Page 54 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

W hen I wake up, the room is dark and quiet. I extend my left arm, finding nothing except cool cotton.

I’m alone in bed.

I slip out from under the covers, padding silently into the bathroom to pee. The tiled floor is heated, warm instead of harsh under my feet. I yawn at my reflection in the mirror, combing a couple of snarls out of my hair with my fingers.

Halfway back to bed, I hesitate. In the weeks I’ve been living here, Kit’s had to take several calls in the middle of the night.

Kensington Consolidated does business with companies all over the world.

Three a.m. in New York is normal business hours in other countries. He’s probably on a conference call.

But when I head down the hallway, there’s a strip of light shining underneath the nursery’s door, not the office’s.

I shove the door open a few inches, inhaling a quick breath once I can see inside.

That’s what draws Kit’s attention my way. Because everything in his penthouse is brand-new. Nothing squeaks or creaks or makes any unexpected noise at all.

I rest my head against the doorway, surveying the mess on the floor. “Want some help?”

He grins, shaking his head. “Nah, I got it. You build the baby; I’ll build the crib.”

I smile. “Deal.”

“I would take some company though.” Kit leans over, grabbing a screwdriver, squints at the directions, then twists a bolt into place. He’s shirtless, sitting in the center of the rug with pieces of the crib spread around him.

“It looks good,” I encourage.

He snorts. “It looks like a lumberyard.”

“Are there supposed to be this many pieces?”

“I have no idea. But I’m going to figure it out.” He picks up the instructions, flipping to a new page with fresh determination.

I shove away from the doorway and walk toward him. Sitting on the floor is harder than it used to be since my center of gravity shifted, but I manage. I also have to nudge a slat over to recline on my palms.

“What are you doing up? Did you have a work call?”

“Nah. I just couldn’t sleep. ”

“This rug is surprisingly comfortable.” My wrists are starting to hurt, so I relax flat on my back, staring up at the white plaster ceiling. “We should add some stars up there,” I suggest. “For the baby to look at.”

We agreed on an outer-space theme for the nursery’s mural. It covers the largest wall, a scattering of planets and moons and stars and one meteor shower painted on a midnight-blue background.

“I like that idea.”

I rest a hand on my stomach, rubbing slow circles and listening to the sound of wood being fitted together.

“I heard you playing after dinner,” Kit comments a few minutes later.

“It’s a new piece. It needs a lot of work still.”

“Didn’t sound that way to me.”

I smile. “I think you might be the tiniest bit biased.”

“Or I have really, really good instincts about pianists.”

“On par with your carpentry skills?” I tease, glancing at the crib that hasn’t gained any more pieces since I entered the room.

Kit sighs and sets the screwdriver down. “I don’t think working on it in the middle of the night is helping much.”

“Probably not the most practical time,” I agree.

He crawls over, lying down on the rug next to me and mirroring my position. “Wow. What a boring ceiling. I promised our kid it was going to be exciting on the outside, so we should definitely add some stars. Do they make glow-in-the-dark paint? If so, we should use that.”

“Probably,” I say absently.

Of course, that’s something Kit would think of. The closer I get to having a kid, the more often it’s occurring to me that Kit will be an incredible parent. He’s fun and adventurous. By comparison—maybe not even by comparison—I’m pretty boring.

Kit sails; I stay onshore.

“Five thousand for your thoughts,” he says.

I huff a laugh. “They’re not worth that much.”

“I can’t accurately assess their value unless you tell me.”

I suck on my lower lip. “Do you think I’m too … practical?”

“No,” he answers. “I think you’re the perfect amount of practical.”

I sigh. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I need someone to tell me that eight cars are unreasonable. Although I am considering getting a minivan for the kid, and I don’t think that should count.”

“A car is a car, Kit. It counts.”

“A minivan is practical for kids though.”

“We don’t need a minivan.”

Silence.

“You already bought one, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think a car seat is meant to fit in an Aston Martin. And we’re not taking the subway home from the hospital. I don’t love the idea of taking the train to Connecticut with a newborn, and I’m sure you’ll want to visit your parents. So, yeah, I bought a minivan.”

“I don’t take a lot of risks,” I state. “Performing at that open mic night was the craziest thing I’d done in a while, and I never would have done it solo.

I played it safe for my entire life, and now I’m about to become a mom.

And I’m not saying having kids ends your life, but it does change it.

I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. The thought of voluntarily jumping out of a plane gives me nightmares.

But I thought I’d have more time to definitely decide against it or other risks before being responsible for someone else. I’m lame. I’ll be a lame mom.”

“You’re not lame. You’re the coolest person I know, Collins. ”

I blow out a long breath, until it feels like there’s no air left in my lungs. What else is he supposed to say? Agree?

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not.” His thumb skims the length of my jaw, gripping my chin and turning my face toward him.

“I’ve never lied to you. I will never lie to you.

You want to know what I think? Ask me something.

And I’ll tell you the truth, even if it’s not what you want to hear.

So, hear me when I say that you’re fierce and brave and brilliant.

Our kid is not going to fall asleep in this room, staring at the stars you suggested we paint on the ceiling, and think, My mom is so lame.

