by Sara Ney
Great, now she’s pissed. But in my damn defense, she just told me she’s pregnant and I’m the father and what the hell kind of reaction was she hoping for?
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…
“I realize this was an awful way to tell you, but honestly, I’ve been trying to decide what to say for weeks and realized there was no good way to go about it. And for a while, I wasn’t going to tell you at all—I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to…” She hesitates. “Ruin your life.”
Ruin my life? Is she for real right now? “How would a baby ruin my life?”
“I’m not saying that’s how I feel right now, but when I found out, I wasn’t in my right mind. I felt very alone and didn’t know what to do, and you don’t even know me! How could I have done this to you?”
Done this to me? “We were both in that room having sex at the same time,” I point out, attempting to be humorous and failing kind of miserably.
She doesn’t crack a smile.
“Hey.” Now I’m the one comforting her, finger hooking beneath her chin so I can look her in the eye. “Hey. You have me now.”
Her chin begins to wobble a little, lip quivering.
She squeezes her eyes shut as tears well out the sides.
“I’m sorry, Mateo.”
My arms go around her as she leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest, hair tickling my nose.
“Don’t be sorry.”
I mean—it may be a shock and it may suck that this was sprung on me, but I’m certainly in no position to let her take any blame.
“Los bebés son una bendición,” I whisper. “Babies are a blessing.”
Yes, my mother is going to spaz out, probably lose her mind. But once the shock wears off and the dust settles, she’ll be planning the baby shower and buying clothes and knitting shit, like blankets and christening gowns and booties and whatever else she knits.
Baby Espinoza.
Wallace-Espinoza?
Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
“Can I see?” I ask softly, one part terrified, the other part insatiably curious—she’s got to be hiding a bump under that pretty pink shirt, and I would like to see it.
True lifts her head, wiping her nose on my shirt. “See what?”
“The bump.”
“Oh.” She sniffs. “Sure.”
I expect her to pull the shirt up so I can see her stomach, but instead she stands and walks the twenty feet to the living room, standing in front of the couch.
I follow.
Sit on the couch in front of her and wait.
“This feels so weird.”
“Tell me about it,” I deadpan.
She quiets me with a death glare. “Do you want to see it or not?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll behave.”
Sheesh, hormonal much? She went from crying to blushing to snapping at me in three seconds. Damn, girl.
True’s hands wander to the hem of her shirt, undoing the bottom few buttons, and I watch, transfixed as she pushes each pearly button through its hole.
One.
Two.
Three.
She’s wearing regular jeans—not the maternity kind—her bump already straining the stretch of the denim, smooth and cute and mine.
Mine.
My baby.
Wow.
“Say something,” she demands self-consciously, so I pull my eyes away, glancing up to look at her.
“Can I touch it?”
I heard somewhere you’re never supposed to put your hands on a pregnant woman’s stomach or they might cut you—or maybe one of my sisters said that because they’re mean.
“Yes.”
Both my palms reach forward, splayed out and flat on her tummy, thumbs roaming over her belly button. Her skin is pale compared to mine, smooth.
True has a birthmark off to the right side, a quarter-size spot staining her skin that I trace with my forefinger. I didn’t notice it when we got naked in the hotel room, but I’m noticing everything about her now.
She’s still as beautiful as I remember, even more so.
“How far along are you?”
“Far enough that I’ll be able to find out soon if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Do you?”
My head gives a shake. “Honestly, I don’t know—I’ll have to think about it. I just…” I take in a breath. “Let me think about it.”
“You’re right—I’m sorry.” She pauses. “Do you want to come to my next appointment?”
“Yes! Of course. Just let me know when it is.”
My attention goes back to her stomach, her round, emerging baby belly that brings me to my knees in front of it.
I kiss True’s bare belly, barely hearing her sharp intake of breath.
Feel her fingers raking through my hair, nails dragging along the back of my neck. I nuzzle her stomach, hands sliding across her hips to her ass, and squeeze, wanting to feel her close.
When I stand and kiss her, she lets me, rising up on the tips of her toes to meet my mouth, our tongues immediately touching, warm and hot and wet.
Muy caliente.
So hot.
Without thinking, I scoop her up, sweeping her off her feet, and carry her to the bedroom, not a single protest leaving her lips. Not when I set her on the carpet next to the bed, not when I start unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, not when I remove mine.
Her hands are on my chest, caressing my skin, fingers trailing to the zipper on my jeans.
She unbuttons them without asking, not needing to ask permission. Unzips hers while I step out of mine, the two of us down to our underwear and not one bit uncomfortable.
True crawls across the bed, laying her head on my pillow in only her bra and panties, looking like a goddamn angel.
I join her on the bed, hand seeking that new bump; she’s slightly shy and sexy as fuck, blushing again.
“Have your boobs gotten any bigger?” The question comes out of my mouth before I can think better of it, even though privacy flew out the window the second I shot my load into her and we fertilized an egg.
“A little.”
“Are they sensitive?”
“Not horribly so. Not yet, anyway.”
