Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hey, I was starting to worry.” I peer out the door of our second bedroom when I hear Lydia come in with Heartthrob. “Everything okay with the Pooches?”
The dog rushes to greet me, spinning in circles a couple times, then leaning against me while I rub his favorite spot on his back. Lydia sets down her things and comes toward us down the hall, looking fatigued.
“Yeah, it’s all good. I was just doing some more long-term planning with Henry.”
“Really?” I quirk an eyebrow. “Did you... tell him?”
“Oh. No,” she says quickly, one hand coming to her stomach. I’ve noticed she’s started wearing more layers the past week or so, but the weather has also gotten cooler. “It wasn’t about—it was other stuff.”
I pause, waiting for her to elaborate. She’s worked late more days than not recently. When she doesn’t say more, I let go of Heartthrob and take her hand, pulling her with me into the room. “Come in here. Tell me what you think?”
Her mouth drops open as she rounds the corner.
There isn’t really much to see yet, but it’s already dramatically different. I pulled the desks away from the walls and moved some things out to the garage. Then I took the few pieces of art off the dingy yellow walls and gave the whole room a coat of primer.
“You’ve been busy,” she says.
I grin. I waited a whole week after we first talked about it, but we’re so close to the second trimester. It seemed like I could at least paint. I indicate a selection of samples stuck to the wall by the light switch. ”This is just the base coat. We still need to pick colors. I was thinking maybe blues and grays, like these here. Unless you prefer a warmer palette?”
“Oh.” She turns in a circle, like she’s catching up to my vision. “Yeah, I guess we should probably decide...”
I indicate the three colors I’ve been leaning toward. “Charcoal Linen, White Dove, and Pike’s Peak Gray make a pretty neutral color palette, but what do you think?”
Lydia follows where I’m pointing, scanning the colors for a couple seconds. “Uh... you pick what you like.” She shrugs. “I’m good with anything.”
My heart sinks. She steps toward the door like she’s trying to retreat, but I place my hand on her arm. “Hey. I know I came on way too strong the last time we talked about this. It’s... well, it’s an adjustment for both of us. But I thought this might be fun to do together.” I gesture around the room. “ Just painting. We can hold off picking out furniture and...”
She fixes her eyes where my hand rests on her arm, and for a second I think she’s going to lean in, share the moment, let me fold her into my arms. But she steps away. “Sorry, it’s been a long day and I’m really tired. Maybe we could talk about it... later?”
I look around the room. Thirty minutes ago, it had been easy imagining a crib, changing table, maybe a rocking chair. Now I can’t manage to see anything but unpainted walls. I follow her into our bedroom, unable to channel my feelings into anything other than irritation.
“Later? So like, maybe when the baby arrives?”
She slumps to the bed, falling back against the pillows, and my eyes inevitably land on her stomach, searching the contours of her oversized gray hoodie for any outward sign of what’s to come. Does she look a little rounder, or is that just her clothes ?
“Anton, it’s still not even the second trimester. Do we need to talk about this now?”
“You’re eleven weeks,” I say stiffly.
“Which means there’s twenty-nine more weeks to plan,” she says, though it seems like her voice wavers on the number.
I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath. “It just seems like we should be able to find something we could focus on. Celebrate. Together.”
“Sure,” she says, sounding annoyed herself now. “We can do that. How about we celebrate... let’s see, I think I got through my first whole day without feeling like I wanted to barf.”
I frown, a low ache spreading in my chest as she sits up and unzips her hoodie. I knew Lydia and I were on different wavelengths when I first suggested having a baby, but I was sure, at some point, it would help bring us together.
She glances at my face and sighs as she pulls her arms free of her sleeves. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, Anton. It’s been a long week.”
I sink to the bed beside her, recalling what she said the other day about not being able to escape pregnancy. Then I do my best to set paint colors and trimesters aside in my mind. “It’s okay. How are you feeling?”
She winces slightly at my question, then trails her eyes over me with a strange expression. “I don’t know, honestly. Different... weird.”
“How so?”
