The next few months consist of a lot of naked. Tons of the usual ridiculous us, but a considerably higher amount of naked. Naked swimming, naked naps, naked Mortal Kombat… and yeah, sex. During one of his overnight shifts, I bring him food at the hospital and we end up pulling a “this never really happens in real life” quickie in the on-call room.
“Dude, I was just bringing you some meatloaf Mom made tonight,” I say, panting as Fox has me pressed up against the door.
“Mmm, so good,” he mumbles against my neck.
I snort. “You can’t wait until you get home in the morning? You know I’d wake up for that.”
He frantically unfastens my jean shorts—button fly, because revenge—and growls when one gets stuck. “Hurry up!”
Grinning, I take over undoing the buttons.
“And you know I’m going to wake you up regardless,” he promises as he tears off his scrub top. “The question is how.”
“Ha!” I declare as my shorts fall to the floor at the same time as his pants.
He stops. “You are not wearing underwear.”
I grin. “Well spotted, Monkhouse,” I say, jumping my eyebrows. “You catch on quick.”
He grabs me at the waist and pulls me down to the bottom bunk, kissing the hell out of me. His kisses are still the best ever, yet he manages to one-up himself all the time. The entire frame creaks so badly, I think the hospital stole these beds from a long abandoned summer camp. I crack up because even if we’re quiet, this fucking bed won’t be.
This fucking bed.
The laughter increases in volume, so Fox slaps a hand over my mouth as he gets to work greeting the nipple twins with his tongue. He mumbles something around twin number one about not caring “what ridiculous joke” I thought of. I want to tease him, but what he’s doing feels too good. His palm muffles my moan. I lick said palm and he looks up, twin number two falling out of his mouth.
“Are you trying to get us caught?”
I nod silently, just to ramp him up. I watch his eyes darken, the hazel one looking like burnt caramel in this light. The pussy pearl throbs and the entirety of the land of lady parts clenches in anticipation. Feels pretty hydrated down there, too. I reach down to touch myself, and Fox snatches my hand. He lifts my fingers to his lips and sucks the tips.
“Mine.”
My next moan goes off uncovered until he kisses me, devouring any more sound—which is admittedly a lot, since his fingers have started prep work. And by prep work, I mean bringing me to a hella-fast first orgasm.
By the time he gets inside me and we both come, I’ve had three. It’s insane, but I think the possibility of getting caught amped me up a little. Which ultimately, we do. Get caught, that is.
As we attempt a surreptitious exit into the hallway, his shift supervisor is standing there rocking the bitchface of all bitchfaces. I’m crazy impressed. She holds out a clipboard with Fox’s apparent write-up and hands him a pen. Without a word, he takes it, signs it, and hands it back.
“Strip the sheets, Monkhouse,” she says, clearly bored with the whole thing. I start to wonder if this does actually happen a lot. As she starts to walk away, she cuts her eyes to me and says, “Three times, huh?” with a look of approval.
Fox escorts me and my tomato face to the front doors.
“Worth it,” Fox says. He kisses me hard before swatting my ass.
I turn and walk toward my car when he calls, “I love you!” I stop, face him, and mouth the same. He winks and heads back in to finish his shift. And the meatloaf. Obviously.
While getting pregnant is still on my—our—minds, I’m not as caught up on it when my period shows up. Fox seems disappointed, but when I ask him about it, he just says he’s sorry. I remind him first how it’s not his fault—entirely, ha ha—and how Dr. B. encouraged me when he went with me to follow up with her after the UK ordeal. She talked to us about how my system’s probably still resetting after the miscarriage. Not to mention, it gives us a little extra time to enjoy being the couple everyone keeps telling “we knew it all along” versus the Fox and Sophie we were before. Which is not all that different, really. People are just more likely to tell us to get a room.
“Can I just ask?” Fox says, halting a pretty damn good foreplay sesh. I try to stab him with my icy stare, but he ignores it. “Why did we wait so long to hook up? I mean, this is the best—”
“Fox,” I interrupt him—mostly because I’m irritated he’s paused our steamy forward progress to some no doubt hot as hell sexin’. “How can you forget I’ve known you forever and a day? I still remember your mother yelling at you constantly to stop picking your nose. That’s why I called you Sergeant Picker until fourth grade when you threatened to beat me up. But it got you to stop with the gold mining. At least, in public. Or at the dinner table.”
“Excuse me, Crapster.”
I gasp in surprise. “I shit my pants once—WHEN I GOT THE AWFULLEST MOST HEINOUS FLU EVER—and you called me Crapster for months! Don’t you remember I even stopped talking to you?”
“I thought you were just ignoring me to piss me off.” He feigns introspectiveness.
“I was ignoring you,” I say. “Not to piss you off, but because I didn’t consider you my friend.”
“You unfriended me and I didn’t know it?” he asks, retroactively offended. “Why did you start talking to me again?”
His look of confusion is priceless. I brush off the giggles as I hum in thought. “I think it was after your granny Bess died,” I reply quietly. “My parents took me to the memorial that was here in Cali. You didn’t call me Crapster so I decided to forgive you.”
Fox’s arms close around me and pull me in tighter. “Thank fuck,” he mumbles. “Where would I be without you?”
“Probably in a dumpster,” I say. “Fishing old hankies out of the trash to wipe your hands on since you couldn’t be bothered to stop picking your nose. I mean, if I hadn’t made you realize how nasty you were, you may have never ever gotten laid!”
He pinches my ass. Hard. I squeal and wiggle, trying to get away from him, but he’s got me. In more ways than one, really.
“You’re going to pay for that, Crapster,” he says, but the playfulness in his voice suggests I’m going to enjoy whatever my “punishment” is.
“Bring it on, Mr. Picker,” I tease.
“Mr. Picker? What happened to Sergeant?”
“Dishonorably discharged.” My voice goes all “pillow talk” so it’s pretty clear that I’m ready to pay for my crime.