Pregnant by the Playboy

by Jackie Lau

  “Don’t let this turn you into someone you’re not.”

  “I know what I want.”

  Brian doesn’t offer another protest. He simply nods. “You do what you gotta do.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Don’t become a stranger.”

  “I won’t, though I expect you’ll see less of me.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’m also dating Marissa. You know, the mother of my child.”

  “You’re in a relationship?” He draws his eyebrows together, as though confused. As though this is beyond his comprehension.

  “Not officially, but I promised to be exclusive.”

  Brian presses his palm to his mouth, like he’s trying to stop wine from spewing out of it and onto his expensive carpet. Or expensive couch. Or expensive table.

  “Exclusive?” he says. “You know what that word means, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Actually, I haven’t had sex with anyone since that weekend in January.”

  He sputters. “You haven’t...had sex...since January?”

  “No.”

  I’m not happy about this situation, but still, I smile. I can’t help being amused by Brian’s reaction.

  “When’s the last time you went that long without getting laid?” he asks.

  “Over a decade ago.”

  Even when I was spending most of my time on work, I’d still let loose once every month or two, and usually it involved sex.

  Yep, a drought this long is unusual for me.

  Yet I’m confident in my decision. There is no woman for me but Marissa, and she’s not ready to sleep with me, therefore I’m not having sex.

  “This is ridiculous.” Brian shakes his head as he has a sip of wine.

  “What’s ridiculous?” Holden asks, entering the room.

  “Hey, Holden,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were coming to Toronto this weekend.”

  He helps himself to some wine and leans back in a chair. “Tell me. What’s ridiculous?”

  “Vince hasn’t had sex since January,” Brian says.

  “He’s pulling your leg. Not possible.”

  “No, really,” I say. “I got a woman pregnant, we’re seeing each other, and I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

  “But you’re sleeping with her, at least.”

  “Not yet. Not since the weekend I met her.”

  Holden’s eyes are wide and he’s disturbingly still.

  I think I’ve sent him into a state of shock. Crap, am I going to have to perform CPR?

  Is it weird that this is more shocking to him than if I’d gone to Singapore last weekend, fucked a couple supermodels, gotten high on mushrooms, and accidentally stabbed my dick with a durian?

  Man, I think I’m losing my touch when it comes to making up stories.

  Finally, Holden starts breathing.

  “Okay, here’s the important question,” he says. “Are you in love with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Holden extends his hand to Brian and wiggles his fingers. “You owe me.”

  Brian sighs. “I do.”

  “What is going on?” I ask.

  “We made a bet,” Holden says. “When you were acting weird the last time I was here, I said you were in love. Brian thought I was wrong. And now, you’ve proven me correct.”

  I don’t mention that I wasn’t in love back then. “How much was the bet for?”

  “A thousand bucks.”

  I’m weary of this useless life the three of us lead, where thousand-dollar bets are pocket change.

  In fact, I’m disgusted with myself.

  God, I need this kid. To have a family with Marissa. Not that I believe everyone needs to have kids, but I think this will give my life some value.

  At the same time, I’m disgusted with myself for getting annoyed about this bet. I feel like I’m turning into Julian and have no sense of humor.

  “He’s mooning over her,” Holden says to Brian.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Brian says.

  “How long do you think this will last?”

  “It will last,” I growl.

  “But you’re Vince Fong,” Holden says, and I wish I could change my name. “Three-night stands are too much commitment for you.”

  “Well, I’ve changed.”

  My friends look skeptical, probably assuming I’ll be over Marissa in a few months and back to my usual ways.

  I have news for them. I’m serious about her and our family.

  But maybe they have a point.

  What do I know about this sort of thing? I haven’t had a relationship in ages. What do I even know about meaningful friendships? These guys are my closest friends, and they’re not bad people, though they mostly care about having fun.

  I don’t doubt my current feelings for Marissa, but maybe it won’t last. Yes, she’s a great woman, but maybe I feel this way mainly because she’s having my baby.

  No, it’s more than that. It’s got to be.

  Still, I can’t say that with absolute certainty.

  Dammit.

  I gulp more wine and pour myself another glass. That’s what Vince Fong does.

  Yet last night, I was happily drinking mocktails.

  I don’t dare tell my friends about all the planning I did for that date. I don’t tell them how I’ve been running around town, buying her every food she craves. I don’t tell them that I cried at the ultrasound.

  I don’t tell them that I fear I’m unlovable, that in some ways, my cockiness is an act.

  “I saw your brother the other day,” Brian says.

  “Julian?”

  “No. Cedric. At least, I think it was him. At a café downtown. He’s cute. I couldn’t tell from the author picture on the back of his book, but he is.”

  “Don’t you dare.” It would be too weird, and I’m pretty sure Cedric isn’t into casual sex like Brian is. I’m not even sure if my brother has any interest in men, but I have reason to think he might.

