Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Leif
The Ultimate Game-Changer
I should be court-martialed.
No, fuck that—I should be locked away in a deep, dark hole where no one will ever have to witness the absolute filth my brain is generating right now.
Hailey’s on that table, legs spread, feet strapped into stirrups, and I am seconds away from losing my fucking mind.
I should not be thinking about her like this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
But the second that wand slides inside her, I feel it. A low, deep pull in my gut. A possessive, primal sort of hunger that makes my pulse hammer so hard it drowns out the doctor’s words.
Because I see it. I see her stretched around it. I see how her body takes it, how she clenches, how her muscles flex in response.
And I?—
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be thinking about how much I want to be the one doing it. I shouldn’t be wondering how she’d react if it were my fingers instead, if I pushed them in slow, teasing, just to feel her flutter around me.
Or worse—if I replaced the wand with my cock, pressing inside, watching her gasp, her lips parting, her body arching as I stretched her open.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I struggle to keep my breathing steady.
I should be paying attention to anything but her. She’s going to be a mother. That thought should cool me down. It should snap me out of this. But it doesn’t.
Because all I can think about is how much I fucking wish it were mine. How I would want to knock her up—which is something I never thought I would want. How I would’ve taken care of her. My plans to take care of her.
How I plan to . . . anything. However, all I can think of is me holding her, me fucking her, me making her body remember exactly who she belongs to.
I want to ruin her.
God help me, I want to slide that fucking wand out and replace it with my tongue.
I want to taste her, spread her open wider, press my mouth against her and lick her until she forgets every man before me. Until she cries out my name and only my name.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my lap, hating myself. Hating how fucking desperate I am for her, how it’s not just physical—it’s worse. It’s deep. It’s in my bones. It’s in the way I ache for her without even touching her.
I glance at her face. She’s jittery, hands clenched over her stomach, her eyes fixed on the screen like it holds the answer to every question she’s too scared to ask. She’s nervous. And she never gets nervous. She’s the one who rushes into disaster zones with a camera and a microphone, unfazed by the chaos, unshaken by things that would send most people running.
But this?
This has her unsteady. And still, she doesn’t question why I’m here. She doesn’t hesitate when I take her hand, doesn’t flinch when I squeeze it, doesn’t even stop to consider what it means that I’m the one beside her. She just lets me be her person.
And now, it’s too late, isn’t it? Too late to be anything else, too late to want anything else. Too late to untangle myself from her, to pretend that I could ever exist in a world where she isn’t mine—even if I can never actually have her.
The second I look at the screen, my entire world shifts. There it is. The tiniest, grainiest shape, curled up inside her, barely formed, barely real. And then—fuck. The heartbeat. Loud, strong, impossibly fast, filling the room with a steady thump-thump-thump.
Something in my chest caves in, and I grip her hand tighter, the pressure grounding me even as my mind spins in a thousand different directions. It’s not mine. It never will be. But the second I hear that sound, something deep and unrelenting seizes inside me. A possessive, primal instinct that coils around my ribs and squeezes.
I want to protect it. I want to take care of it. I want to take care of them.
The thought settles into my chest like it’s always been there, waiting for me to acknowledge it. Not something fleeting or reactionary. Something certain.
I’ve always loved her. That’s never been in question. It’s a truth so ingrained in me that I don’t even remember when it started—it just is. Like the way she always calls me first when something goes wrong, or the way I know exactly how she takes her coffee no matter what country she’s in. Like the way I memorize the little things that matter to her, even when she doesn’t realize it.
But I’ve never said it.
Because she wasn’t ready.
Because Hailey has spent her whole life running—from places, from people, from herself. Her father made sure to let her know that she doesn’t deserve love. So, she runs. Runs from anything that feels too big, too real, too permanent. And if I dare to change things between us, if I push too hard, I might lose her.
And that? That would wreck me.
But now . . .
Now, I can’t ignore it.
I want them.
Not just her, not just the idea of something more, but this. The life forming inside her. The future neither of us planned but is somehow already mine.
I’ve always known how to be patient with Hailey. How to let her come to things in her own time. But this—this changes everything.
Because for the first time, I don’t want to wait.
The doctor keeps talking, saying something about measurements and due dates, but it’s all static. All I hear is that heartbeat. All I see is that tiny person on the screen, proof that something is growing inside her. A life that she created.
A baby we’re keeping and raising together if she lets me.
My hand twitches against my knee, every muscle locked up as I fight the instinct to reach for her. To ground myself in her warmth. To do something—anything—to control the wildfire spreading inside me.
But I can’t, because if I touch her now, I don’t trust myself to stop.
I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something I don’t know how to cross. Like one step forward could change everything, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever find my way back.
She clears her throat, forcing a wobbly smile. “Well. I guess I officially have a gummy bear.”
I suck in a slow breath, forcing my eyes back to the screen, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse. Because there it is. Our baby.
Ours , because even when they might not have my blood I already feel them as mine.
Small, barely formed, but real.
