Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Hailey
How to Fight Yourself and Win
If I were to list all the things I expected from life, pregnancy wouldn’t even be on the page. Not in the top ten. Not in the honorable mentions. Not scrawled in tiny letters in the margins. And yet, here I am, lying on Leif’s absurdly comfortable couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the fact that my body—without my explicit permission, mind you—is manufacturing a person.
A person. With organs and limbs and, presumably, opinions.
The thing about pregnancy that no one talks about? The discomfort.
I’ve spent the last twenty minutes shifting, stretching, sighing dramatically—anything to stop the ache creeping up my spine like an unwelcome houseguest who refuses to take a hint. But it lingers, stubborn and unrelenting, the human equivalent of an overplayed song I can’t escape.
I already messaged my doctor, who, in a very calm and completely infuriating manner, assured me that this is normal. Something about Braxton something and my body getting ready. I stopped reading after normal because, respectfully, nothing about this is normal.
My life before this involved impromptu flights, interviews with people who survived actual war zones, and eating cold takeout at a hotel desk while editing footage at two in the morning. My life now involves fruit comparisons— your baby is the size of a kiwi —and suspicious pains that make me question my mortality.
Leif notices. Because of course he does.
“Okay, you’ve been sighing and fidgeting like an overtired toddler for the last half hour,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside me. His knee brushes mine, and I pretend I don’t notice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, lifting my arm and studying the ceiling as if I’m searching for answers in the drywall.
Leif snorts. “And is existence treating you badly tonight?”
I open my mouth to answer, but right as I shift again—oh. Oh. There it is. A deep, insistent tug just above my lower back, the kind that makes me go still, fingers curling slightly like I can grasp onto something solid. My lips press together, face carefully schooled into neutrality, but Leif? Leif is a human lie detector with way too much time on his hands.
His gaze drops, sharp but unreadable. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“Nope.”
“Hailey.”
“Leif.”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “Are those the famous Braxton Hicks?”
“How do you even know about that?”
Leif leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching me with the kind of infuriating patience that tells me he already knows he’s right.
“Reading material that I’m assuming you’ve been ignoring.”
“Well, you’re so good at giving me the summary that I figured?—”
“Really, that’s your excuse?” He gives me a look. The look. The one that means try again, Hailey. The one that makes me want to say something so wildly off-topic that he forgets whatever we were talking about.
I cross my arms and look at him, so sure of myself when I respond, “Not an excuse. It’s a strategy. Instead of cramming all the horrifying facts into my brain at once and then spending weeks spiraling, I learn as I go. Saves me from my own anxiety.” I pause, then add with exaggerated generosity, “Which, in turn, saves you from my anxiety. You’re welcome.”
“Well, look at you being so nice to me,” he deadpans, but his mouth quirks at the corner like he’s fighting a grin. “Since I’m your self-appointed pregnancy encyclopedia, would you like to know what happens at thirteen weeks? I mean, three more days and you’re at fourteen, so you might as well get all the information for both now.”
I groan and throw my head back against the cushion. “Is it worse than random backaches and nausea that ambushes me when I so much as think about certain foods?”
Leif tilts his head, faux-considering. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Your definition of worse.”
I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “Just rip off the Band-Aid, Crawford.”
He doesn’t even try to hide his grin this time. “Your blood volume is increasing, which means your heart is working harder. Your baby is forming vocal cords, though it probably won’t be screaming at you for another six months. Oh, and—” He clears his throat, all faux-casual. “Your libido is about to skyrocket.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He nods, completely unbothered. “Yup. Increased blood flow, hormone shifts, all that. Lots of women get, you know, extra—” He waves his hand, searching for the right word. “—interested around now.”
I stare at him. “Tell me you did not just casually say I’m entering my horny trimester like it’s the weather forecast.”
Leif shrugs. “Just making sure you’re prepared.”
I cover my face with my hands. “God. I hate this.”
He nudges my knee with his. “You’re welcome for the educational moment.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “Please, stop reading pregnancy books.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, far too pleased with himself. “I’m your walking, talking, completely unbiased source of information. Aren’t you lucky?”
“Oh, yeah, so lucky,” I mutter, shifting on the couch again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my back hate me.
Leif watches me for a beat before he exhales through his nose and stands. “C’mon.”
I frown. “Where are we going?”
“You know where.”
