"Mmm." She nuzzles into my neck, and I feel her lips curve into a smile against my skin. "Much."
We sit like that for a minute or ten, her weight settled comfortably against me, her breath warm on my throat. It feels goddamn perfect, like she was made to fit against me.
We’re also both ignoring my half-hard dick that’s trying to join the party between us.
"Kasen?" She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"Yeah?"
"I need something."
The way she says it, with that little catch in her voice, tells me exactly what she needs. I've learned to read her these past weeks—learned what every sigh, every shift of her body means.
"What do you need, Pink?" I slide my hands under her shirt, up the warm skin of her back.
"Pickles," she says, completely straight-faced. "The garlic dill ones. With chocolate syrup. And cheese puffs crushed on top."
I blink at her. "You're kidding me."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She raises one eyebrow in that way that makes me want to kiss the brat out of her until neither of us can breathe. "Your child is apparently a culinary terrorist, and he wants pickles with chocolate syrup. And cheese puffs. Can’t forget those."
I can't help but laugh, the sound rumbling up from my chest. "A culinary terrorist? Jesus, Pink."
"This isn't funny, James." But she's fighting a smile now. "I'm dead serious. I need this disgusting concoction or I will actually die."
"Dramatic much?" I squeeze her hips. "Why do these cravings always hit in the middle of the night?"
"Because your son is an asshole who hates sleep. Just like his father."
"Hey." I steal a quick kiss. "I thought we established that you like his father. A lot."
She rolls her eyes. "His father is acceptable. When he brings me food."
"Only acceptable?" I slide my hand up to cup her tit, gratified when her breath hitches. "That's not what you said last night when I had my head between your?—"
"Pickles, Kasen." She cuts me off, but her pupils are blown, her cheeks flushed. "Focus."
With a dramatic sigh, I lift her off my lap and set her on her feet, smirking when her eyes drop to where I’m adjusting my dick. "Fine. Garlic dill pickles, chocolate syrup, and cheese puffs. Anything else, Your Highness?"
She pretends to think about it. "Maybe some of that strawberry ice cream? The one with the chunks of actual strawberries?"
"You hate strawberry ice cream."
"I know." She grimaces. "But apparently your spawn doesn't. I've been thinking about it all day."
I shake my head, moving to the bedroom and pulling on jeans and grabbing a hoodie from the back of the door. "The things I do for you."
She catches my arm as I'm about to leave, rising on her tiptoes to press her lips to mine in a kiss that's equal parts gratitude and promise. "Thank you," she whispers against my mouth.
Fuck, the things she does to me. And not just my body, my goddamn heart. "Anything for you, Pink. You know that."
And the crazy thing is, I mean it. I'd drive across the state in the middle of rush hour if she asked. I'd probably drive across the country. I blame it on my need to make her happy.
The night air is cool against my face as I slide into my truck. The streets are empty. It's peaceful in a way Portland rarely is during the day.
As I drive, I think about how these midnight food runs have become a strange highlight of my days. There's something about doing this for her, about being the one she turns to when she needs something, that feels right in a bone-deep way I've never experienced before.
My hand drifts to my pocket, fingers brushing against the metal ring I still carry everywhere. I should probably get around to putting it on my finger one of these days, since this marriage is looking less and less like something we're going to dissolve.
