Chapter 12: Rhythmic Reunion
The scent of sweat and sex still hung heavy in the air, mingling stubbornly with the sweet baby powder and sawdust. Sunlight, stronger now than the city’s night glow, streamed through the sheer ivory curtains of the nursery, painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets and Whitney’s bare shoulder. Colson lay on his side, propped on one elbow, tracing lazy patterns on the vast, warm landscape of her belly. The lace canopy above them shimmered. A tiny, determined foot pressed visibly against his palm.
"Mornin', superstar," he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He pressed a kiss above the fluttering movement. "Someone's eager for breakfast."
Whitney hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated in her chest. She stretched carefully, muscles protesting the previous night's exertions. Her blue eyes blinked open, meeting his dark, amused gaze. "Someone kicked me in the bladder at 5 AM," she countered, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. "Demanding an eviction notice, I think."
He chuckled, the sound warm against her skin. "Little anarchists. Takes after their old man." His fingers drifted lower, skimming the sensitive skin just below her navel where the delicate dark line traced downward. Her breath hitched, a soft echo of the night’s intensity. He grinned, wicked intent flashing in his eyes. "Reckon we scared 'em straight last night? Showed 'em who’s boss?"
A flush crept up Whitney’s neck. "I think," she murmured, turning towards him, her hand finding the intricate ink on his bicep, "we showed them who’s loud." She traced a swirling design. "And maybe that the bed frame is surprisingly sturdy."
"Quality control," he affirmed, leaning in to capture her mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sleep and lingering promise. It started soft, a gentle exploration, but quickly deepened as her fingers tightened on his arm, pulling him closer. The sheet slipped lower. The cool morning air brushed her exposed breast, tightening the nipple instantly.
He groaned against her mouth, his hand sliding from her belly to cup her breast, his thumb circling the hardened peak. "Still perfect," he breathed, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down her throat. "All of you. More perfect."
She arched into his touch, the familiar heat pooling low in her belly, immediate and demanding despite the pleasant ache from hours ago. "Colson..." His name was a sigh, a plea.
"Yeah, baby?" His mouth moved lower, hot and knowing, closing over her other nipple, sucking gently.
"The crib..." she gasped, her head falling back. "We... we never finished..."
He lifted his head, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Priorities, Whit." His hand drifted lower still, slipping between her thighs, finding her slick and ready. He growled low in his throat, his fingers sliding through her wetness. "Fuck the crib. This," his thumb pressed against her clit, making her hips jerk, "is way more important."
He rolled onto her, his weight settling carefully, mindful of her belly but pinning her firmly. His erection pressed insistently against her hip. His mouth claimed hers again, hungry and demanding, his tongue mimicking the rhythm his fingers began to establish – slow circles that built mercilessly.
Whitney moaned into the kiss, her hands sliding down his back, nails digging lightly into the muscles above his waistband. "Over... over there," she managed between frantic kisses, tilting her head towards the half-assembled crib pieces scattered in the sunlight near the window. "Against... against the frame... please?" The request was breathless, edged with a daring she hadn't possessed before him.
Colson stilled for a heartbeat, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with her. Heat flared in his gaze, feral and approving. "Demanding Mrs. Baker," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I like it." He kissed her hard once more, then moved with startling speed.
He rolled off the bed, pulling her with him. Her feet barely touched the plush rug before he had her turned, facing the sturdy vertical frame of the crib. The cool, unfinished wood pressed against her heated palms as he guided her to grip the top rail. His body molded against her back, solid and radiating heat. His breath was hot on her neck as one tattooed arm banded around her waist, fingers splaying wide over the swell of her belly, anchoring her. The other hand slid down, pushing the hem of her chemise – the only thing she’d managed to pull on after their first round – up over her hips.
"Hold on, gorgeous," he murmured, the gravel in his voice sending shivers down her spine. He kicked her legs apart gently with his foot. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against the cleft of her backside through his sweats. His fingers found her again, slick and swollen, stroking her clit once, twice, before guiding himself to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, a thick, deliberate invasion that stretched her deliciously. Her gasp was muffled against the wood. "That's it," he coaxed, sinking deeper, filling her utterly. "Take it. All of it."
