Page 56 of Paternal Instincts
He dropped them on my plate and glared at his sauce-covered fingers. I snagged his wrist and sucked the sticky digits into my mouth,swirling my tongue around and wedging it between his fingers as provocatively as I could to distract him.
It worked.
He laughed and tried to steal his hand back, calling me a pig, but I didn’t miss the heat in his eyes.
“That I am.” I leaned across the table and kissed him with a saucy mouth and too much tongue.
He squirmed away at first but eventually gave up and kissed me back. “They taste better on your tongue than from the box,” he mumbled.
I hummed. “Go shower your stress away, and I’ll clean up.”
“I’m not done kissing you.” He drew me back in for more, anchoring a hand on the back of my head. I indulged him, savoring every second.
Slowly, the kiss ended, and Quaid pulled away, lids at half-mast and a lazy smile on his lips. “Meet me in bed?”
“I’ll be there.”
By the time I finished tidying the kitchen, I still didn’t hear the shower running. Wandering upstairs, I discovered the reason for the delay and was not surprised. The door to the nursery was open, and a soft glow of lamplight pooled on the floor in the hallway.
I found my husband standing beside the crib we’d built together—solid maple, finished with a dark stain—peering down at the white eyelet comforter and the line of stuffed animals we’d arranged against the backboard. The mobile sang and rotated softly overhead: dancing elephants, giraffes, tigers, and monkeys.
The shaded Pride of Lions lamp by the rocking chair was the source of the soft glow. A dozen books about parenthood were stacked beside it, pages marked and highlighted, studied so hard and passionately there was never a man more prepared for fatherhood than Quaid. He’dwanted to be a dad his whole life. Every step we’d taken to make it happen had been held sacred by the man peering into the empty crib, imagining his son or daughter asleep within.
My heart threatened to burst.
It wasn’t the first time I’d caught him lost in fantasy, dreaming about the near future, but it made my knees weak every time I witnessed it. I couldn’t wait to see him rocking our baby in his arms, singing sweet lullabies, creating stories for the picture books he’d bought by the dozens. I couldn’t wait to experience all the firsts with Quaid. First tooth, first word, first step. Heck, even the first tantrum.
“Are you trying to come up with that elusive boy’s name?”
Quaid startled and turned, momentary embarrassment coloring his cheeks before he smiled and shrugged. “No. I was just…” He glanced into the empty crib.
“Dreaming?”
“Yeah. I guess.” He scanned the pale green walls we’d spent two weeks painting, lingering on the zoo animal decals meticulously arranged above the wainscotting. “It’s happening, but it’s so surreal. I keep waiting to wake up.”
I entered the room, spinning and admiring our hard work. The shelves lined with board books. The empty frames on the dresser waiting for pictures. The toys we’d spent way too much money on that Quaid claimed would enrich the baby’s life and help with brain development. The Diaper Genie Amelia had insisted was a requirement—I’d bought it behind Quaid’s back, ignoring his adamancy that we wouldn’t need it since we were using cloth diapers. The endless packages of soothers, teething rings, bottles, and other infant paraphernalia I never knew existed before now.
“We did a good job in here,” I observed.
The hospital bag and infant car seat waited in the corner by the closet for the inevitable phone call announcing Bryn was in labor. The contents of the bag had been double, triple, and quadruple checked by Quaid.
“Did you rewash anything?” His brows crinkled with worry when he saw where I was looking.
“I haven’t been home. You took a crazy case on the last day of work, and I’ve been helping ever since, remember?”
Before he could start stripping the crib and emptying the drawers of the baby clothes he’d meticulously folded, I took his hand and drew him against me, wrapping my arms around his waist like we were going to dance. “Not tonight, hot stuff. You seem to keep forgetting how late it is. It will get done. We won’t forget, and if it doesn’t, I’m sure the detergent you used the first six times will be sufficient.”
“But—”
I pressed a finger to his lips. “Not tonight.”
Quaid and I swayed to the soft tinkling song of the mobile. The look in his eyes spoke of unending love, longing, and happiness.
I smirked, adopting a mischievous grin. “I’ve got it.”
Quaid quirked a brow. “Got what?”
“Onyx.”
