by Tara West
Gio gapes at the celery and shoves it back down. "I was saving it for later," he says as he averts his gaze.
I roll my eyes as I hold out my hand. "Give me the celery."
Gio pulls the stalk out of his pocket, and that's when I notice a bulge in the front of his pants. I impatiently wag my fingers. "All of them."
If his lip hung any lower, it would hit the floor. "Do I have to eat them?" He pulls out three more celery sticks and places them in my hand.
"No." I laugh. "I'm not going to make you eat underwear food. Go throw them in the garbage and wash your hands."
Gio marches toward the downstairs bathroom, his feet stomping loudly across the wood floor.
I arch a brow at my suspiciously quiet youngest brother. "You, too, Manny."
He shields his butt with his hands and takes a step back. "I don't have no celery."
I pull my feet out of Andrés's grip and stand up. Andrés doesn't say a word. He's been too preoccupied with work to pay any attention to us.
I take a step toward my brother, who takes another step back, but not before I get a good look at the bulge extending from his butt. "So are you growing a tail, then?"
He flashes the most adorable, sheepish grin, and my heart sighs. These boys really know how to work me over.
I point a finger at him and do my best to keep a straight face. "Just because your brother does something naughty, doesn't mean you need to do it, too."
Manny solemnly nods before hobbling toward the bathroom like his shoes are ten sizes too big. I look over at Andrés, who has finally set down his phone. "That celery must be wedged up there pretty high." I laugh.
He folds his arm behind his head, smirking. "Welcome to parenthood, mija."
I arch my neck back, looking at him through slitted eyes. "Our kid's not going to be like that."
Andrés's smirk turns into all-out laughter. "You think underwear celery is bad, you haven't seen nothing." He lifts the front of his thick, wavy hair and points to a small scar at the base of his temple. Then he holds out his right hand and taps the scar running down his thumb. Finally, he cranes his neck, showing me the little nick on his beautiful bronze skin.
"These are from my cousins," he says with a knowing look in his dark eyes. "Rusty screwdriver, sharp pencil, and broken glass."
My hands fly to my mouth. "Shit, Andrés!" Why would kids do that to each other?"
"Don't worry." He flashes a mischievous grin. "They've got bigger scars."
I slowly sit back down on the sofa as I gape at the scar on his hand. It's the worst of the three, raised and jagged. I wonder if it was caused by the screwdriver, pencil, or glass. Either way, it had to have hurt. I don't know why I'd never asked him. I assumed he'd gotten his scars during his tours in Afghanistan.
A sinking feeling twists a knot in my stomach. After this baby, Andrés will probably want more. In fact, I know he will. He's always said he wanted a big family. I hope our kids don't turn out like Andrés and his cousins. I don't think I could handle them.
"I hope we have a girl," I say through a shaky breath.
Andrés snickers while turning over his hand. "My cousin Marie gave me this one."
My stomach sours, and my chest tightens, and I try my best to keep my expression impassive. I don't want Andrés to see me on the verge of a meltdown, because I'm not ready to have a baby.
***
After playing all day with my brothers, I'm exhausted by the time we get home that night, although I shouldn't be, considering I slept most of the way. We were supposed to drive to his aunt and uncle's house tonight and tell them about the wedding, but we've decided to hold off until Christmas Eve in two more days. I can tell Andrés is tired by the slump of his shoulders, and I wonder how well he slept on that couch. Andrés helps me out of the car and refuses to let go of my elbow until I'm lying on the sofa.
Even though my head feels fuzzy, it's not nearly as bad as it was this morning. When I see Andrés come inside with our bags, I rise on shaky legs. I need to help him unpack.
He comes over to the sofa and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Relax , mija. Those bags can wait until tomorrow. I'll make you a virgin sangria."
I reach for him before he can turn away. "I don't want anything to drink. I want you." I nuzzle his hand, kissing his palms and the tips of his fingers.
Andrés responds with a groan and then he sits on the sofa, pulling me into his lap.
I sigh into his warm embrace. "I love it when you hold me."
His lips linger on my forehead. "I love holding you."
