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Being full in a way I never pictured myself craving to feel convinces me to quietly confess, “I needed that.”
He hums, presses a delicate kiss to my collarbone, and coos, “Yo se, bella.”
I helplessly grin over how in tuned to me he is and let my hands land on top of flexed forearms. “I love you.”
Tate nuzzles the sensitive skin once more on an echoing of the sentiment. “Te amo.”
For just a moment the two of us remain tightly embraced, letting all the pending stress of the day, and all the lingering stress from the week finally fade away.
I have spent all of my non-work time prepping for this weekend. Scheduling an extra cleaning session with the housekeeper – wanting a deep clean before our guests arrive – kicked off the nerve-racking preparations. Next came making sure I got enough extra groceries. Toilet paper. Soap. And then came shopping for linens and guest towels, shit I’d have if these weren’t our first guests or more accurately – my first guests. The fact I never had guests on my own shouldn’t surprise anyone since I have two best friends that both live in town – one of which is my ex-husband – and no family. And sure, Tate probably didn’t have his family stay with him at the tiny apartment he was sharing with one of his best friends – who is also joining us today – but I know he’s had guests at his parent’s house as an adult, so I’m sure he’s done the prep work before or at least is aware of the process. For like six days, I’ve been a fucking wreck, worried they’re gonna hate our house or something I bought or worst of all, me, and the fact we’ve been working incompatible schedules so that we could have this weekend together hasn’t really allowed a single moment to soothe the anxiety.
This did.
At least enough to get the day really going.
Eventually, Tate gingerly slips out to stuff his dick back into his black jeans, but not before pressing two fingers against my entrance on a warm yet brash, “I want you full of me all day.”
I grin and flex the muscles to keep his sexual remnants inside. “You always do.”
“Any day that ends in y, beautiful.”
The instant he moves his wet digits, I wiggle my overly stretched panties completely off and discard them in the nearby trash. “What would you do if you actually got me preggers like you keep saying you want me to be during sex?”
“When I finally get you carrying our baby,” he firmly corrects, hands rearranging his underwear, “I’ll be even bloody happier than I am now.”
His blissfulness is embarrassingly contagious. “How often do you seriously think about us having kids? As in, not saying it while you’re banging me all over the house.”
“Probably at least twice a week.”
“Twice a week?!” My body spins around to face his. “Like every week?”
“Yes.” Tate pulls his white shirt down over his recently fastened belt and meets my gaze. “I meant what I’ve said since the beginning of this relationship about wanting to be a dad and how important that is to me. And you know I respect you being on the pill – fuck, I’ve had to remind you to take it on some of your shifts – but I hope you know whenever you’re ready to stop, I’m ready for you to.” His smile softens. Gets almost too sweet for words. “I mean it every time I say I want us to have family, Harper. Yes, it’s sexy shite I love to say while we’re shagging, but I’m serious about it. I want that for us someday. And I’ll be the happiest bloody bastard whatever day that day is.”
The faintest swoon slips free as I wrap my arms adoringly around his lower half. “Have you thought of names?”
“A few.” His hands brace themselves against the marble countertop at my sides. “I’d rather us chose together, to be honest.”
“Like browse a baby names book?”
“Or online.”
“What names have you already considered?”
“Liam,” he replies rather too quickly, informing he really has given all this shit thought. “Or Lorcán.” His head bobs side to side in a momentary contemplation. “I like the latter just a wee bit more because it’s used less.”
“Those are boys names.”
“Because we’ll be having a boy.”
“We could have a girl.”
“Remind me to never let you bet in Vegas.”
The playful glare he’s twitched occurs prior to me inquiring, “Those are clearly Irish inspired names. Have you considered any that aren’t? Perhaps Dominican or Black?”
“Like Martin?”
“No.”
