Fortuity (Transcend 3) - Page 106
He returns to my neck where I love him the most. His chuckling tickles my skin. “How about a tour of the house?”
“With or without the eight-hour erection?”
He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and directs my hand between us to his erection. “I’d give it about twenty minutes.”
“Then make the tour quick,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb over the head of it, eliciting a moan from him.
“God … I love you.” He grabs my ass and rocks to standing with me hugged to him like a monkey. “Great room. Kitchen,” he says, without taking his gaze off me.
“It’s nice.” I grin without looking at the kitchen or the great room.
He walks us down the wide hallway. “Office.”
I hold on with one hand on his shoulder while running my other hand through his hair. “It’s amazing.” My gaze doesn’t leave his face. I’m sure it’s a fantastic office. I’ll see it later. “Guest room. Morgan’s room.”
I tease my fingers along his scruffy jaw, brushing my thumb along his lips because his full lips are my addiction. “Uh-huh …” I suck in my lower lip. I’ve already seen Morgan’s room on video chat. The guest room can’t look that much different.
“Bathroom.” He nips at my thumb.
I feel it between my legs—that might be his erection.
“Master bedroom.” He takes us into the bedroom and kicks the door shut. The first thing I get a good look at is the ceiling when my back hits the mattress.
Skylights. Nice.
*
“I realize this is a little after-the-fact, but is this the bed you had with Jenna?” I walk my naked self from the bed to his walk-in closet. The light goes on automatically. “I’m going to snoop.” I glance over my shoulder.
He’s rolled on his side, head propped up on his bent arm, sheet barely covering the goods. “Snoop away. And no. It’s a new bed.”
I pull open several drawers and pluck out a soft tee of his, bringing it to my nose and then slipping it on. Nosing through a few more drawers, just because, I exit the closet. “Wisconsin guy with a Bears T-shirt.” I tip my chin down at the blue and orange football tee. “Interesting.”
“Is it strange that I want to fuck you in it and never wash it again?”
“No.” I saunter to the door and open it. “It’s strange that you think I’m not taking it back to California with me … because I totally am.” Now that I’m thoroughly satisfied, I re-check out the other bedrooms, bathrooms, his office, and finally the kitchen.
His fridge could use some more food, but his gorgeous walk-in pantry has quite a bit of food. Grabbing whatever looks like it has potential, I lay out ingredients for dinner. A granola bar and two bites of a sandwich do not begin to replenish calories after having sex twice.
“Can I help?” Nate makes his way to the kitchen in jeans … only jeans. His hair looks nearly as fucked as I feel.
“I doubt it.” I open and close drawers and doors until I find what I need. “Do you like pasta with marinara?”
“If you make it, I’ll like it.”
“Good.” I glance up from the cutting board and onion.
His face turns serious as he sits on the stool at the island. “It’s time.”
“Time?” I chop the onion.
“I thought … the other night there was a look exchanged. It felt clear at the time. At least to me. Now … I’m not so sure.”
“Sure of what?”
He runs his hands through his hair. “Gracelyn … don’t do this.”
I stop cutting and set the knife on the board. “I’m not on the pill,” I whisper, keeping my gaze trained to him, looking for the slightest cringe, the tiniest flinch of regret or concern. “Tell me you didn’t assume I was.”
He remains neutral as he shakes his head. “I didn’t assume it.”
Curling my hair behind my ears, I lift my shoulder into a shrug. “So … what did you assume?”
He glances away, somewhere over my shoulder. And I hate it because for the first time since that night, I feel like we didn’t just take a chance; we made a mistake. What if it can’t be unmade?
After too many seconds of silence that open the door to all my repressed insecurities, I laugh.
It’s a crazy laugh.
A nervous laugh.
A really fucking scared laugh.
“Say something! Say ANYTHING!” My voice booms out of control as my breaths speed into total hyperventilation, riddled with panic. I grab my head, curling my fingers into my hair, taking a few wobbly steps backward. “I could be pregnant. PLEASE tell me this isn’t news to you. Please tell me—”
“You’re pregnant?” Morgan steps around the corner from the back door to the garage.
I heard nothing. When did she walk in? How much did she hear? Why is she here?
“Morgan …” Nate flies off the stool and rushes to her, pulling her into a hug. “What are you doing here, baby?”
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