Three Little Words (#dirtysexygeeks Book 4) Read online

  “It fits me perfectly, and that’s a rare commodity now and days. Take off your shirt so I can sit on it.”

  “You just want my shirt off.”

  “A definite plus.”

  He obliged. After she’d settled on it, she pulled the dress over her head. Her bra and panties matched. She so came over for sex. The swell of her stomach hung over the panty line. He’d never thought pregnancy could be sexy as fuck, but Iris glowed, was so damn soft and seemed to be perpetually wet. Fucking her blind was a goddamn privilege.

  Porter flicked at her panty line. “If you love these underwear, take them off yourself.”

  “I don’t mind the grease stains.” She took his mouth and he worked her underwear down then his own.

  Her hand closed around his cock. His eyes might have crossed. Her hand was soft, and damp from the precome he was already dripping. He gripped her hips to drag her to the edge. Later he’d admire the smear of his hand prints on her. All he could think, want, was being inside her. He’d assumed at some point the urge would ebb. They’d fuck in every position, find a rhythm where they both got off and got bored. Maybe it was just the pregnancy making sex with her earth shattering.

  Porter doubted it.

  He lined up his sex to hers and then he was inside her. He brought his mouth to hers to keep his groans to a minimum. He’d never been this vocal with anyone else, but no one was Iris. When wet. And tight. And digging her nails into his ass, begging in that silent way to fuck her harder. She broke the kiss to lean back on her hand. The other reached between them, plucking her clit in time to his strokes.

  How could he not look? Or watch? He had to.

  Porter glanced down. He stopped mid-stroke. His heart froze in his chest. “Iris,” he breathed.

  He pulled out to make sure his eyes weren’t lying to him. He swiped his palm down his dick and looked at the pale skin. Blood. “You’re bleeding,” the two words felt thick on his tongue.

  She bowed her head, glancing down. “What?”

  “Bleeding.” He grabbed the dress she’d discarded and shoved the material over her head, already in motion to fix this. This had to be fixed. Pregnant women weren’t supposed to bleed. Iris shouldn’t be. His son…

  She fought against him and the dress then finally pulled her hands through. Her eyes were wide. Calm. He needed to grab that emotion and not let it go.

  “Don’t move,” he said and calm wasn’t anywhere to be found. “I’m getting my shoes.”

  She grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin. “Breathe.”

  He hated to sound like a broken record. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It can happen. It’s not something to freak out about until a doctor tells us to flip our damn wigs. So, you breathe. I’ll call the doctor.”

  He balled his fists, trying to tell himself she was being reasonable and clear headed. Her sister had four kids.

  But he could still feel the moisture of her blood on his hand. “We can call the doctor at the ER. She’ll be up to speed, and if she can, she can meet us there.”

  Iris mouth pinched. “I’ll call the doctor. Go put your shoes on in case she tells me to head to the ER.”

  He didn’t know why this was an argument. She was fucking bleeding. Every second mattered. He breathed again, tamping down his temper. Carefully, he took his phone out of his pocket and put it in her hand. She blanched at the sight of her blood. Her fingers were steady as she dialed the number from memory.

  He fixed himself. There would be time to wash later. He had to get her to the ER to make sure their son was going to make it to nine months.

  She would go. There wasn’t going to be a debate.

  *****

  The downside to being pregnant and sitting in the ER was being pregnant and needing to be in the ER. The high point was they had rushed her in and within an hour, Iris had confirmation she was fine.

  Now...tell that to Porter.

  He’d talked through gritted teeth to everyone for so long she’d almost requested a mouth guard for him. For a man who held several degrees with a heavy slant in science, he didn’t put much stock in what the doctors had to say. He’d asked more questions than her, and no answer soothed him.

  Iris wanted to look at him as he paced the exam room, and understand what he was going through. The control freak had no control in this situation. Yet he hadn’t berated anyone. He hadn’t condescended a single nurse or orderly.

  He was nothing like her father.

  He reminded her of him too much.

  She kept her voice soft as she said, “You’re making me dizzy. Maybe you should sit down.”

  He glared at the chair against the far wall, looked at her then walked over to the seat. “I think we should get a third opinion. You should stay the night so they can watch you.”

  Iris wasn’t sure if his concern was sweet or sweet in a twisted, insufferable way. “Porter, I’m fine. At least two doctors have said it.”

  He leaned back in the chair, the legs raising with the movement. “Is Junior moving?”

  Since she had to lay down, their son had turned her stomach into a jungle gym. “Non-stop. Our son is fine. It’s my vagina that took offense.” She’d said the last to make him laugh.

  He didn’t.

  He scratched at his scalp with both hands. “Why aren’t you worried?” The words held an edge.

  She narrowed her gaze. “Are you asking if I care?”

  “No. I’m trying to figure out how to be Zen like you.”

  She pursed her lips. “Four pregnancies. That’s how many I’ve witnessed and had to hear about. Make that five with Eva. I’ve had to hear about mucus plugs, the possibility I’ll pee on myself when I sneeze...and the fact that my vagina will become its own entity. Hence the possibility of bleeding during sex.”

