Page 98 of Mismatched

Something swells in my chest. “Guess we just eliminated half the names on our list.”

“There are a couple that work both ways.” She shrugs, taking a bite of pasta. “But I didn’t like most of the boy names anyway.”

I laugh. “Maybe you knew. Mother’s intuition?”

She stares out the window at the falling snow, looking thoughtful. “Maybe...”

I sit up straighter, setting my dish aside on the coffee table. “I didn’t want to bring it up before the appointment, but... I spoke with Carl today.”

Her eyes widen, and she sets her food down next to mine. “How did it go?”

“He wasn’t thrilled, for sure.” I sigh. “Actually, he was kind of angry at first. And that’s probably my fault for letting him think I was on board for too long. But we talked it through, and eventually I think he understood, on some level. He is also a dad.”

Carl Wallace’s daughter, Annabelle, is in her twenties. Somehow, I doubt he was ever home with her much as an infant. But every time I’ve seen them together, it’s been clear how much he loves her.

“So, what are the next steps?” Lydia asks. “You don’t need to resign yet.”

I shake my head. “I’m going to stay on until the baby comes and see if I can help them find someone to take my place.”

“Didn’t you say Milo was pretty eager?”

“He is, but he’s young and Carl wants him working under someone so he can learn.” I recall the rest of our conversation and chuckle. “Carl also made clear I’m welcome to stay at Vesper and just not travel.”

Lydia’s eyebrows rise. “I mean, you could . . .”

“No,” I say firmly. “We need childcare, and I really want to stay home. To be the one caring for and nurturing our daughter.” Something tightens in the back of my throat. “I think my mom would’ve loved knowing I’m doing that.”

Lydia smiles softly, reaching up to tangle her fingers in my hair, placing a kiss on my cheek. “You’re right. She would have.”

We sit there a while, finished with our dinners, just listening to Christmas music and watching the snow fall outside the window, and it’s one of the best evenings I can remember having since we’ve been married. I pull Lydia back against me, wrapping her securely in my arms, and place my hands protectively over her bump. She’s warm and soft, and it relaxes me just breathing in the scent of her hair pooling against my chest.

“I called Dr. Sharma,” Lydia says, so quietly I almost don’t hear her. “She um... she said we should be safe to...”

I pause, then smile big into her hair as I realize what she’s trying to say. Amused, because it’s always so hard for her to even talk about sex. But it tells me plenty that she called specifically to ask.

“Is that so?” I say, shifting my hands from their polite position on her stomach to the much less polite region I’ve been struggling to avoid for weeks. I give each of her breasts a gentle squeeze and she rocks her hips back against me, pressing her ass against my already-hard dick.

“Yes,” she breathes.

Her nipples harden under her top almost immediately, and I run my fingers over them through the fabric, watching her close her eyes, sinking into the sensation.

“God, it’s been... how many weeks since I’ve touched you?” I whisper.

“Ten,” she says almost immediately.

I can’t help chuckling. “Fuck, Lydia. That’s a long time.” I bring my lips to her ear. “I’ve taken so many showers, fantasizing about these beautiful tits to get my release.”

Her eyes snap open and she pulls back with an offended look. “At least you’ve had a release.”

“You’re right,” I say, at once chastened and so fucking aroused, thinking of her simmering in want for weeks and weeks. “Oh, Mrs. Richie. Let’s take care of that, shall we?”

In one fluid motion, I grab the hem of her shirt and pull it up over her head. As soon as I do, my jaw drops at the sight of the bra she’s wearing. It’s red and green and sheer, and I can see her swollen nipples straight through the fabric, both of them hard and clearly aching to be touched. I run my hands reverently over the cups, circling the centers, my cock turning to fucking steel in my pants.

“You went shopping,” I say in a hoarse voice. And then I trace my fingers down to the waistband of her leggings. “Did you buy a matching set?”

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” she whispers.

I don’t waste any time. Her leggings and socks are off and across the room, in Heartthrob’s bed before I can take my next breath. The dog turns his head as if to say, this again?

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