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“And,” Connor adds, “I’m assuming this is your first time fucking a pregnant woman. At least, I would hope, but you had an eclectic taste in women.”
I take a swig of lukewarm coffee and then gesture at him with the mug. “Are we friends?”
“Good friends, which is why I’m asking.” He obviously knows what it’s like to have sex with a pregnant girl. So does Lo.
I don’t really need their advice, as much as I’m sure they’re going to give it.
“It’s my first time having sex with a pregnant girl,” I tell them, not really a big fucking shocker there. “Since I fucked Daisy yesterday, no—I’m not exactly scared.” I pick at the omelet with my fork and then run my hand through my disheveled hair. “It was our first time since Peru…”
They both listen more closely.
“Look, it has nothing to do with my fucking leg. I can get around it. I just haven’t felt like it and neither has she.”
“Until yesterday?” Lo asks, biting into his breakfast burrito.
I nod. “Yeah. She was really fucking flirty.” Blue Lagoon was playing in our bedroom, her favorite movie. She was pretending we were stranded on an island together. Both of us seamlessly switched from playful to aroused. Almost the same time the characters started having sex in the film.
Lo nods at me. “How’d you get around your leg? Because there are only so many positions you can do while she’s pregnant.”
“I put all my weight on my left leg,” I explain the best I can. “She was on her back, and I stood up at the end of the bed.”
“No crutches?”
“No crutches.” Which are currently on the floor beneath the fucking table.
Lo cocks his head at me. “So you’re saying that you’re willing to put in effort to stand up and fuck your wife, but you can’t go out with me and hobble around more often?”
“I fucking love sex,” I tell him, popping a dry piece of omelet in my mouth.
“You love climbing,” he retorts.
I go rigid. “Don’t, Lo.” I’m not in the mood to argue with him about quitting. He’s made curt comments like this for the past eight weeks. He’s the one who wanted me to stop in the fucking first place. No matter what I do, he’s angry.
He shuts down, but not without an added glare my way.
“When your cast comes off tomorrow,” Connor says, “you can try kneeling and propping her back underneath a pillow.”
I doubt I’ll be able to put weight on my right knee for a while, but I don’t mention it. “Have you ever been scared to have sex with Rose?” I ask since he was the one who jumped to that conclusion.
“Lo said he was when Lily was pregnant.”
I’ve never heard this, but maybe they talked about it when their wives were pregnant around the same time.
Lo shrugs. “First, Lily isn’t submissive in bed like Queen Rose. I have someone who’ll legitimately jump on my back like a howler monkey.” He actually breaks into a laugh, thinking about her.
Connor and I both smile because Lo’s current one is pretty rare.
Lo adds, “Knowing that my unborn kid was in her body messed with my fucking head. So yeah, I was scared I’d hurt her or him.”
“Fuck,” I say, realizing that’ll probably happen to me at least once.
“It’s not that bad,” Lo says, probably so I don’t shun sex. “I’d do it again.”
“The whole kid thing?” I ask with raised brows. This is the guy who doubted whether he’d be a good father. Who thought a child would be unlucky to have him, but Maximoff Hale is one of the most fortunate kids in this world. Because his life is full of unconditional love.
“Yeah, the whole kid thing.”
I nod to Connor. “What about you? Do you feel the same as Lo?” He never said if he was scared or not, just that Lo was.
He sets down his fork and knife, picking up his coffee. “Do you want an education in what turns me on?”
I see where this is going. “Sure.”
“I enjoy making Rose comfortable during sex and only pushing the boundaries that we’re both okay with. She’s undeniably more fragile when she’s pregnant, even mentally, and it entices me. Taking care of her. Fucking her.” He tells us, “I go easier than usual, but I like knowing that she trusts me to give her pleasure, not discomfort.”
“What he said,” Lo banters.
I actually laugh. His description sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than Lo’s fear. Though, I can see myself feeling both.
