Chapter Twenty-one

When Goren left work to see her, it was as if he had entered an entirely different plane of existence. In what had turned out to be a strange turn of events, life with Eames now consisted of a realm free of viscous perps, professional liars and assholes. A realm that was free of dead bodies, a place where Goren could be rid of the infernal chemicals used at the morgue to block out the harsh stench of carbon decay. The chemicals must have adhered to Rogers permanently he mused, noting that after visits to the morgue, the overpowering miasma would cling to his clothes for hours.

Eames was in the shower. She seemed to like warm showers these days. He'd brought over the food, 'porkchops,' she'd demanded. 'That's the second time this week,' he'd replied, smiling on the other end of his cell, 'porkchops it is.'

Presently, he filled another basket full of laundry and headed to the basement to finish her final load of whites. She'd given him a brief lecture on the do's and don'ts of her laundry. He prided himself on the fact that he was good at paying close attention to detail, that and that folding laundry was one of his favorite chores.

And Eames? She was getting farther along, soon to be into her third and final trimester. He knew every detail about her pregnancy, as he was literally counting the days until things returned to normal. And so what if it was all born out of selfish intentions? He wanted his Eames back.

Physically, she was showing, (showing more every day). At her request, he'd feel her belly; she'd laugh and ask him if he could feel movement. He tried, but it was so subtle that it didn't really come together for him. What did come together was the fact that their sexual routines had changed yet again. The sexual positions that were comfortable for both of them were becoming few and far between. He could no longer take her on her back for obvious reasons, and while missionary wasn't always his favorite position, it still ranked high on his list, and the thought of it being no longer available to him, made him look forward to the day he could flop her on her backside, a pillow strategically placed under the small of her back. Sometimes sex was out of the question, so he'd lay there in a very lustful state, hoping she'd fall asleep quickly so he could relieve himself. This was generally a difficult and messy procedure. Women were so lucky . . . when all was said and done; they didn't have to deal with the awful, sticky mess.

After her warm shower, she sidled up to him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, "thank you for doing my laundry."

It warmed his heart to see her this happy, so playful, and so full of all the things that he was missing desperately at work. He missed her wit, her resourcefulness, her ability to read his mind and the one thing that was always overlooked about Eames: she was a damned good detective.

"Why are you so happy?" he asked, a mischievous grin playing on his face.

"It's nice to spend time with my man," she grinned, her eyes twinkling, "I'm full of porkchops, my laundry is done, and I get to spend the evening pressing up against you."

"Did you know that I can do delivery as well?" his ears unable to hide a crimson blush.

He watched as her eyebrows peaked in curiosity. Eames was so incredibly sexy that he began to feel a growing tightness in his pants.

She burst into peals of laughter as he wrapped her up in his arms, carrying her directly to the bedroom, nothing but a bath towel was between him and her soft skin.

With that, he laid her gently on her bed, climbing aboard to begin unwrapping her. Need he note the other wonderful detail about her changing landscape? Over the past month, her breasts had continued to increase in size. The area surrounding her nipples, were a deep magenta. The circumference of each nipple had doubled in girth, which in turn gave great satisfaction to his oral proclivities. And yes, lately he'd spent many hours pouring over breasts, paying an inordinate amount of attention to them. Eames didn't seem to mind. She noted that it made her entire abdomen twitch involuntarily, in a good way.

Tonight was no exception to the type of foreplay they dabbled in, "Aren't you going to get comfortable?"

"I am comfortable," he smiled, focusing intently on her right breast.

"I mean, you're still fully clothed."

"Not for long," he noted, still obsessing as he began working his mouth around her breasts.

Suddenly, something was immediately out of order, or foreign . . .

"What's wrong?" she toned, her eyes doubling in size.

It took him nearly five seconds to process everything and then find the words to speak aloud, "Eames, you uh, you," he started, "I uh, I think you are making well, uh, not milk per say. Pre-milk? Oh, uh, colostrum?"

She looked as shocked as he did, and she instantly fingered her right nipple, squeezed it and sure enough, a slightly white, clear liquid bead formed under the pressure.

Like two rookies, they lay side by side, completely entranced by this simple biological feat, while simultaneously not knowing what to do next. He'd never tasted breast milk before, literally, like many babies born in the sixties, he was just another one of those formula babies.