She slips out of her shoes and socks. “I really have been feeling better. Not as nauseous or gross. But there are other things... changes.” Her eyes trace over me in an unfamiliar way, and I swear she runs her tongue over her lips. The air thickens between us.
Then she tears her gaze away and rises from the bed.
I furrow my brow, looking her over, searching for some clue about what she means. But then she starts tugging at her next layer of clothing.
“You know, I could really use a shower. That might help a lot.”
I open my mouth to ask what she wants for dinner, not wanting to lose sight of the nutrition she needs, but the words die on my tongue as she pulls her shirt over her head.
The last week or so, I have been eyeing Lydia’s midsection, watching for any sign of a bump. Something I could see and touch, that might make this all feel more real. For both of us. But her stomach has stayed maddeningly flat. And since she hasn’t been feeling well, I’ve been trying to give her space. The last time I saw her fully undressed was two weeks ago, the night things went sideways after her orgasm. But suddenly, there is something noticeably different about her body.
“What?” she asks, noticing my stare.
“Uh, nothing.” I swallow, shifting as my dick stirs in my jeans. “Did you um—did you get a new bra?”
She glances down and exhales. Then spends a minute trying to rearrange and tuck herself in. It doesn’t work. The cups are clearly way over capacity.
“Here. Let me help you with that.” My voice comes out husky and she pauses, eyes darkening as I approach. Which is... new. I slip my arms around her, fumbling for a stupid number of seconds with the tiny metal clasps. But all at once they come apart, and her breasts spring free like they were just bursting to be released, both nipples already fully erect. “God, Lydia.” I swallow hard. My wife has always had beautiful curves. Her breasts are, hands down, my favorite part of her body. But they must have grown at least two sizes since the last time I saw them, and with the rest of her unchanged, she looks... nearly pornographic.
She blushes beautifully under my gaze, and I sink to my knees, forgetting whatever else we were talking about. I’m a man worshipping at the temple of his wife’s impossibly pregnant tits. Somewhere in the cerebral part of my mind, I knew this would happen eventually. Lots of things about her body will change. But my more primal brain was completely caught off guard. I reach out with both hands, dying to squeeze them, take them into my mouth, but I pause, glancing at her face.
“Can I . . . ?”
Her eyelids flutter, and she wraps her arms around herself, pressing the pale globes together until my mouth is bone dry. Her voice comes out needy. “I uh... I wish you would.”
I look up in surprise. I’ve worked hard to cultivate my wife’s sexual desire recently. It has never come easily, but once I learned it could be teased out, that she would come around and return my touch after she was aroused, things became more straightforward. However, I can’t remember it ever happening on its own.
Almost like sex had been on her mind before this moment.
As we each draw our next breaths, I take her tits by the handful. Squeeze them lightly together, gauging with a near-painful shot to my dick, how much more they fill and spill out of my hands now. I run my tongue between them, then trace lightly over her skin, circling one very erect nipple.
She groans, pressing her thighs lightly together.
“Is this okay?” I ask, just to be sure. Because I want to trust what I see and feel, but because of our history, I’m also scared.
“Yes,” she says, with a faint but undeniable hint of... lust.
I look at her face, considering. “Is this what you meant when you said you feel ‘different’?”
“I—yes.” She blushes deeper, her voice reedy. “It’s actually been kind of distracting.”
Oh. God.
“I want to know more.” I blow gently across her nipple before pulling it into my mouth.
“ Oh, ” she murmurs, and with that my cock is fully hard, pressing uncomfortably against the inside of my jeans. “I—all day, I’ve been feeling kind of?—”
She breaks off, and I recognize the reluctance in her voice. The hushed, chaste tone she always uses when we talk about sex.
I pull back, releasing her taut nipple with a pop, staring up at her as she gasps. “Lydia?” I ask, desperate for verbal confirmation. To assure myself this is not just happening in my head. “Have you been at work all day... wanting to be fucked?”
Electricity bolts through me as her face turns a deep, dark red.
