“Hey, queenie,” my giant teddy bear of a husband says as he enters the room. “Miss me?” he asks before lifting me up and swinging me around. I giggle. Caz has the same routine every day when he and Saint return from work, and I love it, finding familiarity in his words and the comfort of knowing I get a warm embrace every day. Placing my feet on the ground, he bundles me into a hug. “Heads-up,” he whispers in my ear. “He hasn’t forgotten what time of the month it is. He’s on a mission.”
I hate how my good mood plummets at his words and how guilty I feel for my natural reaction. Things are becoming complicated the longer this goes on.
Saint stomps into the room, and it’s as if his presence sucks all the oxygen from the air. Or perhaps it’s only me who feels like that.
“Dad!” Luna appears at the door from the playroom, her pretty little face lighting up the second she sees Saint.
“Princess.” Saint drops to one knee, opening his arms. “Come give me some loving.” He waggles his brows, and she giggles, racing across the kitchen and flinging herself into his arms. Tears prick my eyes as I watch him hug Luna, his eyes closing and chest heaving with emotion as he holds her close.
I know how much Saint loves all the kids, and he shares a special closeness with Luna. But I also know he’s hugging her and imagining she’s his own flesh and blood. Wishing she shared his DNA because he is desperate for a child of his own. He has never voiced those words to me. I expect he has never voiced those words to the others either. I don’t know for sure because we skate around the issues, which is not usual for us. Open communication has been the cornerstone of our relationship from the very start, but this is different. We’re in uncharted territory, and I don’t think any of us know how to navigate it. I don’t want to upset Saint. He doesn’t want to upset me. And the others don’t want to upset either one of us.
I’m terrified it’s going to destroy what we’ve built here. I already feel cracks forming, and I don’t know how to fix it. If only I would get pregnant, but we’ve been trying for eight months with no success.
“Miss me?” Saint asks Luna, and she nods, snuggling into his chest.
“We made cookies,” Rora says, ambling into the kitchen followed by Bishop.
“Chocolate chip?” Caz asks, scooping his wild daughter into his arms.
“Poppa Bear!” Rora giggles as Caz tickles her. “That tickles!”
“That’s because I’m the Tickle Monster,” Caz says, chuckling as he continues tormenting her. Rora squeals, her loud laughter bouncing off the walls, helping to loosen the edge off my stress.
Saint releases Luna, standing. “How long until dinner?” he asks Galen.
“Twenty minutes.”
Saint grabs my hand. “That’s enough time.”
“We can wait till later,” I say, really not in the mood.
“Queenie.” He pulls me in close, pressing his warm mouth to my ear. “You’re ovulating, and we don’t have a minute to waste. Some experts say you only have twelve hours to fertilize the egg. Every second we wait is a wasted opportunity.”
Saint is like an encyclopedia on fertilization and reproduction. At first, I thought it was cute. Now, I wish he’d drop it. The more he pushes the agenda, the more stressed I feel. It’s even gotten to the stage where I’ve begun to dread sex with him.
And I love sex. That hasn’t changed.
Nor has the fact I love Saint with my entire being.
I want to make him happy. I want to give him a biological child. But I feel like I’m failing him because it just isn’t happening, and he’s getting angrier while I’m growing more miserable.
“Start without us if we’re not back,” Saint says, hell-bent on fucking me.
“Surely, it can wait until after,” Theo interjects, his troubled gaze flitting to mine.
“Butt out, man.” Saint clings to my hand as he warns Theo to mind his own business. He is wound up so tight, and I hate I’m the cause of it.
“It’s fine,” I say, wanting to defuse the rapidly growing tension. “Let’s go.” I tug on Saint’s hand, just wanting to get this over and done with now.
“The timing feels right,” Saint says a few minutes later as he thrusts inside me. “It’s going to happen this month.” He hovers over me on my bed, staring at me as he fucks me, but it’s like he’s looking through me. 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 inside me 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 say, 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 with him.