The Complete If I Break Series

by Portia Moore

  She bites her lip. “I should fix that then huh?” she purrs, guiding me over to the kitchen chair. She pulls my dick out of the zipper, pushes my shoulder for me to sit down, and a second later takes me inside her mouth. I’m in heaven. The vibrations of her moans, the expertise of her fucking tongue, seeing her fingers play between her thighs all have me coming in minutes. I let out a groan as I spill into her mouth and the way she swallows every bit while her eyes meet mine is the biggest fucking turn on imaginable. When she’s finished she looks up at me with a satisfied grin, straddles me, and begins sucking my neck. I lift her up in one swoop and lie her on the table and spread her thighs. She made me come in less than ten minutes—I’ll make her come in five. I dive into her, my tongue thrusting, my lips sucking and assaulting her clit. She’s panting, clawing at my shirt, moaning, her legs already starting to tremble.

  “Ian, Oh my God. I-I’m about to come!” I go faster, feeling on the edge of her climax, and send her over the cliff when I thrust my dick inside her, which is already as hard as a rock. She shrieks with a moan so loud our neighbors probably hear. I pound into her, the table squeaking beneath us. She’s so fucking wet.

  “This is mine,” I tell her, moving deeper and starting to go slower.

  “All yours baby,” she answers back compliantly. She clenches around me, and the table feels like it’s about to break. Her nails claw into my back and I pin her hands over her head. I love this woman so fucking much. Her whimpers in my ear are addicting, the marks on my back are a prize. I love her, and I can’t stop the words about to come out of my mouth.

  “Have my baby.”

  “Ian!” her voice hitches as an orgasm rocks through her body, and I come right after her. She’s still panting and my body is trying to recover. I lift myself off of her. She sits up, still in an orgasmic haze. She looks at me, her eyes steeled.

  “What did you say?” she asks. I’m unsure if she’s excited or bewildered. I think about my words before I say them again. I imagine her carrying our child inside of her, skin glowing beautiful. With our baby in her arms. A literal expression of our love. I’m twenty-seven and we’re not in the ideal place financially but in a year or so yes, I want my wife to carry our child.

  “I-I want to grow a family with you,” I tell her, my smile spreading as I get more used to the idea. I search her expression and she looks completely confused, as if I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing possible.

  “I didn’t mean today.” I nudge her with a half chuckle. Her eyes dart to me, narrowing in before going to her lap again. She looks like she’s seen a fucking ghost, as if we’ve never talked about this. We’ve talked about everything, and we both said we’d have a stable of kids. Well, I said a stable of them. She said two boys and a girl that she’d spoil to pieces, but kick their asses if they were rotten.

  “Babe,” I say, and she looks up, her face blank and her eyes looking past me, and when she does look at me I see what I can only describe as fear.

  “Yeah. Uhm, can we go to dinner? I want to get out the house.” She lifts herself off the table.

  “Okay,” I tell her, surprised by her response. She’s off the table and in the bathroom before I can get my thoughts together.

  What the hell just happened?

  She’s in the bathroom for what seems like an eternity but it’s really only an hour. I tried to go in but she locked the door. It makes the hair on my neck stand up but I’m probably overreacting. She wants privacy, that’s cool. Time to get her thoughts together. Great. When she’s done she comes out, a grin on her face.

  “Hurry up and get ready, I’m starving.” She gives me a soft passionate kiss. I pull her close to me, squeezing her waist, and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding on to. She’s okay. Her energy from earlier is gone and she’s back to being my smart-mouthed angel. I shower quickly and we head out to a bar and grill near our house. We get an extra large order of barbeque wings and curly flies. She sits with her feet in my lap, laying on my dick. I want to pull her into the bathroom but it’s disgusting in there. I throw a fry at her which she swats it away wearing a playful grin. She clears her throat her grin softening.

  “Babe, I want you to promise me that you’re really going to pursue photography.” She says, her voice firm and eyes soft on me. I frown at her.

