Fumbled (Playbook #2)(58)

I’m so overtaken by emotion, by sensation, I know nothing in this entire world could pull me out of this moment.

Until TK starts to lift the hem of my shirt . . . with the light still on.

I pull my head back and push his chest, breaking us apart and missing his mouth before it’s even gone. “Turn off the light,” I groan before going for his mouth again.

“No.” He shakes his head and the corners of his mouth tip up.

He leans back in, pulling at the hem of my shirt again, and this time I push him back a little harder. “TK.” I stare at him, trying to convey the importance of a dark—preferably pitch-black—room. “Please turn off the light.”

Up until this very moment, this has never been a problem for me . . . for multiple reasons.

For one, I never actually cared about what the men I slept with thought, assuming I was probably never going to see them again, and if I did, it’d be with clothes on.

Two, find me one person without a single imperfection. It doesn’t exist. Everybody has something they are a little insecure about.

And last, we’ve always been here for my entertainment, thank you very much.

But I’m playing by a different set of rules with TK. I do care what he thinks. He’s only gotten hotter since the last time we had sex—bigger muscles, better facial hair, even his freaking voice got deeper!

I, on the other hand, had a baby . . . and then nursed said baby. Sure, TK can probably tell my hips are a little bit wider and I’m still carrying the last ten pounds of baby weight—Ace will be thirty and I’ll still reference weight I’d like to lose as baby weight. But what he doesn’t know about are the faded, but still noticeable, stretch marks lining my stomach and thighs and probably ass if I ever wanted to torture myself and look. And let’s be honest, push-up bras are magic. In clothes, my rack looks better than ever. But as soon as the bra disappears, so do any remnants of perkiness. I am a long ways away from the cute, unmarked sixteen-year-old girl he remembers. And I’m too turned on to have it ruined by a look of disappointment at my weathered and altered body.

“Why do you want the lights off?” he asks again.

“Never mind. I’m tired anyways.” I try to push him away and roll from beneath him, both of which I fail at so spectacularly, it would be comical if I wasn’t on the verge of tears.

Angry tears this time.

And angry tears are always acceptable.

“Get off of me, TK.” I slap his bare chest . . . and then I do it again when he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Why do you want me to turn off the light?” He leans in like I’m not the rabid dog he’s turning me into.

“I said get off of me,” I snarl, pushing harder at his chest, which I’m now convinced is made of stone.

“Poppy.” He rolls back onto his knees and settles between my legs, dropping his hands on top of my thighs, which are now framing him. “It’s an easy question. Why do you want the lights off?”

I’m short, so I’m used to people literally looking down at me, but this way? Lying in the middle of my bed with TK’s giant self looking mighty comfy propped up above me, staring down at me like he can see straight into my soul of darkness, I’m feeling extra vulnerable. “Does it matter?” I snap, moving my hands to cover my eyes. The eye contact is too much for me.

“Yeah.” He pulls my hands from my face. “It does.”

“Why?” I yell. “People have sex in the dark all the time, TK. It’s not like I’m asking you for some crazy, kinked-out shit.”

“Because . . .” He squeezes my hands tighter and I brace, because if he thinks he needs to give me extra comfort, I’m not going to like what he says next. “I think you’re trying to hide your body from me.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I turn my head to the side, clenching my eyes shut. “Please get off of me,” I ask again, this time my voice cracking, and I hate myself for initiating this entire scene.

“But what I don’t understand is why,” TK continues on like I didn’t speak. “Your body changed?” He lets go of one of my hands and uses it to turn my head back to him. “I know it did. Last time we were together, we were kids. Now you’re a woman . . . a woman who carried our child.” He brushes his thumb across my lips. “I hope when you finally let me lift this shirt, I see some stretch marks.”

I think it’s the shock, or maybe total disbelief, that causes me to open my eyes.

I’ve tried really hard over the years to be one of those “these are my tiger marks” warrior moms, who embraces every change pregnancy bestowed upon her body. But I’m not.

I don’t harp on them every time I strip down to take a shower or get dressed, I just don’t show them off. I haven’t been caught in a bikini since the summer of ’07. And TK being an Adonis and all, I’m not too hyped up for him to bear witness to the road map of the forty pounds I gained.

“I’m serious,” he says, never dropping eye contact.

I roll my eyes and purse my lips. “You are so full of it.”

“Poppy, really listen to me, please.” He lets go of my hands and moves from between my legs to the unused side of my bed. He leans over and, with what seems like no effort at all, lifts my still-carrying-baby-weight ass and drops it right in his lap.