Page 111 of Sin Bin Daddies
And then my stomach twists violently.
I bolt out of bed, barefoot and half-dressed, practically hurling myself at the bathroom. My knees hit the cold tile just as I reach the toilet, and then it’s all sound and acid.
I’m still gagging when I hear him behind me.
“Asher, no—just go,” I rasp, lifting a shaky hand to ward him off. But of course he doesn’t listen.
He sinks to the floor beside me without a word, gathering my hair into his hands. His touch is gentle, firm. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, just holds me through it, anchoring me while my body purges itself.
When it’s over, I slump against the wall, drained and flushed. He’s already grabbing a clean washcloth, running it under warm water.
The soft fabric presses to my mouth and chin, wiping away what’s left. Then his hands slide under my arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing, helping me stand on legs that barely cooperate.
“I need to brush my teeth,” I mutter, and he’s already nodding, steadying me as I lean over the sink. I rinse, spit, and glance sideways.
He’s right there, arms crossed, watching me like he’s afraid I’ll collapse again. “You want a shower?”
I nod, mouth too dry to speak.
His eyes hold mine. “Can I join you? I won’t do anything. Just want to wash up.”
I nod again, because I don’t have the strength to say no. And because somewhere in the back of my mind, I want him close. Even now. Especially now.
He helps me take off my clothes, and takes his boxers off too. We step into the spray together, steam curling around us.
The warm water sluices down my back, and I exhale, finally able to breathe again.
He takes the washcloth from the ledge and pumps a bit of body wash onto it. He starts with my shoulders, careful and quiet.
His hands move in slow, lazy circles, dragging the cloth down my arms, over my spine, across the dip of my lower back.
When he reaches my stomach, his hand hesitates. The cloth lingers there.
My body reacts, my muscles pulling taut, not from arousal this time but something else. Vulnerability, maybe.
I look at him, at the way his gaze lingers on the spot just under my navel. He doesn’t say anything. Just finishes washing me in silence.
When we’re done, he grabs a towel, wraps it around me, and helps me into a robe before putting on his boxers again, not bothering to dry himself properly.
He guides me back to bed like I’m made of porcelain and climbs in beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me with something unreadable in his eyes. Then his voice is soft, thoughtful.
“How far along are you?”
“Almost two months,” I whisper.
I can see it instantly, the way he does the math. And before he even opens his mouth, I offer the words I know he’s about to ask for.
“I’m not sure who the father is. It could be you. Or Ford. Or Leo.”
He nods slowly. His hand curls over the edge of the blanket but he doesn’t pull away from me.
“Do they know?” he asks, his voice still calm.
“No. You’re the first one I told.”
He sits back a little and breathes in. Then he says, “You should tell them. And the three of us can talk through it.”
I nod, even though the thought of that conversation makes my stomach twist all over again.
