Page 87 of Where She Belongs
She’s quiet for a long moment, considering. “I used to think I was done,” she says finally. “Tristy was so young when I had her, and then medical school and residency and building the clinic... I told myself I’d had my chance at motherhood.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She looks up at me, vulnerability and hope warring in her expression. “Now I think about what it would be like to do it differently. To be present from the beginning, to raise a child with a partner who actually wants to be there. To have a baby who’s part of both of us.”
My heart swells at her words, at the picture she’s painting. “I want that too,” I tell her. “With you. However it happens—naturally, with help, through adoption. I want it all with you.”
Her smile is radiant. “Really?”
“Really.” I lean down to kiss her again, this time with all the love and certainty I’ve been holding back. “I want late-night feedings and first steps and soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. I want everything, Andrea. The whole messy, beautiful life.”
She melts against me, and I can feel the last of her walls crumbling. “I love you so much it scares me,” she whispers against my lips.
“Good,” I murmur, my hands sliding down to her hips. “Love should be a little scary. It means it matters.”
The kiss deepens, becoming hungrier, more urgent. My hands find the hem of her sweater, and she doesn’t protest when I pull it over her head, revealing the simple lace bra underneath. She’s beautiful—all soft curves and smooth skin, the body of a woman who’s lived and loved and survived.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, my hands skimming reverently over her skin.
“I’m not,” she says, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m older now, I have stretch marks from Tristy?—“
I silence her with a kiss, my hands cupping her face. “You’re perfect to me,” I insist. “Every line, every mark, every beautiful imperfection. You’re the woman who built a clinic from nothing, who raised an incredible daughter, who survived a painful divorce and came out stronger. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”
She reaches for my shirt then, her fingers working at the buttons with increasing urgency. “I need to feel you,” she says, her voice husky with want. “I need to know this is real.”
I help her with the buttons, shrugging out of the shirt before pulling her against me, skin to skin. She’s warm and soft and everything I’ve ever wanted, her hands exploring the planes of my chest like she’s memorizing every detail.
“This is real,” I assure her, my lips finding the sensitive spot below her ear. “We’re real. Finally.”
She guides me toward the bedroom, our lips never breaking contact, hands roaming and exploring with the desperate need of lovers reunited. The bed is turned down invitingly, and we fall onto it together, a tangle of limbs and whispered endearments.
“I love you,” I tell her again as I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, worshipping every inch of skin I can reach. “I love your brilliant mind and your stubborn streak and the way you hum when you’re concentrating.”
She laughs breathlessly. “I don’t hum.”
“You do,” I insist, my hands working at the clasp of her bra. “And I love that about you too.”
Her breasts are full and firm, and I lower my mouth to one nipple, feeling her arch against me. “Oh god,” she moans, tangling her fingers in my hair. “Don’t stop.”
I comply, moving my attention to her other breast as my hands drift downward, grazing the curve of her hip, the fabric of her leggings.
“Tell me you want me,” I murmur, my tongue swirling against her nipple. “Tell me you need me as much as I need you.”
She gasps, grinding herself against me. “I do,” she whispers. “More than you know.”
Her words ignite a fire in me, and I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her leggings, easing them over her hips and down her legs. She arches against me, giving me better access, and I’m suddenly very aware of my own pants, of the way my erection strains against the fabric.
She notices, too, her eyes dark with desire. “Take them off,” she orders, nodding toward the offending garment. “I want to see you.”
I hesitate only for a moment. Insecurities about age, about size, about comparison to whatever men she may have known before me float briefly in my mind, but they vanish the moment I see her expression. She wants me. She needs me. And I’m ready to give her exactly what she craves.
“How do you want me?” I ask as I strip off my pants and underwear in one quick movement. Her eyes widen, drinking me in as if she’s parched and I’ve just handed her water, and the sheer approval and hunger in her gaze gives me the confidence I need to continue. “Tell me exactly how you want me,” I repeat, needing to hear her say it.
“Inside me,” she breathes with a hint of pleading, the anticipation in her voice a sweet torture. “Please, Gabe.”
I reach for my pants, intending to grab a packet but Andrea stops me, her hand on my arm, her touch electric. “No protection,” she whispers, her eyes locking with mine. “I think we’re past that.”
She’s right, of course. We are past that. Past doubt and denial and uncertainty. Past the fear of what being together might mean, or change, or demand of us. We are in a new place now, a place where we’re forging something lasting and real.
