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Octy first told me about the job opening at the new studio months ago before Betty had her first child. When Betty and her husband decided to delay the opening of the studio so she could concentrate on being a first-time mom, I don’t think she intended to get pregnant again quite so soon. Despite being pregnant again, this time around she seems determined to get the shop up and running before she becomes a mom of two.
Betty warned me that her house was a bit crazy, but honestly, I was not expecting to find seven families living under one—albeit very large—roof. The entire Barnett family choosing to live together is a bit weird, but I’ve honestly never met a happier family.
As soon as I got there, she introduced me to all her brothers and sisters as she called them, and I’m glad there wasn’t a test on their names because I’d have failed miserably. Then she tried to introduce me to all the kids, but apart from the oldest couple, Poppy and Maverick, who were walking and talking, the rest were just a sea of crazy cute toddlers and babies.
Until today, I wasn’t the biggest fan of babies. I was nine when my brother Carson was born, ten when Dawson came along, and twelve when my sister Everly arrived. I never resented my half siblings, but being old enough to remember every sleepless night where one baby or another screamed so loud they woke up the street, not just the house, was enough to make me realize that motherhood might not be for me.
But watching the Barnetts interact with their kids was kind of mind-blowing. Betty’s husband, Cody, is one of seven. His six brothers are all married and all have kids. The seven of them are all equally huge and rugged, and I now completely understand why Octy enjoys the eye candy when she spends time with Betty and her family. Watching seven very attractive men interact with their own children and their nieces and nephews was enough to have me envisioning how Oz would look cradling a tiny baby in his arms.
Our tiny baby.
I’m not pregnant, it’s practically impossible. My periods have always been irregular, and my gynecologist said that I should consider having some eggs frozen just in case. But since I stepped foot through the door, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking what if I was? What if Oz has managed to fuck enough of his cum into me to result in a baby?
Instead of asking for a ride into town, I found myself playing peek-a-boo with a beautiful red-headed girl, who I think is Cora’s daughter because their fiery hair is the same copper shade.
When Betty asked how I ended up staying with Oz, I told them our parents had gotten married when we were kids and that we’d lost touch fifteen years ago, but that Bruce, Oz’s dad, had asked Oz if I could stay with him for a few days until Octy got to town.
I didn’t mention how awful Oz was to me or that we might be more than stepsiblings now. I never mentioned that I hadn’t wanted to stay with him or that I wanted to leave. I never said a word, not even when one of the Barnett men looked at me knowingly, like he was daring me to lie and say Oz was nothing but an estranged stepbrother to me. When dinner was over, I thanked them all for their hospitality, went back to Oz’s place and crawled into his bed, my hand resting over my stomach as I fell asleep dreaming about all the what-ifs.
The sun is high in the sky when I blink my eyes open. Rolling to my back, I pad around the bed, searching for my cell, finally finding it under the pillow and bringing the screen to life. It’s almost eleven, and I’m surprised to see that I only have one text from Oz.
Oscar: Good morning, Little One.
Sighing, I roll to my side and curl my knees up toward my chest, trapping my hand that’s still resting over my stomach in place. He woke me up last night when he called me. I hadn’t meant to tell him the truth. I didn’t even realize the words were on my lips until I was confessing that I’d planned to run but that I hadn’t.
I still don’t even really know why I’m still here, maybe it’s him, maybe it’s the sex, or maybe it’s me needing to face down my monster.
“Or maybe it’s the idea of us,” the annoying voice in my head whispers to me. Maybe I’m just not ready to give up this crazy, intense wrongness that feels so incredibly right. I’ve always thought that those girls in movies and books who throw their lives away for a guy and great sex were idiots, but isn’t that what I’m doing? Two days ago, I hated him. I was scared of him and determined to do whatever it took to avoid him. But now I’m sleeping in his bed, following his rules, and smiling at texts from him. Surely some pretty fantastic sex can’t wipe the slate clean? I’m not that dickmatized, am I?
A part of me wants to blame everything on a post-orgasm haze, but if that’s all that was keeping me here, it’d worn off by now. So what’s my excuse for still being here? Whatever the real reason is, I haven’t run, I’m still here, and he knows it. I wonder if that’s why he’s only texted me once and not a dozen times, getting angrier and angrier with each message he sends that goes unanswered.
Typing out a reply, I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Me: Good morning.
Instead of waiting to see if he replies, I drop my cell to the bed and yawn. My body feels heavy, tired, and sore, and even though I know I should be getting up, I can’t quite seem to drag myself out from beneath the warm comforter. Oz’s scent clings in the air, as does the heady tang of sex that seems to be lingering, even after I changed the sheets after Oz went back to work yesterday.
Closing my eyes, I allow my mind to replay the memory of the way he handled me after he burst into my bedroom in the middle of the night. I’ve never had a man physically handle me before. Perhaps if I had, I could have been better prepared to face Oz’s overwhelming presence, but maybe not.
My Monster’s aura is as all-consuming now as it was terrifying when we were kids. If I’m honest, I’m still a little scared of him, but now I’m worried he’ll break my heart and ruin my soul, not just destroy my things and hurt my feelings. I still bear the emotional scars of his torment from when we were kids, but the man he is now could do a hell of a lot more damage if he wanted to.
Finally convincing myself to crawl out of his comfortable bed, I pad into the bathroom and pee before turning on the faucets and setting the tub to fill. Another yawn slips from my lips as I wait for the water to rise. Steam plumes from the faucet, filling the air, and I regret my decision not to pack all of my half-empty toiletries when I realize it’s incredibly unlikely that Oz is going to have bubble bath in his medicine cabinet.
I’m still a little sore, but the water feels blissful as I slip beneath the surface, letting it curve around me like a soothing blanket. Resting my head against the tub, I close my eyes and exhale, letting the tension I’m feeling melt away into the hot water.
My apartment in Vegas was basic, and even though I lived there for three years, I never bothered to make the generic space my own. I’d rented a fully furnished place because, when I got the job after college, I didn’t really have anything or any money to buy anything. After a while, I just got used to the dollar store furnishings and uncomfortable box spring mattress that molded around me the moment I sat down on it.
The only room I did any renovations to was the bathroom. I painted the walls a calming seafoam green color and hung seaglass pebbles in the window to catch the light. I had pretty candles beside the tub and floating lights that made the water look blue or green or pink depending on my mood. I’ve always loved soaking in the tub. There’s something peaceful about the stillness of it, and even though I should not be feeling settled in Oz’s home, it’s impossible to ignore how relaxed I feel in his space.
Finding his soap, I glide it over my skin, ignoring the way my nipples pebble as I inhale his newly familiar scent. Grabbing my own shampoo that he unpacked for me, I wash my hair, then coat it in conditioner, and rest my head back while I leave it to soak in.
I can’t resist letting my hand stray to my stomach again. There’s no way there’s a baby starting to form inside of me, but the more I deny the possibility, the more I remember all the filthy things he said to me yesterday.
“You’ll take everything I give you, Etta, every fucking drop of my cum and your perfect fucking cunt is going to swallow everything. Beg me to breed you, Little One. Beg me to fill your perfect little pussy.”
Arousal heats my core as I hear the sound of his rough growl in my mind. I’ve always considered myself a bit of a prude, but there was absolutely nothing prudish about the way he fucked me or the way I loved every moment of letting him.
He can’t seriously be hoping to get me pregnant, though, can he? We haven’t seen each other for fifteen years. We don’t know each other, and we have so many issues to sort out. A baby would be too much, yet I still find myself imagining how he’d look cradling a baby—our baby—in his massively strong arms.
