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He was going to miss living in the house. Having dinner with Emily. Sleeping with her close. And yet he couldn’t wait to be away from the confusing array of challenges that being with her presented.
Mess after mess after mess. Winston did not like messes. Messiness. And found himself surrounded by situations that just were not straightforward.
Names. Nurseries. Colors. Giraffes. Breasts. Bellies. Parents.
Oh, the parents. It would have been much cleaner to tell his parents about the child after he was out of Emily’s house, when he was telling them about the divorce, so they’d better understand. Then they’d know that he wasn’t the happy expectant father they’d assume him to be. That he wasn’t a father at all.
But Emily had had a goo
d point. As soon as someone came to the house, the news would be out. And would spread. Her mom and his were still friends from when they all lived in the same town together. Not best friends. But they’d definitely connect over this one.
So he’d called them. Making certain to do it by himself, toning down the news as a fact, rather than a celebration. Trying to preempt more cacophony.
He’d failed there, too.
He might only be a biological component, as opposed to a real father, but his folks were definitely grandparents. The child was little more than a tiny pooch in Emily’s belly. Nothing anyone would notice if they didn’t know to look. But that heartbeat sound, in MMS, flew over cell towers from Emily’s phone to his parents, and plans had been piling up on his back ever since.
They’d sent outfits. The moms wanted to plan a shower. They talked about Christmas—which was still three months away and long after his divorce would happen. And three months before the child would be born.
Ramifications of that sperm he’d had stored all those years ago were spiraling out of control.
Out of his control.
When Emily suggested heading to bed early on Saturday night to watch some television, he followed right after. They’d made a vow, during those naive teenage years, to always go to bed together. While he was living in her home, he was respecting her rules. But as he climbed in beside her, catching a glimpse of her thigh as he lifted the covers, the mental and physical effort it cost to remain immune was a clear message to him. He couldn’t wait much longer to move on.
* * *
Winston’s hand was on her hip. Instantly alert, Emily lay still in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe, to move her body even that much. In all the weeks since his return he’d never even come close to instigating physical contact with her in bed. Or anyplace else when they were alone.
The only times he reached out to her, made any physical connection at all, had been when their folks were around.
On her side, her back to him, she could feel her nipples hardening.
The hand just lay there, on top of her panties. Her gown had slid up to her waist and with the exception of the panties, the rest of her was bare. Desire flooded her so fiercely she was almost certain he’d know it. Thought about him knowing what that simple touch was doing to her.
As badly as she wanted to roll to her back, to welcome him, to touch him, too, she didn’t. The last time she’d tried, the only time either one of them had ever rejected the other, had hurt too badly to risk a replay. It was taking every ounce of her strength, of her faith in him and in them, to keep her head above the particularly rough sea of her emotions these days. Pregnancy hormones were a bitch.
But she was eager and ready for him if he wanted more.
Listening, she couldn’t tell by his breathing if he was awake or asleep. He breathed heavier when he was turned on, too.
After several minutes, she was still wide-awake. Even if Winston wasn’t aware of what he was doing, wasn’t coming on to her, she didn’t want to doze off and miss a second of his touch. She missed him so incredibly much. Just that hand...it shored up her strength. Reminding her how truly connected they were. Just his touch on her hip could make her world so excitingly right.
She’d lie there until morning if he chose to...
The hand moved. Steeling herself, she waited for his touch to be gone, leaving her alone in the dark. No...no, wait... It moved up a little, not away. And then...down a little past where it had started out. Three more times his hand moved across her hip, over the panties to the skin on either side, leaving tingles in its wake.
On the next pass, his hand went farther down her leg, and then farther up her side, beneath her nightie. She worried about her elbow getting in the way, yet feared moving. If he thought she was asleep, if he was trying to wake her in the way he’d woken her so many times in the past, she didn’t want him to know he’d succeeded. Not yet.
She had no way of knowing if he’d continue to love on her once she awoke. Or if her consciousness would send him back into the lonely world he inhabited these days.
He was welcome to her comforts for as long as he wanted them. The rest of the night, if he needed it that way.
His hand veered off course when it reached her elbow. But the barricade didn’t stop him as she’d feared. His hand continued upward, on the inner side of her arm, reaching her breast easily, so...confidently...she sucked in a breath. Feared he’d stop at any second.
He didn’t stop. His hand covered her breast, nipple in the center of his palm, as though he’d been there the night before, not more than two years ago. Teasing her nipple with his palm as he gently held the rest of her breast, he proceeded to get her good and wet. Just as he’d been doing since they’d been way too young. He knew her body and played it as she’d taught him. Just with that one hand on her breast.
His body was against her back, spooning her, without her being aware of either of them moving. He continued to tantalize her breast...and to push his very hard, very generous sexual part between her thighs. That’s when she realized he was still wearing the boxers he put on for bed these days. Part of him had found its way out and nudged her thighs, and she waited to see what he’d do next.
