Say Forever (8 page)

Whatever fear I have about him not wanting this baby melts away as he pulls me into his embrace and carries me to the bedroom.

He lies down on the bed and I straddle his face. He drives his tongue into me until I think I may explode in his mouth. My juncture is dripping wet and thrumming with need, the need to feel Andrés inside of me. I pull away from his torturous tongue and climb down his body, wasting no time sliding onto him.

I ride up and down his slick erection while panting into his mouth. I'm not slow. I'm not gentle. I know I'll be sore tomorrow, but I don't care. He begs me to stop, but I fear I may die if I don't continue. He cries out, and then his shaft pulses inside me like a heartbeat, unraveling my remaining threads of resistance. I give into the euphoric waves and fall limp against his chest as the orgasm consumes me, sending vibrations arcing from my core all the way to the tips of my toes.

I let out a startled cry as Andrés flips me over and latches onto my neck with his teeth. He drives into me, hard, ramming against my swollen center. A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead and onto my cheek as he lifts my leg over his shoulder. I lift the other leg and cry out as he buries his entire length inside me. The pressure from his thick head pounding against my aching channel is enough to make me come undone again, and again.

We make love with abandon well into the night. His kisses burn, his touch ignites, and his long, hard cock driving into me enflames. I never knew playing with fire could feel so good.

I'm vaguely aware of Andrés washing between my legs before fatigue overwhelms me. I want badly to beg him to sleep with me tonight, but I'm so tired, keeping my eyes open is too much of a struggle, and I can't even form the words to speak.

He whispers goodnight into my ear, and his lips brush my temple. My heart aches when I feel his weight lift from the bed. I know he wants to keep me safe, but my last coherent thought before I surrender to fatigue is that sleeping in separate rooms is no way to start off a marriage.

Chapter Seven

Christina

I wake up to the smell of frying bacon. At least I think it's bacon. Whatever it is, it's got a pungent undertone. I hope the bacon isn't rotten. That's the last thing I need to eat right now. I sit up and instantly regret it. I might have moved too fast because the room tilts to one side.

Shit. Not this again.

I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to subside. Luckily, the room is back to normal when I open my eyes, but I still feel kind of queasy. I heave myself out of bed and groan as pain lances up my side.

Damn bruise. When is it going to stop hurting?

A thick fog settles over my brain, and it takes a few moments for me to remember I have to get ready for work. Ugh. Work. I've got three motorcycles and a flower delivery truck waiting on me at the shop. I wish I could turn them over to the new artist, but these customers specifically requested me. Honestly, the way I'm feeling right now, all I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep the rest of the day.

My senses perk up at the smell of freshly brewed coffee, so I take a quick shower, slip on my work jeans and T-shirt and trudge toward the kitchen.

Andrés is laying out food on the table, so I come up behind him, snake my arms around his waist, lean up and kiss him on the back of the neck. I soak up his warmth and savor the feel of him. My bed was cold and lonely without him. I wish he didn't have to sleep on the sofa. I'm almost afraid to ask him if he had another nightmare last night, but I need to know. I thought about little else while I was getting ready. The thought of Andrés suffering through this weighs heavily on me.

"Did you have any bad dreams last night?" The question comes out on a strained breath.

Andrés turns around and shakes his head. "No."

Relief washes over me. I know it's probably too soon to insist he come back to bed, but at least this is a good sign. Maybe the dream was just a result of the shock of finding out he's going to be a father. Maybe now that the shock has worn off, he won't have any more nightmares. Hopefully.

He clasps my hands in his, looking down at me with a scowl. "Where do you think you're going?"

I force a smile. "I'm better, Andrés." It's not a total lie. Even though I still have slight morning sickness.

He arches a brow, eyeing me with a smirk. "Do you think I'm going to let you work around paint fumes?"

"I'll stop if I feel sick." I walk to the counter, so he doesn't see I don't feel well right now. I belch into my fist. Yuk. It tastes like vomit. I grab my cup of coffee off the counter and take a sip. Mmmm. Hazelnut. The warm, sweet liquid masks the nasty taste in my mouth and soothes my parched throat.

"And what about the baby? Those fumes aren't good for our child."

