Page 47 of Guarding the Star

“Have you ever wanted kids?”

Paula freezes, hands full of suds, and stares at me.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. That's too much. You know how I get. Forget it. We're good. Let's talk about soccer.”

“Yes,” she says.

“Yes… let's talk about soccer?”

“Yes, I've always wanted kids. I want them. I don't know when or how. But yes. I'm very sure. I love kids,” she says, and I don't know why, but I think I'm shaking.

It's weird. She's got suds up to her wrists, she's telling me she wants kids in the middle of our kitchen on a Saturday night, and it's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.

“I want them too,” I say. “I don't know if I'll be a good mom. I'm late to everything, and I curse in front of children. But I want it. I've known since the first time I held Wesley.”

“You'll be an incredible mother, Iris. I have zero doubt,” she tells me, and gives me a small kiss on the cheek.

“Can we keep doing the dishes and not talk about this for a while before I start crying?”

“We could go to your room and talk about whatever you want with no clothes on,” she whispers, slipping a hand under my waistband to pull me against her.

She kisses my neck. Slow. So slow. Undoes two buttons on my shirt and pushes it down to kiss my shoulders. The freckles, which have become her obsession, the same way her collarbone mole is mine.

“We're still in the kitchen,” I remind her.

“I don't think we're making it to the bedroom,” she whispers in my ear. “Don't move. Don't talk,” she orders.

She touches me so gently it hurts, raising goosebumps across my skin. She takes off my clothes piece by piece, no rush at all, and the waiting becomes a sweet torture. The sweetest.

I gasp when my bra hits the floor, and again when her fingertips brush my stomach, unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them down my legs.

“You can't say anything or move,” she reminds me.

The gasps turn to moans when she drops to a crouch, hooks her thumbs under the waistband of my underwear, and peels them off slow. She kisses my ass, traces the tip of her tongue across it, makes me tremble before pressing her cheek to the sensitive skin there.

“I can confirm we're not making it to the bedroom,” I breathe.

She parts me with her thumbs, blows over my pussy, and my whole body tightens in anticipation.

“You okay?”

“I'm great,” I pant.

“Can I…?”

“Yes. Please. Everything. Whatever you want,” I answer, my legs shaking.

I don't get to say more. her finger slides through how wet I am and empties my head. Just like that. Just that fast. I grab the counter, open my legs, close my eyes, and zero in on the feeling of her mouth on my ass and her fingers easing inside me. My whole body trembles with want, like it's been waiting for exactly this.

“Don't stop,” I gasp.

I shut my eyes tighter, as if that could help me separate every sensation: the cold granite under my hands, the cool kitchen air on my bare skin, Paula's breath, warm and ragged, against my inner thigh. The wet sound of her fingers sliding in and out, what they do to every inch of me.

She moves at a perfect rhythm, like she knows my body by heart.

“You're biting your lip. I love that,” she murmurs before kissing my ass.

I release my lip, but the moan that escapes is almost embarrassing. Too loud for a kitchen.