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that rocked her entire body forward against the crib frame. The wood was cool and solid beneath her palms, a sharp contrast to the heat of him moving inside her. His arm tightened around her waist, his hand possessive on her belly. His other hand braced against the crib frame beside hers, his knuckles white. The rhythm was primal, possessive. Each powerful thrust drove a soft grunt from his lips, a breathy moan from hers. The crib frame, sturdy as advertised, held firm. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the soft slap of skin meeting skin, and the persistent, low hum of the abandoned power drill still lying on the floor nearby.
He shifted his angle slightly, finding that spot deep inside her. Stars exploded behind Whitney's eyelids. "Colson! There! Oh, god, right there!" Her knuckles whitened on the crib rail. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, the wood creaking softly. The vibration from the drill seemed to resonate through the floorboards, a subtle buzz beneath her bare feet, mingling with the deeper thrum building inside her.
He drove into her, harder, faster, his breath hot on her neck. "You feel that, Whit?" he growled, punctuating each word with a punishing thrust. "Feel how deep? How fucking mine?" His hand clenched on her belly. "Gonna fill you up again. Mark you. Inside and out."
The coil in her belly tightened impossibly. The vibration beneath her feet, the relentless friction within, the solid wood against her palms, his deep voice growling possessively in her ear – it all coalesced into a white-hot point of pressure. She felt the triplets kick, a sudden, frantic flurry of movement deep inside, as if responding to the crescendo building in their mother.
The sensation – the intense pleasure merging with the distinct, internal flutter – was overwhelming, utterly unique. A scream tore from Whitney's throat, sharp and guttural, echoing off the pastel walls.
Colson froze instantly. "Whit?!" Panic edged his voice. "Did I hurt you? The babies—?"
Her head whipped around, her eyes wide, pupils blown, meeting his startled gaze. "Don't stop!" she gasped, the words raw and desperate. She reached back, one hand tangling in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers in a fierce, biting kiss. She broke away just enough to pant against his lips, her voice trembling with intensity. "Don't you dare stop! They're... they're kicking! To the rhythm! It's... so good!"
Understanding and pure, feral heat blazed in his eyes. A low groan ripped from his chest, part awe, part unleashed need. He kissed her again, hard, swallowing her cry as he drove back into her with renewed, brutal force. The crib frame shuddered. The drill hummed obliviously. The triplets kicked a frantic, ecstatic tattoo against his palm still splayed on her belly. Whitney pressed back against him, meeting every thrust, her screams dissolving into choked sobs of pleasure as the world shattered around the impossible, visceral connection – lover and life, intertwined. He buried himself deep, his own roar joining hers as he spilled inside her, the force of his release triggering her own, wave after wave crashing over them, tethered only by the cool wood under her hands and the heat of his body fused to hers. The vibration beneath her feet finally ceased, fading into the ringing silence of their shared, shuddering release.
The vibration beneath her feet finally ceased, fading into the ringing silence of their shared, shuddering release. Whitney slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool wood of the crib frame, her breath ragged gasps tearing from her throat. Sweat slicked her back where Colson still pressed against her, his own chest heaving against her spine, his arms locked around her waist, holding her upright. The persistent hum of the drill on the floor finally cut out, plunging the room into a profound quiet broken only by their panting and the frantic echo of her own pulse in her ears.
"Jesus," Colson rasped, his voice wrecked. His lips brushed the damp skin between her shoulder blades, sending aftershocks skittering down her spine. His hands, still splayed possessively over her belly, felt the wild, celebratory kicking beneath. "Those little fuckers really liked the show, huh?" A rough chuckle vibrated against her skin.
Whitney managed a breathless laugh, turning her head slightly. Her cheek scraped the smooth pine. "Think they were conducting the orchestra," she panted, feeling utterly spent, liquid, yet strangely exhilarated. The wood grain pressed patterns into her palms. "We... we broke the sound barrier. And possibly the crib warranty."