I turn on my heel, nearly spilling coffee down my shirt in the process. The room tilts, and I lean one hand against the counter for support and then close my eyes. Okay, note to self: no sudden movements while pregnant.

"Mija, you can't paint cars anymore."

My eyes fly open. "But you need me." Even as I'm mentally berating myself for the emotion that slips into my voice, I realize he's right. Shit. The paint fumes. I had forgotten all about that. I recall all of the warning labels on the paint cans, something about "do not inhale" and "toxic to the developing fetus."

Hopelessness washes over me as I slouch against the counter. I feel so bad letting him down. I know the new artists aren't dependable.

My eyes water, and I can't help the tears that spill over.

What the fuck, hormones? Leave me alone already!

Andrés comes up to me and wipes my tears with the pad of his thumb. I read the pity in his soft gaze.

This sucks.

"What am I supposed to do all day?" I ask through a sniffle.

"You've got a lot to do, mija. Start with calling your doctor."

I check the microwave clock. It's already seven-thirty. Her office should be taking appointments in a half hour. Doctor Brewer has been my GYN for the past three years. She's the only doctor I trust. Unfortunately, she's also in high demand. I'll be lucky if I can see her this week.

Andrés motions to the spread on the kitchen table. "I made you breakfast."

He leads me by the elbow to the table and pulls out a seat. After I sit down, he puts my coffee and plate in front of me.

I narrow my gaze at the meat strips that look more like processed cardboard than bacon. It doesn't smell like bacon, either. I fan my nose and push the plate away. Whatever this crap is, I think it's gone sour.

"What is that?"

"Turkey bacon. This is a healthy breakfast." Andrés picks up a strip and takes a bite. "Mmmm." He frowns, and I can tell he wants to spit it out, but then he chases it down with a large swallow of coffee. He's so not fooling me.

I scowl down at the little plastic cup of pink goo by my napkin. Yogurt. Ugh. What happened to eggs and pico de gallo? Surely chicken protein and vegetables isn't unhealthy. "I don't like yogurt," I say as I push the cup toward Andrés.

He picks it up and sets it back down in front of me. Then he sprinkles some brown crap that looks like granola on top of it.

"It's got calcium, mija. Our baby needs it." He bats his thick lashes and looks at me with sad, dark eyes.

Damn. I know I can't refuse him.

I sigh as I pick up a spoon. I wonder if Andrés realizes how much sugar is in this crap. I try not to concentrate on the taste of strawberry and cinnamon overload as I swallow a spoonful and wash it back with a gulp of coffee.

"Easy on the coffee," he says. "You only get one cup a day."

I clench the handle while eyeing him over the rim of the cup. Sadly, it doesn't look like he's kidding.

One cup! How will I have enough energy to get through the day? I'll be napping by noon.

Oh, well. I heave a sigh as I sink into my chair. I don't have a job at the moment, so I guess I'm free to take a nap. I stifle a yawn as this feeling of fatigue washes over me. Why did I even bother getting out of bed?

Andrés is already tapping on his phone. His workday has officially begun. He'll be texting and emailing his assistant managers the rest of the day and even during dinner.

I mentally make a list of things I can do. I don't have any wedding planning until I hear back from my mom. I guess maybe I can paint at home. I've got a few blank canvases, and I've been dying to paint portraits of my brothers.

I groan when I think about what's in those paints. Unless I get the cheap, kiddy finger crap, I doubt I'll be doing any painting for a while.

I sink even lower in my seat as I absently swallow a spoonful of the yogurt granola crap.

That's when it hits me. My life isn't mine anymore.

***

Looks like I don't have time for that nap after all. After calling my doctor's office and finding out she can't see me for another two weeks, I was contemplating going back to bed. I was feeling so exhausted after only one cup of coffee, I had to drag myself out of the house when my mom called. She's already hired a wedding planner, and we're meeting at a posh lakefront restaurant.

I search for a decent country song on the radio, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, hoping I'm not late. I can't see what's causing the delay because there's a garbage truck ahead of me. I've got the heater turned off and the windows rolled up, but it still doesn't help to mask the smell which permeates the car. It's so strong, I'm fighting the urge to open my door and vomit all over the freeway.

