Captured(90)

Plus, when she’s writing those scenes, I get booty. Like…mad sex. Crazy, swinging-from-the-ceilings f*cking. “Research,” she calls it. My goal, usually, is to see how many times I can make her come before she begs me to let her sleep. So far, my personal record is six. She couldn’t move after that, though. And that night led to the current burgeoning belly.

And, judging by the look on her face as I approach her, I’m in for one of those nights.

It is good to be me.

Rania and the kids leave after a few minutes, and we have dinner. A sit-down family dinner is a nonnegotiable for us. Reagan quits writing when I get home, and we cook together. The kids goof around, and we have a glass of wine or two, providing Ree isn’t preggo. And we have dinner. Seven days a week. And as the kids get older, I’m going to continue insisting on it, no matter how mad they get. I grew up without sit-down dinners, and I’ll be damned if they will.

Dinner, sit and read through Ree’s latest chapters while the kids play. Get the boys to bed.

Get the boys to bed. Five words that make it seem a shitload easier than it really is. Tommy wants to finish watching his show, and Hank is just…Hank. Quirky and difficult. Sleepy, but refuses to sleep. And when he does, he wakes up as soon as I leave the room. Which leads to finding Reagan asleep in her chair, Nineteen Kids and Counting repeats playing on TLC.

I shake her gently. “Babe. Wake up, Ree.”

“Mmm.”

“Come on, babe. Wake up.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, shake her thigh. “Time for bed.”

“Sleeping.”

“Yeah, but not in bed.”

“Nite-nite.”

“Come on, sexy. Time for bed.”

“Sex?” She perks up at that. “You get Hank asleep?”

“Sure did.”

“Then what are we still doing here?” She holds her hands out, and I help her to her feet.

We head upstairs, and I “help” her up them by way of groping her ass. The thing I like most about Reagan pregnant is that her tits and ass get bigger and squishier, and if you’re me, that’s a damn good thing. So I take every opportunity to “grope and molest” her, as she puts it. Whatever. She loves it. She knocks my hands away and says, “Not in front of the kids, you horny caveman,” but when the kids are down and we’re alone in bed, she sings a different tune.

Loudly.

Tonight she’s sleepy. Dragging. She barely makes it up the stairs, fumbling at her shirt and bra on the way. I help. Hehe, help. Getting her naked is my favorite kind of helping. She pees, steps out of her pants and panties, crawls into bed. I shed my own clothes, resigned to a nookie-free night. It’s fine, though. Cuddling up to her is almost as nice and, in some ways, even better.

And then, when I’m almost asleep, she angles a bit, turns her head to talk to me. “Well, Caveman? What are you waiting for?”

So I push up against her. She moans. I nudge some more. And then suddenly she’s on her hands and knees, her favorite position, especially when she’s pregnant. She stuffs a pillow beneath her face and reaches back for me. Guides me in. God, she’s tight. I don’t know how she manages it, but she’s so tight, even after two natural births. She squeezes me as I slide in, clamping down so hard I can barely move inside her, but it feels so, so good.

We find a rhythm; we move together in a familiar bliss that never, ever gets old.

Except this time, I falter and slip out, accidentally poke a little too high.

Reagan gasps and bolts forward, and then, when I start to pull back, calls out. “Wait. Oh god….hold on. Just wait.” She hangs her head between her shoulders, arches her back, and pushes back against me. “Try it. Slow.”

“You sure?”

So I nudge, ever so gently, and she moans. She pushes back, gasps. Pauses. I hold still, and she arches her spine and pushes back again, and I’m in, just a hint. Just the tip, but f*ck, so tight.

“You write about this?” I ask, breathless, groaning.

“Oh, god…holy shit, Derek. Yeah….”

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” I can’t help flexing my hips, just slightly.

“Oh…oh…. No.” She pauses, stills, and then moves so I slide in a bit deeper.

This time, her moan is the breathless whimper that tells me how close she is. I lean over her back, reach down between her thighs, and find her core, find the touch she likes best. Barely touching, feather light. Slow circles around her clit, never quite touching. And then, when she’s writhing and shrieking, I press down in quick movements. She comes, screaming, and I sink in deeper, and she bites the pillow, muffling a loud wail of ecstasy.

And that’s when I explode, groaning, gasping, cursing, praying her name.

Moments of silence pass between us as we both fall back to earth from the dizzy heights. Finally, when I’m starting to wonder if she fell asleep like that, on her stomach, knees under her, fine ass up in the air, she stirs.

She flops to her side, pushing at me. “Cuddle me.”

I cuddle. “I love you. So much.”

“That’s ’cuz I’m awesome.”

“Yes, you are.”

“So are you.”

“Yes, I am.”

A few moments of silence, and I think she’s asleep. I almost am. “Derek?”