Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I squealed as he climbed into bed, growling like an animal, and attempted to bite my neck with the plastic fangs. “Ow! Can you take those things out please?”
“If you insist.” He tossed them to the floor and nipped my throat with his teeth. “Ah, yes. Much better.”
Laughing, I ran my hands over his shoulders. “Do you want to take your cape off too?”
“That depends.” His mouth traveled down to my chest, and he stroked my nipple with his tongue, making it hard before taking it between his teeth. “Will you still want me when I look like a mere mortal?”
I arched beneath his tongue, opening my legs as his hand moved between my thighs. “Enzo, you have never looked like a mere mortal.”
“In that case.” He rose to his knees and ditched the cape, then covered my body with his, his bare skin warm against mine. “Yes, this is much better. God, I’ve missed you.”
Our mouths came together, our tongues seeking, our hands skimming, our breath growing faster and heavier. I’d been a little worried that the sex tonight would feel mechanical or obligatory or awkward, and I’d sort of assumed we’d get right down to the business of trying to conceive—but I’d been wrong. If anything, Enzo was even more patient, more playful, more passionate than he’d ever been. I found myself forgetting that this was simply a means to an end and reveling in every stroke of his tongue and caress of his fingers and sweet, slow undulation of his body over mine. I wanted to stay in this place forever, where I wasn’t worried about failure or success, about time running out, about what the future would bring, and why I shouldn’t love him.
There was nothing fake about it—I just wanted to be with him.
“Enzo,” I whispered as he moved inside me. “Say something real.”
“What?” He slowed his rhythm but didn’t stop.
“Say something real,” I begged.
At first he didn’t say anything, he just looked down at me, and I was terrified.
But then.
“I never stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice low and serious.
“Keep going,” I whispered, the walls around my heart beginning to crumble.
“No one has ever made me feel the way you do. Sometimes I can’t even breathe.”
“Yes,” I said, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm. I knew exactly what he meant. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“I want to give you everything.” He stopped moving for just a moment, his lips hovering over mine. “Everything.”
He said nothing else as the need built between us, the compulsion to move harder and faster and deeper—our hearts racing, our skin hot, our breathing ragged and quick. I came first and he followed a minute later, which allowed me to feel every pulse of his release inside me. And I didn’t think about anything except that I loved the way it felt to share something so deeply intimate with him, to share myself with him, to share this bed and this night and this experience. It was the most powerful and intense feeling I’d ever had.
No wonder, I thought as we clung to each other in the warm, breathless aftermath. No wonder this is how a life begins.
Except it didn’t work.
And as I sobbed in the bathroom on a Saturday morning two and a half weeks later, feeling sad and broken and ashamed, I realized how high I’d let my hopes get.
I’d known, even with the Clomid, that it might not work. But the sex had felt so magical. My connection to Enzo so intense. The chemistry between us so fiery.
So I’d thought maybe.
And I’d wished.
I’d prayed.
I’d listened to Enzo tell me how confident he was. And—most humiliating of all—I’d actually felt pregnant.
No joke, I’d actually convinced myself that I felt telltale signs for the first time . . . sore breasts, increased appetite, dizziness, a bloated belly. All symptoms of PMS, of course. God, how could I have been so dumb?
I gave in to the need to cry it out, even though I felt guilty about how sad I was, because some women try for years to get pregnant without any luck. Then I gave up feeling guilty and cried for them too.
Enzo was at the gym, but we were picking up the keys to the new house today at noon—so I knew he’d be back any minute. I didn’t want him to see me like this, so I pulled myself together, took a shower, got dressed, and covered my face with makeup before going downstairs.
When I entered the kitchen, Enzo stood at the island with a cardboard cup of coffee. A second one was on the counter. “Morning, Lucy.”
“Morning.” I didn’t quite meet his eye as I went to the sink and started filling a glass to water the plant in the kitchen window. “How was your workout?”
“Great. I stopped for coffee on the way home. Got you some tea, and don’t worry—it’s herbal. No caffeine.”