“I know that too. You just get stuck in your head, sometimes.”
“Understatement,” I mutter, leaning over and putting my head onto his shoulder. “I just didn’t want—I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” he says, a big hand on the back of my neck, squeezing gently.
“Promise?”
“Yeah, Bear. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He laughs, and I can feel it vibrating in his chest. “Good. Now. Should I still be your space cowboy one-night stand, or can I be your husband who loves you very, very much?”
I pretend to think on it. “Which one will get me fucked into the mattress?”
“Eh. Probably space cowboy. But your husband already knows all the best tricks. John Smith sounds like he’d be selfish about it. He learned it from his dad.”
“Poor Pocahontas.”
“Poor Pocahontas,” he agrees, and it hits me now that I have this man, this idiot in front of me who loves me enough to go along with my stupidity. Who allows me to do all these things that make no sense but enjoys the ride anyway. I’m lucky that way, because not everyone will find that. Not everyone will ever get to have what I have. Because it might be foolish to think that we’ll have this forever. People change. Feelings change. But I believe him when he says it, and no voice in my head arguing to the contrary will convince me otherwise. We’re solid. We’re good. And if there comes a day when we’re not, we’ll fix it.
I lift my head. “We might have to become one of those couples who schedule sex.”
He shrugs. “So we schedule sex. As long as we’re doing it together, that’s fine.”
I frown. “That—because we’d be doing sex… apart?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, you ass. Speaking of.” He runs his hands down my back and gropes me.
“That was terrible.”
“Or was it funny.”
“You are such a dad.”
“Is this where I ask you if you’re my good boy?” he asks, and okay, maybe I shudder a little at that, my hips jerking forward.
His eyes are wide.
So are mine, because what.
And then we’re kissing, and it’s messy and wet, and his tongue goes on my chin, and our teeth are knocking together because I’m trying to climb him like a goddamn tree. He grunts against my mouth, and he’s lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. I’m grinding onto him, and—
“Is your leg okay?” I gasp as he bites my neck.
“S’fine,” he says, voice muffled.
“Because you know how it gets before it rains, and I read it
was going to rain—”
“I took some Advil. It’s fine—”
“Oh my god,” I choke out. “You’re so old now, we’re talking about your leg that hurts when it rains—”
“No,” he says, squeezing my ass. “You’re the one talking about my leg after I called you my good boy—”
“Ungh,” I say, going slack in his arms.