“I felt the same way when I met your mother. There I was, cruising along, making the most of a fan-fucking-tastic life—and your mom came along and shot it all to hell. I didn’t know which way was up—with work, with my Saturday nights. This is a talk for another time, but it’s true what they say: you spend nine months trying to get out, and the rest of your life trying to work your way back in.”
I chuckle at my own joke. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but your mom is gorgeous—the finest ass I’ve ever laid eyes on. Still, I really liked my old life and I couldn’t imagine anything better. But I was wrong, James—falling in love with her, earning her trust, having you, are the best things I’ve ever done.”
He’s not crying at all anymore but simply regarding me with quiet attention. “The adjustment might be hard . . . but it’s worth it. So could you cut us some slack, please? We love you so much—I can’t wait to show you how f**king great life is on the outside. And you don’t have to be scared, because we’ll keep you warm and fed. And I promise I’ll never, ever let anything bad happen to you.”
His little mouth opens in a stretching yawn. And his eyes slow-blink. I stand up and pace the room again—slowly.
Kate’s hushed voice comes from the across the room. “You certainly have a way with words, Mr. Evans.” Her hair is wild, messy; my college T-shirt is baggy on her and almost reaches her knees.
“What are you doing up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I couldn’t fall back asleep. And I heard you whispering out here.” She walks up to us and rests her head against my arm—gazing down at the baby. “He’s asleep.”
And so he is.
“Do I risk putting him down, or should I learn to sleep standing up like a frigging horse?”
Kate loops her arm through mine and guides me to the couch. She sits and pats the spot next to her. Like a member of the bomb squad handling a device with a hair trigger, I shift James so he’s on my chest, his head resting on the steady beat of my heart. Then I sit down and put my feet on the table and my head against the back cushion and my arm around Kate’s shoulders.
I sigh. “God, that feels good.”
Still not better than sex—I don’t give a shit what the new-mom magazines say. Sleep is good, but screwing will always be better.
Kate curls her feet under her and rests her head against my arm. “It sure does.”
A few moments later, all three of us are sound asleep.
It’s possible James understood my offer of bribery, because that night he slept there on my chest for three whole hours. Before he woke up—and it started all over again.
But I have a theory. I think it’s all deliberate. I think God plans for those first days home with a new baby to suck donkey balls. Because afterward? Everything else—the shitty diapers, the regurgitation, the constant changing of clothes and bed linens, teething—they all feel like a walk in the park.
After a few more days, I realized my mother wasn’t just being a bitch. She was actually giving us solid advice. Because together, Kate and I were able to figure it all out.
You know how dogs have a bark that says, Let me out or I’ll piss on your recliner? And another that says, Just give me the squeaky toy, you sadistic son of a bitch? And even another one that says, I’m not playing. I’m literally going to chew your face off now?
Babies aren’t much different from dogs. There’s a cry when they’re hungry. One when they’re tired. Another one when they’re bored, or when maybe their nose itches and they just don’t have the manual dexterity to scratch.
In any case, once you figure out the Language of Crying Baby? Life is a whole lot sweeter. And quieter.
Plus—here’s the kicker—in spite of the exhaustion? The frustration? The crying that makes you want to puncture your f**king eardrum with a meat thermo?
You love them anyway. Fully. Fiercely.
Intensely.
You wouldn’t change a thing about them—wouldn’t trade them for all the freaking iPhones in China. Sounds strange, I know. But that’s just how it is.
Screw the Peace Corps. Parenthood is the toughest job you’ll ever love.
So now, two years later, back to the p**n -worthy sex . . .
I slide my hands under Kate’s ass—kneading and lifting—bringing us closer. Rocking us faster. My forehead hovers close to hers and I open my eyes. So I can watch.
I’m greedy like that. I want to soak up every gasp—every flicker of pleasure that dances across her exquisite face. Pleasure I’m giving her.
I know Kate’s body as well as I know my own. There’s a contentment, a confidence, a power, in that knowledge that I can’t fully explain. We’re completely in sync. Joined body and soul. A well-lubed machine working in tandem toward that moment of pure, hot paradise that I’ve only ever experienced with her.
Kate’s breathing changes. It turns panting and desperate, and I know she’s close. Sweat trickles down my chest. I move harder, grinding against her—inside her—with every forward push. Warms sparks tickle my spine and tighten my balls. Heat spreads down and out until every nerve in my body is shaking. Quivering. Begging to explode.
Sweet Jesus.
My h*ps rock back, and I pull almost all the way out. Then, for a second, I freeze. We teeter right on the edge. Together. Savoring the sensation of that perfect moment—right before you come—where it feels so f**king good. But you know it’s about to feel even better.