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To prove my point, I capture his lips as soon as I open my eyes.
I’m officially in my second trimester. The nausea’s manageable now. My stomach doesn’t even roll as I kiss Joseph, wrapping my arms around his neck and slinging my leg over his torso.
I kiss his neck.
“Good morning,” he mumbles with a smile. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I don’t have to go to the library until two today. I want to make the most of my morning off,” I say, reaching down to free his cock from his boxers. Now that the nausea is gone, my sex drive returns with a vengeance.
I tease my hand along his cock, feeling his body heat as he hardens. I rub my thumb across the tip, and he groans in pleasure.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
I kiss his jaw as I continue to work my hands along the shaft. Joseph sits up, grabs the back of my neck with his good arm, and pulls me to him.
He kisses me and slips his tongue into my open mouth. We kiss voraciously. He reaches down and teases open my entrance with his good hand, working his strong fingers against my clit in the exact rhythm I like. He inserts a second finger inside me and moves it forward in a claw motion. I roll my hips toward him to match the rhythm.
“Joseph,” I whisper.
“Yes?”
“Fuck me,” I command, bracing my hips upward to receive him as he discards his boxers and thrusts into me. I ride him as we kiss, rolling my body upward to accommodate his thrusts. He pounds into me. The backs of my thighs slap against him as we match each other, our bodies fitting seamlessly, even with my growing belly.
My doctor told me I should take advantage of the times I feel good, and I do. I bear down with a grunt as I tighten around him, gripping his good shoulder as I suck on his bottom lip. He clutches my ass, squeezing the newfound flesh.
Joseph makes me feel beautiful. He stops kissing me to take my breast in his mouth and suck, running his tongue over my nipple. My nipples are bigger now and extra sensitive. He flicks his tongue upward, and I tighten around him as I come with a cry. My eyelashes flutter. I see stars as heat ignites along my body, filling my veins with fireworks of pleasure.
“Yes! Joseph, yes!” I cry as my thighs shake from the sheer force of the orgasm. He comes and yanks my hair back. We are tangled in ecstasy.
Finally, I sling my legs off him and cuddle against his side.
“That’s quite the way to start the morning,” Joseph says as he kisses my temple.
“I told you I wanted to make good use of my morning off.”
“Well then, should we grab your breakfast as well? Are you hungry?”
“Always.”
I get up and throw on a loose black linen dress before braiding my hair in a loose plait down my back. My bump peeks out beneath the dress. There’s no denying I’m pregnant now.
I brush my teeth while Joseph gets ready and hear it again— a rustling sound, like the rustling of a thick Victorian skirt. A breeze rushes past me, though the tiny window in the bathroom is closed. I spit into the sink and tell myself it was just my imagination.
After Joseph gets ready, we walk to the only coffee shop in town: Weatherby Java. It’s the sort of place that would make most coffee snobs wrinkle their noses, thanks to the endless array of sugary drink options, but I like it. The space is full of plush chairs. They serve mochas in gigantic ceramic mugs with ample amounts of whipped cream. There’s no pretension. No one’s trying to impress the patrons with their knowledge of pour-overs— it’s the opposite of a Portland coffee shop, and on this chilly November morning, I’m grateful for it.
Joseph holds the door open for me. The air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg. Soft jazz is playing over the speakers.
Joseph and I walk up to the counter. He ordered an Americano, and I ordered a decaf vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin. We sit in two plush, jewel-toned armchairs directly across from one another.
“This is nice,” Joseph says. “We should grab coffee together more often.”
“I know! I rarely get an afternoon shift. I’m trying to savor it. What about you? Have you been doing your exercises?”
Joseph’s physical therapy is once a week for the next eight weeks. I’ve been bugging him to do the exercises the PT sent home with him, but the complimentary stretching band she gave him remains untouched.
“I want to …” he starts. The barista brings us our coffees, and I take a sip of mine. “But every time I go to do them, I think of that night,” he admits.
“Oh,” I say, trying to mask my shock. Joseph’s always seemed so stoic, but that night in the attic did a number on him. I want to be able to support him emotionally, but I also don’t want to leap ahead, play armchair psychologist, and say that he’s experiencing an acute trauma response.