  “I am. We agreed on this,” I remind her, shifting her feet to get a better angle on my dick. She smirks but pulls them away. I let out a frustrated groan.

  “I’m serious. Whatever happens you have to promise me you’ll give it everything you have.” Her voice is serious, too serious, almost pleading, and it’s killed my hard-on. I look at her closely. She’s smiling but it doesn’t reach her eyes—those aren’t light at all, her normal deep grey now pale and almost green. I’m irritated and I don’t know why but she’s ruining the mood.

  “What the hell are you talking about Alana?” I ask her, annoyed. She rolls her eyes.

  “Nothing, okay.” She blows me off, stuffing a fry in her mouth.

  “No it’s not nothing, what’s up?” I demand.

  “Nothing Ian, Jesus,” she says through a clipped laugh and finishes her drink. I narrow my eyes and when she sees that she gives me a flirty grin and places her feet back into my lap. We finish up dinner, and it’s good. So is the conversation about the places she wants to stop. She’s more excited than me about our road trip. We walk home, my hand in her back pocket. She holds onto my arm tightly and it’s amazing like it always is with us, but there’s something different. Something that’s off.

  We make it back to the apartment and get undressed. I sleep naked, she likes to sleep in her underwear. I pull her to me, taking in her scent, how soft she is, how she’s mine. It’s not long until my hands are in her underwear, playing with her, each moan and whimper imprinting on my brain. She stops me before she comes and turns me on my back and climbs on my dick. She begins to ride it, going so slow and deliberate. I grab her hips.

  “No,” she says through a sexy growl, taking my hands and pinning them behind me. She lays atop of me grinding slower, sucking my neck, and kissing my chest. I pull her face to me and our tongues intertwine. This is fucking intense, more than it’s ever been between us. I kept thinking earlier that telling her about wanting a kid may have been a lot, that it scared her, but after how hot this time is I think she’s trying to get pregnant today.

  “I love you Ian, God, I love you so fucking much,” she whimpers in my ear. I roll her over, taking over—going deeper, reminding her she’s mine.

  “You’re it for me babe, it’s just us,” I tell her before she starts to throb around me, and I’m close behind her. I come harder than I have in weeks. I stay inside of her, my eyelids heavy, my entire body exhausted. She wraps herself around me.

  “I love you baby,” she says quietly again.

  “I love you too,” I tell her before sleep takes over me.

  I wake up to the sun spilling through the curtains, hot on my face.

  “Babe can you close the curtains,” I mutter, still wanting more sleep. I groan when she doesn’t respond. She’s a light sleeper and up before me but usually stays in bed listening to music on her phone. A few minutes pass and I get up and yank the curtains closed myself. I fall back into bed. I notice there isn’t any music on. The apartment is eerily quiet. I sit up and look around the empty room. I thrust myself back out of bed and head to the living room. It’s empty. I check the bathroom and the extra bedroom. There’s no sign of her. I go and grab my phone and see it’s 7 am. I call her but her phone goes to voicemail.

  I do another scan of the apartment, and think maybe she went out and forgot to charge her phone. I try to stay on her about that. I head to the living room and turn on the TV to kill some time. We have dinner with my mom tonight before we hit the road Monday. I sit on the couch and on the coffee table I see a paper that has my name on it, and my heart flinches within my chest. I stare at it. There’s something about it that makes me not want to pick
it up, like it’s diseased. I let out a deep breath and grab it. It’s probably just a note saying she ran out and her phone’s dead. I ignore the fact that she has a car charger. I unfold it and start reading.