My laugh dies pretty fucking fast, the constant, perpetual throbbing in my leg starting to irritate me. I dig in my short’s pocket for a medicine bottle. I twist off the cap of my pain meds and dole out a couple, popping them in my mouth about the same fucking time Lo reaches across the table and steals the bottle.
I swallow them without water, going down like a dry lump. “What the fuck?” I growl, extending my arm for him to give the meds back.
He reads the label on the side. “How many have you taken today?”
“Lo,” I say. “You’re not my fucking doctor.”
“No, I’m your brother,” he says like he has to remind me. Like I’ve forgotten his role in my life. The thing is, I’m the one who’s the hard ass, not him. “You know we’re alcoholics, right?”
My jaw hardens, the pill bottle’s cap in my hand. “Yeah, I’m aware.”
“You know we’re more likely to be addicted to pills?”
My shoulder muscles constrict.
“You know when you had your transplant surgery you didn’t take one pain pill when you returned home?”
“That was fucking different, Lo.” I glance at Connor to see if he’s going to add to Lo’s commentary.
He simply drinks his coffee, not coming between us.
Lo scrutinizes the bottle like it’s the cause of my misery. It’s not. “How is it different?” Lo asks. “You were physically hurt then. You’re physically hurt now.” His amber eyes drill cold into me.
“It just was.”
“That’s not good enough.”
For fuck’s sake. I glower at him, about to push my omelet away and fucking leave. “You know why it’s different.” I reach out for the pill bottle again. “Give it to me, Lo. I’m not playing around.”
“You tell me why and I’ll give it to you.”
He’s baiting me, and I have no other fucking cards to play.
I roll my eyes. Can I even say it? Can I really say the fucking words?
“Why is this so different? Come on, Ryke. Why does this matter so much to you—”
“He died,” I almost fucking shout. “Now give me back my fucking pain meds.”
He dumps all of them in his coffee.
I’m going to kill him. I stand up abruptly from the table, struggling on one leg and adjusting my other fucking one. I reach to pick up my crutches but Lo steals those from me too.
“Fuck you,” I growl. I’m going to kill my little brother.
My blood is fucking boiling, and Connor rises, calmly setting bills on the table for our meal. Seeing that this is the end of breakfast.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I shout at him, camera phones pointing at us. Clicking. Flashing. Capturing my hurt and rage.
Lo walks around the table with my crutches, edging towards me until his chest is about an inch from mine. And he says lowly, “You don’t take oxycodone for emotional pain. You’re stronger than this.”
I grip the top of the chair, helping me balance as his words barrel through me. “Maybe I’m not,” I say beneath my breath.
His jaw sharpens. “You are, and I’ll tell you what else is happening. I called your physical therapist, who said you wanted to push back PT for another four months. Don’t worry, I fixed that little mix-up with him. You’re starting PT tomorrow, bright and early. Like you like it.”
“Lo—”
“I also asked him to email me your mandatory, daily workouts when he’s not with you. You’re not missing a single fucking push-up, big brother.” He hands me my crutches.
I’m not used to this from Lo. He’s never had to play this part in my life, and I honestly never thought he would. He’s apathetic, pretty lazy—I’m the one who pulls him from bed. Who drags him to the gym. Who reminds him why he’s living.
I can’t say anything, choked with more emotion. I put my crutches beneath my armpits. And then I notice a young kid, maybe twelve, carrying a tied paper bag. Eyes on Lo. His arm winds back.
“Lo,” I start, about to step in front of him, but Connor is faster. Slipping in front of Lo, facing one another, just as the kid launches the bag.
It’s not packaged like the other flour bombs. The explosion has a shorter radius, and only covers the back of Connor’s black button-down and hair. His normally impassive expression is full of irritation.
Our bodyguards, who were standing outside, suddenly rush in and obtain the kid. “You suck!” the boy shouts at us.
“Classic,” Lo says to the kid while trying to brush the clumpy flour out of Connor’s hair. “Maybe you should insult someone who actually gives a shit.”
He flips him off, being dragged towards the exit. Connor’s bodyguard asks if he wants to press charges, and Connor says, “Give me time to think about it.”