My hands wander north, palm grazing the lace of her bra, fingers toying with the trim, thumb stroking her nipple through the fabric. Her boobs are the perfect size for my giant palm and react to my touch when I slide a hand inside her bra.
We kiss again as I lavish attention on her body, gently caressing her soft skin as if I’m discovering it for the first time.
True Wallace is beautiful, and she’s going to be in my life forever, it seems.
“I think Hollis is pregnant, too.”
Say what now? Buzz’s wife?
“Can we not talk about him right now? You’ll kill my hard-on.”
For fuck’s sake, I never want to discuss her brothers in bed.
Ever.
Talk about a buzzkill.
“Your body is so beautiful right now,” I tell her, kissing her stomach again, hands running from her chest down to her thighs. Slowly, with purpose, she squirms on the bed.
My fingers pluck the elastic of her underwear—they’re lacy too, definitely not granny panties, which makes me question any premeditated banging on her part. Did she wear these because she knew she’d be getting naked? Was she hoping I’d get her naked?
Or does she just wear pretty underwear?
It doesn’t matter why; they’re sexy as hell, the waistband hitting below her small belly like a cradle.
Cute as fuck.
“I feel very…” True searches for the words as a hand rests on the back of my neck, fingers toying with my hair. “I feel like a woman. Does that sound weird?”
“No.” I kiss her bump. “It makes perfect sense.”
“And I’m really, really…”
I lift my head to look at he
r. “Really what?”
“Horny.”
This piques my interest in a big way. “Then let’s do something about that. I’ve been wanting to get between your legs since I met you.”
“You have gotten between my legs.” She gasps as I work my way down her body, spreading her thighs with my palms, settling between them. “Oh lord.”
Thirteen
True
I can’t believe I used the word horny.
Like—I said it out loud.
I hate that word. It makes me cringe, yet it’s the first word I blurt out when a man starts touching my boobs.
Pathetic.
Mateo does not seem to mind, care, or notice the blush on my face from my choice of words. Not while his own face is happily beginning its descent into the depths of my crotch.
His index finger is gently tugging the lace of my blue underwear; they’re ones I pulled out from the back of the drawer and dusted off, cobwebs blowing with each spin of the ceiling fan.
They haven’t seen the light of day since who knows when, but Mateo absolutely appreciates them tonight.
Thank God men are easy to please.
Pro tip: Guys actually do not care what you look like naked. They only care that you are, in fact, naked.
Regardless, I’m glad I decided to put a bit of effort into my undergarments—the Hanes cotton briefs I was wearing most of the day were threadbare and torn.
Mateo takes his time dragging them down my thighs, on a mission to make me insane. It’s slow—too slow—and I want to scream and boss him around and tell him where to put his mouth and how hard to suck.
UGH!
He’s toying with me. Whether unintentional or deliberate, this feels like a cat-and-mouse game I’m not sure I’m going to win.
See, the thing is—I love it when men go down on me, but I can never wait until I come before demanding they fuck me. I know, I know: if a man wants to pleasure me downtown, I should let him finish the job.
Obviously I’ve had my mouth on enough dicks that I’m familiar with getting an orgasm or two from someone else’s.
And yet—there’s always a point where I can’t take it anymore and all I want is for him to slide in. I anticipate that first moment he’s hovering above me, those seconds before the tip enters me.
Little by little then all at once.
That’s what I want.
That is the moment I’m living for right now.
If I could bottle up that feeling and stick it in my back pocket, I would—and I’d make a damn fortune because it’s better than a first kiss. Or the first time a guy runs his hand up your torso to slide his hand inside your bra.
Best. Anticipation. Ever.
I want it.
I want it.
Mateo’s tongue is driving me insane!
Teeth, just a baby bite.
Suck…
Yes, that’s it.
I writhe, undulating my hips on the mattress so he’s forced to use his palms on my inner thighs to keep them parted.
So maddeningly frustrating—why won’t he fuck me already!
Whoa, hormones—dial it down a notch.
I try to enjoy it, adjusting so I can balance myself on my elbows and get a better view of the action. His thick dark hair is shiny, head tilted down, nose nearly buried in my pussy along with his tongue.
The entire visual is quite intoxicating, and if I wasn’t in such a rush to get sexed, there is no doubt I could sit here all night and watch the show.
But I won’t.
I want what I want and I want it now.
My hands give him a gentle nudge, my brain hoping he takes the hint without me having to come right out and say the words.
He ignores me.
I nudge him again, this time with slightly more force. Push, push on the broad shoulders that lured me in the first time, the corded muscles giving me pause.
Damn he’s good-looking. I’m almost jealous of myself.
Tap-tap.
I’m beginning to feel rude, like I’m inconveniencing him with the demands I’m keeping inside my head.
Finally, he lifts his head, mouth covered in—
“What’s wrong. Do you want me to stop?”
Yes.
No.
“I want you to f-fuck me.” I swear, my nostrils are probably flaring, mind shouting, Stop talking and fuck me! This is not a tea freaking party, bro!
Welp, it’s official: I’m a monster, and not the cute cuddly kind.
