Page 87 of Huge Pucking Play

His fingers work magic, putting pressure in just the right places. I feel myself climbing, tension coiling tighter with each touch. But it's not enough—I want all of him.

"Inside," I tell him, my nails practically digging into his shoulders. "I need you inside me."

He doesn't make me wait. With one fluid motion, he positions himself and pushes forward, filling me completely. The stretch and fullness draw a moan from deep in my throat. Our bodies fit together perfectly.

"Fuck, Cyn." His voice breaks on my name. "You feel so good."

He starts to move, pulling back and driving forward in a rhythm that has us both gasping. Water beats down on us, turning his skin slick under my hands. I feel the muscles of his back as they flex and release with each thrust.

He shifts angle slightly, hitting a spot that makes me moan out loud. "There," I gasp. "Right there."

Garrett, ever the strategist, locks onto the target. His hips maintain the perfect position while his hand slips between us again, fingers finding my clit. The dual sensation—him filling me, stretching me, while his fingers work on me—pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

"Come for me," he growls, his breath hot against my ear. "I want to feel you come around me."

His words, the raw need in his voice, are the final push I need. The tension breaks in a rush of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I cry out, uncaring who might hear through the hotel walls. My body clenches around him, an overwhelming sensation washing through me.

"That's it," he encourages, his movements never faltering. "Just like that."

I'm still shuddering through aftershocks when his rhythm changes, becomes more urgent. His breathing turns ragged, his grip on my hip tightens. I watch his face—the furrow between his brows, the way his lips part, how his eyes lock onto mine.

"Cyn," he groans, and then he's coming, his body tensing against mine.

He reaches over and turns the water off. Grabbing the towel, he gently dries every inch of me before handing me the incredibly plush white robe that hangs behind the door.

“Now, that was a shower I’ll not soon forget,” he says chuckling.

The ultrasound gel is cold, and I flinch as Dr. Anderson squirts it onto my belly. Garrett sits beside me, his massive hand engulfing mine, thumb running back and forth across my knuckles in a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The examination room is painted a pale yellow that's probably supposed to be soothing but reminds me of watered-down mustard. None of that matters though—not the cold gel, not the ugly paint. Today, we find out if we're having a boy or a girl.

"Sorry about the temperature," Dr. Anderson says, as she spreads the gel with the ultrasound wand. "The warmer's broken again."

"It's fine," I say, though my abdominal muscles tense involuntarily.

Garrett leans forward in his chair, which looks comically small beneath his frame. He's wearing what I've come to think of as his coach face—intent, focused, like he's analyzing game footage for weaknesses in the opposing team's defense. "Will we definitely be able to tell today?" he asks. "The gender?"

Dr. Anderson nods, her brunette hair swinging with the motion. "You're far enough along that we should be able to get a good look." She presses the wand more firmly against my belly, eyes fixed on the monitor that's turned away from us. "Let's check all the essentials first—spine, heart, brain development."

I squeeze Garrett's hand, suddenly nervous. We've been so focused on finding out the gender that I almost forgot this scan is also checking that everything's developing properly. What if something's wrong? What if?—

"Perfect," Dr. Anderson announces, interrupting my spiral of worry. "Strong heartbeat, spine looks great, brain developmentright on track." She swivels the monitor so we can see. "There's your baby."

The grainy black and white image stuns me into silence. Since our first ultrasound, the amorphous blob has transformed into something unmistakably human—a profile with a distinct nose, a tiny hand with five visible fingers, the curve of a spine.

"Holy shit," Garrett whispers, then glances at the doctor. "Sorry."

She laughs. "I've heard worse, believe me. Especially during delivery."

I can't take my eyes off the screen. "That's our baby," I say stupidly, as if they both don't already know this fact.

"It sure is." Garrett's voice has gone rough around the edges. When I glance at him, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

Dr. Anderson moves the wand, changing the angle. "Let's see if we can determine the sex." She studies the screen, head tilted to one side. "Ah, there we go." She looks at us with a smile. "Congratulations—you're having a boy."

A boy. The word echoes in my head, suddenly making everything more real. Not just a baby, but a son. I picture a little boy with Garrett's brown eyes, maybe my smile, running around with a toy hockey stick.

"A boy," Garrett repeats, sounding dazed. His hand tightens around mine. "We're having a son."

I turn to him, find his eyes already on me. The love I see there makes my throat tight. "A little boy," I manage.

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