by Emma Chase
“Starting without me?” I tease.
She bites her lip, smiling at me through her reflection in the mirror. “No. I’m just looking.” She cocks her head thoughtfully, running her hands up over the mound of her stomach, to her full, heavy breasts. “It’s such a strange shape. I’m fine with it, it’s temporary, but it’s just so . . . odd.”
Her suddenly vulnerable blue gaze locks on mine. “Do you still think I’m pretty?”
I can’t stop the snort that escapes me. My steps are purposeful as I approach her from behind and press up against her, my hard chest against her delicate spine, my cock sliding between the globes of her supple ass.
A sigh seeps out from my lips, like I’m thinking it over. I sweep the hair from her shoulder and scrape my teeth against the skin of her neck.
“You’ve never been just pretty, Chelsea. Heart-rippingly stunning—definitely. Unbelievably gorgeous works too.”
My palms skim from her hips over her stomach, cupping her tits in a gentle massaging squeeze, then across her collarbone and down her long arms.
Her breathing picks up and her heart thumps in her chest.
I fucking love the way she looks with me pressed against her. The contrast of the colored tattoos that cover my arms against all her pale, smooth, flawless skin. My hand glides back down, coming around her front, resting, then rubbing between her legs.
I groan when I feel her—already slippery and hot. Fuck—this woman. It should be terrifying, the way she owns me. But there’s too much joy in it . . . to leave any room for fear.
I kiss a trail up her neck to her ear, sucking, nibbling on her lobe.
“Jake . . .” She sighs.
I back up a few steps, taking her with me, until I’m seated on the edge of the bed. I cup one breast in my hand and bring my lips close to its rosy peak, blowing so gently. Then my eyes roll closed as I lick the firm nub. I close my mouth over it, sucking deeply. I could do this for hours—licking her, suckling.
A thought flashes through my mind about what it’ll be like after the baby’s born. The milk she’ll carry—what it’ll feel like, taste like. It seems kinky in a way. I’ve never really been interested in kink. But, goddamn, I could learn.
I release her nipple with a wet pop. And look up into her simmering eyes.
“I want to suck on you until you lose your mind. Then I want you to ride me.”
I then spend the whole night showing Chelsea exactly how not-pretty I think she is.
Chapter 9
June
Kennedy goes into labor the first week of June, and she gives birth about a day and a half later. Brent doesn’t miss a single second of it. Chelsea and I pay them a visit at the hospital the day after that. Them . . . and their brand-new baby girl.
There’s strong hugs and kissed cheeks all around inside the flower-and-pink-balloon-filled room. Kennedy lies in bed, with tired eyes and the sweetest smile I’ve seen. Brent places a tiny, pink-blanket-wrapped baby in my big hands.
“This is Vivian,” he says, total adoration in every syllable.
Chelsea rests her head against my arm, gazing down. “She’s so beautiful.”
I catch my best friend’s eyes—because Vivian sounds familiar.
“You named her after a comic book character, didn’t you?”
Kennedy laughs. And Brent shrugs. “Of course. She’s extraordinary, so she had to have an extraordinary name. Vivian Rose Victoria Randolph Mason is the long version.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“She’ll get used to it.”
“How was the delivery?” Chelsea asks.
She’s addressing Kennedy, but Brent beats her to the punch. “Awesome. Don’t let anyone scare you, Chelsea. This birthing babies thing is a piece of cake.”
Then Kennedy gives the real answer. “Take the drugs, Chelsea. Take all the drugs.”
****
Two weeks later, I’m in court. Smack-dab in the middle of continuous cross-examination. My phone sits in my pocket, dead as a doornail, because my charger picked this morning to crap out on me. Chelsea is home and still a week from her due date, so I figure it’s no big deal. Until the commotion in the back of the courtroom reveals exactly what a big deal it is.
Riley, Rory, Rosaleen, Regan, and Ronan file in, waving their arms and gesturing wildly to me.
“Why are there children in my courtroom?” the cranky judge booms from the bench. “Is this a class trip?”
I raise a finger. “They’re mine, Judge.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring-your-child-to-work day was a few months ago, Mr. Becker.”
I watch Rory make a giant arch in front of his stomach, then squeeze his face like he’s got a bad case of constipation—and my heart skips three fucking beats.
“My charade skills are rusty, but I’m pretty sure they’re here to tell me my wife is in labor.”
“Yes! That’s it!” Regan yells.
“Shhh!” Rosaleen hisses at her.
“Don’t shhh me!”
Rosaleen opens her mouth with a comeback, but the bang of the judge’s gavel stops her in her tracks. I should really get a gavel for the house.
“Emergency continuance, Judge?”
He nods. “Granted. Good luck, Mr. Becker—looks like you need it.”
As soon as he strikes the gavel again, I’m in front of Riley, her face pale and wild. “Aunt Chelsea is in labor.”