Colson eased back slowly, carefully disengaging, his hands lingering on her hips as he guided her to turn. She wobbled, her legs feeling like overcooked noodles. He caught her instantly, pulling her against his chest, his thumbs brushing sawdust stuck to her damp skin. "Warranty's voided the minute we bought it, gorgeous," he murmured, tilting her chin up. His eyes, dark and intense despite the exhaustion, scanned her face. "You okay? Seriously. That scream..."
"More than okay," she breathed, meeting his gaze. A flush still stained her neck and chest. "It was... intense. Good intense. Amazing intense." She reached up, tracing the intricate ink curling up his neck. "Just... need a minute. Or ten. And maybe a shower. I feel like I've been wrestling a bear covered in sawdust."
"Bear wrestler, huh?" He grinned, the familiar, slightly dangerous edge back in his smile. He scooped her up effortlessly, ignoring her surprised squeak. "C'mon, Mrs. Baker. Priority one: get the sawdust out of places sawdust definitely shouldn't be." He carried her past the silent drill, the scattered crib parts, the pristine, waiting bed, kicking open the door to the en suite bathroom. Cool, clean air replaced the heady mix of sex and pine.
The master bathroom was a stark contrast to the nursery's soft pastels – all cool marble, gleaming chrome, and frosted glass. Colson set her gently on the plush bath mat, her bare feet hitting the cool stone. He reached into the spacious walk-in shower, twisting the dials. Steam began to billow instantly, fogging the heavy glass walls. The scent of expensive cedar and bergamot replaced the lingering nursery smells.
He peeled her damp chemise off over her head, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle on her flushed skin. She stepped out of her underwear, the air cool on her nakedness before the steam reached her. Colson shed his sweats swiftly, his body a landscape of ink and defined muscle in the humid air. He took her hand, leading her under the hot, pounding spray. The water was blissfully hot, sluicing away the sweat, the sawdust, the lingering stickiness between her thighs. Whitney sighed, tipping her head back, letting the water stream over her face and dark hair.
Colson’s hands were on her instantly. Not just washing. Claiming. He turned her, pressing her slick back firmly against the cool glass wall. The shock of the cold surface against her heated skin made her gasp. "Cold!"
"Keeps you sharp," he murmured, his voice low and thick in the echoing space. His mouth found the curve of her shoulder, teeth scraping, then sinking in with possessive pressure. A whimper escaped Whitney, sharp and needy, bouncing off the marble tiles. One large, tattooed hand slid possessively around the immense swell of her bump, fingers splayed wide, anchoring her. The other hand slid down her slick stomach, through the dark curls, finding her center with unerring accuracy. She was still sensitive, humming from the previous onslaught, but the water, his touch, the possessive bite – it reignited the embers into a fierce flame.
"Colson..." she moaned, her head falling back against the glass, her hips rocking helplessly against his searching fingers. Steam coated the glass around her, blurring their reflection into ghostly shapes. "God... you're insatiable."
"Told you," he growled against her skin, his teeth leaving a mark, his fingers pushing deep, curling. "Not done with you." His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles. Water sluiced over his bent head, down the hard muscles of his back, pooling where their bodies met. The sensation was overwhelming – the heat of the water, the cool glass, the rough scrape of his stubble, the relentless pressure of his fingers inside her and on her clit. Her whimpers escalated, echoing sharply, lost in the hiss of the shower. She dug her fingers into his wet shoulders, her body arching off the glass, seeking more friction, more pressure.
He pressed harder against her, pinning her completely. "That's it," he breathed, his voice guttural. "Let me hear you." His thumb worked faster, his fingers crooked just right. The pleasure built, a terrifyingly fast crescendo, coiling deep in her belly, tightening like a spring wound too far.
Just as the peak loomed, a violent, synchronized barrage of kicks erupted inside her. WHAM-WHAM-WHAM! It wasn't the usual flutters or nudges. This was a full-on, three-part drum solo aimed directly at Colson's splayed hand and the taut wall of her belly pressed against the glass.
The glass shower door rattled violently in its frame, a sudden, shocking CLATTER-CLATTER-CLATTER that cut through Whitney's cries and the shower's hiss. The force was jarring, unexpected.
The intense pleasure collided head-on with the physical shock of the rattling door and the internal assault. Whitney’s knees buckled instantly, her vision blurring. A choked gasp replaced her moan.
