Pregnant For My Own Good
Language: en
Three months after the wreck, Megan dragged me out of an upscale bar downtown. I was blind drunk. She loosened my tie with sharp, impatient tugs, her knee wedged against the edge of the mattress as her fingers went to work on my collar buttons. "Andrew, the specialist said your reproductive tract took damage, not that you stopped being a man," she snapped, tossing the silk strip onto the nightstand. "What are you doing to yourself?" She always had a tongue like a switchblade. Yet later that night, when she pulled me into a kiss in the dark, the rims of her eyelids were raw and damp…