Roman has been more patient and understanding than I could have ever hoped.
There’s one teeny-tiny complaint. I’m horny.
Seriously. This man walks out of the shower with a towel hung low on his hips, running a hand through his wet hair, giving me a glimpse of his biceps.
It’s making me crazy each time I get a glimpse of him without clothes on.
What am I supposed to do with that?
I lie next to him in bed at night and have to stop myself from letting my hand wander over to his side to touch things that I’m not sure I have permission to touch at the moment.
I feel like a needy teenage boy who can’t control himself.
I have resorted to taking care of myself in the shower. It’s the only option, aside from mauling him.
So, here I stand, pregnant, in the shower. I let my hand slide down my stomach until it hits that aching part of me that’s desperate for relief.
The moment I do, my head falls back with pleasure. I lose myself in images of Roman that I now call my Roman masturbation slideshow. It works every time and gets me there within minutes.
I come on the final image of him stroking his own cock right before he pushes it inside of me. A soft moan falls from my lips. I let the tidal wave take me over and wash through me.
It’s not the relief I want, but it holds me over.
I turn the water off and open the shower door. My heart nearly drops out of my chest.
Roman is standing in front of the sink, toothbrush in hand, eyes open, brows nearly at his hairline.
“Roman,” I breathe.
Shit. He definitely heard me. I can tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He knows I was just touching myself. At least he doesn’t know I was thinking about him.
That would be the ultimate moment of humiliation.
“I just needed to brush my teeth,” he stammers.
“No problem,” I reply, giving my best attempt at sounding casual.
Maybe if I pretend nothing happened, he’ll think he imagined it. Like some kind of phantom experience. At the very least, he might just decide to spare me and not acknowledge it.
I walk past him, directly into the bedroom. I gather my clothes and begin to dry off, wrapping the towel over my head.
I hear him fumble around in the bathroom, knocking something over and cussing to himself.
Neither of us appear to be willing to bring up the elephant in the room.
What are we doing? Are we a couple? When do I move back into my apartment?
All questions that need to be addressed. Yet I’m living in our little bubble, terrified to burst it and see what’s lurking on the outside.
He’s already shown me that he wants to be a father. That much I’m sure of. The crib nearly knocked me off my feet. It’s the sweetest gesture he could have done to show me how excited he was for this baby.
I love that he has that memory of his grandpa and that he is already doing things to keep tradition going.
But does he loveme? Does he wantme?
I freaked out in the hospital when he told me he loved me. There was so much fear and chaos whirling around us. I didn’t want to find out later that he said those things for the wrong reasons.
But now I wonder if it was my chance to have everything that I’d ever wanted, and I missed it.