Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(63)

The crisp night air breezes in, coasting across my bare back. A delicious contrast to the heat of Connor’s chest against mine. He’s propped up against the headboard, and I’m straddling his hips, riding his cock in slow, deliberate strokes.

I love this position—not an inch of space separates us. And he’s so deep inside me—his hardness, thick and unrelenting—making me feel impossibly full, making me come so easily.

My hips speed up, as I climb higher and closer with every hard drag of my pelvis against his. Connor’s groan is hot and heavy in my ear and I know he’s close too. His mouth slides across my chest, leaving a slick trail, before he takes my nipple in his mouth—sucking and flicking with his tongue and sending a spike of electric heat between my legs. I clench around him and moan his name.

And then I’m falling, flying, a swell of pleasure coursing through me so strong my head falls to his shoulder and I go slack against him—too caught up in the sensation to stay upright. His arms tighten around me, holding me, his fingers grasping at my shoulder blades, his hips snapping up roughly as his orgasm overtakes him.

We stay like that—joined and panting—for several moments. Connor’s lips kiss my hair, my neck, and his hands slide up and down my back tenderly, soothing my exerted muscles. Eventually I slide off him, feeling that momentary emptiness when his cock leaves my body. And then my head is on the pillow and he’s wrapped behind me. I let out a satisfied sigh and rub my legs together, because I enjoy the slick slipperiness of his come on my thighs.

We’re quiet for a little while, but I can tell from Connor’s breathing that he hasn’t fallen asleep, even though I gave him quite a workout. His fingertip traces slowly up and down my arm and his voice is husky when he says, “Do you want kids?”

A bolt of excitement zings through me. Because spending time around the house with the boys these last weeks—giving them breakfast before school, helping them with their homework, just talking to them—has given me a hint of what motherhood could be like. I thought I had a taste of it raising my sisters and brother . . . but this is a whole other level.

Deeper. More.

I love being a part of their lives, a part of the memories they’re making—it’s an honor to have a hand in shaping them into the men they’ll grow up to be. I love sharing the small, sweet moments with them as much as I love sharing them with their dad. It gives me a thrill to see little pieces of him in their expressions and mannerisms, to hear him in their words.

And Connor is an amazing father. I already knew he was, but seeing him in action up close has brought my ovaries to DEFCON level 1 on several occasions.

He’s never more attractive to me—sexy and desirable—than when he’s with his boys. The way he teaches them, guides them, has fun with them—always gentle and strong, and unconditionally devoted.

I can’t conceive of a more beautiful future than one that includes me and Connor and children we’d have together. Seeing him and me blended into a precocious, incredible, new little human—making Spencer a big brother.

“Is that a proposition or an inquiry?” I ask.

“An inquiry.”

I turn on my back because I want to see his face. I reach up and scrape my palm against the rough stubble on his jaw.

“You look so serious.”

His eyes are intense and shining in the darkness.

“I’m feeling pretty serious about you these days. About us.”

And God, I love him. With a deeply yearning worship that’s a little terrifying.

Because if I lost him now—if I lost this—and Connor and his boys were no longer a part of my life . . . I don’t know what I would do. It would be like one of my limbs were missing, one of my vital organs—I would never be the same.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m also twelve years older than you. A lot of our life experiences are similar, but some really . . . aren’t. And I think it’s important for us to talk about the ones that aren’t. So there aren’t any misunderstandings between us. Or disappointments.”

I think about how to answer his question, the best way to word it. What I wanted for my life used to be simpler. Because I don’t just have my feelings to consider. So much of what I want hinges on what he wants.

“I always assumed I’d have kids—it was always part of the plan. But it’s not a deal breaker for me if—”

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t equivocate because you think it’s what I want to hear. I want to know what you want, Violet. What you hope for, what you dream about, not what you’ll settle for.” He brushes the damp strands of my hair back off my forehead cherishingly. “Hard, fast truth, Vi—do you want to have kids?”

I don’t think this time—I just give him the answer.

“Yes. I do. One would be amazing; two would be even better.”

He nods, unsurprised. But Connor’s face is impassive, unreadable.

“Do you want to have more kids?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the heavy silence presses down around us.

“I don’t know.” Connor sits up, facing away from me, resting his elbows on his bended knees. “I’ve been thinking about it—trying to figure out how I feel. Kids are incredible . . . mine will always be the most amazing thing I’ve ever done.”