"Whoa!" Colson's hand flew from between her thighs to her hip, the other tightening on her belly as he instinctively yanked her forward, away from the rattling glass. He caught her full weight, staggering slightly himself before anchoring his feet wide on the wet tile. He pulled her back hard against his chest, her dripping body pressed flush against his, his arms locking around her, cradling her belly and supporting her completely. "Gotcha! Jesus, Whit! You okay?!"
For a second, Whitney couldn't speak. She clung to his forearms, trembling violently, caught between the aborted peak of pleasure and the sheer physical shock. Then, a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up. "They... they really didn't like your technique that time," she managed, leaning her head back against his wet shoulder, still shaking, water streaming down her face. She felt his chest rumble against her back as his own startled tension dissolved into laughter, rough and disbelieving.
"Little critics," he chuckled, holding her tight, his chin resting on her head. The shower door gave one last, indignant rattle before falling silent. "Gonna have to work on my setlist." His hands, one still splayed protectively over her bump, the other holding her firmly against him, were steady. Unshakable. The steam thickened, wrapping them in a warm, private world where laughter mingled with the pounding water and the fading echoes of shock and ecstasy.
The steam thickened, wrapping them in a warm, private world where laughter mingled with the pounding water and the fading echoes of shock and ecstasy. Colson kept his arms locked around Whitney, her back pressed firmly against his chest, until her trembling subsided into the steady rhythm of the water sluicing over them. "Alright, you vicious little drummers?" he murmured against her temple, his voice rough with lingering amusement, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her bump where the kicks were settling back into softer nudges. "Show’s over for now. Daddy needs to actually clean his damn wife."
He eased his grip, turning her carefully under the spray. This time, his touch was purely functional, efficient, lathering her hair with her favorite coconut-scented shampoo, his fingers massaging her scalp with surprising tenderness. Whitney sighed, leaning into it, the simple care washing away the frantic edge of the last few minutes. He rinsed her hair, the suds swirling down the drain like the tension. He soaped her body with a soft washcloth, his movements deliberate, respectful of her tiredness and the sheer scale of her, his tattoos stark against her flushed skin under the water. He saved the belly for last, a gentle, soapy caress that earned him a sleepy, appreciative hum.
After rinsing, he shut off the water. The sudden silence felt vast. He grabbed thick, plush towels, wrapping one around her hair like a turban and enveloping her body with the other, rubbing warmth back into her arms. He quickly dried himself with brisk strokes, then scooped her up again, carrying her, towel-clad, back into the nursery where sawdust still dusted the floor like pale gold. The half-built crib waited.
"Right," he declared, setting her gently on the edge of the unmade, lace-canopied bed. He grabbed the discarded silk pajama pants from the floor, holding them out for her to step into. "Operation: Baby Jail completion phase. Can't have those little anarchists complaining about substandard accommodations." He pulled a clean, worn black t-shirt over his own head.
Whitney managed a tired smile, pulling the shirt he tossed her – one of his old band tees, soft and huge – over her head. It swallowed her frame, draping loosely over the immense swell of her belly. "Just promise me no power tools this time," she said, wiggling her toes into the plush rug. "My insides are still vibrating."
He grinned, grabbing the instruction manual from the floor. "Scout's honor. Allen wrenches and brute force only." He knelt amidst the chaos of panels and hardware. "Hand me that long side piece? The one that looks like it could double as a surfboard."
They worked in companionable silence punctuated by the quiet clicks and scrapes of wood joining wood. Colson handled the heavy lifting and the intricate maneuvering, his tattooed forearms flexing. Whitney focused on passing screws, aligning pre-drilled holes, and holding pieces steady, her movements careful but determined. Sawdust coated their bare feet and forearms. The scent of pine filled the room, mixing with the lingering baby powder. The silence stretched, comfortable but heavy with unspoken things, the intensity of the shower and the earlier, frantic coupling settling into a profound, physical exhaustion.
Finally, with a final grunt of effort, Colson slid the last stabilizing bar into place and tightened the bolt. The crib stood assembled, sturdy and imposing in the soft light filtering through the curtains. He rocked it gently with one hand. Solid. "There," he breathed, wiping sawdust from his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint smudge. "Fort Knox for three."