  Or maybe Brian doesn’t find Cedric attractive. Maybe he’s just saying this to piss me off because he’s annoyed that I’m not willing to join him in all his exploits anymore.

  I finish my wine. “I should go.”

  “Vince!” Brian calls after me as I hurry toward his front door, but I don’t reply.

  I spend Saturday night alone, something I never, ever do.

  Chapter 19

  Marissa

  I have a problem.

  I’d heard that some women get super horny during pregnancy, particularly in their second trimester—even my own mother told me this—but I thought it wouldn’t happen to me.

  Yet here I am.

  I’ve already masturbated twice today to take the edge off. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s unusual for me.

  For part of the first trimester, sex was far from my mind. Sort of hard to feel turned on when you’re puking and frantically trying to avoid the smell of mushrooms in the grocery store. Also, it’s hard to crave sex when you’re overwhelmed by your cravings for cheesecake.

  This does not mean I never thought about sex during the first trimester. I did, especially when Vince was around.

  But now, it’s a whole different story.

  Sex. Sex. Sex.

  I swear there’s a neon sign in my brain, flashing that single word.

  And now it’s Friday, and I have another date with Vince.

  I told myself I wouldn’t sleep with him yet, and I managed to restrain myself last week, even though he was so sweet and incredibly good-looking.

  This time, however, I’m not sure I’ll manage it.

  Just the thought that he’ll be here any minute is sending me into overdrive. My skin is flushed. My nipples are unbearably sensitive. I want to strip off my clothes and greet him naked.

  No! Don’t do it!

  I’m wearing a flowery summer dress, even though it’s only April, but today is the warmest day so far this year, and my body’s temperature regulation has gone ha
ywire. The dress is low-cut, and I think it does a great job of showing off my boobs, which are bigger than usual thanks to the baby. Apparently he or she is now the size of an orange.

  The phone rings, and I buzz Vince up.

  By the time I open the door, I’m practically jumping out of my skin.

  Vince, of course, looks ridiculously handsome. When does he not? He leans against the doorframe and smiles at me, hands in his pockets.

  Something’s a little off, though. There’s a faint shadow under his eyes that isn’t usually there.

  But when I smile at him, he smiles back, nice and slow, and I get even more aroused. I have to stop myself from squeezing my thighs together.

  Unfortunately, I don’t stop myself from saying, “You look scrummy!”

  “Uh,” he says.

  “Sorry, I’ve been watching too much of The Great British Bake Off.”

  Yeah, I’ve been binge-watching it lately, although all the food makes me drool and I can barely stand the fact that I can’t taste any of it.

  “You do look really good,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  “I should warn you that I’m very horny.”

  “Oh, you, too?” he murmurs.

  Man, he’s so suave and cool, and I’m anything but. I’m usually nowhere near this bad, but, you know...Vince Fong and pregnancy.

  “I have a good excuse,” I say, lifting my nose in the air.

  “Me, too. I haven’t had sex since January.”

  “Same here. That’s only a few months. A few months is nothing.”

  His eyes widen. “It sure doesn’t feel like nothing to me.”

  “My good excuse is pregnancy hormones, something you aren’t experiencing.”

  “True, I’m not.”

  He’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt today, so I have a good view of his forearms. Have I ever found forearms this sexy before?

  “How are you so calm right now when I want to climb you like a tree?” I ask.

  He smirks at me.

  My God, he’s infuriating.

  He takes a step toward me and tips up my chin. His gaze isn’t pointed at my face, however. No, he’s making a show of staring down my dress, which I don’t mind.

  “Let’s go out for dinner,” I say.

  “Are you sure? Seems like you’re itching to get out of that dress.”

  He steps even closer, until we’re toe-to-toe. He brushes his hand over my hip, and I gasp.

  “You want to know what I do when I’m alone?” he asks.

  I’m already developing a picture in my mind, without him saying anything.

  “Sometimes when I’m in the shower,” he says. “Sometimes when I’m in bed. I grasp my cock...you miss doing that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I groan before I can help myself. We only had one weekend together in bed, but I miss doing that. So much.

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. I want to wipe that stupid smile away by pushing him down between my legs and telling him to lick me, like he did at the party.

  But I don’t.

  “And I think of you, Marissa,” he says. “It’s always you. Your wet heat surrounding me. Your fingernails scratching my back so hard they leave marks.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I did not do that.”

  I try to sound firm, but perhaps he’s telling the truth. I can’t be sure, not when my mind is turning to mush and that giant SEX! sign seems even bigger than before.

  “And I jack myself off,” he continues. “Way more than usual. Because I can’t stop thinking of being with you again.”

  “How interesting,” I murmur, managing to channel his calmness.

  “Very interesting, I agree.” He waits a beat. “Are you sure you’d like to head to dinner now?”

  “Yes.”

  See? I have self-control.

  “As you wish,” he says, stepping out of my personal space.

  “Where are we going? A sausage factory?”

  He barks out a laugh.

