Page 63 of Mismatched

I hiss. My breasts are so tender, I’ve avoided handling them much myself, but this is just the right amount of pressure and warmth, and so, so gentle. Each nipple obediently tightens in response, and before I realize what’s happening, the subtle tug at my center blossoms into something more like an ache.

“Oh God,” he whispers, voice laden with lust. “Just look at you, Mrs. Richie.”

And then he releases my hands, trailing his fingers down through my hair, over my breasts, where I let out a sharp gasp. He skirts them carefully, letting his tongue slide down along my stomach while his hands trace over my waist and hips.

He glances up to meet my gaze when he reaches my thighs, then places a kiss at their apex before nudging them gently apart. My face floods with heat, my eyes slamming shut as his tongue lightly parts my folds. We had been exploring one another recently, for sure. But it’s been a while since he gave me this specific kind of attention. And with pregnancy, like my breasts, I now realize my entire vulva seems extra sensitive and engorged.

He laps his tongue once up my center, bottom to top, and I gasp. Then he does it again. And again. The third time, my hips rise off the bed with his laps. Needing something to do with my hands, I weave my fingers into his hair, but as soon as I do it feels like I’m trying to hold his face between my legs and I let go, pressing them to the bed on either side of me instead. He makes no move to rise when I release him, rather parting my legs wider, swirling his tongue through my folds.

A sound escapes my lips, but it barely registers because with his breath against my skin, I’ve just become aware of the intense amount of moisture already between my legs. Anton seems to notice it too, drawing his fingers through it and spreading it over my thighs. I might be embarrassed if I wasn’t so focused on his attentions. I clench my core muscles in anticipation, sure he’ll rise at any moment and plunge his great length into me.

I want him to. I’m too slick for him not to.

But just when I think he’s going to pull away and mount me, he sucks my clit into his mouth instead, sliding a long finger deep into my vagina in the same moment. My back arches off the bed, and he moves with me, mouth clamped in place as a light spasm teases through my core. Perhaps sensing this, he doubles down. Sucking and licking my clit with intensity, sliding his finger in and out.

The ache at my center intensifies, and he adds another finger, thrusting and sucking, and I am fully bucking my hips now. He moves with my rhythm, and vaguely, I’m aware of my sore, erect nipples bouncing, adding to the overall sensation. But then he does something, I’m not sure—it’s subtly different. Maybe just a finger curling up against my inner wall. But just as he does, I have this moment where it’s like I’m floating above myself, looking down at my naked form writhing across our bed, my handsome husband kneeling with his face between my legs. And then his lips create just the right amount of suction in just the right place, and all of these things collide in my head.

My whole body crescendos. My voice echoes off the walls with each wave, which I faintly register, are somehow more intense than ever. Until finally, I’m left trembling, eyes closed. Anton climbs onto the bed, and when I look at him, he’s grinning at me. He reaches forward, beckoning me into his arms.

Which is when I double over in pain, gripping my midsection.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you anything else?” I ask, clearing away the dinner dishes.

“I told you, I’m fine.” Lydia smiles sweetly. “Just tired. Think I’ll get ready for bed.”

It isn’t even eight o’clock and she only picked at her meal, but she went into the Pooches early this morning and she’s barely holding her head up. “Go ahead. I’ll finish in here.”

She looks at me gratefully, sliding out of her chair, and I try not to leer at the cleavage peeking out of her V-neck, daydreaming about following, lifting her shirt over her head...

I force my eyes away. It’s been nearly a week since I went down on her and made her climax, which triggered massive cramping in her uterus. We called the OB’s office immediately and the nurse assured us it was totally normal after orgasm, especially in the first trimester. She said there was nothing to worry about as long as there wasn’t any bleeding, and there hasn’t been. But it was sobering for both of us. I’ve been afraid to touch her ever since.

I clear my throat. “Um, I was thinking I’d start clearing out the second bedroom this weekend. Maybe get it ready for a coat of paint?”

She pauses in the door of the kitchen, glancing down the hall toward the room in question. “Isn’t it a little soon? I’m still only nine weeks.”

“I know, I just thought...” That I need an outlet, something to do with my hands if I can’t put them on her. It’s funny, you’d think I’d be okay backing off now. She’s growing our baby; we reached the goal we set out to achieve. After talking with the nurse, we agreed to hold off on sex at least until the second trimester. But the more pregnant she gets, the more I just want to put my hands all over her, claim her as mine, again and again. “It’s going to get cold this weekend. It seemed like a good time to start. Maybe we could go pick out colors together.”

She gives me a strained smile. “But if it might not—if we don’t even know what it is?”

I shrug. “I thought we could go with something neutral. The walls are pretty dark in there. I just want to brighten it up.”

“And what about all the furniture and stuff? Where will I keep my laptop, and yours? The printer and our files? I’ve had a home office for five years, Anton. I’m not sure I can just work from wherever.”

But you do all the time, I want to say. The kitchen, living room—our bed. She hardly ever sits in the other bedroom, at her actual desk. I bite my cheek. “Maybe, if we’re going to be making space for a family, we should think about how to leave work at work.”

At this, she bristles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just... you have an office at the Pooches. I have one at Vesper?—”

“That might work for your nine-to-five, Anton, but I own three businesses. I can’t just not think about them when I’m not there.”

I set my jaw. “Okay, that’s fair. We’ll... figure the space out. But there are going to be some changes, Lydia. We should start making a list of names. And have you thought about when you might step back to take some time off?”

She folds her arms over her chest, causing her already-snug shirt to pull down in front, and it is all I can do to focus on her face. Especially with her frowning at me like that.

“We’re at nine weeks! According to the email you sent me this morning, this thing is barely the size of an olive. I just—I have decisions I need to make for next week. I can’t think about what’s going to happen in seven more months.”

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