  I always told you I’m not perfect. I told you that when we first met that I’m fucked, so unbelievably messed up, but you never look at me like that, you’ve never made me feel less than that, and it has always scared me because I knew a time would come when you’d realize not only am I not perfect but I’m a disaster. I want to be so much more for you, I swear to God I do, but yesterday I realized I can’t. I wish I could. I want you to know that this is not your fault. There’s nothing you could do or say that would make this different so don’t you fucking dare blame yourself for this. It will kill me knowing you do. This is me, totally me. I always hated the hand I’ve gotten dealt in this life, I hated God, the universe, or whoever for the things that happened to me, then I met you and you made up for every bad thing I’ve ever experienced. You’ve been my good and I wish to God I could be yours. You deserve what you give me and I can’t give you what you deserve and I love you too much to take that away. I know you’re hating me right now and I want you to. I’d rather have your hate than be the cause of your pain, your devastation…which I’ll end up being. I’m so sorry for being selfish and for not walking away the day you asked for my number. For trying to hold on to you because I love you so much. But I love you too much to destroy you and I will if I don’t leave now. I’ve always been good at running and even better at hiding so don’t look for me, you won’t find me. You can have our marriage annulled, I won’t fight it. You can move on and please be happy. Go on the trip, forget about me, become the famous photographer I know you can be, you promised. You are the greatest human being I’ve ever met and I will never ever forget you. You’ll be in my thoughts every second of the day, but don’t allow me to be in yours.

  I love you more than you could ever know.

  Alana.

  I drop the letter. It might as well be on fire.

  I can’t breath, my ribs are crushing my heart.

  My body is shaking, I’m unsteady. My throat closing up. It’s a joke. This isn’t happening. I grab my phone and call her. I hang up and call again and again and again. Every muscle in me is tight. I try to think but I can’t. I can’t even see. I’m crying, I’m fucking crying. I kick over the table and it goes flying across the room. I have to go to her job. They might know where she’s going. I call Simon. He picks up and I’m trying to tell him I need him to come and get me, to take me to the club, but my voice is gone. I’m blubbering like a little bitch. I hang up on him and try to get myself together. She’s not gone, she wouldn’t leave like this, she can’t. I’m going to find her. I call back to back to back for an hour straight. I send her text after text until the last one says undeliverable. I call again.

  “I’m sorry, this number is temporarily out of service. Message…”

  There’s a pounding on the door. I push out a breath. It’s her! I race to it and open it but it’s Simon.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he yells until he sees my face and his own goes from angry to confused to pitying, and I want to throw up and I’m on my knees.

  “She’s gone. She’s fucking left me.”

  Chapter 8

  Megan

  I thought I had beat it. Beat the voices behind my thoughts that said I’d never be good enough, smart enough, normal, that I don’t deserve to be happy, that I’m worthless, weak, selfish. I thought I had escaped the circumstances of my predetermined destiny, but sitting here now I realize I haven’t beat anything.

  I’ve come to accept that I can’t keep blocking it out anymore, pretending it didn’t happen or that there was another existence. I have to face it if I have any hope of a future for myself especially with Kam.

  The truth is I don’t remember the first seven years of my life. My first memory is sitting next to a social worker and meeting my new “family” aka the people who tolerated me, collected checks, and did as little as possible to parent me except the days the visits came. To not have any recollection of your mother or father is so much more complicated than you’d think.

  My foster brothers and sisters, there were so many. But I still remember each one, the good and the bad ones. They all told me that I was lucky. I was lucky because I never knew my parents, and that it’s easier when you have no one to miss or forget.

  I never felt lucky. When you don’t know who or where you come from, life is so much more terrifying. A frustrating puzzle, a game you play with no prize, only consequences. When you’re in fifth grade you can’t have crushes on the cute boy who passes you love notes because he could be your half-brother or a distant cousin. When you look in the mirror, you don’t know if your long dark hair came from your mom or if your green eyes came from you dad.

  Everything about my life has always been a mystery and it’s not thrilling. More like suffocating. Your medical history is nonexistent. You’re not sure what diseases you’re predisposed to. You don’t know how to answer the doctor’s questions about family history. It makes you feel isolated, reminds you that you’re unwanted with no connections in the entire world. It’s why when I had severe headaches and there was no explanation I only had children’s Tylenol stuffed down my throat like orange juice. When my headaches started being accompanied by blackouts and the doctors didn’t see anything wrong on whatever tests my state-funded medical care afforded, my foster parents told me that I was a liar. They believed I was doing it for attention.

