The Next Sin Page 13

  “Are the cysts bad enough to warrant removing my ovary?”

  “Not yet, but you’ve had significant change since your last scan. I can’t say how long that’ll be the case.” Relief and fear simultaneously course through me.

  “You’ve not been actively trying to conceive so let’s talk about what we know.” He laces his fingers and props them on his desk. “A pregnancy hasn’t spontaneously occurred despite several months of intercourse without contraceptive. Because we know your history, I’d assume it didn’t happen because you aren’t ovulating. I’ll want to run a panel to be sure. Once we confirm that, we could try Clomid for a while to see if we can get you ovulating, but I don’t predict that being successful considering the size of your cysts. It’s a gamble—and potentially a costly one—since we’re not sure how long this ovary will last. I’d rather not leave this to chance in case history decides to repeat itself.”

  This remaining ovary feels like a time bomb that could detonate at any moment. I hate that feeling.

  “I’m recommending we induce ovulation as soon as possible. We should do another egg retrieval with fertilization and proceed with a fresh embryo transfer via IVF. Any embryos not used should be cryopreserved.”

  What?

  “Why are you recommending we push forward with the IVF now?” I ask.

  “Let’s say we do the retrieval and get six quality embryos. You freeze and bank all of them. You decide in three years you’re ready to do the transfer but two are badly degraded by the freezing process. That leaves you four possibilities—two attempts if you use two of the embryos on each IVF. Worst-case scenario, neither yield a successful pregnancy and you lose your ovary in the meantime. At that point, your only options are your banked frozen eggs from two years ago, which yield an even lower success rate than embryos. Should those prove unviable, you’re down to using donor eggs fertilized with your husband’s semen.”

  I don’t want to even begin to try to sort out the emotions stirring as I consider that last possibility.

  “The upside to proceeding with the IVF now is figuring out if you need to have a repeat egg retrieval before the opportunity is no longer there.”

  Dr. Paschall isn’t saying it but he must think I’ll lose my ovary soon. That’s the only reason he’d push for this. “If we don’t move forward, we’re putting all of my eggs in one basket and hoping it doesn’t get dropped.”

  “Yes. Quite literally.” Dr. Paschall peers up at the sonogram picture and then back to me. “If having children of your own is important to you, I wouldn’t recommend waiting.”

  “If we decide to do it, how soon are we talking?” Sin asks.

  “Your wife will require stimulated IVF. It’s a two-week cycle from the time you begin medications until the egg collection. Once the eggs are fertilized, we will choose the best two after three days and the transfer will happen at that time.”

  A tiny little ball of life will be placed inside me seventeen days after the start of the medication. No. Make that two microscopic little beings. That’s unbelievable. And completely nuts.

  “Go ahead and make the appointment. Take the next week or so to think it over and make a decision. You can always call back and cancel if you decide you don’t want to go through with it.”

  As we leave the clinic, my emotions are all over the place. I’m thrilled all hope isn’t lost but I thought we’d have more time. I have tasks to do first—important things a baby will hinder.

  Sin gives my hand a squeeze. “Hello? Earth to Bleu.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  “I said we should talk. About this. How about over lunch?”

  I’m not sure I can handle a big meal. “What about a coffee and pastry instead?”

  I’d love to have one of Starbucks’ new chestnut praline lattes but we settle for the first café we come upon. We choose a lonely table near the back in hopes of privacy for this conversation I think neither of us wants to have.

  I sip my caramel latte. When it burns my tongue, I set it aside to cool.

  “Not good?”

  “I can’t be sure. I think it may have scorched my taste buds.”

  “How’s your pumpkin bread?”

  I nod. “Good.”

  “I’m not sure how you’d know. It looks like all you’ve done is pick at it.”

  I don’t know. I can’t recall tasting the few bites I’ve taken. I’m too preoccupied. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words when I’m incapable of sorting out what’s happening in my head. And heart. “The consult didn’t go as I expected.”

  “Agreed.”

  Good. At least we’re on the same page.

  “I’m thrilled we weren’t told a pregnancy was a hopeless cause.” Now here comes the part where I must choose my words carefully. “But I’m terrified of doing this so soon. We’ve only been married six weeks.”

  “I feel the same. I’m very happy Dr. Paschall believes we have a chance but I wasn’t expecting him to advise us to proceed so quickly. I thought we’d do the retrieval now and implant in a year or two.”

  He looks as uncertain as I feel. I see it in the lines of his forehead, in the way his lips turn down at the corners.

  “We aren’t ready to do this, are we?” I ask.

  “No.” He releases my hand and sits back in his seat. “But are we prepared to let what might be our only chance at having a child slip through our fingers because it’s sooner than we’d like?”

  The timing is horrible. “Unfortunately, we aren’t blessed with the luxury of waiting until we’re ready. It seems it’s now or possibly never.”

  It feels as though my life revolves around an inconvenient schedule due to circumstances out of my control. It’s disheartening.

