Chapter 9: Nothing Real

I closed the laptop.

Eight years of work was gone, and in the morning I would have to be afraid of it.

Not yet.

"I can cover your rent," Jerome said.

"No."

"Willa."

"I don't want your money."

I turned around and put my back against the table.

"I want one hour where nobody Winfield gets to decide anything."

He looked at me.

His undershirt was still rucked up where my fists had pulled it, and his chest rose and fell.

"Nothing real," he said slowly. "That's what you told me."

"I know what I said."

"For show. You said it on the stoop, and in the hall, and a minute ago."

"I know what I said."

"So say what this is."

"It's a man in my kitchen who rubbed my feet and left his girlfriend on a microphone," I said.

"He kissed me in front of two hundred people, and I'm done pretending it's nothing."

He crossed the floor in two steps.

He lifted me onto the table, and the laptop skidded to the far edge.

His mouth came down on mine, hard, and I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him in.

He tasted of tea.

I dragged his undershirt over his head and dropped it, and put both palms on his chest.

His skin was hot and his heart slammed under my hand.

"Bed," he said into my neck.

"The couch is closer."

"Bed," said Jerome, and picked me up.

He laid me down on the quilt and stood over me for a long second.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"I'm five months gone and I've got stretch marks."

"You're beautiful," he said again, and pulled my sleep shirt up over my head.

He looked at my breasts, full and heavy now, and at the curve of my belly.

He made a sound low in his chest.

Then his mouth was on my nipple.

He sucked hard, and I cried out and fisted a hand in his hair.

His other hand slid down my stomach and into my underwear, and two long fingers pressed against my clit.

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