I sigh. “God, that feels good.”
Still not better than sex—I don’t give a shit what the new-mom magazines say. Sleep is good, but screwing will always be better.
Kate curls her feet under her and rests her head against my arm. “It sure does.”
A few moments later, all three of us are sound asleep.
It’s possible James understood my offer of bribery, because that night he slept there on my chest for three whole hours. Before he woke up—and it started all over again.
But I have a theory. I think it’s all deliberate. I think God plans for those first days home with a new baby to suck donkey balls. Because afterward? Everything else—the shitty diapers, the regurgitation, the constant changing of clothes and bed linens, teething—they all feel like a walk in the park.
After a few more days, I realized my mother wasn’t just being a bitch. She was actually giving us solid advice. Because together, Kate and I were able to figure it all out.
You know how dogs have a bark that says, Let me out or I’ll piss on your recliner? And another that says, Just give me the squeaky toy, you sadistic son of a bitch? And even another one that says, I’m not playing. I’m literally going to chew your face off now?
Babies aren’t much different from dogs. There’s a cry when they’re hungry. One when they’re tired. Another one when they’re bored, or when maybe their nose itches and they just don’t have the manual dexterity to scratch.
In any case, once you figure out the Language of Crying Baby? Life is a whole lot sweeter. And quieter.
Plus—here’s the kicker—in spite of the exhaustion? The frustration? The crying that makes you want to puncture your f**king eardrum with a meat thermo?
You love them anyway. Fully. Fiercely.
You wouldn’t change a thing about them—wouldn’t trade them for all the freaking iPhones in China. Sounds strange, I know. But that’s just how it is.
Screw the Peace Corps. Parenthood is the toughest job you’ll ever love.
So now, two years later, back to the p**n -worthy sex . . .
I slide my hands under Kate’s ass—kneading and lifting—bringing us closer. Rocking us faster. My forehead hovers close to hers and I open my eyes. So I can watch.
I’m greedy like that. I want to soak up every gasp—every flicker of pleasure that dances across her exquisite face. Pleasure I’m giving her.
I know Kate’s body as well as I know my own. There’s a contentment, a confidence, a power, in that knowledge that I can’t fully explain. We’re completely in sync. Joined body and soul. A well-lubed machine working in tandem toward that moment of pure, hot paradise that I’ve only ever experienced with her.
Kate’s breathing changes. It turns panting and desperate, and I know she’s close. Sweat trickles down my chest. I move harder, grinding against her—inside her—with every forward push. Warms sparks tickle my spine and tighten my balls. Heat spreads down and out until every nerve in my body is shaking. Quivering. Begging to explode.
My h*ps rock back, and I pull almost all the way out. Then, for a second, I freeze. We teeter right on the edge. Together. Savoring the sensation of that perfect moment—right before you come—where it feels so f**king good. But you know it’s about to feel even better.
I slam my c**k inside her, burying deep as Kate’s h*ps jerk upward. She spasms hard around me, gripping me tight over and over, while ecstasy wracks my body, making me shudder.
I hold on to Kate’s ass as if my life depends on it. I press my lips against her neck to soften the sounds I can’t control. “Kate . . . Kate . . . f**k . . . Kate . . .”
It’s astounding. Fantastic. But not unusual. ’Cause we’re just that frigging good together.
I exhale harshly against Kate’s skin as I come back down to earth. But I don’t move yet. I just don’t have the will. I’m considering going back to sleep. On top of her.
She won’t mind.
At least that’s what I think, until Kate performs the move that seems to amuse every woman on earth. And causes every man on earth to want to squeal like an impaled pig. Without warning, she uses her powerful pu**y muscles to squeeze my extremely sensitive dick.
Guys hate that. We don’t think it’s funny. Kate knows this.
I jerk back, pull out, and roll off her.
I try to look annoyed—but don’t quite pull it off. Because Kate’s eyes are sparkling. And she’s giggling. And she looks so messy-haired, flushed-faced, just-fucked beautiful, that it’s impossible not to grin back.
She knows that too.
I whisper, “Hi.”
I turn on my back and Kate scoots closer, resting her head on my chest and her palm on my stomach.
My tattoo? Noticed that, did you? Yeah—I got another one right after James was born. It’s straightforward, nothing flashy. But it’s as meaningful as Kate’s name on my right arm.
It simply says James. Right over my heart.
“So,” Kate starts, “big day today, huh?”
I run my fingers through her hair. “No. Next week is a big day. Today’s just a technicality.”
One hundred sixty-eight hours. Eight thousand six hundred and forty minutes.
Not that I’m counting or anything.
That’s when it’ll be official. That’s when Kate Brooks is gonna marry me. When she’ll not only sleep in my bed because she wants to—but because she’s legally obligated to be there.
Husband and wife. Flesh of my flesh. What God has joined together, let no one who wants to keep his arm attached try to pull asunder.
Kate bites her lip. “Have the guys told you what the plan is?”
She’s referring to the bachelor party. My bachelor party.
My Las Vegas bachelor party.
The stag party is a night to celebrate the demise of a man’s singlehood, in the rankest, most depraved manner possible. Sex and alcohol are big themes. You’ve seen the movies—The Hangover, Bachelor Party . . . it’s the last hurrah. Like the night before you ship off to war or, if you’re a woman, start a diet.
The groom is expected to gorge himself on all the stuff he supposedly won’t be getting anymore, once he slips that ring on his bride’s pretty little finger.
Of course, Kate is not the average bride. And because our relationship—and our sex life—is better now than it’s ever been, at first I didn’t want a party. I just didn’t see the point.