"Wow, this is, um. This is crazy." Eames voice finally cut the silence, "what does it taste like?"

He shook his head, unable to actually qualify an answer, "I was too surprised to process taste."

Without warning she leaned forward, gesturing for him to give it another try. What was he to do? So, he licked tentatively, but found very little liquid, not but a drop to process.

"Try," Eames encouraged softly, "try getting some out, it's okay, it doesn't hurt."

Like any good junior partner, he made the effort. Another small droplet size played on the surface of his tongue.

"Look," Eames shouted suddenly, "the other one is producing too!"

Eames lay back down and he moved back and forth dutifully cleaning up the droplets that formed from both breasts. And it was beyond surreal really, a very sweet flavor, almost comparable to a sugar-water, with a hint of cinnamon. But no, there was nothing really that could compare to this. He lay there, half-aroused, gently lapping at his senior partners chest, (if only the guys at the office could see me now), and even Eames seemed rather taken in by all of this. There was a kind of intimacy in this simple act, the most obvious reason being that it was something new for both of them, akin to losing one's virginity in a strange way. And for him, the act in itself was simply mesmerizing.

And as intimate as the moment passed, Goren felt slightly abashed, self-conscious really about suckling on her like an infant. He felt his face flush, and quickly removed himself from her chest to read her reaction. What he received for his efforts was a warm smile back, a full maternal glow, as she cradled his head and massaged his jaw-line.

Meanwhile, he was growing more and more aroused, heat was emanating from his lower half, and he found himself involuntarily nudging his hips in her direction as he returned to her chest.

Finally, when the arousal became to much, he pulled away and she ran her finger over his damp lips.

In response, he then took her in closer and shared a long sweet, kiss. Lips lingering, tongues exploring each other tentatively.

"It tastes sweet," Eames murmured, "or maybe that's just because it's off your lips."

He felt it necessary to punish her for saying something so endearing, so he flipped her on to her side, (a touch roughly perhaps), and pressed against her, just in case she was uncertain of where he was arousal-wise.

"Can you do that again?" Eames muttered, "same area."

He was more than happy to comply, for while she'd found a sense of pleasure from feeling the tented fabric of his pants between her legs, it felt pretty good from his standpoint too.

"Oh shoot," Eames huffed, "my breasts are still leaking."

Reaching over her, he felt the tip of her damp nipple with his left hand. Eames was already busy pulling her bath towel under her as to prevent any additional leakage.

"Don't stop tweaking me there," Eames breathed heavily, "that feels nice."

So there he lay, spooning up against her tightly, (the fabric felt fantastic), while her left breast leaked slowly over his left fingertips. He knew Eames was close, her breath had quickened and she'd pushed aggressively into his hips. Without warning, she came rather violently, so he held onto her tightly.

"Oh," she groaned, and he held her even tighter, feeling her rhythmic aftershocks loop back and forth, "oh" she huffed again.

This was unusual.

"Eames?"

"I think," she breathed, "these are more like mini-contractions, wow," she exhaled loudly, "they are stronger than usual and they keep coming back."

Suddenly, he felt a hint of worry, which immediately he wanted to brush off, as he was equally aroused and just wanted to come. He knew if he kept running his erection against the fabric that was housed between her legs, he'd come in the next minute or so too.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his body still going through the motions of needing to rub against her.

"Yeah, I think so, the contractions are really more like how I feel after an orgasm, but they keep coming back pretty consistently and every time you rub," Eames continued to try to catch her breath, "it feels like I can't stop."

He stopped immediately, "is that good or bad?"

"No, don't stop," Eames added softly.

His head twirled, was Eames having one of those elusive multiple orgasms? He'd tried and tried to make this happen for many of his ex-girlfriends. He'd read books, he studied pictures, he'd made them all his willing guinea pigs but he'd never succeeded, (and even now he was forced to recognize that this could very well be more of the bi-product of her condition as opposed to his actions. Oh if only he could make his brain shut-up).

But finally his body did the trick. It clicked off his brain for the next five to ten seconds as he came quicker than he expected, his hands had moved over to control her hip movement during his final thrusts, as he carefully controlled the friction that worked deliciously against him. She continued to awkwardly pulse in his arms as he held her tightly through his sexual peak. He muffled his cries, burying his head in the space between her and the mattress. Tears barely held at bay as he reeled from his orgasm. God, he loved what she did to him. She made him feel so good, and he trusted her so much. So much so, that the act of coming was often painful, as powerful emotions churned through his head immediately following orgasm. He bit down on his lip, his heart constricted, his breath hitched, and his body muscles continued to spasm involuntarily for several minutes.

