Page 104 of The Good Girl Effect
“I’m coming,” I cry out, shoving my hips back toward him as I reach down between my legs and pinch my clit to ride out the pleasure.
“I feel it,” he groans. “Your pussy is so tight when you come.”
My legs are trembling, and I can hardly breathe.
“I’m right behind you, baby.” The next thing I know, he’s shuddering and groaning so we’re both filling the room with the sounds of our pleasure.
And then it’s quiet. The only sound is our panting breaths.
All too soon, the fantasy is over, and I know he wants to return to reality—where Jack can’t talk about us and our future and the possibility of a child.
As he eventually pulls out, the excess cum drips warmly down my thighs. I don’t wipe it away or move to clean it up. I just collapse onto the mattress, and he moves to land beside me.
When he drags me onto his chest again, I listen to the cadence of his heartbeat and try to savor the perfection of this moment. And then my eyes open, and I stare at his left hand as it grips mine.
My heart soars as I realize he’s no longer wearing his ring.
Rule #36: It could work.
Jack
Iwalk home from the club around 6:30, feeling lighter than I did when I went to work this morning. It’s like that conversation with Camille today lifted something from my chest that I had been carrying for so long.
When was the last time I spoke about Em with anyone? What was I so afraid of? Talking about her gave me peace I didn’t expect.
Talking about a future with Camille gave me even more.
The future has been this elusive harbinger of sorrow for so long. It’s as bad as the past, really. Both hurt. The reminder of what I had lost and the idea of living longer without it both ache in ways I never understood.
But with Camille, for the first time, talking about the future with her didn’t hurt or scare me. Camille and I could be happy together. I truly believe that. We could make this work.
But am I rushing into this? Am I running from Em’s death directly into the arms of another woman? Is that fair to either of them?
As I reach the apartment, I hear music playing inside. With a smile, I unlock the door and walk in to find Camille and Bea dancing and singing in the kitchen again. There is something cooking in the oven—not burning, thank God—and my daughter is twirling around the room while Camille holds her hand to steady her.
When they see me, they don’t freeze in terror like they had before. Instead, Bea grins wildly, running up to me and taking my hands.
“Dance, Papa!” she squeals.
It’s a fast-paced French pop song. Gripping Bea’s small hands in mine, I twirl her around the room. “Turn it up,” I say to Camille, who’s biting her bottom lip as she admires us.
Bea shrieks with laughter as I spin her. Her joy is infectious. It seeps into my pores like medicine, curing ailments I didn’t even know I had. I just know I feel better when I hear it.
When the song ends, I hoist my daughter off the floor and hug her to me, kissing her on the cheek as she wraps her arms tightly around my neck.
A timer beeps, and Camille turns away to pull a casserole dish that smells and looks like lasagna out of the oven. As she places it on the trivet in the middle of the kitchen island, our eyes meet.
Everything we did and spoke about today hovers between us. My heart lurches in my chest, overwhelmed with this feeling I have for her. It’s more powerful than I remember falling in love to feel like.
I want to be around herallthe time. I want to own her while also being owned by her. I want her to exist in every future iteration of my life.
The thought of her pain or fear haunts me in ways that make me feel like a caveman, and the need to protect her takes over.
I’m sure this is love.
And if I'm doubting myself, it's only because this doesn't feel like it did with Em. But if it’s not love, then what is it?
When I spot a familiar card on the counter, I carry Bea over and pick it up.
