“Why?” She squeezed her breasts together. “I thought you wanted to get me pregnant.”
”Ido—but if you keep doing that, I’m going to get these sheets pregnant instead.”
She laughed, and he slid inside her. God, she was warm and wet and perfect, and he had to hold still or he’d lose it in seconds.
“Oh my god,” he murmured, moving carefully as she arched into him. “Don’t move. I’m serious.”
He paused to breathe, then started again.
“Just knowing you’re not on birth control is making me crazy.”
“Oh, I noticed.” She tightened around him.
“What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Fuck me.”
“You got it.”
She dragged her nails down his back and that was it—he came hard, chest pressed to hers, breathless.
“I’m going to need a minute,” he panted.
“Stay inside me,” she whispered. “Might help seal the deal.”
“Babe, I’ll stay here forever if it helps. I love you. And—holy fucking shit.”
CHAPTER 41
TYLER
Tyler was convinced she was pregnant. Her back ached, her boobs were sore, and she’d gained five pounds—okay, maybe six, but who was counting? She’d promised herself she’d wait three weeks before taking a test, but that didn’t stop her from spiraling. She googledfoods to avoid + pregnancyand immediately cut caffeine and dairy from her diet. Raw fish was also on the list, but thankfully, she hated sushi—one less sacrifice in the name of hypothetical motherhood.
A few days from the three-week mark, a familiar pain jolted her awake.
“No!” she cried, holding her hand below her waist. Her period had arrived like an uninvited guest, but at least she was home in bed. Rory snuggled her as she sobbed on his head. “Mommy’s not pregnant, buddy.”
He gave her a kiss.
After an ugly cry, she dragged herself to the bathroom, sat on the floor, and texted Cary.No baby :(
Her phone vibrated right away. It was Cary on FaceTime. “Cary . . .” She started to cry again.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said. “We’ll keep trying.”
She pulled Rory against her chest while she lay in the fetal position. “I had so many symptoms, but it was just wishful thinking, I guess.” She wiped her nose with a few sheets of tissue paper. “It took Dylan seventeen years, Cary.”
“We’ll keep trying,” he said again.
“We could do IVF . . . or adopt a baby?”
“We’ve only tried once.” He smirked. “Well, one night, that is.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I can come out there if you want? I’d have to fly back tomorrow but could be there for a few hours, at least.”
“That’s okay.” She sniffled, holding the tissue paper against her nose. “You’ll be here soon.”
“The end of next week,” he confirmed. “We’ll get to spend two weeks together, but I have to work a bit. I hope you don’t mind? The pictures for my art show are due soon, and I’d like your input.”
The Winnipeg Art Gallery—the WAG—had asked Cary to display his photographs beside the professional shots from his career. The exhibit was called “Cary Kingston: In Front and Behind the Lens.”