This truck is a metaphor for my life: I'm just trying to get ahead, but there's always this big pile of shit blocking my path.

I pop a stick of gum in my mouth, hoping the smell of spearmint will overpower the truck's fumes. I tap out an erratic staccato on my steering wheel, before fidgeting with the buttons on my shirt and then checking my reflection in the mirror. My nose isn't so big and red, anymore. My sinus infection is finally clearing up. Remarkably, I actually look pretty today. Though my pregnancy hormones are sabotaging my psyche, they're doing wonders for my skin. My cheeks have a natural glow and my eyes are greener than ever. Even my hair has a healthy sheen, and I didn't use any product.

I only wish I felt as confident as I look. I have to admit I'm kind of nervous about meeting this planner. My mom has been a steamroller, crushing all my wedding ideas. I can only imagine what two of them will do to my wedding. All I want is a small reception at Tio's ranch, where we eat tamales and cake and dance to a Tejano/country band. Instead, I'll be wearing some cotton candy fluff-ball, eating shrimp pastries and sipping champagne. No, not champagne. Damn. Ginger ale.

I get the feeling my wedding won't be fun at all, which sucks because Andrés is right. This is my special day, not my mom's. Even though I don't want to disappoint her, I come to a decision while I breathe in garbage fumes. I love her, but there is no way I'm letting her take my wedding from me. I'll listen to what my mom and this planner have to say, and then if I disagree, I'll let them know I want my wedding done
my
way. End of discussion.

I've been brow-beaten my whole life, first by my emotionally abusive adoptive mother and then by my ex-fiancé. I refuse to be bossed around on the most special day of my life. I just hope my mom can forgive me.

***

I cringe at the sound of 80s Christmas music filtering in from speakers overhead. My mom and the wedding planner are drinking red wine, chatting like old friends in the back of the restaurant. Behind them, an expansive window offers a beautiful view of Lake Travis and its multi-million dollar homes. But I don't give a damn about the lake right now. As I look into the wedding planner's familiar thin veneer of a fake smile, all I care about is getting the fuck out of this restaurant, after I expose the witch to my mom.

Mom stands when I approach. She's practically beaming ear to ear when she motions to the jackal sitting across from her. "Christina, this is Nora Richards, our new planner."

Nora abruptly stands up, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. Uh, oh. Someone's been hitting the red wine early today. No surprise there. Nora was always a lush.

"Hello, Christina, darling, it's so nice to see you again." She runs a hand through her dyed brassy red up-do and then spreads her arms wide, as if she's expecting me to hug her.

As if.

Un-fucking-believable.

I take a step back and scowl. Nora's face is so tight from excessive plastic surgery, it's hard to gage her reaction, but I think I see her lips twitch in annoyance. Either that, or her collagen air bags have sprung a leak.

I look at my mom, trying my best to keep my tone even. "Nora is my adoptive mother's best friend."

Mom gasps and splays a hand across her chest. "What?"

I cock my hand on my hip and shoot Nora another glare before turning back to my mom. "Can we go now?"

I don't want to spend another second in this woman's company. When I was a kid and my dad had to go out of town on business, Nora would come over and get shit-faced with my adoptive mom. On those nights, she would order me a pizza and force me to stay in my room. I didn't squawk. It was better than watching them pop pills and badmouth their husbands.

I'd usually find them sprawled on the living room floor, along with a few empty wine bottles. The DVD player would still be showing some porno with several guys with big dicks banging one chick. One time, I even found a vibrator in the bathroom sink. It was still buzzing around and rattling the drain. I never used that bathroom again. When I got older, I'd spend the night at Karri's house when Nora came over. I'd come home to find condom wrappers in the garbage. This was after my dad raped me, so I didn't tell the asshole. He probably knew about it, anyway.

"Nora." Mom looks at the planner with horror in her eyes. "You're Vivian Duval's best friend."

Surprisingly, Nora's still keeping a straight face. It must be hard for her to maintain the illusion that she's not a total bitch for this long. Either that or her surgeon's done a heck of a job tightening up her skin so she can't move her facial muscles. I swear I could bounce a quarter off her cheek.