Heartbeats

Chapter 13

Him...

Over the course of a career that has spanned over twenty years, I've only taken a handful of vacations. Not because I don't enjoy relaxation and time away but because I'm terrible at making it a priority, and when your job has you traversing the globe for business, some of adventure loses its appeal.

She is my exact opposite in that regard. Traveling is her lifeblood and I decide to give her one last taste of its spontaneity before our extra passengers arrive.

When we step off of the plane and the warm South Pacific sun hits her face for the first time, I know I made the right decision. She stops in her tracks, turning her face upward toward the sky, letting her eyes drift closed, and reveling in the sensation. "A week in paradise with the love of my life..." she wonders aloud, subconsciously reaching out for my hand.

I don't let it go until we've checked into our overwater bungalow. The concierge drops off our bags as we admire the view through the glass bottom floor and the minute the door latches behind him, she's jumping me... well, she's attempting to jump me as much as the seven months of her pregnancy will allow.

When she realizes it's not going to work that way, she pulls me out toward the balcony. "You know, I've never done it in the ocean before."

"Yes, you have." I laugh out loud, not missing a beat as fond memories fill my mind from our trip to Paris, momentarily distracted by thoughts of that particular rendezvous.

She huffs in exasperation before a blush of realization flushes her already rosy cheeks. "Fine... I've never done it in this ocean before." That's my girl.

The pregnancy hormones have all but catapulted my fiancé's already ambitious sex drive through the roof. I can't help but chuckle as I pull her back toward me so that her back is flush with my chest, my lips grazing the column of her neck.

"That's why we're here." I take my time and breathe her in, noting how her pulse is already racing against my bottom lip. I don't have the same hormonal excuses as she does, but my body responds to her in the same way it always does, and she lets out a subtle gasp when she notices.

Momentarily ignoring my own desire, I reach around her frame to cup my hands beneath her belly, resting my head on her shoulder as we both gaze down at the miracles we have created. As gentle as possible, I lift upward, taking their full weight into the palms of my hands. Her head falls back against my shoulder in relief, and I press soft, appreciative kisses against her jawline as I realize the true magnitude of her commitment to our family.

"I love you," I breathe out, because everything else I think of is too cheap.

"I love you, too," she echoes, reaching back to toy with the hairs at the nape of my neck. "Now let's go for a swim, what do you say?"

~*~

Our trip to Bora Bora affirms everything I already knew to be true. I am madly in love with the woman who carries my children and the flame in her eyes tells me she only burns for me too.

We spend hours (days, even) proving our love to one another and its a kind of therapy I didn't realize I was signing up for. When my first wife announced her pregnancy to me, she tossed me her positive test and smirked, her nonchalance challenging the manner in which my heart began sputtering out of rhythm. She was resolved to be completely unbothered by it all, indifferent to the life she was growing inside her womb. And that was the first red flag.

I felt drawn to her in every sense of the word and she held me at arms length for the duration of her gestation, going so far as to move out of our room and never return. "It's gross," she'd say whenever I asked her how she was feeling, and she made me feel ashamed for being curious about the life growing inside of her.

Perhaps that's why my fascination is unfettered this time around, my devotion complete. "Hurry! They're dancing!" She squeals one evening from the shower as she washes off the salt water and sunscreen from our day's adventures.

I throw open the door as quick as I can, rushing to her side and letting the water soak through my sweatpants as I place my hand over hers to feel the miracle of new life dancing in her womb. It's enough to bring tears to my eyes, and I bow my head against her naval to take it all in. She buries her fingers in my wet locks and I know without looking exactly how a sweet smile is playing at the corner of her lips. I kiss the outline of a foot as it juts out against her skin and it's only then that I dare to look her in the eye.

Her...

Paris was the first time I dared let myself think of forever. Until that point, our relationship had been lackadaisical, perfection without the pretense. I knew that he was madly in love with me and it wasn't difficult to reciprocate those feelings, but we were still one-dimensional together, marching ahead without a concept of time and space.

The trip was my idea, planned in a frenzy without so much as a second thought about where it would lead. I arranged the reservations and he invited our moms to come along and the rest is history. As one of our first adventures after going public with our relationship, I naturally freaked out on the plane realizing that there would inevitably be paparazzi and sleazy tabloids and deranged super fans, and we would probably get all of three seconds to ourselves.

"And..." His voice was fraught with concern even as his words echoed indifference as he laced our fingers together beneath the armrest. "They're going to talk. They always talk. It doesn't matter." I nodded against his shoulder and that was the end of it.

Until we emerged from our hotel a few hours later after sleeping off the jet lag, only to be swarmed by people wielding cameras and sharpies and fangirl screams. He booked us a charter to a private island the next morning and sent our moms on a souvenir run in the shopping district. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The captain ferries us out to a tiny stretch of land a few miles off the coast and leaves us about our business for the day with nothing but a picnic basket and a few beach towels.

The sentiment alone is enough to send me careening into his arms, giggling as he tumbles backward into the sand. "Easy there, babe. We have all day."

I slap at his arm playfully, still incensed in those days by his alluding to my more basal desires. Removing myself from his body, I stand to stretch out a towel, peeling off my coverup to lie down and catch some rays.

Just as I move to sit down, he sweeps me off my feet, tossing me over his shoulder and making a beeline for the waves. "Oh no you don't..." He laughs as he dumps me in the water, flailing and screaming and secretly reveling in the knowledge that there is no one within earshot to come to my rescue.

I enact my revenge as he is momentarily distracted removing his t-shirt, dead legging him and sending him reeling into the surf beside me.

Our playful banter lasts just long enough to get us equally hot and bothered beyond recognition, and, from that point forward, it's all skin and teeth, salt and sighs, as we have our wicked way with one another.

Lying on that beach against him filled with a year's supply of vitamin D and oxytocin, my brain short-circuits. There in the sand, watching the evening sky erupt in a wash of vibrant colors, the paper-thin sketch of our relationship starts to transform into a dynamic sculpture. Height. Length. Width. Depth. Before my very eyes, as he holds me in his arms and whispers lazily about his childhood, I am overcome with it.

And as the captain docks the boat and calls out for us to head back to reality, he pulls me to my feet, the weight of his hand in mine an anchor tethering me to him. I let him pull me along, and, even then, I know. The medium we are made of is no longer as malleable as pen and paper, we are etched in stone.