The entire weekend spent together, her fathers away with the practice, had been the icing on the cake [Mmmm, food]. His mother, if she'd noticed at all, was probably picking out wedding invitations or daydreaming about future Jewish, non-delinquent grandchildren. [Or something. He and Rachel were rarely apart at that point. Everyone noticed.] He had spent the time wrapped up in her, her feet in his lap as they ate, her body sprawled over his as they watched a movie, his head in her lap as she stroked his prickly scalp and he closed his eyes in peace until he woke and pulled her against his body, her bottom cradled in his hips [he loves big spoon when it comes to her; it had just felt good and natural at the time, and he'd rolled with it] and they'd started it all over again.

"Never alone," he pants, the words a soft exhale of breath before he drops another kiss on her lips. "Never fucking - alone again, baby." She's got him and she's got Beth, if she never has anybody else in her life. Beth calls her Mommy these days, natural and easy, and he can't help but smile at his girls when they're out on a crisp afternoon and do his best to spoil them when his Rachel is clasping his arm and his - their - daughter is skipping in front of them, at their sides, alternating between holding Daddy's hand and Mommy's hand, twirling like a princess and roaring like a dinosaur. She's a Puckerman, even if it will be a few days before she has a legal right to the name.

At her begging, the raking of his hips grows harsher, more intense; he knows what he wants and precisely how to take it from her body, how to give her the pleasure she seeks [quickly, in all the right places, with all the love he can make her feel]. His fingers tighten in rhythms against her wrists, her toes wiggling against his calves as her feet arch in pleasure with every hard thrust.