Hell. I don’t usually blush. I’m not a bashful person, especially when it comes to sex, but I’ve never done that before.
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Please,” he insists, with those eyes, before settling himself on his back, his head on my pillow, and gently tugging me over him.
Oh my god, I’m doing this.
I straddle his face and am barely given half a second to feel embarrassed before his hands grip my thighs and tug me close enough to feel his breath on my center, his tongue slowly curling along the length of my slit and circling my clit over and over.
Instinct takes over, seeking whatever feels the best, and my hips roll against his mouth, where he’s intent on devouring me. His blessed tongue, lips, teeth, and even his scruff have me trembling from head to toe. I reach for the bed frame to steady myself and roll again, setting a rhythm and riding his mouth.
“Lorelai. Oh my god. You taste … I can feel you … It’s … I love you.”
“Oh god, right there. Your fucking tongue—I swear. I can’t … I can’t—”
I’m coming apart, gripping the bed frame so hard it creaks, my clit throbbing and my insides clenching. Suddenly his fingers are thrusting in and up and curling around that magical spot and everything shatters at once. Shivers and waves vibrate and burst again and again and I’m crying out, my voice hoarse and my heart wild.
Eventually I clumsily slip down his body and curl into his side, taking care to avoid his proud cock, and press a kiss to his neck. “I think I need a moment.”
“To recover?”
I grin against his warm skin, tracing patterns on his chest. “To compose a song, more like.”
“‘Ode to Huck’s Tongue,’” he teases.
“‘The Night I Rode Huckleberry’s Face,’ more like. It’ll be one of those epically long ballads.”
Huck flips us so that I’m underneath this time, and his erection presses against my hip in a way so delicious, my legs fall right open of their own accord.
“Look at that,” I whisper around a smirk. “All recovered.”
Huck doesn’t wait, but he doesn’t rush, either. We’ve had sex real fast, real hard, and real hot, but we’ve never had sex like this. He rocks into me achingly slow, his cock stretching me, filling me. Fitting me perfectly. I feel every ridge and flex of him as I come alive all over again. He thrusts in, all the way in, and slips out before doing it again, and quicker than I ever dreamed, I’m gasping and climbing once more.
I spread my legs as far as I can, taking him in, and then wrap them around him, holding him close. So close I can see the little flecks of navy in his irises. So close I can feel the thudding of his heart against me. And then I’m flying. Soaring. My orgasm sneaks up on me, ripping through me so hard I can’t even move, but it’s okay because Huck is moving, still driving powerfully until he seizes with a long, low groan, and I feel him spill inside me.
We stay like that, twined together, for a long time after that. My legs wrapped around him, his head buried against my neck, our bodies connected in the most impossibly intimate way. I should get up. Clean myself and use the bathroom. And I will. But wild fucking broncos couldn’t drag me from this man, yet. This is one of those moments. The ones that flash before your eyes when all’s said and done. The ones that you look back on and go, “Yep. Right there. That was when I knew.”
This man is my forever.
“I love you,” he tells me tiredly, this time muffled against my skin. “So much.”
And even though I want to joke, because it’s what I do, I find I can’t. Not this time. I’m altered.
Instead I tell him, “I love you, too, Huckleberry.”
* * *
We spend two whole days and a night in bed and out of it. First, we make good use of all the surfaces in my apartment, and then we head up to Huck’s loft, which, let me tell you, is really convenient. Need fresh pair of undies, run downstairs. Need that phone number for the new Thai place around the corner? Run back upstairs. Want to rehydrate on the balcony? Need a shower and then a second shower because apparently the love of your life has a thing about unwrapping you from terry cloth? Can’t find your phone charger and realize you’ve missed approximately thirty calls in the last twenty-four hours?
Okay, so that last one wasn’t that great, but you get what I mean. Apparently, while Huck and I were busy christening every sexually viable surface in the duplex, Arlo and Josh’s baby was born （no, they still won’t tell me the gender until I actually arrive at the hospital） and the duet between Coolidge and me hit number one for the second week in a row.
So it’s time to put some real clothes on and rejoin the world, is what I’m saying.
First, the hospital to meet our newest niece or nephew. I’ll be perfectly honest: despite being one hell of a teacher, I’ve never really given much thought to kids. As in having my own one day. Maren and I fully anticipate Shelby will be knocked up before Season 3 of HomeMade kicks off. She’s always wanted a family of her own, and everyone knows she and Cameron would make the best parents. But I wasn’t sure being a country singer, recording albums, and eventually, hopefully, going on tour made for good parenting.
Anyway, that was before I ever saw Huck hold a baby. Before I caught a glimpse of the happy smile spreading across his lips and heard him sing under his breath, a lullaby he wrote just for brand-new little baby Jasper.
To paraphrase the late, great, ethically iffy Dr. Seuss, my uterus grew three sizes that day.
Or my heart. Whatever. I’m convinced they sprinkle crack cocaine pixie dust in baby hair so everyone who sniffs them will want their own.
Note to self: Make an appointment to have IUD double-checked.
The labor went as smoothly as possible, so the surrogate was able to be discharged after the first twenty-four hours and baby Jasper was ready to leave this afternoon, since they’ve apparently finished monitoring his bilirubin or something else that sounds like a sandwich （Arlo’s words, not mine）。 So after eating the lunch we smuggled in of cheeseburgers for Mr. and Mr. Bishop and veggie burgers on gluten-free buns for me and Huck, we left them to get one final nap before they take home their baby and presumably never sleep again.
We’re holding hands across the center console of Craig’s Outback when he asks to stop in the studio.
“No appointments,” he reassures me. “We purposely scheduled this month light because we knew Arlo might be called away at any moment.”
“Do you want kids?” I ask suddenly.
Craig lifts a shoulder. “I think so. One day, anyway. Not like … you said you have an IUD, right?”
I squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I do. We’re in no danger at the moment. Just one day? If you’d asked me before…”
Craig nods. “I know. Me too. I thought music was it for me. And then I thought the studio was it for me. And then you were it for me…”
“Your circle keeps getting bigger.”
“Yeah.”
“Mine too.”
We pull into the small alleyway parking lot behind the studio and Craig keys in the security code to let us in. The halls are cool and quiet, mostly dark but lit with small motion-sensored runners along the floor. We get to his office and he opens the door, flipping on the light, and jumps back, swinging wildly when he’s attacked by several floating helium balloons. I pull back his arm, stilling him before he pops one and sets off who knows what other kinds of alarms.