I run my fingers through his thick hair. I pull his head down to mine until our mouths are nearly touching. "Then sleep with me tonight."
Andrés pushes me back with a hand on my collarbone. The softness in his gaze is gone, replaced by a look as hard as granite. "I'm not arguing with you on this. I'm not hurting you again."
I don't know why, but my throat constricts, and my eyes water. I swear my hormones turn me into a crying baby for the stupidest reasons. I'm not normally so weepy, and I can't stand myself for it, which, unfortunately, makes me even sadder.
"Don't cry, mija." Andrés strokes the side of my face with the tips of his fingers. "Please don't do this."
I want to tell him I can't help it, that my body is changing, and I have no control over these unruly pregnancy outbursts. But at the feeling of his heated skin on mine, desire shifts my body in the opposite direction, and I feel like a ship being tossed about in a hormonal storm.
Damn. I'm turned on, and there's nothing I can do about it now. I come up on my knees and lower myself onto him, straddling his waist as he wraps his hands around my hips. I reach between us, stroking my hand up the length of his erection. Just the feel of his desire causes the moisture to pool between my legs.
Licking my lips, I look into his smoky gaze. "Will you still make love to me?"
He responds by grabbing my hair by the roots and pulling my lips down on his. I sigh into him as his tongue delves deep into my mouth, thrusting, teasing, torturing.
His hands are underneath my shirt and then beneath my bra. He squeezes my breasts and pinches my nipples so hard they burn. I don't know whether I should push him away or beg him for more.
Chests heaving, we pull away from each other. One look in his smoldering eyes, and I know he's as aroused as I am. The currents of desire that shoot through me are more powerful than anything I've ever felt before. I briefly wonder if my lust is another side effect of pregnancy, but I'm too damn horny to care.
We can't get each other naked fast enough. I'm pulling down his jeans and he's ripping off my shirt like our clothes are on fire. I kick the rest of our discarded clothes to the floor and wrap my hand around his magnificent erection as it springs from his underwear. Then his mouth is on my bare breasts, suckling one nipple, then swirling his tongue around the other. I clench his hair while he continues to trace kisses downward. His mouth lingers on my abdomen, and he strokes and kisses it with such tenderness, I nearly weep all over again.
Whatever fear I have about him not wanting this baby melts away as he pulls me into his embrace and carries me to the bedroom.
He lies down on the bed and I straddle his face. He drives his tongue into me until I think I may explode in his mouth. My juncture is dripping wet and thrumming with need, the need to feel Andrés inside of me. I pull away from his torturous tongue and climb down his body, wasting no time sliding onto him.
I ride up and down his slick erection while panting into his mouth. I'm not slow. I'm not gentle. I know I'll be sore tomorrow, but I don't care. He begs me to stop, but I fear I may die if I don't continue. He cries out, and then his shaft pulses inside me like a heartbeat, unraveling my remaining threads of resistance. I give into the euphoric waves and fall limp against his chest as the orgasm consumes me, sending vibrations arcing from my core all the way to the tips of my toes.
I let out a startled cry as Andrés flips me over and latches onto my neck with his teeth. He dr
ives into me, hard, ramming against my swollen center. A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead and onto my cheek as he lifts my leg over his shoulder. I lift the other leg and cry out as he buries his entire length inside me. The pressure from his thick head pounding against my aching channel is enough to make me come undone again, and again.
We make love with abandon well into the night. His kisses burn, his touch ignites, and his long, hard cock driving into me enflames. I never knew playing with fire could feel so good.
I'm vaguely aware of Andrés washing between my legs before fatigue overwhelms me. I want badly to beg him to sleep with me tonight, but I'm so tired, keeping my eyes open is too much of a struggle, and I can't even form the words to speak.
He whispers goodnight into my ear, and his lips brush my temple. My heart aches when I feel his weight lift from the bed. I know he wants to keep me safe, but my last coherent thought before I surrender to fatigue is that sleeping in separate rooms is no way to start off a marriage.
