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IT'S BEEN THREE DAYS since our first time and I'm sore. Really sore. But I seem to forget that every time I see that hungry look in his eyes. Which is a lot. He's a man with an appetite.
We're snuggled on the couch, my back to his front.
His gigantic hand is rubbing circles on my belly, and it feels better than nice. He wasn't lying when he said he liked my tummy. He never shies away from stroking me there. But it brings up the Thing We Don't Talk About.
And we need to.
"Graden..."
"You insatiable wench. I need at least fifteen more minutes and maybe some food first."
I tilt my head back and look at him upside down. "Ha ha."
He leans forward and kisses my forehead. "What is it beautiful?"
"We need to talk." He freezes in a terribly stereotypical male move, so I sit up and turn to him. "Relax, will ya?"
"It's never a good thing when a woman says those words."
I shove his shoulder. "How would you know? You told me you've never been in a relationship before. But don't worry, I'm not going to ask you about feelings or anything. I think we just need to talk about the fact that we don't use protection."
His eyes darken, and I can see where his mind goes as if a movie of us is playing on his forehead. "I love feeling you raw."
"I get that. I do. I like feeling you, too. But a baby would change everything."
He gets thoughtful, like he's looking into the future. "Yeah. I'd need to rethink living on an oil rig. But maybe it's time now anyway."
Okay, this conversation is not going the way I thought it would. My face must be showing my confusion because he mirrors it back to me. I was imagining him agreeing with me. That a baby right now would be bad timing.
"It's just," I begin. "Well, we're only three days into a sexual relationship, and I don't think we're at the planning a family stage."
"I see."
Have I hurt his feelings? "For a guy who told me he's never dated, just slept with women, I'm not sure how to read your reaction, Graden."
He does that classic guy pose where he links his hands behind his head and leans back, staring at the ceiling. "We're more than 'three days into a sexual relationship.' I told you I love you."
"That doesn't mean you're ready to be a father to my children."
"What if I am?"
This is crazy. It doesn’t make sense. "I thought it was a sex thing. You know...the whole primal biological urge. Sex talk. The risk makes it hotter, too. I didn't..."
I'm on my back before I can finish the sentence. "It's sexy as fuck to talk about breeding you, baby. To tell you I'm going to fill you with my seed. That first time, when I was pumping you full, knowing you could be getting pregnant, that was hot. After that, it was even hotter thinking you could already be pregnant. So yeah, it's partly sexual. Everything about you makes everything sexual." He grinds into me, knowing how easy I get ready for him. "But we both know it's more than that. Yeah, it's fast. Yeah, it's fucking nuts. But I love you. I want it all with you. I don't want to wait or put things off. If I learned anything from Cameron, it's that time isn't guaranteed." He grinds his hips again. "If you're not ready, we can wait. But I'm all in."
"Graden...a baby would change everything."
"So let's change everything. Let's get married."
"Married? Are you serious?"
He reaches between us, but it's not to undo his pants like I think. He's in his pocket, and he's pulling out a ring. "Serious as fuck."
The diamond is flashing in my eyes when the doorbell chimes. I start to get up, but he pushes me back down. "I'll get it. You look like you're about to pass out." He kisses me hard on my mouth and pushes off the couch.
I am about to pass out. I can't process anything. I'm still stuck on the idea of how hot it really is thinking I'm already pregnant—I can't even get to the part where he wants to marry me. When did he buy the ring? We went out for a bit yesterday. To the mall he says he hates. He had to be pretty sneaky, though.
He answers the door to two of our neighbor kids dressed in their uniforms selling cookies. I get up to join him as he crouches down low and talks to young Etta, who will be in my class this fall. Her mom looks like her ovaries might be exploding like fireworks at the sight of my man with her small child, and I don't blame her.
He looks good with children. Really good. And of course, Etta is wrapping him around her finger talking about camp and cookies and how she lost her tooth yesterday.
"Becks, will you bring my checkbook? It's on my dresser."
"Only if you order the peanut butter ones."
He flashes me a grin over his shoulder, and there go my ovaries. He's just amazing when he smiles.
I go into his room, a place he hasn't slept in for three days, and find there are two checkbooks on his dresser. Maybe he has a savings account or something. The first one I open says Prime Trust Account at the top, so I put it back and get the other, which is a personal checking account.
I get about four steps out of his room when it hits me.
Prime Trust was the name of my scholarship. Why would he have their checking account? I'm still frowning while he writes the check and brings the cookies into the kitchen.
"Where were we?" he asks. Then gets down on one knee and pulls out that ring. "Rebecca, will you marry me?"
My mind is racing a million miles an hour. The bank account. The ring. The idea that I could be carrying a baby right now. It's too much. All of it together.
I look at him and his face is earnest. He thinks he's in love. He really believes it.
But I know better.
"No."