Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(95)
After holding back at first, he gives me everything, thrusting harder and faster until we’re both hovering on the brink. His mouth collides with mine, capturing my cries, and our kiss turns sloppy, desperate. He picks up my leg, wrapping it higher around his torso, and his next plunge fills me so deeply that I feel him everywhere.
Euphoria short-circuits my brain. “Come in me. Please.”
When he drives into me again, he hits exactly where I need it most. I become weightless beneath him at the same time he shudders with a groan, his body tensing over mine.
“Goddamnit, Ser.” I feel him throb between my legs with release, and he drops his forehead to mine, winded. Seconds pass, and we stay tangled together, breathing heavily. “You’ve unlocked another cheat code. I’m fucked.”
“I promise to only use my powers for good, like when I’m already coming.”
Tyler laughs, kissing my shoulder. “It’s a deal.”
We reluctantly pull apart and he cleans me up before we get ready for bed. By the time we crawl back underneath the covers, it’s late. My body is tired, my heart is full, and all I can think of is how lucky I am. After feeling lost for such a long time, now I know exactly where I’m going.
“Question fifty-three.” He pulls me to him with my back to his chest, pressing his lips to the base of my neck. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
“As much as I love you?”
“More. I would do anything for you, Tink. Name it, and it’s yours.”
EPILOGUE
SERAPHINA
3ish years later…
Of my twenty-three years on this planet, this has got to be one of the most embarrassing moments I’ve had.
My hands tug at the denim, but it won’t budge. “Ugh!”
“What’s wrong, Tink?” Tyler walks around the corner, toweling off his wet hair. He’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, and even though we just showered together, his lean, toned body briefly distracts me from my predicament.
I’m standing in the middle of our walk-in closet trying to get dressed. Emphasis, trying. The jeans I’ve been living in for the past two months are suddenly several sizes too small. I got a little overzealous trying to force them up, and now they’re stuck halfway up my thighs.
That’s right. I’m trapped in my pants. It looks every bit as ridiculous as it sounds.
“Can you help me?” I gesture to myself. “I don’t want to lose my balance trying to get these off.”
It’s a valid concern given how clumsy I’ve been this pregnancy. Over the past few months, I’ve broken two phones, sprained my big toe, and spilled Chanel Rouge Noir nail polish all over our off-white carpet. I also shattered a glass yesterday when I turned around and knocked it off the counter with my belly.
A smile emerges across his lips and he sets aside his towel, walking over to me. He scoops me up effortlessly, carrying me to our bed. If he notices my weight gain, he doesn’t let on. He’s been amazing in a number of other ways during this journey, including holding my hair back through morning sickness, tolerating my weird cravings, and humoring my aversions—even when I had to ban coffee from the apartment for a month because the very smell of it made me sick.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. “What would I have done if you weren’t home?”
He chuckles, gently lowering me to sit on the edge of the mattress. “We’ll get a chair for the closet.”
“I’m officially boycotting denim.”
“Also a valid solution.” Kneeling in front of me, he gently peels the jeans down my thighs and sets them next to me on the bed. He cups my belly, his warm palms molding around the curve. “You’re beautiful.”
I glance down at his hands resting on my bare stomach. They used to eclipse my bump, but my bump is rapidly catching up.
Pregnancy symptoms hit me early and haven’t subsided. Six months in, I have to pee constantly, I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep, chicken tastes weird, and now that I’m past the morning sickness stage, I have killer heartburn. According to the internet, that means our baby is going to have a full head of hair, but that’s little consolation when I have to sleep upright.
I might be a little cranky, too. Just a tad.
“I’m enormous.”
“You’re supposed to get bigger, Ser.” Tyler caresses the swell of my skin with his thumbs, planting a kiss above my navel. “I love your belly. That’s my baby in there.”
It’s hard to stay cranky when he says things like that.
He reaches past me and grabs the tub of mango belly butter off the nightstand, unscrewing the lid. I heave a sigh of relief as he rubs a dab into my skin, instantly relieving the dry, itchy skin that’s been plaguing me lately.
I run my fingers through his still-damp hair. “Thank you.”
“Always.” As he moves on to the other half of my belly, I scan the array of tattoos inked into his upper body, zeroing in on the Tinker Bell artfully blended into the rest of his sleeve. She’s been drawn to look like me. He got it when we were apart during my fourth year of college, and he picked the left side so it would be closer to his heart.
It’s even harder to stay cranky when I remember that.