Okay, okay—we planned for this. It’s not like we didn’t know it was coming. My mother’s lined up to stay with the kids; Chelsea’s bag is packed.
“Is she at the hospital?”
“No, she’s home. Raymond’s with her. She didn’t want to go without you and you weren’t answering your phone, so I came to get you. Everyone wanted to come and I didn’t want to waste time arguing about it, so I drove the truck.”
“You drove the truck?”
Riley has never driven the truck—it’s a lot of car for a teenager.
She nods. “I took out two mailboxes on the way here and didn’t stop to leave a note. Am I going to get a ticket?”
I take her arm and guide her out the door with the rest of the gang following behind us.
“No—we’ll figure it out.”
Five minutes later, everyone is buckled in and I’m driving like a NASCAR champion to get to my wife. In the passenger seat, Riley lowers her phone.
“They’re still not answering.”
“Why the fuck aren’t they answering?” I squeeze the steering wheel—only just managing to keep my shit together.
“Why are you guys freaking out?” Rory asks from the backseat.
“Because Aunt Chelsea’s having the baby!” Rosaleen snipes.
“So? Chicks have babies every day. What’s the big deal?”
Regan joins the conversation. “You’re such a moron, Rory.”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up!”
“Be. Quiet.” I don’t yell. I don’t have to. The steel in my tone snaps all mouths closed.
We pull up to the house fifteen minutes later. I barely get the car in park before I’m sprinting through the front door.
“Chelsea!”
The house is shockingly still. Almost eerily so.
“We’re back here!” Raymond calls from my bedroom.
I sense all the kids coming in behind me as I take long, quick strides down the hall. Raymond stands outside our closed bathroom door—ashen and worried.
“Something’s wrong, Jake. She keeps saying she’s fine but she doesn’t sound fine.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Okay, I’m here.”
I walk into the bathroom and know right away that Raymond is correct.
Chelsea is definitely not fine.
She sits on the floor, propped up against the wall; her face is colorless and damp with sweat and tears. There’s fluid on the ground between her legs and soaked into the hem of her yellow sundress.
She grips the phone tight in her hand when she sees me. And says weakly, “You’re here.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, baby, I’m here. Looks like you had a busy morning.”
She manages a small laugh, then speaks into the phone. “Yes, my husband, Jake, is here. I’ll put him on.”
In an instant I’m kneeling next to her. She passes me the phone. “This is Earl. Nine-one-one. I called for an ambulance but there’s a water main break so they’re going to be a while.”
I take the phone but don’t bring it to my ear. “I can take you to the hospital now.”
Her face pinches in agony and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jake. This is all my fault.”
“Shhh, it’s okay.”
“All the books say it takes hours and hours . . . I mean, Kennedy was in labor for two freaking days! So when the contractions started this morning, I thought I could wait until you came home. I knew you were in court . . . I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s all right, Chelsea.”
“Oh God, it hurts. I need to push so bad, Jake. We’re not going to make it to the hospital.”
I can’t tell you why, but I ask, “Are you serious?”
Her face goes hard and furious. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
Okay, she’s serious.
Holy shit.
“Riley, Raymond, Rory—in here now!” I turn on my knees when the three of them stand in the doorway. “Riley . . .”
I don’t have to say anything else. She’s at Chelsea’s side, holding her hand. “Yeah, I’m here.”
Tears leak from Chelsea’s eyes as she caresses Riley’s hair. “You’re such a good girl. You always were.”
I stand up to talk to the boys. They’re stock-still and staring.
“Holy shit!” Rory says. “Is she okay?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “She’s gonna be fine.”
He looks up at my face, demanding, “Give me your word.”
“You’ve got it.” He nods and I tell him, “Take your brother and sisters out into the living room. Keep them there and keep them calm. Can you do that for me, kid?”
“Yeah—I’m on it.” He glances around me. “I love you, Aunt Chelsea.”
Chelsea smiles, despite her obvious pain. “I love you, too, Rory. Don’t worry.”
With a nod, he leaves.
I wrap one hand around Raymond’s arm, bringing his attention to me. “Your aunt is having the baby.”
“Here?!”
“Here. Now. And I really need you not to freak out about it, Raymond. Bring me towels, scissors, string. Then boil some water, just in case.”
From what I read, the boiling water is for sterilizing things, and I don’t think we’re going to have time for that. But it’ll keep Raymond busy so he doesn’t worry himself sick.
I give his arm another squeeze. “Are you with me?”
His face tightens with determination. “Yeah. We got this.”
“Atta boy.”
I let myself take one last big breath as he leaves. Then I kneel back down beside Chelsea. From the living room, I can hear the little kids crying. Arguing. Calling for her.
Chelsea hears it, too.
“Riley,” I say, “go help Rory with the kids. I’ve got things here.”