Chapter Seven
Christina
I wake up to the smell of frying bacon. At least I think it's bacon. Whatever it is, it's got a pungent undertone. I hope the bacon isn't rotten. That's the last thing I need to eat right now. I sit up and instantly regret it. I might have moved too fast because the room tilts to one side.
Shit. Not this again.
I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to subside. Luckily, the room is back to normal when I open my eyes, but I still feel kind of queasy. I heave myself out of bed and groan as pain lances up my side.
Damn bruise. When is it going to stop hurting?
A thick fog settles over my brain, and it takes a few moments for me to remember I have to get ready for work. Ugh. Work. I've got three motorcycles and a flower delivery truck waiting on me at the shop. I wish I could turn them over to the new artist, but these customers specifically requested me. Honestly, the way I'm feeling right now, all I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep the rest of the day.
My senses perk up at the smell of freshly brewed coffee, so I take a quick shower, slip on my work jeans and T-shirt and trudge toward the kitchen.
Andrés is laying out food on the table, so I come up behind him, snake my arms around his waist, lean up and kiss him on the back of the neck. I soak up his warmth and savor the feel of him. My bed was cold and lonely without him. I wish he didn't have to sleep on the sofa. I'm almost afraid to ask him if he had another nightmare last night, but I need to know. I thought about little else while I was getting ready. The thought of Andrés suffering through this weighs heavily on me.
"Did you have any bad dreams last night?" The question comes out on a strained breath.
Andrés turns around and shakes his head. "No."
Relief washes over me. I know it's probably too soon to insist he come back to bed, but at least this is a good sign. Maybe the dream was just a result of the shock of finding out he's going to be a father. Maybe now that the shock has worn off, he won't have any more nightmares. Hopefully.
He clasps my hands in his, looking down at me with a scowl. "Where do you think you're going?"
I force a smile. "I'm better, Andrés." It's not a total lie. Even though I still have slight morning sickness.
He arches a brow, eyeing me with a smirk. "Do you think I'm going to let you work around paint fumes?"
"I'll stop if I feel sick." I walk to the counter, so he doesn't see I don't feel well right now. I belch into my fist. Yuk. It tastes like vomit. I grab my cup of coffee off the counter and take a sip. Mmmm. Hazelnut. The warm, sweet liquid masks the nasty taste in my mouth and soothes my parched throat.
"And what about the baby? Those fumes aren't good for our child."
I turn on my heel, nearly spilling coffee down my shirt in the process. The room tilts, and I lean one hand against the counter for support and then close my eyes. Okay, note to self: no sudden movements while pregnant.
"Mija, you can't paint cars anymore."
My eyes fly open. "But you need me." Even as I'm mentally berating myself for the emotion that slips into my voice, I realize he's right. Shit. The paint fumes. I had forgotten all about that. I recall all of the warning labels on the paint cans, something about "do not inhale" and "toxic to the developing fetus."
Hopelessness washes over me as I slouch against the counter. I feel so bad letting him down. I know the new artists aren't dependable.
My eyes water, and I can't help the tears that spill over.
What the fuck, hormones? Leave me alone already!
Andrés comes up to me and wipes my tears with the pad of his thumb. I read the pity in his soft gaze.
This sucks.
"What am I supposed to do all day?" I ask through a sniffle.
"You've got a lot to do, mija. Start with calling your doctor."
I check the microwave clock. It's already seven-thirty. Her office should be taking appointments in a half hour. Doctor Brewer has been my GYN for the past three years. She's the only doctor I trust. Unfortunately, she's also in high demand. I'll be lucky if I can see her this week.
Andrés motions to the spread on the kitchen table. "I made you breakfast."
He leads me by the elbow to the table and pulls out a seat. After I sit down, he puts my coffee and plate in front of me.
I narrow my gaze at the meat strips that look more like processed cardboard than bacon. It doesn't smell like bacon, either. I fan my nose and push the plate away. Whatever this crap is, I think it's gone sour.
"What is that?"
"Turkey bacon. This is a healthy breakfast." Andrés picks up a strip and takes a bite. "Mmmm." He frowns, and I can tell he wants to spit it out, but then he chases it down with a large swallow of coffee. He's so not fooling me.