Not until he or she is fifteen and a bratty teenager at least.”

I let out a watery laugh. Trust Kit to make me laugh and cry at the same time.

“And I’ll go skydiving with you,” he adds. “If you change your mind.”

I sniffle. “I love you so much.”

There’s no mental tally to add to anymore. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve said that to Kit, which makes me almost as happy as hearing him whisper them back to me.

He captures my palm in his, rubbing small circles around my knuckles with his thumb. “Papaya isn’t going to come out requesting a résumé, Monty. We’ve got some time to get our stories straight about our skydiving adventure.”

I laugh. “I don’t think lying to your child is great parenting.”

“My parents kept up a farce of an old man sneaking down our chimney to deliver gifts for years , and I turned out fine. I don’t think one fictional trip is going to ruin our kid.”

I’m still laughing. I’m so happy , lying on the floor with Kit. A moment I want to memorize .

He’s smiling, watching me laugh. “It wasn’t that funny.”

I shift carefully so I’m on my side, facing him. “We’re going to have to discuss names soon. Non-food-related names.”

“Personally, I think Papaya Tate Kensington has a nice ring to it.”

My chest squeezes tight when I realize he purposefully included my last name too. “I’m voting against Papaya,” I state firmly. “But I’m good with the rest.”

Kit tucks an arm behind his head. “Did you know Lili’s named after my grandmother? My dad’s mom. She died when he was pretty young. One theory about my grandfather’s attitude … he never really got over it.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I say softly.

“I was thinking …” Kit clears his throat. “I was thinking it might be nice, if it’s a boy, to honor my dad in some way. Use Crew as a middle name or something.” He slants a glance my way. “It was just a thought. It’s totally fine if you?—”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” I reach out, resting a hand on the center of his chest. It rises with a sudden inhale. “I think it would mean a lot to him.”

Every time I’ve been around Kit and his dad, their close bond has been obvious. It makes me miss mine more.

He twirls a strand of my hair around one finger, tugging gently, and I’m certain he knows what I’m thinking. But he doesn’t push. Kit made it clear what he thinks I should do about the situation, and now he’s leaving the choice up to me.

I snuggle closer, sliding my palm lower and pressing my lips to the spot where my hand just was .

“I’m not going to get any more work done on the crib tonight, am I?”

My fingertips slowly, teasingly trail back and forth along the strip of hot, firm skin right above his waistband. “Do you want to work on the crib?” I question innocently.

Kit adjusts us with an agility I doubt I was capable of pre-pregnancy, hovering over me just high enough that his abs brush my bump. His head dips, tongue tracing the outline of my lips.

My heart beats wildly, banging against my rib cage like it’s trying to escape my chest. My hips lift, desperately seeking some friction. A frustrated whimper escapes my mouth when I don’t find any.

“Here?” he teases, mouth ghosting over mine.

“Please,” I breathe, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his back with wanton urgency.

This room is one of the few we haven’t christened yet. It’s not that I want to have sex on a rug next to a stack of wood. It’s that I want him so urgently that I don’t care where we are. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we have sex. My body reacts like it’s a novelty each time.

“How do you want me?” He shifts back a few inches, giving me space to reposition.

I don’t reply right away. I’m focused on his crotch. He’s so hard that I can see the outline of his erection trying to break free from the cotton.

Warmth pools low in my pelvis, anticipating the sensation of that stiff length sliding inside of me.

“Behind,” I finally answer, moving onto my hands and knees.

The only downside of this position is that I can’t watch Kit. There’s something deeply erotic though, about feeling him touch me but not being able to see it. The suspense is a powerful aphrodisiac.

“This fucking view.” His deep voice is a gritty rasp as his fingers trail up the inside of my thigh.

I spread my knees wider as shivers sprint down my spine. Warm air hits wetness, making my inner muscles clench around aching emptiness.

Kit groans, and I know he can see it.

Soft fibers abrade my elbows as I lean forward, lifting my ass higher in the air.

He chuckles, but it’s not an amused sound. It’s throaty and husky and cocky. His hand moves higher, stimulating my clit and coating his palm with my arousal. He pulls away, and I hear the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself.

“Kit,” I whimper.

I’m so turned on it feels like he could blow on me and I’d unravel.

“I know, baby.”

I’ve barely registered the blunt pressure of his cock finding my entrance before he’s filling me, the stretch an immediate relief and an insatiable encouragement. I want—need—more. I can’t get enough.

Kit grunts as I spasm. “ Fuck .”

Sin. That’s what his voice sounds like. Dark and intoxicating.

His hands skate up my sides, pulling my—well, his—T-shirt up. I moan loudly, arching my back as his hands cup my heavy, sensitive breasts.

“Pretty sure lame people wear underwear to bed, Monty.” He thrusts again, the slick, delicious drag an addictive drug. “And they don’t have sex on the floor when there are five beds available. ”

I gasp, racing toward my release.

“Or beg to be eaten out on the piano.” His hands are exploring every inch of my body, calloused palms sliding over sensitive skin. “Or talk police out of pressing charges?—”

The first wave of bliss hits, and I’m no longer listening to a word Kit’s saying.