Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
This did.
At least enough to get the day really going.
Eventually, Tate gingerly slips out to stuff his dick back into his black jeans, but not before pressing two fingers against my entrance on a warm yet brash, “I want you full of me all day.”
I grin and flex the muscles to keep his sexual remnants inside. “You always do.”
“Any day that ends in y, beautiful.”
The instant he moves his wet digits, I wiggle my overly stretched panties completely off and discard them in the nearby trash. “What would you do if you actually got me preggers like you keep saying you want me to be during sex?”
“When I finally get you carrying our baby,” he firmly corrects, hands rearranging his underwear, “I’ll be even bloody happier than I am now.”
His blissfulness is embarrassingly contagious. “How often do you seriously think about us having kids? As in, not saying it while you’re banging me all over the house.”
“Probably at least twice a week.”
“Twice a week?!” My body spins around to face his. “Like every week?”
“Yes.” Tate pulls his white shirt down over his recently fastened belt and meets my gaze. “I meant what I’ve said since the beginning of this relationship about wanting to be a dad and how important that is to me. And you know I respect you being on the pill – fuck, I’ve had to remind you to take it on some of your shifts – but I hope you know whenever you’re ready to stop, I’m ready for you to.” His smile softens. Gets almost too sweet for words. “I mean it every time I say I want us to have family, Harper. Yes, it’s sexy shite I love to say while we’re shagging, but I’m serious about it. I want that for us someday. And I’ll be the happiest bloody bastard whatever day that day is.”
The faintest swoon slips free as I wrap my arms adoringly around his lower half. “Have you thought of names?”
“A few.” His hands brace themselves against the marble countertop at my sides. “I’d rather us chose together, to be honest.”
“Like browse a baby names book?”
“Or online.”
“What names have you already considered?”
“Liam,” he replies rather too quickly, informing he really has given all this shit thought. “Or Lorcán.” His head bobs side to side in a momentary contemplation. “I like the latter just a wee bit more because it’s used less.”
“Those are boys names.”
“Because we’ll be having a boy.”
“We could have a girl.”
“Remind me to never let you bet in Vegas.”
The playful glare he’s twitched occurs prior to me inquiring, “Those are clearly Irish inspired names. Have you considered any that aren’t? Perhaps Dominican or Black?”
“Like Martin?”
“No.”
“Like Luther?”
“Is Martin Luther King Jr. really the only Black influential male you can think of?”
“Obama but that’s not really a good first name.”
My jaw drops in outrage on a squeaked. “That’s because it’s his last name!”
Laughter shakes his frame, informing me of his terrible joking, and a swat to his chest is the only thing I can think of to stop the sound. “I like Bayard after Bayard Rustin, the nonviolent civil and gays rights activist I did one of my English papers on.”
Never having heard of him has me lifting my eyebrows in shock.
“None of the courses I took in school were exactly…grand…about a more well-rounded view of subjects especially history, so my parents agreed – among themselves – to always take the extra step in providing additional education in the form of books or magazines or museum trips ever since I was a lad. And I guess it never really stopped. To this day, we still discuss topics from all over that tie to who we are. Last year, we stopped to tour the National Civil Rights Museum on our way to Graceland. It was heartbreaking and equally hope-inspiring.”
His parents’ commitment to nursing his roots fills me with the desire to do the same for me and ours. “We should totally do shit like that for our kids, too.”
“We will.” He lets a proud smile spread across his face. “We’ll make sure they have tons of books from all the over world about everything like I did.”
“Even fly fishing?”
“Probably harder to find, but we’ll make it happen.”
“What about the name Grant?”
It’s his turn to look clueless.
“After Grant Fuhr, the first Black player to win the Stanley Cup.”
Another small snicker slips loose on an amused headshake. “I bloody know you. Why didn’t I guess hockey something?”
“I must’ve fucked your brains out.”
“Must’ve.” Bigger and more boisterous laughter swiftly appears. “Remind me to start stocking up on bandages and padding the day we find out you’re pregnant. Our boys-”
“And girls.”
“-are going to always be needing them between hurling and hockey.”
“And exactly how many kids do you want us to have?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?!” The return of the high-pitched squeaking receives new chuckles. “Fucking eight?!”