He pushed himself up, groaning slightly, his joints popping. Whitney hadn't moved from the edge of the bed. She patted the rumpled sheets beside her. Wordlessly, he sank down next to her, the mattress dipping heavily. He leaned back against the headboard with a long, bone-deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. The exhaustion wasn't just physical; it was a deep weariness that settled in his bones. Whitney shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his arm. The warmth of him seeped through the thin cotton of their shirts.
She rested her head on his shoulder, her damp hair cool against his skin. The quiet stretched, filled only by their slowing breaths and the distant, muffled sounds of the city waking up far below. She traced the intricate lines of a skull tattooed on his bicep peeking out from the sleeve. "Colson?" Her voice was soft, tentative in the hushed room.
"Yeah, gorgeous?"
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been hovering since the frantic energy of the night and morning finally ebbed. "How are you... really doing? With all of it?" She paused, searching for the right words. "The anxiety thing. The pressure. Everything happening so fast." She felt the subtle tension coil in the muscle beneath her fingertips.
He was silent for a long moment. His eyes remained closed, but his jaw worked slightly. When he spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual bravado, rough with honesty. "It's... a lot, Whit." He swallowed. "Like, a fucking tsunami of ‘a lot’. One minute, it's just us, figuring out this marriage rocket ship. Next minute?" He gestured vaguely towards her belly. "Three passengers screaming 'Surprise!' from the cargo hold." He opened his eyes, staring at the lace canopy above them, not seeing it. "The tour dates piling up, the label breathing down my neck about the next album concept, the insane logistics of three humans arriving... the goddamn fear that I'll fuck it all up, that I won't be... enough." He finally looked down at her, his dark eyes vulnerable, almost lost. "The noise in my head, it gets loud sometimes. Real fucking loud."
Whitney’s heart clenched. She lifted her head, turning to face him fully, her hand moving from his arm to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing the smudged sawdust near his temple. "You are enough," she whispered, her voice fierce. "More than enough. Look at this." She gestured around the room – the assembled crib, the soft colors, the sheer curtains glowing. "You built their fortress. You hold me together when I feel like I'm splitting at the seams." She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "The noise? It's just noise. We'll turn it down together. Okay?"
He leaned into her touch, his eyes searching hers. He nodded once, a jerky movement. "Okay." He took a shaky breath, the vulnerability slowly receding, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. He shifted his hand, letting it rest lightly on the high curve of her belly. "So... how big are these little drummers now, anyway? Feels like they’re smuggling bowling balls in there."
A soft laugh escaped Whitney. She covered his hand with hers. "About three pounds each, give or take," she said, warmth softening her features. "Little overachievers already."
"Three pounds? Each?" Colson's eyes widened slightly. "Fuck me. No wonder you waddle like a penguin." He grinned, but it was tinged with awe. "So... when do they plan on busting outta this joint?" His thumb traced a slow circle. "Gotta clear my schedule. Cancel a few world tours."
Whitney squeezed his hand, her expression turning more serious. "They could technically come any day now," she said, meeting his gaze directly. "That's the reality of triplets. But ideally?" She took a breath, hoping. "We're aiming for at least a couple more weeks. Let them bake a little longer, get stronger. Ten more weeks would be amazing... but," she added, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, "that's pretty much a pipe dream with three in there. Highly unlikely."
Colson absorbed this, his gaze fixed on the place where her hand covered his on her belly. The reality of 'any day now' landed with tangible weight in the quiet, sawdust-scented air. He didn't flinch. Instead, his hand turned under hers, lacing their fingers together firmly over the taut curve. The chaotic energy of the morning, the frantic intimacy, the honest fear – it all condensed into this single, anchoring point of contact. He looked up, meeting her steady blue eyes. A slow, determined smile touched his lips, chasing away the last shadows. "Alright then," he said, his voice low but clear, resonating with a quiet certainty that hadn't been there moments before. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "We got this. Whenever they decide to make their grand entrance." He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the stillness of the nursery, the sturdy crib standing sentinel beside them. "We got this."