Harleigh is lying on her back. Nor do I pull out when I tip her hips and shove the pillows from the head of the bed underneath them.
“I want you knocked up, Angel,” I confirm when I’m satisfied that none of my come will be escaping any time soon.
“There’s no use fighting you on this, is there?” She sighs.
“Nope,” I grin, rocking my hips as my semi-erect cock begins to harden at the thought of her already being pregnant.
“You know you’re insane, right?” She mutters. “Between you being in the MC and going on runs that take you out of town for days at a time, and me needing to travel for work, this poor kid isn’t going to know which way is up.”
I notice immediately she didn’t say no, which has my cock instantly standing at full attention, locked, loaded, and ready to go. But her words also remind me I still have some explaining to do. An explanation that I’m relatively sure will make the decision to have my babies even easier. Not that she really had a choice. I’m positive that after this weekend it will have that taken care of.
CHAPTER TWELVE
~ Harleigh ~
“You’re dead to me,” I moan pathetically as I drop my head, resting it against the cold porcelain. “You and your giant cock are no longer welcome here.”
Handing me a damp washcloth, Lyric scoops my exhausted, yet sated body into his arms and sits me on the bathroom vanity. Loading my toothbrush with toothpaste, the tap turns on as warm fingers stroke across my sweaty brow.
“I love you, Angel,” my husband murmurs, watching my every movement as I clean myself up after this latest round of morning sickness.
Whoever labeled death, morning sickness is a fucking idiot. Feeling like you are projectile vomiting your intestines out multiple times a day while you sweat like a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler in summer is not the definition of sickness. That my friends is the epitome of a living death.
“How is she feeling, Lyric? Are you okay now, sweetie?” Faye asks us, sitting down on the edge of our bed.
When Lyric succeeded in knocking me up on his first try and started talking about buying a house, I told him I couldn’t bring myself to leave Faye and Tripp right now. Lyric said he understood, but couldn’t hide the disappointment he felt at the prospect of having to share my time with other people.
Since finding out I’m pregnant, Lyric has turned into a functioning psychopath. He monitors what and how much I eat, and checks the labels of boxes for potentially harmful chemicals that may endanger his ‘little princess’ as he likes to call the chickpea size vomit inducer I’m gestating.
Okay, so that was a little harsh, but what do you expect? When I envision myself being on my hands and knees twice a day it couldn’t be more removed than me hugging porcelain, thanking God for the invention of running water.
A soft hand on my arm has me rolling my eyes up at my best friend.
“No, I am not okay. Nothing about this is all right, Faye.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she coos. “It will get better, I promise. I was eleven weeks with Tripp before it started to ease, and you’re nearly there.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, jumping up and racing to the bathroom again. I almost don’t make it before the remainder of my breakfast is violently expelled from my body, along with half my internal organs.
“This seriously sucks,” I whine as I crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin a few minutes later. Turning to my husband I add, “I hope you’re happy with one because that’s all you’re getting out of me.”
“Give us a few, would you Faye?” He asks.
Taking the hint, she backs out of the room, shutting the door behind her without saying a word. Granted she does grin and wink at me, so apparently she’s becoming more adept at reading my husband than he’s given her credit for.
Lyric and I moved into
“I want you knocked up, Angel,” I confirm when I’m satisfied that none of my come will be escaping any time soon.
“There’s no use fighting you on this, is there?” She sighs.
“Nope,” I grin, rocking my hips as my semi-erect cock begins to harden at the thought of her already being pregnant.
“You know you’re insane, right?” She mutters. “Between you being in the MC and going on runs that take you out of town for days at a time, and me needing to travel for work, this poor kid isn’t going to know which way is up.”
I notice immediately she didn’t say no, which has my cock instantly standing at full attention, locked, loaded, and ready to go. But her words also remind me I still have some explaining to do. An explanation that I’m relatively sure will make the decision to have my babies even easier. Not that she really had a choice. I’m positive that after this weekend it will have that taken care of.
CHAPTER TWELVE
~ Harleigh ~
“You’re dead to me,” I moan pathetically as I drop my head, resting it against the cold porcelain. “You and your giant cock are no longer welcome here.”
Handing me a damp washcloth, Lyric scoops my exhausted, yet sated body into his arms and sits me on the bathroom vanity. Loading my toothbrush with toothpaste, the tap turns on as warm fingers stroke across my sweaty brow.
“I love you, Angel,” my husband murmurs, watching my every movement as I clean myself up after this latest round of morning sickness.
Whoever labeled death, morning sickness is a fucking idiot. Feeling like you are projectile vomiting your intestines out multiple times a day while you sweat like a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler in summer is not the definition of sickness. That my friends is the epitome of a living death.
“How is she feeling, Lyric? Are you okay now, sweetie?” Faye asks us, sitting down on the edge of our bed.
When Lyric succeeded in knocking me up on his first try and started talking about buying a house, I told him I couldn’t bring myself to leave Faye and Tripp right now. Lyric said he understood, but couldn’t hide the disappointment he felt at the prospect of having to share my time with other people.
Since finding out I’m pregnant, Lyric has turned into a functioning psychopath. He monitors what and how much I eat, and checks the labels of boxes for potentially harmful chemicals that may endanger his ‘little princess’ as he likes to call the chickpea size vomit inducer I’m gestating.
Okay, so that was a little harsh, but what do you expect? When I envision myself being on my hands and knees twice a day it couldn’t be more removed than me hugging porcelain, thanking God for the invention of running water.
A soft hand on my arm has me rolling my eyes up at my best friend.
“No, I am not okay. Nothing about this is all right, Faye.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she coos. “It will get better, I promise. I was eleven weeks with Tripp before it started to ease, and you’re nearly there.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, jumping up and racing to the bathroom again. I almost don’t make it before the remainder of my breakfast is violently expelled from my body, along with half my internal organs.
“This seriously sucks,” I whine as I crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin a few minutes later. Turning to my husband I add, “I hope you’re happy with one because that’s all you’re getting out of me.”
“Give us a few, would you Faye?” He asks.
Taking the hint, she backs out of the room, shutting the door behind her without saying a word. Granted she does grin and wink at me, so apparently she’s becoming more adept at reading my husband than he’s given her credit for.
Lyric and I moved into
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