The pregnant, hormonal, sex-crazed maniacal kind.
Mateo thinks it’s adorable. “You are so cute. Listen to yourself, begging me to bang you.”
“First of all,” I argue, “please stop using the word bang when you’re talking about banging me.” Wait—now I’m doing it. “Second of all…” He licks my swollen clit and I forget what I’m upset about. “Um…second of all…don’t call me…” I swallow. “Cute.”
“Sexy.” Lick. “Bold.” Lick. “Sassy.”
Lick.
He nips at the skin of my inner thigh and it startles me—in a good way.
This entire mood feels playful, and I love it.
L-O-V-E.
I push the thought and the word out of my mind—that word has no room in this bed!
“So, you want me to fuck you, eh?”
“Knock it off—stop teasing.”
“You weren’t this bossy the last time.” He sucks at the sensitive skin on my leg, a spot close to my pussy (which is a damn miracle because I haven’t waxed that area for fear that it’ll be excruciatingly painful).
Waxing while pregnant? I’ll have to google that—it sounds like a terrible idea.
“Just because I know what I want doesn’t make me bossy.”
“Why don’t you relax and let me take care of you?”
“Because!” I squirm some more, entering that territory where I’m kind of embarrassing myself but also not giving a shit.
“For shame,” he chastises. Then he mutters a few things in Spanish—sexy words I wish I could translate—as he relents, slowly crawling up the bed, over my body.
I feel his erection dragging between my legs. Touching my leg.
Yes, yes, YES.
“Guess we don’t have to worry about a condom,” he jokes, causing us both to laugh.
So funny.
My palm strokes his cheek, his head lowering at the same time so our mouths can meet.
The kiss is deep with lots of tongue. Passionate.
More passion than we shared the first night in that hotel room, so many weeks and weeks ago when we barely knew each other’s first name.
Now, we’re going to be parents, and that alone connects us.
I give in to the kiss, squeezing my eyes closed, every sensation heightened. The feel of his tongue, the weight of his body on top of me, the sounds we’re making.
The mattress dips.
The sheets rustle.
Our lips smack and suck.
Mateo moans.
I moan.
His hand sliding up my leg is a soft, gentle caress. I feel the thick bulge pressing into the valley between my legs; he’s resting there now though it’s wet and pulsing.
Waiting. Wanting.
Selfish and greedy, so unlike myself.
Apparently, my pussy is in charge of me the way a man’s dick is in charge of him, aka I am pregnant.
“You want it bad, huh?” He’s stroking my tummy now, beautiful mouth twisted into a grin, the tease.
I shrug. “Whatever, no big deal. We can stop now if you want to take naps.” I feign a yawn, my pussy dampening with fury.
For a brief moment, I see the tentativeness in his eyes. He’s thinking, Shit, what if she’s actually tired? I don’t want to beg this pregnant chick to have sex with me if she wants to take a damn nap.
He pulls back, calling my bluff. “Okay, we can stop.”
Oh my god, is he being serious right now?!
My hand clamps down on his
shoulder, dragging him back to where he belongs—about to push inside me.
“Just do it,” I whisper, hoping I sound seductive and not desperate.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Just…stick it in?”
“Yup, slide on home.”
So romantic. So matter-of-fact I want to laugh at the absurdity of my blunt honesty.
“Hey,” I add, “I made a baseball reference—aren’t you proud of me?”
“Slide home.” He laughs. “So proud of you. I’ll have to share a laugh about it with your brother around the dinner table sometime—he’ll love that joke.”
“Are you trying to kill my boner?”
He presses forward, the tip flirting with my slit. “Don’t say boner.”
I kiss the tip of his nose. “Boner.”
Mateo lowers his head a few inches, the hair along his forehead tickling the side of my neck.
He’s breathing hard now, taking deep steadying breaths, bracing one arm on either side of my head as if doing a plank.
I kiss his right bicep. Sniff it, wanting to inhale the smell of him, feeling some kind of way about how intimate this night has been. Huge. Monumental.
One part dreadful, one part wonderful.
Moments I will never get back and thankfully never want to.
For a night I didn’t plan, it’s gone surprisingly well—he didn’t kick me out. Didn’t curse me or call me names or leave. That did cross my mind—that he would storm out in a rage.
Not that he’s the type, but you really never know how a person is going to react to unexpected news.
Granted, he mostly pieced the puzzle together himself.
His dick is meant for me is the first thing that comes to mind when he’s all the way inside, a tight fit. Blessedly tight.
“Fuck you feel good. You’re so wet.”
In sex talk, that’s a compliment, and I preen under his appraisal, mentally patting myself on the back as I accept him into my body.
My hands glide along his rib cage, down his spine, over his ass.
Body like a mythical god, there is nothing about Mateo Espinoza that screams amateur—he needs his body for work and knows how to use it for sex, rolling his hips once he’s adjusted.
“Goddamn, you’re sexy.” His lips meet my shoulder, planting kisses there.
I feel sexy.
Being pregnant has only made me love and appreciate my own body more. My boobs, my ass, my legs.