Page 28 of Mismatched

Deep inside my head, a tiny voice says: No. Just as I hear myself say: “Yes.”

Again, Anton’s fingers tighten around mine. He reaches his other hand across the table so we’re both holding on, looking straight at one another, and there’s a slight sheen in his hazel eyes. “I—” He swallows. “I would love that. More than anything.”

My throat tightens. And for a second it feels like I’m falling. I panic at first, afraid I’ve made the wrong choice. But when I meet his eyes again, I realize it’s not just me. It’s happening to both of us. We’re sharing this, connecting, and this—this is what’s been missing. Suddenly, the air is charged, like it was moments ago when he presented his gift and whispered those naughty things. Except now it isn’t just lust crackling between us; it’s more than that. Like I’m seeing him—our future—come back to life. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling, and I’m finally sure: this must be the right choice.

The air between us grows so thick with desire I can barely swallow. And as I imagine his hands on me, groping my thighs, my breasts, I think, yes, this is it. We should do this. Now.

Until I glance down at my lap and imagine a round, distended belly bulging under my dress.

I suck in a breath. And just like that, all my arousal, the connection between us, drains away.

Almost like he can read my thoughts, Anton clears his throat and says in a husky voice, “You’ll be so gorgeous, carrying our baby.”

I dip my chin to hide my face. Because it doesn’t land the way he intends. It makes everything worse. I think of my body, my curves—distorted and swollen like a balloon at first, then deflated and misshapen once it’s served its biological purpose.

But when I look up, Anton is still glowing. Not just in his face, but deep within. Like he truly can’t imagine anything more beautiful. So I grasp that and hold on with everything I’ve got—because maybe it could be the way he says?

“I guess... getting there could be fun,” I say, trying to convince myself.

And then I giggle. I can’t help it. Because, despite some improvement, we’ve been in therapy because I’m so bad at physical intimacy we almost lost our marriage. And it strikes me as hilarious, hearing myself suggesting sex as an incentive.

But Anton doesn’t laugh. He arches a brow, stroking circles on the backs of my hands with his thumbs. “Seems like an excellent excuse to do homework.”

My face warms, but I nod because he’s right. We’ve probably already had more sex in the last three months than we did in the past three years. At least, until a couple of weeks ago. But I still have to concentrate on it a lot. It has started to feel like things are getting easier, more natural. But I know we’ve still got a ways to go.

He pauses his circles. “We could try some new things...”

“New things?”

“Yeah,” he says with a perfectly straight face. “We did discuss spanking...”

I glance nervously around the crowded room, and hiss. “Stop. Not here.”

His eyes darken and he leans close. “Then where do you want it?”

“Anton.”

I pull my hands away and cross my arms over my chest--only to realize when he starts chuckling that he’s been messing with me. I scowl, leaning back in my chair. But as I glance down at the barely touched dinners going cold in front of us, I decide it’s a game we both can play.

“You already owe me one apology, Mr. Richie. Are you looking to grovel?”

His grin fades, one hand drifting to the pocket where he stashed the massage oil. “I am. So sorry,” he says in a low voice.

“You should be,” I say, raising my hand to flag down the server. “You know how much I love the desserts here.”

“Hi. Was everything all right?” our waiter asks, glancing cautiously at our uneaten food.

“Delicious,” Anton says, his eyes fixed on me.

“That’s great to hear... Can I interest either of you in dessert?”

“We’ll take two boxes.” I bite my lip. “We’re having dessert at home.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It is truly a miracle we make it home. After we leave the restaurant, I press Lydia up against the door of my truck and kiss her so deeply, we both come up gasping for air. On the way to the house, we seem to hit every red light, and though my hand starts out politely enough on her knee, every time we come to a stop, my fingers creep a little farther up her dress. Until we pull in the driveway with my pinky dipping beneath the edge of her panties.

Once we get in the door, I lose control.

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