Page 72 of Mismatched

“She said it was fine,” she says in a strained voice. “But ‘if we wanted to be cautious,’ we could wait till after twelve weeks.”

“It’s only one more week,” I say through my teeth.

“It’s only one more week,” she parrots back to me. “Anton, look at me. I... I need you.”

By some sheer force of will, I stumble to my feet and over to the back of the door. Her robe is hanging there, and I thrust it at her, pleading. “What happened last time—it was terrifying,” I say, and the memory of her doubled over in pain is like an icy shroud to my dick. “Lydia, we’re close. I promise, as soon as the doctor gives us the all clear...”

I risk a glance at her. She hasn’t put the robe on, but she’s holding it in front of her, thank God.

“As soon as she does, what?” she asks, voice stilted. And then a look of utter devastation passes over her face. “Oh... God.” Her lip trembles. She peeks down at her body before covering herself more. “Am I unattractive to you now?”

“What?” If there was anything I expected her to say, that wasn’t it. I rip the robe out of her hands, the sight of her gorgeous, rounded body hardening my cock again instantly. I unfasten my jeans and take her hand, shoving it between my pants and underwear so she can feel for herself. “Lydia, you’re so fucking attractive I wish it was possible to knock you up again. I am dying, I want you so badly.”

Her mouth is open, and for a moment I let myself fantasize about those pretty lips wrapped around my throbbing cock. But then my memory floods with the sound of our baby’s heartbeat. That regular, rushing surge that filled my ears—filled something else deep inside me.

She bites her lip, eyes dark. “Then, if you won’t...” She looks down, blushing, then squeezes her hand around my dick. “Let me help you.”

It takes several moments for my brain to catch up with what she’s suggesting. To emphasize her point, she steps back and lifts her heavy breasts in each hand like she’s presenting them to me.

“You said you want to come on my... tits,” she says. And fuck, just that word coming reluctantly out of her mouth is nearly enough to make me lose it in my pants. This topic came up between us on the Unmatched app, back when she catfished me into thinking she was another woman. And she’s right. Fucking her tits till I come all over them is on my lust-list. Things I want—can’t wait—to do to her. But we’ve been so focused on tuning in to her body, learning what she needs, we just haven’t tried it yet.

I am nearly dizzy, watching her press those beautiful pale globes together, imagining my cock between them, and?—

“Fuck,” I say, shutting my eyes. “Yes... I do.” Slowly, I reach out, tweaking each of her nipples until we both gasp. “But that wouldn’t be fair.”

I retrieve her robe from the floor, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead when her face falls.

“Lydia. If I’m going to come on”—I swallow—“those glorious tits, it will only be after I make you come so hard you sing.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

My first thought Sunday morning is sex. Like, literally, right after I open my eyes and blink at the ceiling. The instant I move, my body comes alive. My skin, my breasts, my core, all aching to be touched so badly I have to bury my face in my pillow.

Oh my God. Why?

Anton has already gotten up, but after last night it’s not like I could turn to him and beg him to do something about it. Briefly, I run my own hands down over my body. Arching my breasts into my palms, toying with my very erect, aching nipples with a surprising sigh of relief. I keep one hand there, then let the other continue to explore, down between my thighs. Until I reach my already-moist center. I bite my lip, face flushing hot. This is... embarrassing. I have only ever felt this way after Anton has spent a lot of time getting me there. I don’t know what to do with spontaneous arousal. I glance at my husband’s pillow with chagrin, wondering if this is how he feels all the time.

Except he didn’t last night. He was turned on, but had no trouble setting it aside when I couldn’t.

Because he’s a good parent.

The thought flits through my mind like a taunt.

But damn if my clit isn’t nearly throbbing.

Softly, I close my eyes, slipping one finger between my folds. It doesn’t feel like it would take much, just to move the right way, bring my body some relief.

Except.

What if something happened? What if Anton came back into our room to find me cramping like I was before, and I had to tell him what I did? What if, in seeking my own pleasure, I did something to hurt...

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, forcing my feet to the floor. Trying to shift my focus to a different, urgent need. My bladder.

I can hear Anton banging around in the kitchen after I pee, and I’m about to yell down the hall asking if he’s already made our ration of coffee, when I hear my phone ring. It’s Sunday, so not likely a business call, but I will take any excuse to not think about what’s going on inside my body.

Until I see my sister’s name on the screen.

“Hi,” I say on a long exhale, wandering toward my closet in search of something that still fits.

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