“ No ,” she says primly. “That’s not what I?—”
I take her other nipple into my mouth, and she doesn’t finish her sentence. “That’s a long day,” I say once I let go, running my fingers between her legs. She’s in a thin pair of leggings, and when I brush along her crotch, I’m pretty sure both our eyes widen. “ Lydia . You’re so wet for me. ”
Her thighs clench hard in response, clamping down and trapping my hand. So I go with it, pressing my palm into the soaked fabric against her pussy. In seven years of marriage, I have never seen my wife actually... horny . She tears my shirt over my head, carnal urge flowing off her in waves, and it seems obvious there’s only one thing to do.
Her thighs release, and I move to her waistband, sliding her leggings down. When she’s fully naked, standing before me flushed and wanting, I place a kiss below her navel.
But as I pull back, staring at the part of her body where everything is centered, I pause. And it’s like someone dumps a bucket of cold water on my head.
“ Fuck. ”
I pull back, stumbling away from her, running into the bed. Uncertainty seeps back into her posture, and she tries to cover herself with her arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—we can’t,” I say, biting into my lip, my cock hard, my balls so tight, I have to breathe through the pain of doing nothing about it.
“But I want to,” she says firmly, taking a step toward me, reaching up to squeeze her own tits like she needs it. And now I know what it’s like to be the butt of a joke to the universe.
“Fuck, Lydia, I do too,” I growl, eyes fixed on the floor. “I want nothing more than to toss you on the bed and fuck you senseless. But the nurse said?—”
“She said it was fine,” she says in a strained voice. “But ‘if we wanted to be cautious,’ we could wait till after twelve weeks.”
“It’s only one more week,” I say through my teeth.
“It’s only one more week,” she parrots back to me. “Anton, look at me. I... I need you.”
By some sheer force of will, I stumble to my feet and over to the back of the door. Her robe is hanging there, and I thrust it at her, pleading. “What happened last time—it was terrifying,” I say, and the memory of her doubled over in pain is like an icy shroud to my dick. “Lydia, we’re close. I promise, as soon as the doctor gives us the all clear... ”
I risk a glance at her. She hasn’t put the robe on, but she’s holding it in front of her, thank God.
“As soon as she does, what?” she asks, voice stilted. And then a look of utter devastation passes over her face. “Oh... God.” Her lip trembles. She peeks down at her body before covering herself more. “Am I unattractive to you now?”
“ What? ” If there was anything I expected her to say, that wasn’t it. I rip the robe out of her hands, the sight of her gorgeous , rounded body hardening my cock again instantly. I unfasten my jeans and take her hand, shoving it between my pants and underwear so she can feel for herself. “Lydia, you’re so fucking attractive I wish it was possible to knock you up again. I am dying, I want you so badly.”
Her mouth is open, and for a moment I let myself fantasize about those pretty lips wrapped around my throbbing cock. But then my memory floods with the sound of our baby’s heartbeat. That regular, rushing surge that filled my ears—filled something else deep inside me.
She bites her lip, eyes dark. “Then, if you won’t...” She looks down, blushing, then squeezes her hand around my dick. “Let me help you .”
It takes several moments for my brain to catch up with what she’s suggesting. To emphasize her point, she steps back and lifts her heavy breasts in each hand like she’s presenting them to me.
“You said you want to come on my... tits,” she says. And fuck, just that word coming reluctantly out of her mouth is nearly enough to make me lose it in my pants. This topic came up between us on the Unmatched app, back when she catfished me into thinking she was another woman. And she’s right. Fucking her tits till I come all over them is on my lust-list. Things I want—can’t wait—to do to her. But we’ve been so focused on tuning in to her body, learning what she needs, we just haven’t tried it yet.
I am nearly dizzy, watching her press those beautiful pale globes together, imagining my cock between them, and?—
“Fuck,” I say, shutting my eyes. “Yes... I do.” Slowly, I reach out, tweaking each of her nipples until we both gasp. “But that wouldn’t be fair. ”
I retrieve her robe from the floor, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead when her face falls.
“Lydia. If I’m going to come on”—I swallow—“those glorious tits, it will only be after I make you come so hard you sing.”