"Baby, it's been three minutes. I'm coming in," my husband said impatiently.
"I said seven minutes, Maks-" Before I could finish my sentence, he opened the door and walked in. Taking the stick from my hand, he stared at it intently.
"I'm Fückïng you more than enough to get you pregnant with four babies," he muttered, still looking at the stick. Instead of replying, I walked towards the mirror and saw my nákèd reflection in it.
"Maybe you need to try something new," I said, biting my lip as I met his eyes through the mirror.
"Something new? Hmm," he hummed, glancing at me before focusing on the pregnancy test again.
Minutes later, he threw the stick into the dustbin and took predatory steps towards me.
"You aren't pregnant," he said.
"Hmm, I'm not?"
"Yeah, that stupid stick said so, We aren't infertile, so why aren't you getting pregnant, Marissa?"
"I don't know."
"You don't?" He pinned me to the mirror, his hands slowly making their way to my pússy.
"You said something new?"
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