Was this love? Or was this lust?

“What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing.”

I shook my head, thoughts and words spilling from my lips. “It’s too soon, Bryan. This is too soon. I feel like we’re m-m-moving too f-f-fast and I d-d-don’t—I want us t-t-to—”

“Shh.” He pressed me to his chest, squeezing me tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you into something you’re not ready for.”

“You didn’t.” I shook my head vehemently, my nails digging into his back. “Not at all. I wanted it. I want you. But I feel like I don’t recognize myself. For Christ’s sake, Bryan, we’re at work. This is where we work. It’s completely irresponsible.”

“And hot?”

I exhaled a short laugh, squeezing my eyes shut. “Yes. And hot.”

He petted my hair, his other hand rubbing my lower back in a soothing motion. We sat like that, him on the floor, me on his lap, and he cradled me, giving me soft kisses and tender touches.

I felt cherished, sated. I felt amazing.

But how long will it last?

He’s only known you for a few months. How can he possibly love you?

He didn’t know what I was passionate about. He didn’t know the true extent of my family’s abhorrence toward my choice to keep Patrick, and how that had burnt layers off my thick skin of self-preservation. He didn’t know of my need to sit quietly at the end of each day to regroup, my love for both art and open-source coding projects. He didn’t know that I was a data nerd, that I spent my free time reading peer-reviewed medical journals for best practices and new techniques.

He doesn’t know me.

Whereas I’d known of him for years. I knew all about the carelessness in which he threw people away—when he wasn’t sober. I knew of his darkness, his playboy ways.

He’s not that person anymore. Trust him!

At length, I felt his chest rise and fall, and then he said, “You want to take things slow.”

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He swallowed, and I heard an edge of anxiety in his voice as he asked, “What does that mean, exactly?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

THEBryanLeech: Just spent five hours organizing my non-perishables in alphabetical order by country of origin #killinit

ECassChoosesPikachu to THEBryanLeech: Oooh! Tell me more.

WillthebrickhouseMoore to THEBryanLeech ECassChoosesPikachu: When you guys want some alone time with the kitchen cabinets give me a heads up and I’ll make myself scarce…

*Bryan*

No sex.

No oral play.

No fingering.

No making out.

Fuck my life, but don’t fuck my gorgeous girlfriend.

It was worth it.

She was worth it.

One, two, three weeks passed, and Eilish and I stuck to our agreement to take things slow. Over the course of those weeks I had unfettered access to my boy.

My boy.

With each passing day, Patrick felt more and more like mine, claimed more and more of my heart. Not only that, but Eilish felt more like mine, too. I had to hold myself back, the need to touch or claim her in some way was overwhelming. But I was determined to go at her pace.

Even if her pace felt like cruel and unusual punishment. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the orgasms I wasn’t giving her. But more than that, I couldn’t stop missing the moments of intensity when I could look into her eyes while I held her.

When she’d stood by the sink doing dishes, I’d wanted to grab her from behind, lift her skirt, kiss her neck, touch her, and feel her sex pulse around my fingers. Or when she’d bend over to get something from the bottom of the fridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off her backside, dirty thoughts invading my mind and pumping through my veins.

And don’t even get me started on the times she treated me at the sports complex. Eilish touching any part of my body was a lesson in patience and endurance. My attraction to her was becoming a problem. A distracting problem.

I had two crystal-clear, very recent memories of being with her, worshipping her body, and I almost wished I couldn’t remember. Now I knew what we were missing.

So, you could see my predicament.

Though saying that, having a kid around was a good method of prevention. Even if I’d wanted to come up behind Eilish, bend her over the kitchen table and have my wicked way with her, I couldn’t when there was a four-year-old hanging about. A four-year-old who was far smarter than he had any right being.

“What were you two doing in there?” Patrick asked one evening after dinner when I was over for a visit. I’d taken advantage of a moment of opportunity and pulled Eilish behind the kitchen door for a quick kiss. About three seconds later, Patrick had peeked his curious little head into the room.

“Nothing,” said Eilish as she reached down to ruffle his hair. “Come on. You can play Pokémon on my phone for a while.”

“Fine,” said Patrick. “But I know you two were kissing.”

See? Clever little bugger. Half of me grumbled irritably, the other half was proud as punch.

Fast forward a couple weeks, and I arrived outside Eilish’s for another of my scheduled visits. I was parking the car when my phone rang. Sarah’s name flashed on the screen. This woman. It was like she had a sixth sense or something.

I knew she was only calling to check up on me, but a feeling of guilt hit me all the same. After all this time, I hadn’t made a single move toward getting a paternity test, and she was going to give me hell for it. I sighed and hit “accept.” Might as well face the music.