Leif reaches for my legs, tugging them gently until they’re stretched out on the couch. Then he crouches beside me, his warm palms grazing my calves before his thumbs press into the tightest parts of my muscles.
I make a noise—something between a groan and a sigh, the kind of sound that should probably be reserved for much more private situations.
“No, I don’t know where,” I mumble as I melt into the cushions. “Are you taking me to an all-male strip club to see how I react? If my libido is at an all-time high?”
He snorts. “Not a bad idea. But no. I’ll leave that for next weekend—might even invite a friend or two.”
I crack one eye open. “You’re all heart.”
“Always.” His smirk lingers before he stands and reaches for my hands. “Come on. We’re going upstairs.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where exactly upstairs?”
“My room. I’m going to give you a proper massage and then put an infrared therapy pad on your lower back for a few minutes.”
I blink. “That’s suspiciously considerate of you.”
“Shocking, I know.” He pulls me to my feet like I don’t weigh a thing, then starts leading me toward the stairs.
I hesitate. “Wait. Isn’t that dangerous for the baby?”
“Not if I’m putting it on your lower back and low-level laser therapy is known to have no risk to the mother or baby during pregnancy. In fact, it reduces the chances of late-onset preeclampsia.” His tone is patient, like he’s already researched this. Which, knowing Leif, he probably has and bought the pad for me.
We head upstairs, and I’m prepared for his room to be . . . well, Leif-ish. Functional, neat, maybe a little impersonal. But when he pushes open the door, I stop short. It’s massive. Practically an entire apartment within this penthouse. But instead of feeling cavernous, it’s cozy. The bed is ridiculously oversized, a comforter so plush it looks like a cloud. Anyone could get lost just by throwing themselves onto it. There’s a sleek sitting area with a leather armchair and a bookshelf lined with—oh my God. Pregnancy books?
I arch an eyebrow at him. “So when did you become this guy?”
“What guy?” He heads toward the nightstand, pulling out a bottle of oil like this is a normal, everyday occurrence.
“The I-read-pregnancy-books-for-fun guy. The let-me-give-you-a-massage guy. The I-have-a-bed-that-probably-costs-more-than-my-rent guy.”
He doesn’t even look up. “When my best friend became pregnant.”
This isn’t good. He’s infuriatingly nice and at this rate I’m going to fall madly in love with him and . . . I can’t handle that many changes in my life. One at a time. I glance at the bed, then back at him. “I should take this room since there are two of us now. Technically.”
Leif smirks. “Tempting, but I’m afraid you’d never leave.”
I flop down onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “You’re not wrong. This is unreal. How is it this soft? This is what clouds want to feel like.”
“Glad you approve.” He moves to stand beside the bed, watching me expectantly. “Now, roll onto your stomach.”
I blink up at him. “You do realize I’m pregnant, right?”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t even have a bump, Hailey. You’ll be fine.”
I consider arguing, but honestly? He’s offering me a massage. I’d be an idiot to refuse. I shift onto my stomach, adjusting until the pillow props me up comfortably. I pull up my shirt so he can have access to it. Then his hands land on my back, and—oh.
Oh.
I bite my lip as his palms move along my spine, the heat of them melting into me, his fingers pressing slow, deliberate strokes along the places where tension has taken up permanent residence. His thumbs dig into the knots near my lower back, working through the stiffness with a patience that has me exhaling into the mattress.
I make a noise I don’t entirely recognize—soft, breathy, completely beyond my control.
Leif chuckles. “That good?”
I want to be annoyed, but I can’t even find the energy. My limbs feel boneless. “I hate how good you are at this.”
“Don’t lie. You love it.”
He’s not wrong.
His hands move higher, fingers kneading along my spine, then easing up toward my shoulders. He presses in, thumbs sinking into the tightest parts of me, and I swear I feel it everywhere. Like a slow-burning warmth uncoiling deep in my stomach, humming low in my bloodstream.
I let out another sound—longer this time, dangerously close to a moan.
Leif stills.
I freeze.
Not because I don’t want this. Definitely not that. But because it’s been years since anyone has touched me like this. Not in passing. Not in a way that felt obligatory or fleeting or careless. But in a way that makes my skin hum, makes me sink deeper, makes me?—
His hands move again, just slightly, like he’s testing something. Testing me.
