Crushed (Breaking the Rules Series Book 5) (2 page)

Eighteen Weeks Pregnant

“I’m quitting,” I tell him with a quiver of my chin.

He’s standing behind me in our bathroom. I can feel his eyes searching for mine in the mirror, but I take the easy way out and stare down at the faucet. His heat envelopes me and warms me like usual whenever he is close, but today, an inner chill causes me to shiver.

He sweeps a long, damp, blond strand of hair away from my shoulder and presses a soft kiss to my neck. I want to sink back against his chest and have him hug me tight, but I need to be strong. Quitting is the best thing for us right now.

“You can’t quit, Andi. This is what you love. You’d be so bored otherwise.” His voice is knowing and firm.

I’m instantly angry. “Jackson,” I huff out and lift my eyes to his in the mirror. They bore right into me like always. Again, the shiver threatens to course through my body, but I fight it away. “I’m quitting and that is the end of it. I need to rest and take care of the baby.”

His eyes darken as he scowls. I know he’s disappointed, but I can’t lose this one. I just can’t. When two of the embryos suddenly vanished several weeks ago, I became borderline obsessed with the one left.

I need this baby.

I whimper when his large hand snakes around to the front of my swollen belly and he strokes it lovingly.

I need this baby for him.

For us.

For me.

I can’t take any more loss. Even Dr. Sweeney is having a hard time helping me hang on to the barely there thread I’m desperately clutching. My last thread of sanity. Of hope.

“Babe, what about part time? You still need to get out of the house. What if you do your work in my office? I’ll have a couch put in and you can work from there.” His pleading tone tears a hole in my heart.

I’m already bleeding for him. Lately, things just haven’t been the same. We aren’t us. This will be one more wedge between us. Being separated eight hours a day will be tough on our already fractured relationship.

But I need this.

Tears well in my eyes. My emotions lately are out of my control. Dr. Sweeney wanted me on some antidepressants, but being pregnant—and high risk at that—I refused. That was a fight between Jackson and me that had him sleeping on the couch two nights in a row.

“No, Jackie. I need to be here—resting. Last night, I read on the website that women who are high risk should—”

He cuts me off with his booming voice. “Fucking really, Andi? I told you to stay off those damn sites. They’re pickling your brain and making you worry about stuff that is out of your fucking control. You have to quit it.”

He releases me with a huff and bursts from the bathroom. I hear him stomp into our bedroom and slam drawers as he dresses for work. He’s pissed.

I’ve made up my mind, though, about quitting my job. He’ll have to deal with it.

After swiping a tissue from the box, I dab at my now puffy, red eyes. The tears don’t stop. I’ve been in a constant state of duress since the moment Dr. Ellis told me that I was pregnant. My mind constantly analyzes the problems that could happen at any moment. I never rest because my brain is in a never ending state of worry.

Jackson hates me like this.

With a sigh, I slowly make my way into our room and immediately spy my husband as he dresses. The man gets sexier with age. We’re on five years of marriage and I still melt at the sight of him. As he pulls his dress socks on and then begins buttoning up his crisp dress shirt, I sigh. Jackson looks every bit a Calvin Klein model standing by our bed with no pants on. His face is sporting a dark, overgrown shadow on his cheeks. I crave to kiss him hard enough for it to scratch my lips.

But I won’t. Not now. He’s too upset with me.

I glance up at his still-wet hair flopping around as he starts sliding his grey tie around his neck. My fingers, desperate to run through his dark hair, twitch at my sides. As he fools with his tie, I continue my visual sampling of my husband. His white dress shirt stretches nicely across his toned chest. My heart fills with pride because, after five years of marriage, he’s still dedicated to remaining fit and spends several hours a week at the gym toning up.

Unlike me.

Tears trickle from my eyes again. I know I’ve gained weight over the past few years. With each failed pregnancy, I kept a little more weight than I started with. That, coupled with my depression, means I’ve developed pudgy areas I never had before. Jackson claims that I’m beautiful. However, I know the truth.

When he reaches for his slacks, my eyes stop at his impressive cock. Even when he isn’t aroused, it’s thick and beautiful, bulging in his white boxer briefs. They’re just tight enough and transparent enough to award me a view of each curve and vein. I want to touch him.

So do it! He’s your husband.

As he pulls his slacks on, I untie the cords of my plush robe. Then I slip it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. I’m naked still from my shower earlier. My body pulses with a need to be with my husband. I not only need his physical touch—the one that makes me see stars—but I also need the emotional connection. We’re growing more and more distant by the second and I hate it.

“Jackson,” I whisper.

It has barely fallen from my lips before his eyes are on mine. They are hungry as he visually devours my naked flesh. This time, I do shiver.

A deep growl escapes his throat, and the slacks he was about to fasten hit the floor. He easily steps out of them as he strides over to me. When he reaches me, his hands tangle into my hair and he holds on. He holds on as if I’ll run away from him—forever.

I won’t.

“God, Andi, I fucking love you so damn much. You have no idea.” His lips are on mine in an instant.

Tears burn my eyes again as I repeat his words in my head over and over. I know he loves me. But hearing his proclamation—especially now—warms my soul. It eats away some of the blackness that has formed in my mind and heart.

My fingers set to releasing the knot on his tie as his hands greedily touch every square inch of my flesh within reach. Once I’ve pulled the tie loose, I drop it and tug at each button until I free him of his shirt. Then he shrugs out of it and tosses it away.

“I love you too. So much,” I promise as I pull his white undershirt up and over his head.

Before I go back to kissing him, I let my eyes drop along his torso, which is smooth despite a small spattering of dark hair between his pecs and another below his belly button. The contours of his muscles twitch and tighten beautifully. I want to taste him.

Slipping down his body, I place kisses all over his chest, even stopping to run my tongue over his nipples. He smells clean, like Jackson—soapy and perfectly manly.

He groans when I continue kissing him all the way down to the top of his boxers and perch on my knees. My hand slides over his massive and now stone-hard dick, which is threatening to rip the fabric that is barely holding it in. His cock should have a name—it has its own personality. It should also have its own zip code, for crying out loud.

My fingers yank down on his boxers and his dick flops out heavily. I don’t waste time as I wrap my fingers around him and begin working his length up and down with a cadence that I’ve perfected over the years. When I dart my tongue out and taste his salty tip, he curses and I smile.

Smiles are rare these days.

I take him deep in my mouth and tongue the underside of his proud shaft. A blissful whimper escapes me as his hands lovingly stroke my hair. The gesture sends a surge of warmth into my heart. Pulling out all of my tricks, I suck his dick like a practiced whore. I own every inch of his hot flesh. His groans become animalistic growls when I gently massage his balls and continue my attempt at taking him as far as I can into my throat.

“Baby, I can’t hold on much longer,” he gasps.

The idea of his salty semen filling my throat causes me to gag. Gagging is one of my newfound problems with this pregnancy. Saliva runs down my chin as I quickly pull away before I barf and ruin the moment.

He knows. He always knows.

When I look up at him, he winks at me. With his wink, he tells me that he’s happy for what I gave him—even if he didn’t get the grand finish. God, I love this man.

“Woman, get over on that bed and spread those sexy-ass legs for me. I want to take my barefoot-and-pregnant housewife at least two times before I have to go out and bring home the bacon.” His words are playful. They also niggle their way deep into my soul.

He’s giving me his blessing. He may hate my reasons or hate that we’ll be apart. But regardless, he’s telling me that it will be okay.

And it will.

I hope.