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He leans forward, bringing us forehead to forehead. “I think we both know this is extremelyinconvenient.”
Yet he wants to do it anyway. YetIwanna do it anyway.
I swallow. I heave an exhale. I slink my arms around his neck, linking my hands at his nape, and ask, “What’s the proposal, exactly?”
“Well, the ring is still being sized but—” A swat of my hand against his chest puts an end to his joking. “We do what we want. We do what’s comfortable. We don’t stress about the future too much because I have a feeling there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“You make it sound so easy.” God, it must be nice to think that way.
“Some things just are.” Daring fingers circle around to my front, a thumb brushing my nipple. “Like making you come.”
My thighs clench, tightening around his, and he feels it. Likes it, if his satisfied smile is anything to go by. Takes it as what it is; a hallmark of my crumbling resolve. His head dips, mouth finding the sensitive skin of my neck and kissing, sucking, licking.
“I am a man of responsibility, Sunday. I fix what’s my fault.” His smirk is hot against my skin. His fingers dig into my hips as they guide them through lazy rolls. “You said it yourself; this is all because of me.”
“You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”
“I know, right?” I feel his smirk against my neck, see it in all its glory when he pulls away. “C’mon. Be responsible with me. I know you wanna.”
I do. I really, really do. And I think… I think, after anything, I kinda deserve it. “Okay.”
Fingers dig into the flesh of my ass, drawing me closer, one hand swatting gently. “Incredibly enthusiastic.”
I gasp as the hardest part of him perfectly aligns with the softest part of me. My face drops to the crook of his neck, smothering the noise and my retort. “Enthusiasm is earned.”
“And I’m gonna have so much fun earning it.”
33
SUNDAY
“Okay.”Twisting in the driver’s seat, I eye my passenger. “One more time.”
August sighs but, good little boy that he is, obliges my request and recites the speech we’ve been practicing all morning in anticipation of our first day back at practice. “I’m very sorry. Fighting is wrong. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Even though—”
“August.”
He sighs again. “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” he repeats without the embellishments. “We’re a team. We need to act like one.”
“Good.” I ruffle his hair. “Like a bandaid, buddy. Quick and painless.”
“It’s not fair,” he complains. “They’re not gonna apologize.”
“They are not as wonderful and kind and lovely as you are.” I pinch his cheek before smoothing my palm over it, patting gently. “You know you messed up, little man. Gotta face the music.”
I’m not a firm believer in being the bigger person; I think a lot of the time, it just means being a pushover. I love my kid, I know my kid, and I know he doesn't just shove other children for no reason. But I also know, even with a reason and as much as the little shit who said God knows what about me probably deserved it, he’s got to apologize. For his own sake more than anything; I don’t want one second of the hotheadedness he probably inherited from me to fuck anything up for him.
“Wait here for me, okay?”
A third sigh but at least August nods. He catches my phone when I toss it to him, swiping until he finds whatever mind-melting game is the object of his obsession lately. With him entertained, I’m free to skulk off to the equipment shed at the other end of the parking lot where I have a very important, very nerve racking meeting scheduled.
When I push open the creaky door and enter the dusty old shack, it’s empty. Perfect. Cass isn’t here yet—he’s out-lating me, a true gift in more ways than one. Gives me some time to rehearse my own pre-planned speech, my own performance.
Hey,I’m going to say. Very casually, not at all squeaky. Hands in the back pockets of my overalls so I don’t do something embarrassing like wave or throw him a peace sign. I’m not going to mention The Baby Shower Incident, or The After The Baby Shower Incident, or The Sometime In The Middle of The Night Incident, or The Agreement—I’m not even going to think about them. I’m going to be Ms. Lane. He’s going to be Coach Morgan. We’re going to—
“We’ve got ten minutes.”
Bemused, I gape at Cass as he barges into the equipment shed and slams the door behind him, one hand stretched behind him as he whips his t-shirt over his head. “Excuse me?”
