59. Rico
Rico
Crying is not something I handle well. Nope. I avoid that shit like a biohazard outbreak in a poorly ventilated subway car. It should be a federal mandate that women can only cry in soundproof rooms, preferably in another country.
And yet, I don’t run.
I should. I want to. I even consider it for a solid five seconds.
The sobs are loud—obnoxiously so. The acoustics in this house turn every sound into a full-blown symphony, and right now, I’m getting the Allie’s Emotional Breakdown live concert, featuring heavy breathing, broken whimpers, and the occasional sniffle that sounds suspiciously like my worst nightmare.
Why the hell am I even home this early?
Because I noticed the SUV hadn’t left for work on the security cameras.
I normally don't care. Allie takes days off—rarely, like a solar eclipse—but it happens.
Only today, instead of spending it with Violet or Sienna like she normally would, she ran a quick errand, came back home, and stayed there.
That alone was enough to raise an eyebrow.
So I texted Vinnie, who, for the record, is fully aware that I use him as my Allie informant, and he confirmed she took the day off but refused to tell me why. Which, frankly, pissed me off. I could hack the NSA if I wanted to, but no, apparently, I have to play detective with my own damn wife.
Old me would’ve shrugged, gotten back to work, and let her do whatever she wanted—as long as it didn’t involve me unless she was naked and moaning my name. That’s how we function. It works.
Or worked.
Because instead of ignoring it, I shut down my computers, stood up, and walked out of my office.
I didn’t even have an excuse when my brothers looked at me like I’d been body-snatched. Alex, ever the concerned older sibling, looked two seconds away from calling an ambulance.
“Everything okay?” Dom asked.
I just held up a hand and shook my head. No explanation, no discussion. Let them stew. I left before I started questioning why I was leaving in the first place.
And now here I am, standing in the doorway of the master bathroom like an idiot, watching my wife sob into her hands while clutching a pregnancy test.
Everything in me tells me to turn around. Escape. Retreat to my office, pretend I never saw this, and let her cry it out. But my feet stay planted. The same part of me that’s been slowly eroding under her presence refuses to walk away.
So I step forward instead.
Her crying is relentless, echoing off the marble like a opera. It’s uncomfortable. Too raw. Too messy.
At first, I assume she’s crying because it’s positive. And for a solid two seconds, I brace myself. My pulse spikes, the air leaves my lungs, and a slow, creeping dread snakes up my spine.
I don’t want kids. Not now. Maybe never. That’s a discussion I haven’t had with myself because avoiding difficult conversations—especially with myself—is one of my best skills.
But then I pull the test from her fingers.
Negative.
I blink at it. Then at her.
She’s crying because she thinks she failed me.
I almost laugh. The irony would be funny if it weren’t so fucking sad.
She thinks this is the only thing keeping me here. That her sole purpose in this marriage is to pop out an heir, and if she can’t, I’ll cut my losses and walk.
Would I?
I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Because knowing means facing the fact that the idea of walking away doesn’t sit right. That, despite my best efforts, she’s burrowed herself into whatever abyss exists where normal people have emotions.
The problem is, I’m not normal people. I don’t do the soft, affectionate husband thing. I don’t care. Or at least, I didn’t.
I should feel something about this test. Something big. Excitement. Disappointment. Something.
She looks so sad and defeated it would almost break my heart—if I had one that actually functioned. Instead, what’s left inside my chest is some shriveled, useless organ that only kicks in when my wife cries, apparently.
When I pull her up to me and kiss her gently, my body responds before my brain can process the emotional landmine I just stepped on. It’s instinctual, stripping her down to nothing, including the tiny lace thong designed by Satan himself to turn any rational man into an idiot.
Sex right now will result in absolutely nothing. I know that. She knows that. But I hate it more—deep, bone deep—that she believes it’s the only thing I care about.
Okay. Yes. That’s mostly my fault. Yes, I may have led her to believe that. Yes, I have reinforced the idea by not talking, not engaging, and making a habit of treating our post-sex interactions like escaping an audit. But that’s not all I enjoy about her.
I enjoy her warmth—and not just the warmth of her naked body against me, even though that resides high on the list. Then, I run away like a coward because those urges make me feel things, and I’m not built for things.
It’s a classic fight-or-flight response, and for thirty-seven years, I’ve successfully chosen flight.
Giving in would be like flaying my skin off and wearing my insides on the outside for public display—a truly horrific visual, and also not a good look for me.
Placing her on the bed, I keep kissing her.
Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in like she’s hellbent on stealing every ounce of my restraint.
My cock is already nudging at her entrance, and fuck me, this woman went from crying her body weight in tears to being wet and ready for me.
A miracle. A mystery. A fucking enigma. I’m not going to question it.
I have needs. A very specific one right now.
Foreplay be damned. I need this.
I press in, sinking deep, and we both moan into each other’s mouths.
I pause, my hips circling gently, stretching her tight-as-hell pussy just enough so I don’t lose my mind.
Three months in, and she’s still so damn tight I have to breathe through it, reminding myself that, no, my cock will not snap off from sheer pressure.
I even researched it. Called a few professionals, just in case.
Our mouths don’t break. I move—slow, deep strokes, her body gripping me like she was made for this. For me.
Her heels dig into the backs of my thighs, her nails claw at my shoulders, her lips—fuck, her lips—stay fused to mine like oxygen. And maybe she is my oxygen source, because every second our mouths aren’t connected, I feel like I might stop breathing entirely.
I could go faster. I want to go faster. I could fuck her so hard the mattress dents. I could pin her down and ruin her in the way we both love. And I will. Later.
Right now? I need this slow, aching crawl toward insanity. I need to feel every gasp, every moan, every little shudder rolling through her body as I bury myself inside her, over and over again, the only thing tethering me to sanity.
“Come for me, baby.” My voice is rough, wrecked, my control fraying as I shift my hips, angling to hit that spot that makes her fall apart.
She cries out, squeezing around me so tight I groan, thrusting deep, letting go as I spill inside her, feeling every shudder of her orgasm milk me dry.
How is it that every single time with her is better? Just when I think nothing can top the last time, she proves me wrong. Again. And again. And again.
Normally, this is the part where I’d roll off her. Distance myself. Pretend none of this meant anything. But instead, I stay exactly where I am, kissing her with slow, lazy, indulgent kisses as if I have any intention of stopping.
I don’t.
I pull her with me as I roll to my back, keeping her draped over me, my arms wrapping around her waist like a cage. Her head rests against my chest, her fingers tracing circles over my skin, and I let them. I like them.
I should push her off. I should want to push her off. But I don’t. And that is the real fucking problem.
Because the past few weeks, I’ve actually slept. With her on me. Stealing my space. A hand in my hair. A leg over my body. An arm draped across my chest like a toddler's security blanket.
And none of it bothers me.
What does?
That it doesn’t.