  How or why a seven-year-old girl would inexplicably leave and end up miles away, not even remembering how she got there, would do it all for attention is beyond me. And no one cared to find out why.

  When I was sent to a group home at thirteen a doctor told me it was panic attacks. At age fifteen I was diagnosed with PTSD. I was sixteen when I met Dr. Gavin. He was special. In his late fifties with a bald spot that caused his head to shine but he was kind and I knew he cared not about the stipend he’d get for seeing me but about my wellbeing. Of all the doctors I had seen, he was invested in my treatment and didn’t just speak to me for five minutes and hand my guardian a prescription for medication that made me tired or want to vomit. He really talked to me.

  Our progress was slow but it was something. He cared and I believed he’d be the one to fix me. Right before I turned seventeen Dr. Gavin’s first grandchild was born and he moved to Michigan to help his daughter and that’s when Dr. Johnson took over his practice. It was like I had lost my best friend. My only friend. Dr. Johnson was nice enough. He smiled at me too, but his smile was different. He was younger. I wouldn’t say handsome, but a few girls I went to treatment with had crushes on him.

  I didn’t.

  I wasn’t looking for a guy to fawn over, I wanted someone who cared about me, who could help me like Dr. Gavin did. Dr. Johnson listened at first but then things changed. He began to talk to me about his life, issues he had with his wife, he asked about boys I liked, how it was normal for me to have crushes and have what he called “special feelings.”

  A place I looked forward to going to became a place I dreaded. It started with little things like him rubbing my shoulders, longer-than-normal hugs, then he put his hand on my thigh for a little too long. I wanted to tell someone. I mentioned it to the other girls and they said no one would believe me or even care if they did. I had convinced myself I would ask for another doctor at the very least but then my scheduled day was changed to Tuesday evening instead of Wednesday morning.

  I sat in the big comfy chair in front of his desk and he told me he wanted a schedule change so we could have more privacy to talk. He told me we’d be trying a new exercise and to stand and close my eyes. I was terrified but did what I was told. Then I felt his hand on my back, his body up against mine. I was terrified, not knowing what to do, afraid to scream. My body wouldn’t move to push him away. I resigned to it, closing my eyes and praying whatever he did to me would be over qui
ck. And for the first time ever I welcomed the dull ache I hadn’t experienced in years, knowing a blackout was coming.

  But when I came to, I wasn’t trembling in a corner. I didn’t feel dirty or invaded.

  Dr. Johnson was on the floor, his eyes wide and afraid, blood seeping through his shirt, and I was on top of him with a knife to his throat…a knife I had never seen before. He didn’t press charges but it was decided that I would go to a special foster home and finish out high school online.

  “Any more coffee hun?” the waitress asks me, knocking me from my thoughts. She looks tired and frustrated that I’m holding up her table by just ordering coffee.

  “Uh, yeah and a side of bacon please.”

  She smiles, seemingly appeased. I watch the door waiting for Blue. I’m so glad he said he’d come. I don’t know how I’ll repay him for hiding the truth from Kam, keeping things from Katie, and meeting me in the middle of Michigan, but I’ll have to find a way. Out of the corner of my eye a large man—maybe in his thirties, with dark hair down to his shoulders, bushy eyebrows that looks like they haven’t been washed in a week, and a patchy beard—is approaching my table. I glance up at him from my phone. He licks ketchup from the corner of his mouth. I try to ignore his eyes as they move down to stare at my cleavage.

  “I’ve been watching you sitting here all by yourself, and I thought a pretty little girl like you would want some company,” he says with a thick southern drawl.

  “No, I’m waiting for someone,” I say to him before turning away. I still feel him behind me. I turn my attention back to my phone to text Blue, asking him for his ETA, when bushy eyebrows plops down across from me in my booth.

  “A lady like you shouldn’t be waiting for some jerk who can’t even show up on time.” He chuckles, but there’s a lace of viciousness underneath his laugh. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.