He takes me in slow, lazy strokes until I whimper and wiggle under him. “What’s wrong?” he teases. He knows I hate slow and composed. He pushes inside me, my bottom turned up as high as it can go as he gives me every wonderful inch of him.

“More,” I whimper. He kisses my ankle and parts my legs, letting them fall down by his sides. I shove his shoulder and he flips us over, our bodies still connected. This is what Logan and I are – connected in the most elemental ways. We always have been. We always will be.

“Use me,” he teases. “Take me however you want.”

He folds his arms behind his head, his elbows pointed out, a lazy grin on his face. I squeeze him in my depths, and his eyes close. “What’s wrong?” I coax, rising and sinking on him in quick, fulfilling strokes.

“Too good,” he complains, as he closes his eyes. “Too tight. Too much.”

He puts his hands on my hips and stops me from moving, his steely grip holding me tightly. “Will you still be able to do this when your belly is all full of my kid?” he asks quietly. His thumbs trace circles on my hips.

“You mean when I get really fat?” I ask. I laugh, and he winces when I squeeze him.

“Not fat, Em,” he says. He cups my br**sts in his hands and squeezes tenderly. “Full of us,” he whispers.

“Easy,” I complain. “They’re sore.”

He looks up, his brow furrowing. “Really?” he asks, but he doesn’t stop his slow sweeps with his thumbs across the turgid peaks. “I’m sorry they hurt,” he says quietly.

He’s taking my body almost like it’s new to him. “Just be gentle,” I say.

He chuckles. “Oh, this from the woman who doesn’t like soft and slow. You really should make up your mind.”

I ride him quickly, my strokes long and true and fast, taking him deeper and deeper inside me with every surge. He reaches into my curls and does that little thing he’s so good at. He strokes my clit and finds a rhythm I like. My legs grow shaky, and I have to brace myself with my palms flat on his chest. “Logan,” I cry.

“Now,” he says. “Please come. I can’t hold off much longer.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with me. Just like in everything else, he watches my body, taking cues from the vibration of my throat, the hitch in my breath, the shakiness of my thighs. “Now,” I say, and my back bows with the force of my feelings for him. I come while riding him, and he pulses beneath me at the same time, grunting loudly as he fills me up.

I collapse onto his chest. His hands stroke lazily across my back, up and down and back and forth. Then he moves and rolls me beneath him. He lays his ear on my belly and looks up at me. “There’s part of us in there,” he says reverently.

I run my fingers through his hair and smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.” I tug his hair so he’ll look up at me. “Are you happy?” I ask.

His blue eyes are so deep and so true that I don’t doubt his sincerity at all. “Couldn’t be happier,” he says. And I believe him. I’ve always believed him, even when he couldn’t believe me. “What are you going to do about school?” he asks.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say. “We always do.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and his eyes close, his ear pressed to my belly like he’s listening for the subtle clues that there’s life in there.

There’s life in there. Ours. Together. “Want to get married?” I blurt out.

He nods and comes up to kiss me. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. And I don’t doubt for a minute that he means it.

Pete

Reagan is going to kill me when she gets home and sees all these kids here. I knew Gonzo was coming because he called and asked if he could spend the night. He does that sometimes. I genuinely like the kid, so having him over is not a problem. But he must have called his girlfriend, who just happens to be Edward’s younger sister, a boy I met when I was in prison, and they’re on their way over too. I am pretty sure that Reagan just wanted a quiet night at home, particularly since we have to spend pretty much the whole day with my family tomorrow.

I take some grapes out of the fridge and wash them off, because Gonzo eats like no one I have ever seen. The boy has a tape-worm, it seems at times. He’s sixteen now, and he’s finally hit his growth spurt. He starts popping them into his mouth as soon as I set them on the counter. Thanks, he signs with a grin.

“How are things going with Susan?” I ask.

He blushes and swallows his grapes.

“That well, huh?” I tease. I chuck his shoulder.

She’s different, he signs. He can’t speak because he has a tracheostomy tube from his MS. He’s in a wheelchair and has been for years, but there’s nothing at all slow about his mind.

“Different is good,” I say. I raise my brow at him, waiting for him to confirm or deny. “You kissed her yet?” I ask. I pull up a barstool and get comfortable.

His face gets even rosier.

“You done more than kissing?” I ask. Gonzo’s dad isn’t in the picture, so he doesn’t have a man to talk to. I had my brothers. So, I try to be that for him.

He nods, avoiding my gaze. Not much, he signs. Then his eyes meet mine. She’s got more experience than me.

Susan was sexually assaulted. We all know that. She was raped by her mother’s boyfriend and then she was abused in a foster home as well. “Good experience or bad experience?” I ask.