Page 25 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

There are four broken plates, two shattered glasses, and a whole mess of food on the floor. Oh, and we can’t forget the hickey the size of Montana on my neck.

It’s all damning evidence of what happens when you fuck your husband on the kitchen table.

When you finally give in to what’s been building for months and things just sort of… explode.

My fingers trace the purple monstrosity at the base of my throat as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I look different. My hair’s a tangled pink mess, my lips are swollen, and I’ve got this general post-sex glow that I don’t think I’ve ever seen on my face before.

Turns out orgasms are better than any beauty routine I’ve ever tried.

"Shit," I mutter, trying to tug the collar of Kasen's t-shirt higher to cover the way he marked me like I’m his property. It doesn't work. Nothing short of a turtleneck or a scarf would hide this thing.

The thought of walking into Cascade with this billboard of poor decisions on my neck makes my stomach clench. But under the low-key anxiety is something a lot more disturbing. I’m actually happy about this. Kasen marked me.

And I like it.

And it didn’t happen just once. Oh, no.

Last night's boundaries-obliterating sex marathon plays on repeat in my head. The kitchen table. The shower. His bed. My god, his bed. I'm still not entirely certain how we even made it that far, considering neither of us could keep our hands off each other except when we needed to breathe.

I splash cold water on my face, which does exactly nothing for the "I've been thoroughly fucked" look I'm sporting.

Everything about me screams that I just spent the night breaking every single boundary I insisted on when I moved in here.

Separate spaces? Obliterated. No touching?

Please. Roommates, not spouses? We literally fucked on multiple surfaces while I called him my husband.

My. Husband.

The word shouldn't make my stomach do that stupid flip thing, but here we are.

And I think it’s time I finally fess up to the fact that I've never wanted anyone more in my entire life than I want Kasen James.

It's terrifying. And exhilarating. And I have no idea what happens next.

A soft knock on the bathroom door makes me jump.

"You planning on moving in there, Pink?" His voice is rough from sleep, and I hate how it makes my knees weak.

"Trying to figure out how to make myself presentable for civilization," I call back, running a hand through my tangled hair in a futile attempt to look less like I've been fucked to within an inch of my life.

"Coffee's ready when you are."

His footsteps retreat down the hall, and I blow out all the air in my lungs. How am I supposed to face him in the light of day? How do we go from dish-breaking, wall-shaking sex to casual morning coffee now that everything’s changed?

I don’t know how to face him now that he’s seen my orgasm face. Well… again. But this time he was sober, so, yeah.

You know what? I've faced down corporate sharks and sexist brewery owners. I can handle post-sex awkwardness with my accidental husband.

Even if said husband has a body that should be illegal and knows exactly how to use it.

Even if I maybe sort of definitely want him to use it again. Immediately.

In case you’re wondering, “body” definitely means dick.

Also, abs.

My phone buzzes on the counter reminding me that the real world still exists outside this house. Honestly, I kind of hate it a little.

By the time I've brushed my teeth and pulled on leggings and the least wrinkled of Kasen's shirts from my growing collection, I've almost convinced myself I can handle this like an adult. We're adults. We had sex. Earth-shattering, reality-altering, ruin-you-for-other-men sex. But still just sex.

No big deal. It’ll be fine.

When I walk into the kitchen, Kasen is standing at the counter pouring coffee, his back to me.

He's shirtless, because why wouldn’t he be?

He’s only got on sweatpants that hang low on his hips and show off his ass that should have its own Instagram account.

I’m actually afraid of what I’ll do if I get a view of what they do for his dick.

The tattoos that cover his arms continue across his shoulders and down his spine, a canvas of colors and shapes I didn't have time to fully appreciate last night. And yep, those are scratches from me woven in with the designs, too.

It looks like I tried to claw my way inside his skin.

I press my legs together as I remember putting every single one of them on his skin. I hope he doesn’t notice how I want to jump his bones all over again right now.

Or bone. Singular.

Pregnancy hormones are a bitch, but they've got nothing on whatever this man does to my nervous system.