  His brows went up and stayed there. “What is a mucus plug?”

  Porter sat in a chair that he dwarfed just with his size, a white shirt stained with oil, and jeans that needed a proper burial—he looked one hundred percent masculine—and yet ‘mucus plug’ had made his voice go up an octave.

  She laughed. “After this, I’m not sure if you’ll have sex with me again. I’m not telling you about that.”

  His lids slid down and his gaze went to the left. “I can always look it up.”

  “WebMD will tell you I’m suffering from a bout of cancer and will die soon.”

  That, he laughed at.

  She put a hand to the soft kick in her stomach. If someone had told her that her day would end in the hospital as she comforted the father of her child, she would have called in sick at work and stayed in bed. She couldn’t even remember why she’d wanted to talk to Porter. He’d sent her a text letting her know he was home for a week or two. Maybe she’d been thinking with her stomach since he tended to feed her without too much encouragement. He’d been home and she had needed.

  “We can’t have sex,” he said, breaking her thoughts.

  “For a week, at least.”

  He put the chair back down on the floor and steepled his hands. She held her breath, knowing what he planned to say. She let it out when the nurse came in holding the papers she needed to sign to be released.

  Porter stood, his face intent as they once again told her all the things she needed to do.

  Bed rest for a week, meaning no work.

  She could stand for minutes at a time, but no more than three hours in a day.

  No sex for a week.

  Easily digestible foods.

  No to all the things she enjoyed about living. After that, like a too-small fish, they tossed her back into the world. Porter hovered around her and treated her like she was broken glass as he got her into his car. He abided the rules of the road in his sports car, in the middle of the night. Much to her surprise, he didn’t put up a fight when she told him to take her home.

  But she should have known better. He got out of the car when she did.

  And hovered some more.

>   She stopped at her door and faced him. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you get your stuff so you can come to my place.”

  She blinked. “What? Excuse me?”

  He inhaled and let it out slowly. “You’re on bed rest for a week.”

  “And?” She tried to follow his logic, but she could barely hear over the blood pounding in her ears. Move in with him? She was having his kid, but there was still some leveling up to their relationship before they shared the same space.

  “You’re not supposed to be on your feet for more than ten minutes at a time. Is someone from your family coming over to help you make meals? Take you to the hospital if your bleeding gets worse or you start to have contractions? If your sister or Ashley is coming over, great. I’ll wait for them to get here.”

  She’d wanted to come home, wash up and go to sleep. Maybe eat. Who was she kidding? Definitely eat something. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  Jessie could come by to help, but that would mean a back and forth shuttle when she had to pick up the kids to and from school. Her husband, who would act like his hands were broken if he had to feed himself. She couldn’t ask Eva. Between school, Grady, a newborn, her own mental health, Eva had way too much on her plate.

  Her father...well, she wasn’t going to call him. His words, his disappointment still stung. That didn’t factor in he wouldn’t be exactly supportive. Her stomach hurt just thinking about sitting in the living room, surrounded by pictures of her mother as her father listed all the ways Iris had fucked up her life.

  She met Porter’s gaze. “Why are you offering to help me?”

  He closed his eyes and breathed. Took her a second to realize he was probably counting to ten. Took another second to hear the question she’d asked him. Shame rushed heat to her face.

  He opened his eyes, his voice low, soft. “You’re the mother of my child. You can’t take care of yourself like you need it. I’m offering. My plate is pretty clear this week, and even if it wasn’t, I’d make sure you and Junior were taken care of.”

  It was nice, his offer. It was better than nice that he meant the words. So why did it feel like her world was closing in on her? Maybe because this is how lives intermingling started? They had sex. She was pregnant with his child. Those two things had stayed separate for a little over six months. Those two things didn’t make her lungs squeeze tight, but living with him felt like a trifecta of disaster. She’d forget what he could be. She’d forget all the times her father had chipped away at their mother and his girls until there was nothing left of them but him.

  Porter rested his hand on the doorjamb and leaned into her space. “You can take the room or living room. Before you say it, no, I’m not trying to get you into my bed.”

  Seven days. That’s all that was on the table. Seven days where he’d play nursemaid, not boyfriend or soul mate. He’d cook and clean and make sure she didn’t overexert herself while in a fragile state. The offer was pragmatic when any refusal on her part would be unnecessarily emotional.

  “I’ll take the couch. You’ll treat me like a guest. Nothing over the top. I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

  His jaw flexed and she knew he wanted to say more. After another moment of silence he nodded. Iris opened her door and headed straight to her room to start packing.

  To stay with her child’s father. To live with him for a week.

  Spike + Fred

  Porter waited until Iris fell asleep on the couch to take a seat out on his patio. He pulled out his phone. He took another breath and dialed his friend, the one he’d known well before Grady, Wade, and Oliver.

  Victor answered on the third ring. “What do you need?”

  “She’s living with me for the next week.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “Medical stuff. Bed rest as a precaution.”

  “But you’re calling me because your brain was on autopilot protective mode and now she’s in your house?”

