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“I love you, Storm.”

“You wreck me, Sweetness,” he continues, whispering. “I don’t know how I did life before you.”

I hiss, riding to my peak, and he notices.

“That’s right, baby. Milk this dick. Take it. Come on it.”

“Shh—Fuck, Storm!” I shout, turning my face to scream into the mattress as the wave crashes over me. I clench tight, squeezing him as I come, and with several hard, almost angry thrusts, he comes inside me, groaning as if it were a war cry.

When he finishes, he doesn’t stop stroking inside me, as if trying to make this last.

But when my heartbeat slows and he finally stills, I break the moment.

“I love you, Storm.”

He doesn’t reply to the statement, and with each second that passes, the urge to cry grows and grows.

Right when I think I’m going to start sobbing into his sheets, he pulls out of me and places an almost reverent kiss on my lower back.

Breathe. I can breathe.

“Let me get a towel,” he murmurs into my skin, and I slide down until I’m flat on my stomach on the mattress.

How much longer will I be able to lie on my stomach? Is it safe to lie on my stomach like this now?

Shit, I need to get some books or something.

In the time since I found out about the baby, I’ve decided I want to keep it. Storm and I made this baby out of love, and we’ll figure out the rest. I’m not alone. I think.

I know this will be a surprise for him, too, and nothing he or I planned to happen, but I just know it will end up being a good thing.

I hope.

“Open your legs, Shae.” Storm’s warm voice sounds close to my ear. I keep my eyes closed and spread my legs so he can wipe up the cum spilling out of my body with a warm wet washcloth.

I love it when he does that, probably just as much as he likes seeing it leak out of me.

“Storm, I know it’s a terrible time, but we need to talk,” I say, gathering my courage.

He’s silent, passing the cloth over my sensitive lips three more times before standing.

“Did you hear me?” I ask after he goes into the bathroom without acknowledging my statement.

Still more silence. I sit up and listen to the sound of water hitting the sink bowl and hope to hear his response.

Still nothing.

Sick, sticky terror weaves its way down my veins, clogging my heart.

I begin to dress, grabbing my bra and panties and pulling on my shirt and pants before he exits the bathroom in black boxer briefs.

He eyes me down, that dead, hard look back on his face.

I hate it.

“Storm,” I say again, trying to access calm. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do need to talk.” The words are so clipped I almost flinch.