A tiny heartbeat, pulsing strong. A heartbeat that only exists because of her.
The need to protect them surges so fast I nearly double over from the force of it. It’s not just instinct—it’s primal. It’s deep in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of who I am.
I need to keep them safe.
I need to claim them.
I need her.
I tighten my grip on her hand, my thumb brushing along her knuckles without thinking. She turns slightly, her gaze searching mine, and I know she sees it—sees everything I’m barely holding back.
I should say something. Crack a joke. Break the moment before she realizes what’s happening inside me.
But I can’t.
I move before I even think. It’s instinct, reaction—something deeper than either. My hand reaches for hers, hesitates, then shifts. Second-guessing myself when I never second-guess anything. But in that hesitation, my fingers catch the crinkled paper draped over her lap, tugging it slightly.
For a second, I don’t realize what I’ve done. Then I do.
And fuck me.
I see her.
A flash of soft, slick pink. Bare. Right there, with the wand deep, deep inside her. Lips swollen, glistening, and this shouldn’t be erotic, but fuck if it isn’t.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, my cock already straining, aching against my jeans. My brain short-circuits, flipping between two thoughts so fast it makes me dizzy—this is so fucking wrong and I want to spread her open and push it deeper just to see how she takes it.
Fuck.
I want to get a thicker toy and push it inside her, inch by inch, stretching her open until she’s gasping, until she’s clenching around it while I eat her pussy, until she’s soaked and desperate and begging for my cock. A cock she’ll have to beg for. I’d hold her thighs open, keep her right where I want her, slide that wand in alongside me just to see how much she could take, just to feel her lose her mind around both of us.
She’d be so fucking pretty like that, spread out, squirming, whining, needing.
And I’d give it to her. Every damn thing she asked for.
My jaw locks so tight I feel it in my teeth. My hand flexes against my knee, fighting the instinct to touch, to grab, to claim. The sheer, mind-breaking primal need to take care of her—all of her—is a storm raging inside me, and I have to breathe through it, have to fight the insanity clawing at my skin.
This is not the time.
This is not the place.
And Hailey has no fucking idea what she’s doing to me.
I force my eyes back up, barely catching the way her lashes flutter, the way she exhales softly as the technician moves the wand again, adjusting the angle. She reacts to it, and that’s enough to send a fresh wave of heat straight to my cock, enough to make me sit back, fists clenched, desperate for control.
I need to get my fucking head straight before I do something I can’t take back.
Because if I don’t, the next time I have the chance, I’m going to wreck her completely.
I jerk my gaze away, my jaw tight, my throat locked up like I swallowed a brick. My pulse is a frantic, unhinged thing, hammering through me, and I force my face into something blank, something that doesn’t show how fucking wrecked I am by one goddamn glimpse.
Before I stop myself, I move. My hand presses against her thigh. My fingers flex, grip tightening as my body fights itself. The lines blur between instinct and control, between the need to reassure her and something deeper, something I don’t have a name for.
A curse slips under my breath. My hand slides higher, gripping her waist instead. It doesn’t help. Heat radiates through my fingertips. The rise and fall of her breath brushes against my chest. Something deeper drags me under before I even know what’s happening.
She’s in my arms.
I don’t think. I don’t plan. My body makes the decision before my mind catches up. I pull her against me and hold on.
This isn’t careful. It isn’t polite. My arms lock around her, solid, unshakable, like I need to make sure she’s real. Like I need to make sure I don’t lose her—either of them. I need to make sure she knows I’m here—hers. Even when I can’t tell her that now.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her breath moves against my chest. The rhythm sinks into my skin, syncs with my own heartbeat.
Her scent wraps around me, soft and familiar, something I’ve known for years. I breathe her in, lungs filling with the only thing that makes sense.
My fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt. My grip tightens, pulling her closer. For one second, I let myself fall into this.
Into her.
Her breath shakes. My hand moves, sliding up, fingers threading through the back of her hair.
Too much. Not enough.
I don’t think.
I don’t stop myself.
My lips brush against her temple.
Soft. Barely there. The kind of touch I don’t even realize I’m giving her until it’s too late.
If I could, I would kiss her.
The urge is there, burning, pressing against my ribs, sitting heavy in my chest. It would be so easy. Just a shift forward, a tilt of my head, a brush of my lips against hers.
But we have to figure out her current situation first.
Her life just changed in ways she hasn’t even processed yet. This isn’t the time for me to take what I’ve been wanting for longer than I’ll ever admit.
I need to focus. On her. On them.
But after this—after we figure this out—what am I going to do?
The thought settles into my chest like a live wire. I don’t have an answer, and that alone tells me everything.
This time, waiting doesn’t feel like an option anymore.
This isn’t warm-ups. There’s no time to track the puck, to read the play, to anticipate the next move. The shot’s already been taken, and I’m in the crease with no mask, no padding—just instinct and the overwhelming need to make the save.
I just don’t know what exactly we are saving—or who. Maybe it’s me?