  “I need time to think about this. I can’t decide today.” And probably not tomorrow, or even the next day.

  “I say we enjoy our day together and talk about it after we’ve had time to adjust to the idea.”

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sinclair Breckenridge

  Bleu’s never been to London. In fact, she’s pretty much never been anywhere so I thought she’d be excited to see the sights. Although her camera is hanging around her neck, she hasn’t taken a single picture. She’s too absorbed by what I can only assume is an internal battle—probably the same one I’m struggling with. I know because she’s paying far more attention to the infants and children we pass than any of the iconic places we’re visiting.

  We browse the gift shop at The Tower of London after finishing our tour. We make the circle and end up in the children’s section. She picks up a royal guardsman teddy bear from the shelf. “He’s cute.”

  I disagree.

  I’m Scottish, so for me, it’s a symbol of oppression. Our conflicts with England are centuries’ old and still run deep. I’ll never be a fan of anything representing the English. I avoid this place. I wouldn’t be here now if the Assisted Reproduction Centre didn’t have the highest successful pregnancy rates in IVF.

  Bleu wasn’t reared here. She doesn’t understand how many Scots feel toward our southern neighbors. But she’ll come to know since she’s going to spend the rest of her life in Scotland.

  She studies the toy another moment before returning it to the shelf. She almost looks regretful about it. “Do you want the bear?”

  “No.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I’ll buy you any Scottish bear you want, but not an English one.”

  “You look angry.”

  “No worries. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  I attempt to distract Bleu—and myself—with sightseeing. It’s a long day by the time we return to the hotel. My leg feels the miles by the time we return so once we’re back in our suite, I remove my prosthesis. “Fuck, I’m sor
e from all the walking we did today.”

  “You should’ve told me. We didn’t have to stay out all day.”

  It wasn’t a problem earlier. In fact, I didn’t notice the discomfort until an hour ago. “It was fine all day. The walk back was when it started giving me trouble.”

  I pushed myself too far in an attempt to keep Bleu’s mind off the baby stuff. And mine. Mission not accomplished.

  She plops on the floor in front of me and reaches for my leg. “Here. I’m going to rub it for you.”

  I don’t want her doing that. “No.”

  “If my feet hurt, you’d rub them for me. In fact, you’ve done it for me before—more than once if I recall correctly.”

  “Aye, but this is different.”

  “You have pain in your lower extremity and I want to make it better for you. It’s no different than what you do for me.”

  But it is. She just can’t see that. “It’s my stump. Not my foot.”

  “True. It’s not your foot because you only have one and it’s on your other leg. Stop being stupid and let me massage it for you.”

  She’s determined to make me feel better as she rubs her hands over the end of my amputated leg. “Better?”

  I don’t want to hurt her but she needs to understand why I don’t want her doing this and why it’s different from rubbing feet. “Muscle is what’s massaged. That’s why it feels good. My stump is mostly skin-covered bone and there’s not a lot of sensation. It’s not a pleasant feeling. That’s why it’s not the same thing.”

  She stops and looks up at me. “Okay. But I still want to make you feel better.”

  She moves to her knees and glides her hands up my thighs. “What about this? Better?”

  I like the place this is going. “Not quite there but it’s a definite improvement.”

  She stretches to place her lips against mine and sucks my bottom lip into her mouth. “I’m going to make you feel so damn good.”

  She moves her mouth down the side of my neck. “You’re definitely moving in the right direction.”

  “Getting warmer, huh?”

  “Aye.”

  She loosens the knot of my tie and lifts it over my head. She pulls the bottom of my shirt from my pants and begins unbuttoning it, starting at the top. When it’s open, I sit up and she pushes it from my shoulders before tossing it over the arm of the sofa.

  She places her palms on my chest and pushes me so my back is pressed against the sofa. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She kisses the center of my chest while tracing the tips of her thumbs around my nipples. They harden and she pinches them, sending a tingle straight to my cock. Or maybe her mouth moving down my stomach is the culprit.

  Bleu reaches the waistband of my trousers and tugs the button open before lowering the zipper. Her hand reaches inside and frees me. She looks up at me and licks her lips. “Am I getting warmer?”

  “Definitely.”

  She lowers her mouth and presses her tongue just above my balls, dragging it in a slow, upward motion along my length. She reaches the head and sucks it into her mouth, swirling her tongue back and forth across the tip while holding the base.

  She looks up and we make eye contact. “Still just warm?”

  “No.” I suck air through clenched teeth. “You’re on-fucking-fire.”

  She smiles before taking me back into her mouth in what I’m predicting will be the best blow job ever.

  I lace my fingers through her hair as her head bobs up and down over my cock. Her hand cups my scrotum and she gently rolls my balls. This kind of massaging, I can stand. She can do it any time she wants. “Mmm … you’re making me feel so damn good, just like you said you would.”

  I’m going to come very soon. I’m not sure how Bleu prefers that to happen. But I know how I feel about it. She’s my wife, not one of my previous conquests. I don’t plan to treat her as such. “Bonny. I’m about to come. I don’t want to do it in your mouth.”

