He comes to me and takes hold of my waist. Pulling me close, he says, “It’s a weird way to conceive a child, that’s for damn sure, but everyone in this place is here chasing the same goal. I feel no shame to pick up that cup, go in that bathroom, and do what I need to do to make our baby. Just like you shouldn’t feel any weirdness about what you’re going to do.”
I grip his biceps, not worrying whether I’m hurting him. He came home bruised and beaten two nights ago, and it all looks sore to me, but nothing slows Winter down. I mean, the man is still recovering from his knife wound and getting on with what he has to do; some bruises don’t worry him. “How do you always know the exact right thing to say to me when I’m a mess?”
He brushes his lips over mine. “Sixteen years of knowing you will do it.”
“Okay, we need to do this. We’re running out of time.”
Winter grabs the cup and turns the TV volume back down. “You rest. I can do this on my own.”
“I don’t want you to have to.”
“Birdie,” he starts, and I know from his tone what he’s going to say. He’s going to try to boss me into lying on the bed, but that’s the last thing I’m about to do.
“No,” I cut him off. “It’s my turn to boss you into something.” Grabbing his hips, I try to spin him around while saying, “Turn this ass around and go into the bathroom, and let me help you.”
His lips pull up in amusement. “You should try to order me around more often. It’s getting me hard.”
“Good. That’s our mission.” I lift my chin towards the bathroom. “Go.”
I follow him into the bathroom and close the door behind us. At the exact moment the door clicks shut, a cramp hits me, and I reach out and grip Winter’s forearm, squeezing it as the pain shoots through me.
Panting with the cramps, I close my eyes and wait it out. I already feel atrocious thanks to my swollen ovaries that are fighting for space inside me. I’ve ballooned so much that my jeans don’t fit me. I had to buy stretchy pants to fit my huge belly.
“Fuck,” Winter says, trying to get me to sit on the toilet.
I shake my head and open my eyes as the cramp eases. “I’m good.”
His eyes hold the same frustration that his voice does when he says, “You’re in pain. Don’t tell me you’re good.”
I take hold of his face, my eyes pleading with him to understand that I really want to do this. “Please let me do this for you.”
“You’ve already done enou—”
I press my lips to his and kiss him. Slowly. Deeply. With all the love I have for him.
He holds back to begin with, but it doesn’t take long for him to surrender. I sense the moment he gives in, and I slide my tongue over his while threading my fingers through his hair how he likes.
“Fuck,” he groans, his lips leaving mine. “I’ve missed this.”
I have, too. IVF has resulted in me feeling unsexy. When strangers are probing you with dildo-cams multiple times a week, and you’re dry and too sore for sex, and moody, the last thing you want is to get naked with your husband. Not even to kiss him and just make out. I hate this, but it’s the truth of the journey. And it’s why I have this overwhelming need to do this with Winter today.
I undo his belt and jeans before reaching for his dick. Stroking him, I move my mouth to his ear. “When we’re done with all this, I want you to spread me out on our dining table and eat me like you used to. I want your tongue, and your fingers, and your dick every-fucking-where. And after you’ve fucked me every way you want, I’ll fuck you in all the ways I want.”
“Jesus,” he rasps, his hand landing on my ass, gripping me hard.
I stroke him faster, loving the effect I’m having on him.
His other hand comes to my jaw and he directs my mouth back to his, bruising my lips with the kind of kiss that jumbles all my thoughts into a beautiful tangle. His ability to make me feel good about myself works wonders for my anxiety.
Winter lets go of my ass and grabs the collection cup. His lips leave mine, as does his other hand, which he shifts to his dick. Taking over from me, he finishes himself off, keeping his eyes firmly on mine until he has to direct his attention to the cup.
“Fuck,” he growls, coming and filling the cup.
When he’s finished, and the sample is safely stored in the brown paper bag he was given, he kisses me roughly and says, “I fucking love you.”
“Thank you for letting me do that. For helping me feel sexy again.”
His brows pull together. “You don’t feel sexy?”