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I move one of her legs up, letting it drape along my shoulder, and we moan in unison at the new angle, the new depth. It makes her pussy squeeze me even tighter.
“Fuck, Stella. You feel so fucking good. I love this pussy. Is it mine?” She nods, but that’s not enough. “Use your words, Stell. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Riggs,” she moans. “All of me is yours.”
Her words take me over the edge, the way she quivers around me, the way her small tits bounce each time I pound into her.
“Come for me, little star,” I say through gritted teeth, my eyes locked on where my cock is disappearing in her cunt as I fuck her. “Now.”
It’s all it takes. It’s all it ever seems to take these days, a rough demand and getting my cock deep. Stella screams my name, the empty room making it echo in the most erotic symphony I’ve ever heard, and with it, I bury deep, groaning her name as I spill inside of her.
“I love this room,” she whispers, breaking the silence. We’re still on the floor of the room, the old sheet all bunched beneath us. There’s paint in her hair, splotches and splatters, and a few smears from my hands, but somehow, it looks good, great even. She looks free and easy.
She looks like mine.
Especially when I see the paint dried on my one hand, the hand that matches the handprint on her hip where I held her. Our bodies are a map of what happened in this room not too long ago, where my fingers traveled and where hers moved; her breasts are covered in a happy sunshine yellow, and her belly is filled with shades of pink and red.
I’d take a photo, but I know I’ll never forget the way she looks right now.
“Yeah?” I ask, my fingers starting to trace some of the swirls and dots, committing them to memory.
She nods. “The light is great, but it’s the quietest room in the house. It is far enough from the kitchen and living room that if someone’s down there, you can’t hear anything really. I used to hide up here when they were doing work in the kitchen, could barely hear when they left for the day.” I hum but don’t speak, hating that she did even a part of this house alone, that my touch isn’t on every update she made to it.
The place we once thought would be ours.
But I’m shaken from that with her next words, words she clearly doesn’t overthink much because her body stills when she says them, like she wishes she could take them back or is hoping I didn’t hear them.
“I always thought it would make a good nursery.”
But I do hear the words.
Her body doesn’t move a centimeter as she waits to see if I heard her or understood what she was saying, what she didn’t mean to reveal.
It’s like she’s worried it will anger me or that she’s crossed some line, which is fucking insane because she’s Stella, and I’m Riggins, and we were always meant to be here, to be us. To be in this house talking about nurseries and which rooms would be best for one.
It just took us a fuck of a lot longer to get here than I anticipated.
“How many?” I say, the words low as I try to leave my pain out of them, the pain of knowing we lost seven years before we could have this conversation.
“How many?” she asks, confused, like now that she accidentally spoke out loud, she’s careful with her words to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
“How many kids do you want?”
“I—”
“Twins are in your blood, which would be cool. I always loved seeing you and Evie, your bond. I hated not having siblings, so I definitely don’t want less than two. I think three would be good, but I wouldn’t be the one carrying them.” My hand splays over her belly, suddenly incredibly intrigued by the idea of her swelling with our child.
God, where did this all come from?
“Three?”
“Well, yeah. If we had twins, though, maybe four. The third would always be on the outs, not having that bond. But what do I know? Maybe that’s not how it works.” She lets my words work through her mind, confused still, and I fight a smile, knowing it would just annoy her.
“You’re… you’re talking about babies.”
“I mean, I’m not talking about dogs. Though, I do want another of those, too. Gracie’s getting old.” Her face somehow gets softer, as if she can’t believe this is happening. “You were talking about nurseries, and I don’t think you meant plants.” My mind starts working, and suddenly I’m nervous.
“Unless you were, with all the light talk. I just?—”