  Her head lifts but she’s still close enough I feel her warm breath on my dick when she speaks. “It’s okay.”

  No. It’s really not.

  I’ve done it plenty of times and it was always with one thing in mind—to convey to the woman I was with that she was nothing more than an object I was using for my own gratification. I don’t want that for my Bonny Bleu.

  I caress my hand over her hair. “Stop, baby.”

  She does as I ask and looks up at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not a thing in the world.”

  I tug on her hands—willing her to stand—and she follows my cue. I unfasten the bottom button of her shirt and work my way up. She’s wearing a pink-and-white-striped bra, trimmed in black lace. Something about it reminds me of Paris. “Ooh la la.”

  She trails two fingers down her breastbone between her tits. “Do you like it?”

  “Aye. So well I think you should keep it on a while longer. I like the way you’re all stacked up there.”

  When I’m finished, her shirt joins mine on the couch and I go to work on her trousers. Her shoes are already off so she kicks out of her pants.

  She’s wearing matching knickers. No surprise there. My lass always wears paired sexies for me.

  I grasp her arse cheeks in my hands and pull her forward, pressing my nose against the satiny triangle barely covering her. I inhale deeply. “You smell like the best kind of aphrodisiac. I can never get enough.”

  I slip my finger into her elastic waistband and pull back, dipping my nose inside. “I like these knickers very much but I’d prefer seeing them on the floor.”

  She pushes her fingers through my hair. “I think you’ve mastered all the ways to make that happen.”

  “I’m sure there’s always room for improvement.”

  I glide my hands over the arse of her knickers and hook my fingers over the back waistband. I scrunch them in my fisted hands and drag them down her legs. She steps out and I crumple them against my nose. I breathe in Bleu’s aroma. “I could very well develop a panty fetish because of your scent, my dear Mrs. Breckenridge. It’s divine.”

  “Then I’d have to call you a weirdo. Or sex fiend. That’s probably more appropriate.”

  “I assure you I’ve been called much worse.”

  I grasp her behind her knee and place her foot on the sofa so I have better access to what I want. She grasps my shoulders for balance as she stands on a single foot.

  My hand palm side up, I slip it between her legs. I push my fingers through her slit and bring them forward, barely grazing her sensitive nub. I do it again, softly and slowly. Deliberate. I want her to yearn for more. “Do you like it when I do that?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I stroke her again. “Then you’d like more of this?”

  “You know I do.”

  “How badly do you want it?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Then ask me for it.”

  “Touch me.”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what you want. A simple touch will never make you come. Tell me what it is you really want.”

  “Stroke me.” She takes one of her hands from my shoulder and places on top of mine. She rocks her hips back and forth. “Right here.”

  “Stroke here until you what?”

  “Until I come.”

  I move my fingers back and forth. “Like this?”

  “Mmm … hmm.”

  She’s holding my hand with hers, moving her hips against my fingers. Faster and harder. It isn’t long before I’m seeing the cues she’s close to climax. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

  I grasp the back of her leg, the one she’s still standing on. “Hold onto my shoulders.”

  I pull her so her legs are straddling me. I guide my rock-hard cock to her entrance. She sinks over me until I’m deep inside. “Ohh,” she gasps.

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders and begins moving with me. I move my fingers to that sen
sitive spot above our union and continue stroking her sensitive zone. “This is where I want to come. Inside you—here.” Never in her mouth like the others. Never in the mouth she’ll use to kiss our children.

  “It’s starting,” she says while slowing to ride me with more deliberate motion. And she’s right. The muscular contractions squeeze tightly around my cock. It’s all I need to start the onset of my own climax.

  “I feel it.” I grasp her hips tightly, digging my fingertips into her flesh. I pull her down hard and plunge deep, meeting her thrust for thrust.

  “Ohh … ohh,” she groans. It’s her patented noise every time she comes. It’s a glorious sound to hear. It means I’ve given my wife another orgasm. I’m still the only man who’s ever done that for her.

  It’s a carefully orchestrated act to bring together. And worth every bit of effort. There’s nothing else like it in this world.

  When we’re both satiated, she relaxes against me, resting her cheek against my shoulder. I’m still inside her. I want to keep it that way so I put my arms around her waist to hold her in place.

  I thought making love might take her mind off the baby stuff but I don’t think it has. “You’re still there.”

  She pulls away to look at my face. “I’m still where?”

  “That place your mind went after we left the fertility clinic this morning.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m happy she isn’t pretending she doesn’t know what I mean.

  “It’s okay. I’m in the same place.” And I want to be there together.

  “It scares me.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.” She presses her forehead to mine. “I’m terrified it won’t work. I’m petrified it will.”

  I rub my hands up and down her back. “I think all first-time parents have these kinds of fears.”

  “But mine are different. They consist of more than how I’ll care for a baby.”

  I want to know and understand the things causing her angst. “Tell me about it.”