  Porter pinched the bridge of his nose. “That about sums it up. I wasn’t thinking about anything else but making sure she and Junior would be okay.”

  “Well...fuck.”

  Victor had graduated up from shit. “Yup.”

  The line went quiet but Porter knew Victor hadn’t ended the call. He was chewing through all the unspoken words. Porter hadn’t told Victor about the sex arrangement, but in the scheme of things, it didn’t matter. The mother of his child was in his home. It was complicated and messy and bound to bite Porter in the ass some way or another.

  Finally, Victor said, “How long will she be there?”

  “A week.”

  “Then that’s the challenge. Don’t do anything stupid for a week like tell her you want to marry her even though you barely know her.”

  He laughed. “I’m trying to remember why it was you I called. Oliver would give me tactics.”

  “I’m glad you called.”

  It was Porter’s turn to fall silent and to listen to all the unspoken words. “Me, too.”

  “Don’t go soft on me now. If you do, you might start looking at Iris like you want to make a home with her and not just inviting her into yours.”

  “I’m not falling for her. I just—”

  “Like things easy and her staying with you isn’t that. It’s messy. Ashley would be so proud of you.”

  “She would, which is why I should pack Iris up and take her to your place.” He blew out a breath and took in his yard. The crab grass was still crabby but the green, healthy parts were getting wily. “Come by later, and we can get started on my yard.”

  “I’ll bring Ash.”

  “Again, thanks for picking up the phone. I know it’s late.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Act like you haven’t done it for me. Yeah. Things have been tense since I fell for your sister, but nothing has changed between us. You’re still my friend. I’m still yours. Stop being a dick about it.”

  With that, Victor hung up on him.

  Porter would have laughed. Any other day he would have been amused at his friend bluntness, his shorter temper and, well, being his brother. His brother in every sense of the word.

  But everything had changed.

  Porter couldn’t do anything else but accept, a lot of it was his fault. He glanced back at the house. Light from the TV flickered on the walls of the kitchen.

  He leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. He’d find a way to make things better, to not fuck up and do something stupid. He had to.

  *****

  The next morning, or rather mid-morning, Iris learned something else about Porter Hicks—for a bachelor, he was stealthy. She got about five hours of sleep and had remained on the couch with her eyes closed, hoping that maybe her life would magically fix itself. If she just imagined it, suddenly she wouldn’t be lounging on Porter’s couch. Whenever she got to that dreamy head space where she could drop back off to sleep, the baby would kick her right in the rib cage.

  Funny, really, she had waited with a little breathless excitement to feel him move for the first time. She still felt it was miraculous, the novelty had just worn off. To give herself some credit, she’d lived thirty-odd years with her body her own. She wasn’t used to sharing it.

  The real miracle, though, was she didn’t mind the intimacy. She would have to raise the person growing in her stomach. After his first breath, it would be up to Iris to clean up his shitty diapers. She’d teach him what it meant to be kind, brave, and hopefully, he’d turn out all right. If that’s not a breeding ground for intimacy, she didn’t know what was.

  Until that time came, she had to live with someone’s foot ramming into her ribs every now and again.

  And at that very moment, listen to Porter being stealthy in the kitchen because the person growing in her stomach needed her to take it easy for a few days.

  Even the little sleep she managed to s
teal didn’t help her deal with the immensity of that. The only way to face it was to face it. She sat up then craned her neck to peek into the kitchen.

  Porter’s bare back greeted her. The slope of his spine was unmarred by ink but his shoulder blades were decorated with more blueprint-like lines. She didn’t know what the ink made but she wanted to know.

  As though he could feel the heat of her stare, he turned his head in profile. “What are you craving for breakfast?”

  Her appetite rose from its slumber and threw a slew of ideas at her. She picked through them until she had the taste in her mouth. “This is going to be one hell of an ask, because I peeked inside your fridge.”

  He turned, crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

  A normal person would be reasonable, mindful and ask for toast, eggs with a side of bacon or sausage. A meal like that could be whipped up in thirty minutes or less. Iris had stopped being reasonable months ago. “Waffles and fried chicken?”

  “You want chicken and waffles?” he asked, the incredulous tone making her second guess her choice.

  Say never mind, Iris. Her stomach grumbled. “Dying for it.”

  Porter, the food enabler, said, “Then I’m going to need a shirt.”

  “The only downside for me.”

  He snorted but moved to the fridge. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not twitchy yet, so that’s good.”

  He pointed up. “You’re not supposed to climb the stairs. When you need to wash up, let me know.”

  Iris hadn’t thought about that. Though he had a three-bedroom home, the bathroom downstairs only had a toilet and sink. “How many bathrooms do you have upstairs?”

  “Two. One with a bath.” He glanced around his living room. “I’ve only half started cleaning out my junk room. Work kept getting in the way.”

  She was not going to spend the week in his bed with him in it. Sharing a deep bond with their son was one thing, digging herself an emotional hole to fall into with Porter was another. Yet she couldn’t let him sleep on the couch in his own home. “Guess that’s what we’re doing today.”