"Morning," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the ballpark of hoarse because your dick was down my throat an hour ago .

He turns, and the smile that crosses his face when he sees me knocks the air straight out of my lungs. It's warm and intimate and so genuine it hurts. It’s also a little dirty at the edges. Like he’s remembering how I look naked.

"Morning, Pink." He holds out a mug filled to the brim with the perfect mix of coffee and cream. "Figured you might need this after last night."

I take the coffee, careful not to let our fingers touch. One spark and we'd end up right back in his bed again, and I have a meeting in ninety minutes. "Thanks. Your coffee maker is ridiculous. It has more buttons than a spaceship."

"Worth it though." His eyes drop to the mark on my neck and then to the chain I’m still wearing around my neck, and the satisfied smirk that tugs at his mouth should piss me off. It doesn’t. "Nice hickey.”

I roll my eyes, but heat floods my face. "Very mature. This is going to be impossible to cover up."

"Not trying to be mature." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug. "I like seeing my mark on you."

And there it is. The possessive caveman bullshit that should have me putting him in his place. Instead, my traitorous body responds like he just offered me chocolate-covered orgasms.

My eyes drift to the kitchen table, now cleared of broken dishes, but forever changed in my mind.

I'll never be able to eat breakfast there again without remembering how he looked hovering over me, his eyes black as night, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise as he owned every inch of me.

"We should probably talk about that," I force out, meeting his gaze even though it feels like staring into the sun.

"Which part?" His tone is light, but there's weight beneath it. "The part where you begged me to fuck you? Or the part where you finally admitted you're my wife?"

"I didn't beg." The protest is automatic, even though we both know it's bullshit.

"You definitely begged." He sets his mug down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his muscles flex in ways that are completely hazardous to my concentration. And vagina. "But we can argue semantics later. We need to figure out what this means."

"What this means?" I take a sip of coffee to buy time. This means I'm fucked. This means all the walls I built to keep him out are rubble at his feet. This means I actually want the thing I've been fighting against since Vegas.

"For us," he clarifies, like that makes it simpler.

"I don't know." The admission costs me, but lying feels pointless when he's already seen me at my most vulnerable. "This wasn't exactly in my five-year plan."

"Mine either." He moves closer, just one step, but suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. "But I'm not sorry it happened."

"I'm not either," I say quietly, surprising myself with the truth of it.

"Good." His eyes darken. "Because it's happening again."

It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, like the sun rising or me craving weird pregnancy foods in the middle of the night. We opened this door and there's no closing it now.

"Presumptuous much?" I say, but there's no bite to it.

"Realistic," he counters, taking another step closer. "You really think we can go back to separate bedrooms and polite small talk?"

He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Close enough that I can see the navy circle around the edges of his blue eyes. Close enough that all I'd have to do is lean forward and...

"No," I whisper. "We can't."

His hand comes up, fingers ghosting over the hickey that's basically a neon sign saying "Property of Kasen James." The light touch sends electricity straight to parts of me that should still be in recovery from last night.

"So, where does that leave us?"

Fucked . Completely, utterly fucked. But I can't say that, can't admit how terrified I am of wanting him this much. Of needing him. Of the way my body recognizes his like they're two pieces of the same really dysfunctional puzzle.

But before I can come up with something appropriately sarcastic to deflect with, his gaze drops to my belly where the shirt of his I’m wearing stretches across. The atmosphere shifts, softens, becomes something that makes me want to run for the hills and also never leave this kitchen.

"You're showing more," he says, his voice tinged with wonder. "When did that happen?"

I look down at the obvious bump that wasn't nearly this prominent even last week. Sixteen weeks, and there's no hiding it anymore. Not in his thin t-shirt, not in anything really.

"I don't know. It just... happened." I smooth a hand over the curve self-consciously. "None of my work clothes fit anymore.”

He places his hand over mine on my belly, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything we did last night. "It's amazing."

"It's weird," I say, but I don't pull away. "My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

"It's beautiful." He looks at me like I'm some kind of miracle instead of a hormonal mess with bedhead. "You're beautiful."