I swallow. “You should?—”
His fingers press, dragging over my shoulder blades, working at the tension there, and whatever I was about to say dies in my throat.
Because it’s not fine.
Not at all.
His touch is firm, the heat of his hands sinking into my skin, undoing knots I didn’t even realize were there. Each slow drag of his thumbs sends a ripple of warmth down my spine, pooling low in my belly, thick and insistent. My breath catches, my nipples tightening in response to the steady pressure of his hands.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Shouldn’t be reacting like this.
But my shirt is off. No bra. His hands are so damn close. If he just shifted a little lower, if his palms brushed my sides, if his thumbs traced down my ribs, he’d find out exactly how hard my body is betraying me.
I squeeze my thighs together, but it does nothing to ease the pulse between them.
Stupid libido. Stupid body. Stupid, stupid need.
I want to sink into it, let him push me forward, press me into the bed, let his hands slide under me, cup my breasts, knead them with the same firm intent he’s using on my shoulders. I want him to grip my hips, pull me against him, let me feel how much he wants this too. My skin is hot, tight, and I know if I let this continue, I won’t be able to stop myself.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
I push up suddenly, mumbling something incoherent as I grab my shirt and all but flee to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. My hands tremble as I press my forehead against the wood, eyes squeezing shut.
I need relief.
My fingers trail down my stomach, dipping into the waistband of my shorts before I stop myself. No. Not here. Not with him in the next room.
I whirl around, heading straight for my nightstand.
My vibrator is right where I left it, and I grab it with shaking fingers, sinking onto my bed. My mind betrays me instantly, conjuring the image of his hands on me instead, those strong, capable fingers pinching my nipples, rolling them between his calloused fingertips, teasing, tugging. My back arches, my legs spread, and I let out a shaky breath as I press the toy between my thighs, imagining it’s his mouth instead, hot and open, kissing down my stomach, his tongue flicking out to taste me?—
A strangled moan slips past my lips.
God.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t want to.
I sink back into the pillows, my legs spreading wider as the vibrator hums against me, but it’s not enough. Not even close.
I want him.
I want his hands between my thighs, not this impersonal piece of silicone. I want his fingers teasing me, sliding through the slick heat gathering there, pressing inside, stretching me open while his other hand palms my breast, squeezing, rolling my nipple between his fingers until I’m squirming beneath him.
I imagine the weight of his body over mine, his broad shoulders blocking out the light as he looks down at me, dark eyes burning with hunger. He’d take his time, wouldn’t he? He’d drag his mouth down my stomach, over my hip bones, pressing teasing kisses against the inside of my thighs, making me beg before he finally?—
My breath stutters as I press the vibrator harder against my clit, my hips lifting into the sensation.
God, I want his mouth on me. I want him kissing my cunt, slow and filthy, sucking my clit into his mouth, groaning against me like he can’t get enough. I want to tangle my fingers in his hair, feel the soft strands slipping through my fingers as I hold him there, as I grind against his tongue, as he licks into me, his mouth and fingers working in tandem to unravel me completely.
I bet he’d love it—how wet I am, how easy I’d fall apart for him. I can almost hear his voice, low and rough, telling me how good I taste, how sweet I am, how badly he wants to be inside me.
A whimper slips from my lips, my thighs clenching.
I imagine him kneeling between my legs, spreading me open with his hands, his gaze dark and intense as he lines himself up. He’d push in slow, letting me feel every inch, stretching me wide, making me take all of him until I can’t breathe, until I’m gasping, until I’m gripping his shoulders, his arms, his ass—anything to pull him deeper.
He’d thrust slow at first, deep and controlled, dragging it out until I’m shaking beneath him, pleading for more. And then he’d give it to me. He’d fuck me hard, hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into me, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl, makes my nails dig into his back, makes me cry out his name.
I can almost hear it, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the low, wrecked groans he’d let out when I clenched around him, when I begged for him to come inside me.
The vibrator isn’t enough—I want him, need him. I want the weight of him on top of me, his breath hot against my neck, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me, as he fucks me so deep I forget my own name.
I’m close—so damn close—imagining his voice in my ear, rough and desperate, telling me to come for him, telling me how fucking tight I am, how good I feel around his cock.
My body tightens, pleasure coiling, ready to snap. I bite my lip, arching, my mind lost in him, in how real it feels, in how much I wish it was his name I was moaning as I come undone.