I scowl down at the little plastic cup of pink goo by my napkin. Yogurt. Ugh. What happened to eggs and pico de gallo? Surely chicken protein and vegetables isn't unhealthy. "I don't like yogurt," I say as I push the cup toward Andrés.
He picks it up and sets it back down in front of me. Then he sprinkles some brown crap that looks like granola on top of it.
"It's got calcium, mija. Our baby needs it." He bats his thick lashes and looks at me with sad, dark eyes.
Damn. I know I can't refuse him.
I sigh as I pick up a spoon. I wonder if Andrés realizes how much sugar is in this crap. I try not to concentrate on the taste of strawberry and cinnamon overload as I swallow a spoonful and wash it back with a gulp of coffee.
"Easy on the coffee," he says. "You only get one cup a day."
I clench the handle while eyeing him over the rim of the cup. Sadly, it doesn't look like he's kidding.
One cup! How will I have enough energy to get through the day? I'll be napping by noon.
Oh, well. I heave a sigh as I sink into my chair. I don't have a job at the moment, so I guess I'm free to take a nap. I stifle a yawn as this feeling of fatigue washes over me. Why did I even bother getting out of bed?
Andrés is already tapping on his phone. His workday has officially begun. He'll be texting and emailing his assistant managers the rest of the day and even during dinner.
I mentally make a list of things I can do. I don't have any wedding planning until I hear back from my mom. I guess maybe I can paint at home. I've got a few blank canvases, and I've been dying to paint portraits of my brothers.
I groan when I think about what's in those paints. Unless I get the cheap, kiddy finger crap, I doubt I'll be doing any painting for a while.
I sink even lower in my seat as I absently swallow a spoonful of the yogurt granola crap.
That's when it hits me. My life isn't mine anymore.
***
Looks like I don't have time for that nap after all. After calling my doctor's office and finding out she can't see me for another two weeks, I was contemplating going back to bed. I was feeling so exhausted after only one cup of coffee, I had to drag myself out of the house when my mom called. She's already hired a wed
ding planner, and we're meeting at a posh lakefront restaurant.
I search for a decent country song on the radio, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, hoping I'm not late. I can't see what's causing the delay because there's a garbage truck ahead of me. I've got the heater turned off and the windows rolled up, but it still doesn't help to mask the smell which permeates the car. It's so strong, I'm fighting the urge to open my door and vomit all over the freeway.
This truck is a metaphor for my life: I'm just trying to get ahead, but there's always this big pile of shit blocking my path.
I pop a stick of gum in my mouth, hoping the smell of spearmint will overpower the truck's fumes. I tap out an erratic staccato on my steering wheel, before fidgeting with the buttons on my shirt and then checking my reflection in the mirror. My nose isn't so big and red, anymore. My sinus infection is finally clearing up. Remarkably, I actually look pretty today. Though my pregnancy hormones are sabotaging my psyche, they're doing wonders for my skin. My cheeks have a natural glow and my eyes are greener than ever. Even my hair has a healthy sheen, and I didn't use any product.
I only wish I felt as confident as I look. I have to admit I'm kind of nervous about meeting this planner. My mom has been a steamroller, crushing all my wedding ideas. I can only imagine what two of them will do to my wedding. All I want is a small reception at Tio's ranch, where we eat tamales and cake and dance to a Tejano/country band. Instead, I'll be wearing some cotton candy fluff-ball, eating shrimp pastries and sipping champagne. No, not champagne. Damn. Ginger ale.
I get the feeling my wedding won't be fun at all, which sucks because Andrés is right. This is my special day, not my mom's. Even though I don't want to disappoint her, I come to a decision while I breathe in garbage fumes. I love her, but there is no way I'm letting her take my wedding from me. I'll listen to what my mom and this planner have to say, and then if I disagree, I'll let them know I want my wedding done my way. End of discussion.
I've been brow-beaten my whole life, first by my emotionally abusive adoptive mother and then by my ex-fiancé. I refuse to be bossed around on the most special day of my life. I just hope my mom can forgive me.