He’s not really here with me in this moment.
He’s on a mission—the goal to knock me up, and that is all he can see these days. He’s obsessed with impregnating me, and it’s like he’s lost sight of everything else that is important.
I offer him a weak smile because I’m afraid if I try to speak the tears I’m holding at bay will erupt like a volcano.
He slams into me violently, pounding as deep as he can go, a look of fierce concentration on his face. He holds my hips in place with his firm hands, keeping me steady, as he rams his cock inside me, thrusting over and over again until he roars out his release, collapsing on top of me. A sneaky tear leaks out of the corner of one eye, but I swipe it away before he notices.
He rolls onto his side, his chest heaving. His fingers glide down my body, pressing against my clit. I jerk, pulling away from him, swinging my legs over the other side of the bed. “We need to get up,” I say with my back to him. “Dinner is getting cold.”
“You didn’t come,” he says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
I’m surprised he noticed. Sex with him has become robotic, and I hate it. He barely even kisses me anymore because I can’t get pregnant from kisses.
It’s like all he cares about is putting a baby in my belly, and he doesn’t see how much he’s hurting me. How distant we have become, even though he fucks me way more than the others.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.
Now, I don’t even want him to touch me.
“I came earlier with Theo and Galen. I’m fine,” I reply, in an equally monotone voice.
“Good,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t mean it. “But you should go again. Pregnancy is more likely if the woman orgasms during sex.”
“News flash,” I grit out, glaring at him over my shoulder. “We already had sex, and I didn’t come during the act, so just drop it.”
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing one of the pillows. “At least lie back so I can put this under your hips.”
“What?” I splutter because this is new.
“I read an article today that said if you stay still after sex, with your hips propped up, that my sperm has a better chance of reaching your egg.”
His comment would be funny if the situation wasn’t so heartbreaking. Anger prickles under the surface of my skin, and I’m close to telling him to fuck off.
Until I see the look on his face, and I stuff the words back down.
Underneath the anger and frustration on his handsome face lies vulnerability and devastation. He’s in too much pain to shield it from me, and I can’t deny him, even if it sounds like an old wives’ tale and it seems like it won’t make a bit of difference.
I can do this for him.
I lie back on the bed and let him place the pillow under my hips. He lies down beside me, both of us flat on our backs, staring silently at the ceiling. I close my eyes, hating this. Hating that I can’t talk to him. That I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing. Fearful I will take the conversation to a place he might not have gone yet.
I’ve gotten pregnant easily all the other times, with little effort, so I have wondered if the reason I’m not getting pregnant this time is down to an issue with Saint. I hate myself for even thinking it, but if we don’t get pregnant soon, the next logical step will be to investigate why. What if he has a low sperm count or some other issue? That will destroy him. Which is why I can’t even broach the topic.
“Time’s up,” he says, and the bed moves as he climbs off it.
I blink my eyes open and sit up, leaning back against the headboard. A tight pain slices across my chest, and my thoughts are heavy as I watch him get dressed.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” He walks off without another word, and I give myself a silent pep talk, willing myself to get moving instead of giving in to the need to curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.
Somehow, I get up, get dressed, and make my way downstairs.
Dinner is already in mid-flow, the kids bantering with their dads, when I walk into the room. Galen hops up, walking to the stove to retrieve my dinner. “I’ve got it,” I say, appearing beside him. “Don’t let your dinner go cold.” He takes one look at me and frowns. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he puts the plate down on the counter, sliding his arm around my waist. “Are you okay?” he asks, lowering his tone.
“I’m fine.” I flash him a fake smile, and his frown deepens.
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
Tears stab the backs of my eyes. He knows. Maybe they all do. I shake my head, forcing my tears to subside. “Don’t get involved. This is between us.”
He looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. “Come on. Let’s get some food into you.”
I let Galen lead me to the table, pull out my chair, and set my dinner on the table in front of me. Lifting my silverware, as if on autopilot, I force food down my tight throat, listening to the chatter and laughter around the table as if I’m a bystander.
After, I lie, telling them I have a migraine, letting them fuss over me before I’m sent to bed, pretending I don’t see the anger on Saint’s face or feel the flood of relief as I curl up in bed alone, crying myself to sleep.
Chapter 4
Harlow
“I COME BEARING gifts,” Jazz says the following day, stepping into my office uninvited. She waves a paper bag at me. “Lunch from the deli.”
“I thought you were teaching a class?” I ask, looking up from my laptop. While we run the business and leave most of the classes to the trainers we hire, we both make a point of teaching a couple of classes a week, for no other reason than we enjoy it.
“I got Monica to cover for me. You looked like you could use food and a talk.” She closes the door and walks to my desk.
“I’m that obvious?” I ask, putting my pen down.
“I’m your bestie.” She places a bag down in front of me before taking a seat. “It’s my job to notice when you’re upset. What’s wrong?” She opens her own bag, extracting a wrap, an apple, and a bottle of water.
I hired Jazz four years ago, just after I bought the building. At first, we were just coworkers, but over time we’ve become the best of friends.
I don’t trust easily, and I’ve never been the kind of woman who has tons of friends. I had girls I hung out with in college, but I never called any of them friends, and I don’t see any of them or keep in contact with them anymore. They were mere acquaintances. That’s all.
I find it hard to relate to other women sometimes. In part, because my lifestyle is different than most and there is a lot of prejudice, judgment, and jealousy from other women when they discover I’m in a polyamorous relationship. Also, I was married and not interested in attending parties or hooking up with frat boys so that set me apart from other college students.
Diesel’s Denise was the first woman since Sariah that I could call a good friend. Until Jazz. But even though I’m close with both Denise and Jazz, I haven’t confided in either of them about this, and I’m not sure what that says about me. Maybe no one will ever replace Sariah in my life, because if she were still alive, there is no doubt I would’ve confided in her immediately.