Baby by Design

confused her plans and left her feeling chaotic. She stared at his tanned hand until her vision blurred, wishing messy wasn’t also attractive.

“So, are we going to watch this thing or what?” Tony said, moving his hand away from Trish’s.

She blinked and then saw him carrying a plate of pizza toward the couch. Disappointment reigned, but it was better than guilt or regret, two emotions that would be in high supply if she succumbed to basic desire while her friendship with Angie was floundering and Stu was back in town. Stu. She should’ve called him back and told him…what?

“Aren’t you hungry?” Tony asked as he sat.

That was when she realized she was shuffling toward the couch with nothing but the two-liter of soda in hand. “Of course, I…” she lifted the bottle, “I was wondering if you wanted some.”

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nah. That’s for you. My cousin drank it while she was pregnant, so I figured it was safe in case…you know…you’re pregnant, too.” He shrugged and bit into his pizza, working the dough with a mouth that mesmerized her, from the perfectly pale lips to the dark dip in his cheek. “I also figured you had beer left from the other night, so I’ll grab one of those.”

He wanted a beer. After her earlier thoughts about beer being an antidote for nerves and a booster of vulgar behavior, she wondered if it was possible he only came tonight to eat and drink. She was thinking too much, wasn’t she? It was just a beer, for God’s sake.

Trish inhaled away her stupor and turned toward the kitchen.

“Hey. Ho. Sit. You don’t have to wait on me. Power up your prissy show, and I’ll be back.” He sauntered past with a delicious smile and a piece of pizza in hand.

For a man who was nowhere near her perfect fit, he sure had moments when she wished he was.

An hour later, with the lights dim, and her legs crossed at the ankles as they rested on the cushion beside her, she realized Tony was the perfect fit for her oversized couch—a couch he’d upholstered a year ago, which he pointed out. Not that she needed the reminder. Ever since her cousin’s wedding she was acutely aware of the pieces of Tony Corcarelli upholstery littering her house. It was like a part of him was always here.

She’d spent the last ten minutes watching him watch the television. A slow smile played on his face except when he was drinking his beer. She liked having more than his furniture around. She liked having him. His presence made the place homier. She wished she didn’t feel that way, not about him. This house was made for a family, but Tony wasn’t exactly a family man. He loved his family, but they seemed to be enough. She had no doubt he’d love a child if they managed to create one, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t looking for a wife, which was fine because Trish wasn’t necessarily looking for a husband, not right now, and not a husband like him.

Tony wrapped a warm hand around her bare ankle and squeezed, causing her to jump.

He chuckled. “Apparently you think this crap is boring too, because you’re staring at me instead of the TV.”

She looked at the screen, where nothing registered in her cloudy head. “I’m sorry. I’m…tired.” She yawned liked she’d done throughout the evening, but this time was more for show.

He angled his body so he was facing her instead of the television, his hand remaining hot on her skin. “Could that be a sign?”

“A sign that I work and worry too much, yes. A sign that I’m pregnant, no.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “So you don’t think it worked?”

At first, the furrow of his brow came as a surprise to Trish, but then she remembered his reason for being disappointed. Nonna. Not Trish. Not the baby. Not a family to fill this house.

“I just think it’s too soon to know. Maybe it worked.”

He nodded again, but the furrow didn’t fade.

“How is Nonna?” Without her easy connection to Angie, information was limited.

“There’s fluid.” Tony squeezed her ankle again. “She’s tired. Uncomfortable. It’s not looking good.”

“I’m sorry.” Trish had said it too many times where Nonna was concerned. It had probably lost its impact by now, but she didn’t know what else to say.

“Me too.” He slid his hand to her calf, milking the muscle as he stared over the top of her head.

Minutes dragged, with Trish afraid to move. She looked at the television, hoping to settle her heart’s erratic beat, but her head throbbed, her hip cramped, her chest strained. She wanted to open her mouth and deep breathe. She wanted to shift her weight off her aching hip. But she didn’t want to distract him. Something in the heavy air told her what might help, what could happen next.

And then he lunged forward, grabbing the remote control. “I’m done with this.”

Without the flickering of the TV, the room grew darker. Only the pendant lighting from the kitchen cast a soft glow.

Tony’s hand shifted down her leg until once again he held tight to her ankle. “I think we should do it again.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He pulled her leg from beneath her, eradicating any chance of her heartbeat returning to normal.

He straightened her other leg, and Trish shifted so her weight distributed between her butt and mid-back, pressing into the pillows. He moved closer, slipping a hand along her outer thigh, and all she could think about was having sex on a sofa he’d upholstered. Talk about irony. Talk about lunacy. She was getting carried away when she already had more than she could handle. “But Tony, maybe once was…”

“Not enough.” He was above her now, bracing his weight on his arms, which straddled her, gripping the back and arm of the couch. “Don’t tell me it was enough. I know basic biology.”

She released a shaky breath and inhaled spice and beer. The familiar scent she’d come to associate with him revved her libido. Basic biology. Right? Well, biologically speaking, having unprotected sex more often around the time of ovulation did increase one’s chances of conceiving, and since that was what they were trying to do, it did made sense. He made sense.

But then his warm, soft lips brushed hers, and nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

Tony was probably going to regret this. He’d never been an emotional sex kind of man. Years ago, he made a pact with himself to never be with a woman when he was feeling particularly high or low for fear that he’d associate her with joy or comfort. That sort of neediness crippled a man. Just ask Vin. And yet, here was Tony, torn up inside, wanting Trish to take away his pain. That was why he was planting kisses down her neck, wasn’t it? Then again, long before the conversation turned to Nonna he’d been thinking about doing this, touching Trish in all the ways he felt oddly entitled to do.

He wasn’t entitled to anything. She wasn’t his. So why did she feel made for him to hold?

“Tony,” she whispered into the breathy quiet of the room. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”

“Maybe,” he answered with his lips against her throat. But then she slid her hands beneath his shirttails, and he decided they weren’t going anywhere.

Capturing her mouth with his, he tasted her with his tongue. Sweet like soda. Hot like sex. And then her fingernails bit his back, causing him to groan and release more of his weight onto the cushion of her thighs.

She roamed his back in chaos, pawing and clawing and driving him deeper into her mouth. He wanted to touch her too, but the bulky sweatshirt stopped him, until on a grunt, he broke the kiss and pushed to his knees, whipping his shirt over his head. “Now you.”

She planted her hands against his abdomen, every wiggle of her fingers making him harder. “Not this again.”

He was already tugging the hem of her sweatshirt over her belly. “Not what again?”

“The striptease act. I hardly think it’ll be worth it with the lights off.” Her fingers teased his stomach until they reached the button on his pants.

“We’ll see about that.” He yanked the sweatshirt above her breasts and buried his face in her cleavage. She smelled like springtime, and tasted like the warmest, sweetest dessert. This time, he was going to…

“Doorbell,” she hissed, sitting with enough force to launch him off her chest. “Shoot.”

She scrambled to stand, leaving him sitting with his head in his hands, a hard-on in his pants, and the thought that the people she knew needed some manners.