her again, unbuttoning her blouse.
She giggled.
“Because,” I kissed down her neck, walking her backward toward the bedroom, “we should make sure you stay good and pregnant.”
Her giggles multiplied as we lost all our clothes.
As we fell into bed.
As I filled her.
Then they stopped, replaced with soft moans. Her fingers curled into the muscles along my back. I ducked my head and sucked her breast, bringing her nipple into a hard pebble between my teeth.
She hissed. “Shit … my nipples are sensitive.”
“Sorry, baby.” I softly kissed it.
She pushed at my chest, nudging me to roll onto my back. Amelia enjoyed being on top. And I fucking loved the view. I couldn’t wait to see her riding me with a little baby belly.
I licked the pad of my thumb before pressing it between her legs right where she liked it. Her fingers tangled in her hair, eyelids heavy and intoxicated. I could come just looking at her.
“God, I love how deep you fill me.” She hugged herself.
Played with her breasts.
Sucked her fingers and smeared saliva over her nipples. Taunting me. Reminding me I could no longer touch them.
My wife had no inhibitions. She was sexy as fuck and knew it.
I gripped her hips, thumbs caressing her belly. We were having a baby.
I metAmelia Havana Armstrong a month before I graduated from college. She was turning right in her red Mini Cooper; I was zooming through the intersection on a bike.
Thunk!
