Before Him

I fucking love Kennedy. I love fucking her, too. I know in my heart and soul that I’ll never want to be with anyone else. I have this feeling inside me, simmering just below the surface, ready to burst. I want to squeeze her like a kid with his favourite teddy. Kiss her all over until her legs twitch like crazy. I want to spread her out and trace every inch of her body, first with my eyes, then with my tongue. I want to press kisses to the tiny marks on her hips and slide my mouth across those low on her stomach. She sees them as imperfections. I see them as embellishments, proof of a life lived. They show that hers hasn’t been a shallow toe dip. And I want to be there, by her side, for the rest of it.

She is amazing.

“Roman? You know you need to leave soon.”

And amazingly unperceptive sometimes.

Her soft words might mean go, but that tiny, breathy exhale as I trail a finger across her skin says otherwise. She stretches out like a cat, her soft curves swapped for straight lines and curving again.

“I tell you I love you and I need to leave? That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.” Despite the topic and her rebuttal, I can’t prevent this smile from seeping into my soft reply. I don’t stop twirling invisible patterns on her back, either. Not while I still have my arm.

“Those were just the endorphins talking.” There’s something almost feline in the way she stretches as she half turns her head, exposing the smooth column of her neck. “Please don’t spoil this by making me kick you out.”

“As if I would,” I answer solemnly. As if she could. Satisfied with my answer or subdued by the sensation of my knuckle skating down her spine, she drops back to the pillow. But not before flashing me a little side boob. Bonza. We might have fucked six ways since Sunday, but boob is boob, and all flashes are received like a shower of diamonds.

“If I need to, I will.” Seriously, I doubt she has the energy. Under my hands, her skin is soft and warm, and her muscles pliant, her grumbles a bit like a dog with no teeth.

“I don’t doubt it.” I might overdo it a little with the serious tone here. This woman, I love every prickly hair of her. Not that her hair is prickly. Just her air.

“What we just did was only—”

“Fucking like it was an Olympic sport?”

“A marathon.” She huffs out a laugh, then makes a small ow sound. “I won’t need to do that again for a while.”

“Is that how it works for you?” I feel myself frown. “Like a bag you can fill?” A sex bag? You fucking idiot.

“It doesn’t matter how it works.” She pushes up fully this time, dragging the white sheet with her as she turns to face me. “No matter how good the sex is, we can’t make a habit of it. You don’t love me, Roman. You just love—”

“Define habit. Are we talking daily, weekly? Bimonthly? Quarterly. I’m gonna be around, so I’ll be available.” The effort it takes to keep my response light is monu-fucking-mental. Kennedy’s second gold medal would be in pig-headedness.

“This is not healthy,” she says, ignoring me. “We need our boundaries to be healthy.” Our boundaries are undergoing repairs, but before long, I foresee me and her and Wilder cosseted by our little circle of love. And Drew nowhere near any of us. “It’d just confuse Wilder when we’re just beginning our co-parenting journey.”

You know what I think? It might be a little too soon to ask her how many kids she’d like to co-parent the old-fashioned way.

“You can’t be here in the morning.”

“It’s already morning.” Also, I reckon the kid would be stoked to see us at the breakfast table together, mostly because he thinks his mother likes me. I mean, I know he’s right on some level. It’s just that she’s convinced herself that level is more subterranean carpark. But I’m not giving up on her. She’s the woman for me and always has been. And I’m hers, hook, line, and sinker. I have been for almost eight years.

“Then maybe you should leave already,” she says, giving me her version of an eyebrow quirk.

“Yeah, in a minute. Did I tell you that Wilder wanted to take you out with us yesterday?” Before her mum parked her broomstick outside, at least. After that, he just seemed happy that she’d left.

Worry flickers across her face as she gives her head a tiny shake. “Do you think he was worried?” she adds quickly. “Shy about being alone with you?”

“That was my first instinct.” A smile tugs at my lips as I lower myself to the mattress, propping my chin on my fist. “He seemed pretty keen, but I was worried it might be too soon to tell. You know, really tell.”