Chapter 8: Medical Desecration
The fluorescent lights in the exam room had given her a headache. The scent of antiseptic cleaner clung to the back of her throat. The ultrasound gel was still cold and slick on her lower belly, a phantom sensation beneath her clothes.
Twelve weeks. The image on the screen had been a grey, staticky storm, and then the tech had pointed—a pulsing, peanut-shaped ghost. A heartbeat like a tiny, frantic drum. Lucas’s hand had been crushing hers. He hadn’t said a word.
Now, in the clinic’s cramped, generic bathroom, she splashed water on her face. The “Matthews” on the file folder felt like a lie. She was Ava. He was Lucas. They were a secret, and the secret now had a heartbeat.
The door clicked open. Lucas slipped inside, locking it behind him. The space was suddenly too small, filled with him, with the energy coming off his body—a volatile mix of awe and panic.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Fine. It’s just… real now.”
“Yeah.” He leaned against the door, watching her. His gaze dropped to her stomach, still flat in her loose sweater. “I could see it. The… the curve of its head.”
A weird, possessive thrill shot through her. Its. Our. She turned to face him, her back against the cold sink. “Lucas…”
He was on her in two steps, his mouth crashing down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim. His tongue plunged deep, tasting of the mint gum he’d been chewing nervously in the waiting room. She moaned into him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket. The sterile bathroom air vanished, replaced by the heat of him.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead against hers. “I can’t think. All I can think about is that it’s in there. That you’re carrying it.”
His hands went under her sweater, pushing it up. His palms were hot as they skated over her ribs, down to the waistband of her jeans. He made quick work of the button and zipper, yanking them and her underwear down her thighs in one frantic motion. The cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his touch.
“Lucas, someone’s—“
“Fuck them,” he growled, dropping to his knees on the linoleum.
He pushed her thighs apart, his mouth finding her with a starving intensity. There was no finesse, just a raw, devouring hunger. His tongue was relentless, circling her clit, driving deep inside her, the rough scratch of his stubble against her tender skin. She bit down on her own fist to stifle a cry, her other hand tangling in his hair, holding him there. Pleasure, sharp and bright, coiled tight in her belly—the same belly that now held the proof of all this madness.
“You taste different,” he mumbled against her, his voice thick. “Deeper. Sweater. Fuck.”
He stood up suddenly, his own jeans already open, his cock springing free, thick and hard and ruddy with need. He turned her roughly, bending her over the sink. Her cheek pressed against the cold, chipped porcelain of the basin. She stared into the rust-stained drain.
He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and without another second of hesitation, he drove into her from behind.
Ava gasped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth sink. He was so deep, so impossibly full. The position, the angle, the overwhelming wrongness of the place sent a violent shiver of pure lust through her core.
“Yes,” she hissed, pushing back against him.
He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into her ass with a wet, slapping sound that echoed off the tiles. One hand gripped her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other snaked around her front, under her sweater, splaying possessively over her lower belly.
“You feel that?” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel how deep I am? Our baby’s right there, Ava. Right fucking there. And I’m filling you up around it.”
The obscenity of it, the sheer filth of his words in this clinical place, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking his length. She saw white behind her eyes, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
He fucked her through it, his pace becoming erratic, frantic. “Gonna come,” he choked out. “Gonna fill you. Mark it. Mine. You’re both mine.”
With a final, deep thrust, he slammed home and held there. She felt the hot, liquid pulse of him deep inside her, the muffled roar against her shoulder. He shuddered violently against her back, his whole weight leaning into her.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant murmur of a receptionist’s voice over a intercom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
A slow, metallic drip from the faucet punctuated the silence.
Then, a voice, polite and muffled, called from just outside the door. “Ava Matthews? The doctor can see you for follow-up now.”
They froze. Lucas was still inside her, softening. A warm trickle leaked down her thigh. They were a mess. The evidence of what they’d just done was pooling between her legs, in her clothes, in the charged, sex-thick air of the tiny room.
Lucas slowly pulled out. He reached for a wad of rough brown paper towels, wet them at the tap. Gently, with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the sex they’d just had, he cleaned her between her legs, then did a haphazard job on himself. He helped her pull her jeans up, his hands surprisingly steady as he fastened them.
He caught her eye in the foggy mirror. His were dark, unreadable.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low.
She nodded, adjusting her sweater. She was far from good. She was unmoored. The ghost of the ultrasound image floated behind her eyes, superimposed with the feel of him taking her over a public sink.
He unlocked the door. As he opened it, he leaned close, his lips brushing her ear.
“Never doubt it,” he whispered. “You’re never leaving me again.”
They stepped out into the bright, judgmental hallway, the smell of sex on them like a second skin, to follow the nurse toward whatever came next.