“Damn,” I muttered, pressing my palm flat against my belly.
Imade it to the bathroom just in time to hunch over the toilet. Nothing but bile came up, but it left my throat raw, my knees shaking. I sat there on the cool tile, forehead pressed to my arm, breathing like I’d just sprinted a mile.
Calling off wasn’t something I did. Daddy always joked that I’d have to be half-dead before I took a day. Even then, I’d probably be climbing a ladder with an IV strapped to my arm.
But today I texted him quick.
Not coming in. Sick.
Three dots flashed, disappeared. Then his reply:
Rest. We’ll manage.
Short. No lecture. No pushback. Just that. Which was how I knew he was worried.
I brushed my teeth, splashed cold water on my face, then crawled back into bed. My phone buzzed once—Quentin.
Morning, Rayna. You good?
I stared at the screen. For some reason, I didn’t tell him. Didn’t say I was staying home, didn’t admit I’d just been hugging the toilet. Maybe because I didn’t want him hovering, or maybe because I didn’t want to give voice to how off I felt.
I typedback:
Morning. You good?
His answer came fast:
Long day ahead. Even so, I wanna see you tonight.
My chest softened at that, but I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I curled deeper into the sheets and let my mind wander—dangerous territory.
It was crazy how fast we’d gotten here. Meeting him at the table, then the pool tournament, Sunday dinners, his hands on my body like he’d been granted rights. And me letting him. Wanting him.Needing him.
I thought about the last time we were tangled together right after dinner at Daddy’s. How I’d straddled him on the couch, taking him so deep I swore I could feel his heartbeat in me. His hands on my ass, his mouth at my throat, whispering my name like a prayer and a demand at the same time.
The way I’d clenched around him until he groaned and spilled hot inside me, filling me up until I gasped at the burn. I remembered the warmth, how it stretched through me, how my body wouldn’t let go, milking him until he cursed and buried his face in my chest.
I shivered under the blanket, biting my lip. God, it had felt so good. Too good.
And then I froze.
Because there were nights—more than one—when we hadn’t used protection. After the first slip, I told myself it was fine. I was on the pill. We were careful. We had that talk about STIs. But the real truth was an indictment.
I got addicted.
Addicted to the way he felt raw inside me, no barrier, no space. Just heat and precision. The way his dick filled me so deep I forgot to be afraid. The way his cum painted me warm, and my body begged for it again and again.
It was simple. He felt so fucking good. Too good to stop.
And now—now I couldn’t shake the way my stomach turned over like it was punishing me for every reckless choice.
Worse than the nausea was the thought that kept creeping in…what if.
What if I was pregnant? What would that do to us? To Quentin? Would it drag him down, make him trade that laugh I loved for worry lines, turn him into a man who only planned and never played? Would it make him see me as a burden instead of a partner?
I thought about Shawna. Years ago. She’d been dating some dude, half in, half out, and then she missed a period. She started throwing up on random mornings, swore it was just bad food, until it wasn’t. I sat in that clinic waiting room with her, both of us pretending we weren’t scared, while she decided to end it.
Her story came rushing back, detail after detail, until my skin prickled.