For the first time in a long time, he felt as though this evening's experience could bridge him through this most problematic time, as these times spent with Eames were becoming so much more intense, and so much more intimate. At times, he wasn't even sure how to come down from their meetings.

Eames twitched abruptly in his arms and with that, he was broken from his train of thoughts.

"Are you still, uh, having the . . ."

"No, um well, it's subsided a bit," she turned to her left side and scooted upwards to face him. She smelled so good.

"I remember when I first thought I might be having feelings for you," Eames spoke softly as she reflected.

"Really?"

She nodded before adding, "Do you remember the DeSilva case?"

"No," his breath released rather heavily, "really?"

She nodded again.

"Eames," he grinned, "you and all the women in the world. It has to be biological. I mean, uh, for you to like it when I got all physical with Bernard."

"No," Eames met his eyes with a slight intensity, "no, it wasn't that you kicked his ass – which you did very effectively and humanely, by the way. But rather, it was how you treated DeSilva's mother."

His eyes widened and his mouth gaped slightly, he hadn't been expecting that to be the kicker.

"You were such a big softy," Eames laughed, "I really started to see the other side of you, the other side that I had a hunch was there, but I couldn't be certain. I mean, you were so cerebral, clever and manipulative when you needed to be, so for awhile I couldn't think of you in any other vein."

"So," he spoke just above a whisper (and yes, tentative as hell), "when did you fall in love with me?"

"Do you remember when you had that huge freak out in our favorite conference room?"

"Which one?" he frowned.

"Well, that's true," her smile widened, "you've had a few. But I'm talking about the one when you went off at Carver and Deakins in nearly the same breath."

"Tyrone Cliff's case," he shook his head as he spoke.

"Yup."

"That got ugly fast," he mused.

"Yup. But your passion for fairness, your ability to channel your emotions when you needed to . . . at the time I remember it was the first time that I really 'got' you," Eames shivered slighty, "and with that, I understood that I didn't really want to 'get' anybody else."

"So yeah, that's when I knew that I loved you," she looked down, her finger tracing a pattern on the sheets, "but I still hadn't figured out how I was going to allow myself to act on it, or if I really wanted to act on it for that matter. At the time, all I only knew that I didn't want to act on it. Um, because then I'd have broken all the rules I'd made for myself after Joe died. But I've thought about it for a while."

"A short while back" Eames paused, "when we were going over the Bradley case at my place, when um, you tried to hang up those photos, you know and we were picking up the um, - "

He swallowed and placed his hand on her cheek to gently quiet her, (he knew what she was referring to, and he didn't want her to have to spell it out). I love you, Alex.

This was about the fact that he'd never brought it up since the words had flown out of his mouth, nor had she for that matter. And, why were those three words so goddamned hard to say?

"Eames, uh, Alex, I uh, no," his fingers began rubbing the side of his temple, the spot where a headache was threatening to take over, "it's ridiculous because I can't, uh, I can't place the moment when I, uh, you know, when I started thinking about you, uh, I-it's hard to uh, place, I, uh . . ."

She cocked her head to the side and smoothed the side of his whisker-ridden jaw, "did you mean it when you said it?"

Her eyes were the same eyes he'd fallen in love with, soft, brown, perfect. The creases in her forehead were only slightly turned downwards, while her nose, (also softer and rounder in her pregnant state), gently sloped upwards, her mouth a touch agape. He could have stared into her eyes forever, searching wildly for the right answer. There was a vulnerability in her face, her head still cocked to the side.

He didn't know what to say. This was his closest and best friend to date, and being that as it may, in his head and in his heart, he knew that he could only lay honesty before her. To give her anything less would be unconscionable.

But tonight as he looked into her pale brown eyes, he wanted to lie a little bit, anything to keep her in a serene state. After all, in her condition, Eames needed a stress-free environment. She needed someone that could be responsive to all her needs, at all times. For example, she needed someone who would put her needs above the rest, above work, above the fetus she was carrying. She needed someone who could say those three words to her – while understanding the implications of those three words. She needed someone who wasn't afraid of those three words.

And right now, Goren was terrified.