For a moment she looks unsure. Then she kisses Chelsea’s cheek and goes.
Chelsea looks up at me, and my heart feels like it’s imploding.
“Hey.”
“Alone at last.” I say in my calmest voice. I tilt my head toward the phone on the floor. “Well . . . except for Earl.”
That gets me a tiny smile. And even more tears. “I’m really scared, Jake.”
I shake my head. “I know you are, but you don’t have to be. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or this baby.”
“This isn’t what we planned.”
I cup her beautiful face in both hands. “I didn’t plan on you, Chelsea. Or them. And for as long as I live, you will be the best thing that ever happened to me.”
She closes her eyes and leans into my palm.
“We’re gonna have a baby today. And we’re gonna have one fuck of a story afterward. Okay?”
She takes one of her deep breaths, and that face that I love turns focused. Strong. Determined—like she’s always been.
“Okay.”
I put the phone on speaker. “This is Jake Becker—are you there, Earl?”
“I’m here, Jake.” A gravelly, older man’s voice comes out of the speaker. It reminds me so much of the Judge, I blink. “I’m going to walk you through this every step of the way, son.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. First, take a look and tell me what’s going on.”
Chelsea’s underwear is already off. I grab a towel from the stack that Raymond dropped in the room and place it underneath her. Then I put my hands on her knees and look between her legs.
Holy fucking Christ
There’s a mass of dark hair that I know isn’t hers, pushing against her opening, stretching her. “I see the head. It’s inside her still, but it’s right there.”
“That’s good. I want you to wash your hands now, Jake, get some clean towels nearby, and get ready to catch.”
I scrub and dry my hands, then Chelsea groans deep and loud. “Oh God, I have to push. I have to right now.”
I tell Earl I’m ready and he says, “Go ahead, Chelsea. A few good pushes and you’ll be meeting your baby. Breathe deep and focus, okay? Your body knows what it needs to do, don’t fight it, let it happen.”
Chelsea grips her knees and curls her spine. Her chin drops to her chest and she growls as she bears down hard.
And while I wait between Chelsea’s legs, I silently do something I’ve never done before.
I pray.
I go back and forth between cursing God, telling him he can’t have her—to threatening that if he tries, I’ll march straight into heaven, scoop Chelsea up, and carry her home. But mostly, I just beg.
Please, God, please don’t let me screw this up. Don’t let anything go wrong. Please, God, please, please, please, fucking please.
And then my voice is echoing off the walls. “The head is out.”
My child’s face is still, covered in fluid and splotched with a white fleshy substance.
“It’s not over!” Chelsea grunts and strains even harder.
And then, in a rush of liquid, my son slides into my hands.
“He’s out!” I call. I grab a towel and wipe his face, clearing his nose and mouth.
“Is he crying?” Earl asks.
The answer is a strong, pissed-off screech. And it’s the most beautiful fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah, he is. He’s crying.”
And he’s not the only one.
His little mouth opens wide and indignant. His tiny, perfect limbs flail as I dry them with the towel. His sounds change to whimpers as I wrap him up in a new, dry towel and put him on Chelsea’s stomach. In her arms.
She cries as she holds him, looks at him. And her whisper is feather soft. “Hi, there. We’ve all been waiting for you.”
I lean down next to her and rest my forehead against her temple—just breathing her in. Holding them both close.
“We did it, Jake.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .
“We sure did.”
****
Talk about a fucking day.
The paramedics showed up a few minutes after Robert was born. They took care of the umbilical cord, and Chelsea, and all the things that need to happen right after childbirth. Each of the kids got a good look at Robert before he and Chelsea were loaded into the ambulance. The boys were thrilled to have a new little brother, and the girls decided he was so damn cute, they didn’t even mind that he had a penis.
Stanton and Sofia stayed with them while I rode with Chelsea. Mother and baby stayed overnight, just to make sure everybody was good to go. When they ca
me home, we let the kids take off from school for the rest of the week—which is always a cause for celebration.
We’re all lying around the den now, watching TV in our pajamas, even though it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. A pitiful cry from the baby monitor tells us that someone is up, probably wet and hungry. I kiss Chelsea—it’s like I’m unable not to kiss her—every time the baby cries. Which is a lot.
“I’ll get him,” I say against her sweet mouth.
Down the hall, in our room, I lift him from the bassinet and change his diaper. And he really doesn’t like that. I swaddle him back up and sit in the rocking chair, soothing him.
His whimpers die down and he just kind of looks at me, the way babies do—like he’s waiting for something. After a few seconds, I think maybe he wants a song—a lullaby. There’s one band that gets played in this house more than any other, so against my better judgment, it’s one of their songs I choose.
I sing in a low, off-key voice . . . until the sound of a lone giggle floats down the hall and under the door. Then it’s joined by another.
And another.
Until there’s a full-blown chorus of chuckles going on in the living room.
