Page 133 of Riot's Thorn
“The documentary I watched said to expect this. The smallest things might feel big, and we need to watch for postpartum depression. Are you feeling sad?”
“No. I’m happy. But I’m glad you know what to look for.”
He stands and kisses my nose. “You made a baby.”
“I did. A pretty cute one too.”
“The documentary also said if I don’t think the baby is cute, I should lie and say it is, but I can’t lie. He looks like an alien, but as he grows, he’ll fill out and look less extraterrestrial and more like our boy.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Should we show him his room?”
“Yes, please.”
We open the door to his biker nursery. It’s cliché, I know, but how could I not? The room now has light gray walls with a large plush area rug in the center. His crib is black with a light gray skirt, and his sheets have little motorcycles all over. Behind the crib, there are three framed pictures. The first is the front half of a motorcycle, the middle reading, “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the ride,” and the third is the back of the motorcycle. It’s pretty cute.
In one corner is an oversized, light gray minky chair, and in the other is a motorcycle rocking horse. Over his dresserand changing table are pictures of his family: all his aunts and uncles, his cousin, Baby Pea, and of course, Riot and me. Coming from a family of two, it was an adjustment to have people around all the time, but I’ve never felt more connected to a community.
If the guys are doing something scary, I have Tinleigh and Navy to commiserate with, and if I’m ever bored, someone is always around to keep me company. Each one of the guys has something different to offer, and I love that about them.
Riot lays Chance on the crib mattress. “He’s so small.”
“Too small for this big crib.”
“Co-sleeping isn’t recommended, but he’s safer with us than out here on his own,” Riot says, trying to justify his emotional response to being separated from his newborn. He’ll never be able to name every emotion he feels, but it’s endearing to me.
“I agree.” I pick him up and inhale his sweet baby smell. “That’s why I bought a co-sleeper.”
“But we agreed the safest place was in his crib.”
“No, you told me what you learned, but I knew once he was born, you weren’t going to want him away from you.”
Riot hugs me from behind, gazing down at the baby. “Sometimes, I think you know me better than I do.”
“I do,” I say and turn my head for a kiss. It’s sweet and loving and so not us. But we’re in a new season, and I’m trying to embrace it. “Promise me once I’m healed, you’ll go back to pulling my hair, spitting in my mouth, and spanking my ass.”
“That kiss was weird, huh?”
“So weird.”
He nuzzles into my neck, placing his lips next to my ear, and I gasp when his hand reaches around to grip the base of my throat. “You have six weeks, Little Thorn. After that, you better put on your running shoes. I want to chase you through the forest and then fuck you against a tree, leaving you with abrasions up and down your back. After that, I want to throwyou to the muddy ground and rut into you like the filthy whore you are. I won’t stop until you tap out or you pass out from too many orgasms. How does that sound?”
“Jesus, baby. You can’t rile me up like that. Six weeks is a long time.”
He licks up my neck, moaning like my skin is his favorite flavor. “That gives me six weeks to think up a scene you’ll never forget. Now, let’s go eat some food.”
My entire body erupts in goosebumps. “Okay.”
Riot bakes one of the many casseroles Sugar loaded us up with while I breastfeed Chance. For something so natural, it feels bizarre. Plus, my already triple-D boobs are now somewhere in the “too big to be real” category.
“I’m just letting you borrow those things, little man,” Riot says, gently running a finger over Chance’s dark hair. “So don’t get too comfortable.”
I laugh. “You got jokes today.”
“Not really. I saw someone say it on a TV show one time and stored it away just in case.”
“I’m glad you did. It was funny.”
