Page 309 of What We Brave
"PAPA!"
"Coming!" Blake calls, then mutters under his breath, "Unfortunately not."
Laine snorts. I drop my forehead to her shoulder, trying not to laugh, trying not to move, trying not to come.
Blake grabs his sweatpants from the floor and pulls them on. They do absolutely nothing to hide the problem. He adjusts himself with a wince, then grabs a long t-shirt and tugs it down.
"You two better be done by the time I get breakfast on the table."
"We'll try to pace ourselves," Laine says sweetly.
"I hate you both." But he's smiling. Can't help it. He leans down and kisses her forehead, then mine. "Save me some hot water."
He opens the door just enough to slip through, blocking the kids' view of the bed. I hear Caleb immediately launch into a detailed description of what he wants for breakfast. June is still complaining about Iris. Iris is still shrieking.
The door clicks shut.
Laine looks up at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair a mess, her eyes bright.
"Where were we?"
I start to move again. Slow. Deep. Watching her face.
"Right about here."
"Mmm." She pulls me closer. "For the record—the answer is still no. On the baby thing."
"The answer is 'stop talking and make me come.' I remember."
"That's not—" She loses track of the sentence as I hit that angle again. "That's not the same thing."
"Sounds the same to me."
"Reid—"
I kiss her. Swallow whatever argument she was building. We can talk about babies later. Or never. Three is good. Three is plenty. Three is more than I ever thought I'd have.
Right now, I just want to be here. Inside her. Part of her. Part of this life we built.
I don't last much longer. Neither does she.
By the time we make it to the kitchen, Blake has Caleb set up with cereal, June is eating a banana, and Iris is in her high chair gnawing on a piece of toast with fierce concentration.
Blake's at the stove, making eggs. He shoots me a look.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Twelve," Laine corrects, sliding into a chair. She's glowing. Satisfied. I probably look the same.
"I'm putting that on my tombstone," Blake mutters. "'Sacrificed so Reid could have twelve minutes.'"
"Fourteen if you count the?—"
"I don't want to count anything." He flips an egg with more force than necessary. "I want everyone to eat breakfast and then I want to take a very long shower. Alone. With my thoughts."
"Papa's grumpy," Caleb observes.
"Papa needs coffee," Blake says.
