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Her body sucked me dry as I pounded into her again and again, pouring forth every drop and still bucking into her even as I went soft, grinding against her clit and giving her those sharp spikes of pleasure that made her moan. She writhed beneath me, her nails scoring my back as I pressed into her again. I’d never felt so completely joined to anyone, so merged into one. “I love you,” I said against her lips.
“I love you, Jeremy Beckett, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life,” she said.
30
DARREN
I finished putting the crib together after four hours and finally tapping Rory to help me out because it needed two sets of hands. We had it all set up and the special organic crib mattress in place before Julie’s shift was over. For now, we’d agreed to place it in one corner of Julie’s spacious bedroom. Twelve inches from the wall and with no crib bumpers in it due to the risk of suffocation. Jeremy was the damn mayor of safe sleep at this point with all his research.
Julie had chosen the crib she liked, but she let the three of us choose a rocking chair since we were all three bigger than she was, so none of the nursery rockers would fit any of us comfortably. I’d be happy to spend hours in that large-framed chair with its excellent cushions, just rocking for hours with our baby in my arms. I already got an itchy feeling in my chest when it came to thoughts of her.
That was really the moment that made up our minds. Crowding into the ultrasound room for a second time at nineteen weeks and getting the confirmation that Julie had been right all along. We were having a baby girl. We’d been kicking around names for a few weeks prior to that, and every time we thought we had it narrowed down to a short list for either gender, one of us would remember a reason we didn’t like a name. If it was a boy’s name, usually I had to train some dipshit mama’s boy in the service by that name, and if it was a girl’s name, well, Rory probably hooked up with somebody called that. There were plenty of wadded up-list snowball fights around our living room when an objection sent us back to the drawing board on possible monikers for our little one. It was all in good fun, and Julie insisted we wouldn’t know what to call the baby till we met her.
I’d looked into the children’s hospital organization I’d done security for that time and they had potential openings for someone with Julie’s qualifications when she was ready. We all agreed, her included, that the unpredictable hours of ER shift work weren’t the best for her health or for having a family life. She was definitely interested in the job somewhere down the line after a maternity leave. We’d tried to get her to take a year off before she even thought about going back to work, to give her time to recover from pregnancy and settle into motherhood. We wanted to take care of her and take care of the baby. She’d teared up at how sweet we were, but I at least knew that there was a backbone of steel under the weepy hormones. Julie didn’t want to depend on us financially. She loved being a nurse and wouldn’t consider giving it up. She said she would consider part time for a while until the baby was older. That was the biggest concession we could hope for from her.
Rory darted back to the kitchen to check the meal we were cooking. Between the two of us, we’d managed to roast a chicken and some potatoes and carrots. He’d seen the recipe on a TikTok about “marry me” chicken. We all three thought it was kind of a cute inside joke to cook it for tonight.
“Still looks like chicken,” Rory announced.
“I guess that’s a good thing,” I shrugged and bundled up the box and packing materials from the crib project. “Thanks for your help.”
“I’m impressed. You’re willing to ask for help now. Look at all of us growing and maturing.”
“Yeah, you’re cooking something more than chili. It’s a damn miracle.”
“Got everything done on your end?” he asked.
“You’re looking at it,” I said, indicating the crib, the mattress, the rocker and the accent wall behind the crib that I’d covered in supposedly removable wallpaper that looked like something out of a fancy old Victorian house, a cream color with fat yellow roses on it, a big, riotous pattern. “I hope she likes it. Kendall said it’s both feminine and bold. All I got to say is those are some big-ass flowers.”
“If the lady wants big-ass flowers, she gets big-ass flowers, Darren,” Rory said. “Speaking of which, I picked up a bouquet. They’re in the vase on the table.”
