Page 88 of Lovefool

“I’ll always do everything in my power to make you feel loved, Lake,” I reassure her.

Her bottom lip falls victim to a bite. “What if we—what if we actually get pregnant?”

My chest feels like it’s been cracked open with a pickaxe. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Of course…” she trails off, then eschews eye contact. “I’m just overthinking.”

I gently turn her face back toward me, the air in the room underscored with a gravity that I know all too well. “Hey, birth control isn’t always a hundred percent effective. It’s a valid concern. And…and I know this probably doesn’t seem helpful, but I’d support whatever you wanted to do.”

I ease her uncertainty with a fissure-opening truth that I’ve never told anyone before.

“I’ve, uh, always wanted a big family. Four kids preferably. It’s been me and my dad for so long that I’m scared of reliving a purposeless life—the kind where holidays are so lonely that I begin to resent each one. A sensible part of me knows that children aren’t some magical fix, and maybe I’m more in love with the idea of them than the reality. I don’t remember when my breeding kink started. It was just a way to deepen my connection with my partner. And as fun as it is, I’d never want to pressure you into actually following through with anything. Your safety and comfort are my number one priority.”

Lake nods. “I get it. There’s something nice about exploring a scenario that…might not happen in the future.”

“I don’t need to be a father. I certainly don’t think I’d be a good one right now. All I need is you. This whole kink hinges on a fantasy, and if it stresses you out, we won’t indulge in it from here on out, okay?”

“No, I—I enjoy it. And I mean, one day down the road, I would like to have a child with you.”

I freeze. To be honest, I was tallying the freckles on her face before being thrown completely off-kilter. Her sentiment is as heavy as a weighted blanket, ironically juxtaposed against her soft, steady voice.

“You would?” I exclaim, an incurable fondness shoehorning its way into my frantic heart.

She cracks a smile; the dam in her eyes is close to breaking. “Yeah, Sutton. I think you’d make a wonderful dad. I see how you are with Max.”

“I’m only good with him because he was raised right—and that’s all on you, Lake. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’d make an amazing mom.”

I know we’re young. We have a long way to go before making any irreversible decisions in our lives, but like Lake said, it’s nice to fantasize from time to time. And I fantasize about my girl. A lot.

“Do you always know the right thing to say?”

I scoot closer to her so I can deposit a kiss onto her forehead, basking in the combined heat of our bodies. “Hardly, but with you, the words come a lot easier.”

28

A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

LAKE

I’m not a particularly intuitive person.

There have been so many instances when danger was just around the corner, and I didn’t pick up on the undertone until much later. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe it’s because I knew my self-destructive behaviors were wrong, but I needed to feel that edge—that edge millions of people have leaned down to kiss to see just how close they could get to death. Some got their answer, and some (like me) are still wondering how long the metaphorical fall would be.

Call it a postcoital premonition, but I get this feeling that something bad is about to happen. Statistically, I don’t think I’ll get stabbed on my way to the vending machine—I need to get reinforcements since I, quote, “fucked the energy out of Sutton”—though there is this inexplicable fear icing my veins as I walk down a long stretch of concrete.

I’m more alert than usual. The hair on my arms stands up while I quicken to a faster pace, feeling like prey out in the open that has to choose between starvation and safety.

The clopping sound of my badly beaten sneakers echoes down the narrow walkway, and I’m about to round the corner when braying laughter assaults my eardrums.

I’ve heard that laughter before. High-pitched, obnoxious, somehow condescending. The kind of laugh that country club cretins share when they’re trying to compare finances because their dick sizes are too small.

Buford.

I duck out of sight. There are two people standing in the hallway by the ice maker. I hear another voice too—masculine, deep.

This is a bad idea. This is creepy as hell! I’m spying on my ex-boyfriend. What Buford does in his free time is none of my business.

But this is strange. What is he doing up so late? Who is he talking to?