Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Now, we’re going to be parents, and that alone connects us.

I give in to the kiss, squeezing my eyes closed, every sensation heightened. The feel of his tongue, the weight of his body on top of me, the sounds we’re making.

The mattress dips.

The sheets rustle.

Our lips smack and suck.

Mateo moans.

I moan.

His hand sliding up my leg is a soft, gentle caress. I feel the thick bulge pressing into the valley between my legs; he’s resting there now though it’s wet and pulsing.

Waiting. Wanting.

Selfish and greedy, so unlike myself.

Apparently, my pussy is in charge of me the way a man’s dick is in charge of him, aka I am pregnant.

“You want it bad, huh?” He’s stroking my tummy now, beautiful mouth twisted into a grin, the tease.

I shrug. “Whatever, no big deal. We can stop now if you want to take naps.” I feign a yawn, my pussy dampening with fury.

For a brief moment, I see the tentativeness in his eyes. He’s thinking, Shit, what if she’s actually tired? I don’t want to beg this pregnant chick to have sex with me if she wants to take a damn nap.

He pulls back, calling my bluff. “Okay, we can stop.”

Oh my god, is he being serious right now?!

My hand clamps down on his shoulder, dragging him back to where he belongs—about to push inside me.

“Just do it,” I whisper, hoping I sound seductive and not desperate.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Just…stick it in?”

“Yup, slide on home.”

So romantic. So matter-of-fact I want to laugh at the absurdity of my blunt honesty.

“Hey,” I add, “I made a baseball reference—aren’t you proud of me?”

“Slide home.” He laughs. “So proud of you. I’ll have to share a laugh about it with your brother around the dinner table sometime—he’ll love that joke.”

“Are you trying to kill my boner?”

He presses forward, the tip flirting with my slit. “Don’t say boner.”

I kiss the tip of his nose. “Boner.”

Mateo lowers his head a few inches, the hair along his forehead tickling the side of my neck.

He’s breathing hard now, taking deep steadying breaths, bracing one arm on either side of my head as if doing a plank.

I kiss his right bicep. Sniff it, wanting to inhale the smell of him, feeling some kind of way about how intimate this night has been. Huge. Monumental.

One part dreadful, one part wonderful.

Moments I will never get back and thankfully never want to.

For a night I didn’t plan, it’s gone surprisingly well—he didn’t kick me out. Didn’t curse me or call me names or leave. That did cross my mind—that he would storm out in a rage.

Not that he’s the type, but you really never know how a person is going to react to unexpected news.

Granted, he mostly pieced the puzzle together himself.

His dick is meant for me is the first thing that comes to mind when he’s all the way inside, a tight fit. Blessedly tight.

“Fuck you feel good. You’re so wet.”

In sex talk, that’s a compliment, and I preen under his appraisal, mentally patting myself on the back as I accept him into my body.

My hands glide along his rib cage, down his spine, over his ass.

Body like a mythical god, there is nothing about Mateo Espinoza that screams amateur—he needs his body for work and knows how to use it for sex, rolling his hips once he’s adjusted.

“Goddamn, you’re sexy.” His lips meet my shoulder, planting kisses there.

I feel sexy.

Being pregnant has only made me love and appreciate my own body more. My boobs, my ass, my legs.

They’re giving Mateo and me both pleasure right now, his moaning filling the room when he begins rocking back and forth inside me, moaning, moaning, moaning.

No barrier between us, not that we had one the last time we slept together.

And as if the moment wasn’t already perfect, we come at the same time after only a short time, the tingles ebbing and flowing in my core and brimming into a massive orgasm.

Mine.

Then his.

We’ve barely worked up a sweat, lying there next to each other once Mateo rolls off my body, head on the pillow beside mine, his hand grabbling for mine.

He holds it, breathing heavy as we stare up at the ceiling.

“Sorry about that,” he eventually says.

“Sorry about what?” I turn to face him, rolling to my side and propping myself up on my elbow.

“For coming so fast—what am I, sixteen?”

My eyes get wide. “You were having sex when you were sixteen? Dang, I was like, twenty-two.”

Three years ago. My experience in bed is less than impressive if I’m weighing it against his, apparently.

“I wasn’t being literal, I just meant sorry I spilled my load five minutes after we started.”

I think I’m blushing, but it’s hard to say with my heart beating this fast, cheeks already flushed. “Trust me, I don’t think I was in the mood for marathon sex—we didn’t have to do it for an hour.”