The following weekend I helped Nick at the house. We cleared out his grandfather’s bedroom, setting aside items that he wanted donated into one pile and little personal effects that Nick wanted to keep in another.
With spring in the air, there was something refreshing about the whole process, not just for Nick, but also for me. Windows were open. Breezy air floated through the rooms. Everything felt open and new. With each load of clothing I packed, it was like I was folding up the lingering guilt and the hurt, storing it away, because each day it got a little easier to deal with the loss of the baby. It got a little easier to accept that no one had done anything wrong, and each day both of us moved a little closer to moving on. It was a process, though, just like clearing out his grandfather’s room. One where some days it felt like one step forward was actually five steps backward. Some days it was hard not to try to hide from the pain, to not give in to the what-ifs of the past and of the future.
As expected, when I met with the doctor after the miscarriage, there were no answers as to why it happened and no way to guarantee that it wouldn’t happen again. We simply would not know until the next time I got pregnant. And not knowing was hard to process. It wasn’t like I dwelled on it every day, but there were moments when a near paralyzing uncertainty would seize me. Could I have kids? I didn’t know, but I kept telling myself that if I couldn’t, it would be okay.
Like Nick had said, we had each other.
And that was what we needed.
Nick wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his grandfather’s room, leave it as a guest bedroom or convert it into something else.
Standing in front of the newly remade twin bed, I looped my arm through his as I leaned into him. “You don’t have to make a decision right now about this room.”
“You’re right.” He turned his head and dipped his chin, brushing his lips across the top of my messy and probably dusty bun. “I think I’ll keep it like this for right now. I like it as a bedroom.”
My gaze traveled across the room. On the now empty dresser, framed photos of his grandfather over the years were lined up like little memory soldiers. Leaving this room as it was for now was a good idea. “Me, too.”
“Thank you for helping out. I really appreciate it.” Nick pulled his arm free and then reached down, taking hold of my hand. He lifted it. “But you’re filthy.”
I smiled up at him. “So are you, babe.”
“Then I think we need to rectify that.”
My body was immediately on board with that idea. Nick led me out of the room and downstairs, to the master bedroom off the kitchen. Nick made a show of stripping off our clothes, and it took longer than necessary, but there wasn’t a part of me that was disappointed in the pacing. I think, before the water was turned on and before the wispy steam filled the bathroom, he’d kissed every square inch of my body. And he wasn’t done yet.
“I love your lips.” He kissed me. “And those cheeks.” His lips found their way there. “I love your eyes.” He dropped a kiss against my brow and then started working his way down. “I love your throat.”
“My throat?” I laughed huskily.
“Uh-huh. And I love your shoulder blades.” He kissed my collarbone.
“You’re so fucking weird.”
“I’m so fucking in love with you.”
My heart squeezed. It did that every time I heard those words.
He worshipped every inch of my body, and when he took the tip of my breast into his mouth, sucking deep, he drew a ragged moan out of me, stirring up powerful desire. “And I really love these.”
I liquefied, ready for him to the point where it was almost painful. “Oh God.”
We took our time in the shower, and I was sure that no more than a handful of minutes was actually dedicated to the whole cleansing part. It wasn’t long before my back was pressed against the slippery tile and Nick was on his knees, drawing every soft cry out of me. My knees were weak and my body still trembling from a powerful release when he rose before me, the water sluicing off his bronze skin as he thrust into me, his green eyes latched onto mine in a possessive, consuming stare.
He stretched me in the most delicious way and he held me so gently, even as his body strained against mine. Our bodies were flush, hips-to-hips, chest-to-chest. “God, you feel too damn good for me to take my time.”
“Don’t take your time.” I skated my fingers over his skin, down his chest.
Nick groaned. His muscles trembled as he moved and my hands slipped over his skin. We quickly lost ourselves in each other, him pumping wildly, my hips meeting his, and it was no small miracle that we didn’t fall and break our necks in there.
Later, much later, we lay on his bed, face-to-face, our skin long since dried as he toyed with the damp strands of my hair. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.
I arched a sleepy eyebrow. “Congratulations.”
He chuckled. “Smartass.”
My smile stretched my lips. “What have you been thinking about?”
“It’s kind of random.” He tossed a strand of hair over my shoulder and then picked up another. “But I’ve been thinking of talking to Calla, telling her who my father is.”
My breath caught as some of the sleepiness faded. “For real?”
“Yeah.” One side of his lips kicked up. “What do you think about that?”
“What do I think?” I wiggled over to him, inching him onto his back. Straddling him, I placed my hands on either side of his face.