Page 7 of Rough Patch

And he needed his head clear, not fogged by desire or lust or whatever the hell had him standing in the bathroom, dick in his hand. He stroked slowly, his eyes closed, remembering the taste of her, the way she’d writhed under his mouth when she came, the little squeals and whimpers of pleasure.

His hand tightened around his cock, and he used his finger to caress the sweet spot just under the head, the way Fiona used her tongue when she sucked him off. Oh, God. Fiona.

He imagined her bent in front of him, pussy glistening, hands guiding him into her, body pounding against his, taking every inch of his cock… Oh, God.

The door opened and his eyes snapped open as she knelt in front of him, took him into her mouth and sucked, cupping his balls with one hand, and using the other to stroke the base in rhythm with her mouth.

“Fuck.”

Her head bobbed, and he couldn’t hold back anymore. His body shook with the power of the orgasm as her mouth milked every last drop. Had the wall not been behind him and Fiona in front, he would certainly have collapsed. Instead, he worked to catch his breath as Fiona glared up at him.

“You’d rather jerk off in the bathroom than fuck me? Nice.” She stood and turned away from him, though he could still see her in the mirror, see the hurt in her eyes.

Shit. This was a conversation he didn’t want and couldn’t have. Not with her. Not with anyone until he had some time to Google. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. “There is nothing in this world I would rather do than fuck you.”

“Really?” His dick was still hanging out and his jeans were bunched around his ankles. The evidence didn’t roll in his favor, and she knew it.

He sighed and let go long enough to yank up his pants before settling against her again. “Yes, really.” No time for the internet, he spun her to face him. “I don’t want the kid to… our kid is in there.” He wagged a finger toward her waist. “And if I’m…” He couldn’t say it. “Don’t you want to know about Dave and the FBI?”

“Later. Right now I want to know why I found my husband standing in the bathroom taking matters into his own hands when I am one room away ready and willing to fuck him cross-eyed. Then we can chat about the FBI.”

Well, didn’t she just have a way with words.

He grinned. “Am I the cross-eyed one in this little scenario, or are you?”

She whirled and gave him a little shove. “Don’t try to charm me, Grier. I want to know why you’re in here instead of out there in bed with me.”

He pulled the door open and walked through. “Well, I don’t want to talk about that.” Because it sounded stupid. Made him sound stupid.

She followed on his heels. “Tough. I do.”

Dammit. Where the hell was his shirt? Not on the chair or the floor or under the bed. And goddammit, he needed a shirt. Couldn’t stand in a room with half-naked Fiona, bare-chested and have a conversation like this one or any other right now.

She crossed her arms. “Grier.”

The force in her tone made him look at her. It had nothing to do with how badly he wanted to look at her. He threw up his hands then crossed his arms. One way or the other they would be having the conversation at some point. Nothing to do but get it out of the way. “I don’t want the kid to… come out with a dent in its head.”

“What?” To her credit, she didn’t outright laugh, only smirked. “Grier, the doctor said sex will not hurt the baby.”

He nodded, heat burning its way from his toes to his ears. “I know. I was there.”

“And the baby is way up here.” She pointed to a spot on her abdomen. “You’re impressive, but…” She shrugged. Then chuckled. “The baby’s head will be just fine.” Now his ego joined his pride in aching. He couldn’t look at her laughing at him. Not even when she slid her body against his and dropped a shoulder to try to force him to see her. “I like that you care though.” She laid her head over his heart. “I like it a lot.”

She sniffed and a bead of water rolled down to his stomach. She was crying.

“Hey.” He tilted her chin up and brushed away another as it fell over her lashes. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Fucking hormones. One minute I’m ready to ravish your body, the next I could tear your throat out, and now I’m bawling like you stole my Barbie doll.” She shook her head. “What is wrong with me?”

He didn’t laugh, couldn’t, because she might have killed him, but mostly because he wanted to soothe her. “We’re having a baby.” And this time, the words meant something, had him thinking of the kind of father he would be, the kind who read bedtime stories, and chased away monsters from under the bed, and loved his family more than anything else in the world. He would be the father he’d never had.

Fiona crunched a mouthful of ice and stared at Hamilton. “He said Dave was feeding information to him about another club. The Omens. When Dad stepped out of the drug trade”—not completely out—“they took over. Started selling some bad shit.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Never heard of them.” He leaned back, putting his chair on its back two legs, and Fiona fought another wave of nausea. Morning sickness was not her friend. She bit into another cube of ice. Hamilton shoveled in another mouthful of runny eggs. “I would think your old man would have shared that kind of information with all of us, not just Grier.”

“He said Dad had him out looking for the leader, trying to become one of them.”

Okay. Even to Fiona, it sounded far-fetched. Especially that her dad didn’t tell anyone else in the club, but she wanted, more than anything to believe in Grier.