  This time, he doesn’t take me out for drinks beforehand, and the Middle Eastern restaurant is only a short distance away. We order muhammara for our appetizer, and we both get lamb kebabs for our main. There are, indeed, sausages on the menu, but I refuse to make a comment about it.

  When the muhammara arrives, I immediately break off a piece of pita and swipe it through the dip. Roasted red pepper, walnut, and pomegranate molasses. It’s delicious and has the perfect hint of sweetness.

  I eat half of the muhammara in a hurry, and then I watch Vince. He’s eating slowly, probably to torture me. He tears off some pita with his fingers...those fingers that could be inside my body. His lips, wrapping around the food...his mouth could be on my nipple, or my clit, or my earlobe. So many possibilities, and I want all of them.

  “You okay, Marissa?” he asks, and I’m positive he can read my mind.

  “Just peachy.”

  “Here, you can have the rest.” He slides the dish over to me.

  All I care about right now is food and sex. Honestly, nothing else in the world matters.

  I eat the rest of the appetizer.

  It’s good, but not as good as sex.

  Our main course is good, too, but I have the same problem. I dip a piece of lamb in the yogurt sauce, and yes, that’s excellent.

  But not as excellent as sex.

  Vince places his hand on my knee and slips his fingers under the hem of my dress.

  “You bastard,” I mutter as I lean forward so I can also touch his knee.

  It strikes me as slightly ridiculous. We’re at a restaurant with delicious food on the table in front of us. We can’t really do anything to each other here.

  And yet.

  I help myself to some rice. That’s what’s important right now. Food. Providing myself with nourishment for a wild evening of sex.

  No! I’m not supposed to sleep with him.

  Okay, it’s time to be honest with myself. I’m going to sleep with him. I’m super horny and he’s very willing and extremely hot.

  I can handle this, though. I’m just craving him because I’m pregnant, right? We can sleep together—it’s a sensible thing to do. I was scared that sex would change things and there would be no going back, and I’m still not sure what I want beyond tonight...but I was wrong to worry. It’s only sex; we’ve done it before. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

  “What are you thinking about?” Vince asks.

  I stab a piece of pepper. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve decided to sleep with him.

  He rubs circles over the inside of my knee with his thumb, and I clench my thighs.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say as I continue to eat. The food really is good, but not as perfect as it would feel to have Vince inside me...

  I squirm in my seat and try to swallow my moan, but I don’t quite manage, and Vince spears me with one of his sexy-as-all-get-out grins.

  If I hadn’t already decided to sleep with him, that would have done the trick.

  “What did you have planned for after dinner?” I ask, trying to act all cool. “Another bar with good mocktails?”

  “No,” he says.

  Oh, thank God! We can go back to my place and have sex!

  “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” he continues. “It’s finally starting to feel like spring. There’s a gelato place near St. Clair...why don’t we mosey down there after dinner? We could also stop for some tea—”

  “Vince.” I grit my teeth.

  “Why, whatever is the problem, Marissa?” He rubs his thumb a bit higher, and I practically beg him to drop to his knees and put his mouth on me.

  However, we’re in a restaurant. The tables on either side of us are occupied, and someone would almost certainly notice. Although maybe, if he’s really stealthy...

  No, someone would definitely notice, especially since I wouldn’t be able to keep quiet.

  “You bastard,” I mutter again.

  As payback,
I pull down the neckline of my dress, just a little, and his eyes are, predictably, drawn to my cleavage.

  Good. Two can play this game.

  The waiter comes to clear our plates. “Would you like to see our dessert menu?”

  “Sure, let’s take a look,” Vince says, annoyingly smooth. He touches my hand. “What do you think, honey?”

  “I think we should get the bill,” I say decisively, looking at the waiter. “Please.”

  He nods and brings it over two minutes later.

  This time, I don’t argue over who’s going to pay the bill. That would be a waste of precious time. Instead, I let Vince use his credit card, and then I tug his hand and march out of the restaurant with him trailing behind me.

  “Where are you going, Marissa?” he asks. “In a rush for something?”

  “It’s your fault.”

  “Mine?” He has the nerve to sound affronted.

  “For looking so goddamn sexy! For knocking me up and making me feel so horny!”

  “I do apologize.”

  I stop walking and turn to face him, hands on my hips. “How are you so composed right now? I thought you were horny, too.”

  “I am. It’s taking every ounce of willpower in my body—and I’m not accustomed to using my willpower—to stop myself from pushing you up against that brick wall and having my way with you.” He points to the side of a building. “Your tits look magnificent in that dress, as I’m sure you’re aware. But I think it would be best to wait until we get back to your condo, and besides, it’s fun to watch you squirm and get pissed at me.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t. Because when we get to your bedroom, I’m going to make you feel really, really good.” He presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I’m going to slide my fingers into your pussy...”

  God, I can’t stand this anymore. I drag him toward the car, and ten minutes later, we’re pulling up to my building. After he helps me out, he pushes me against the car door and sticks his tongue down my throat. I moan.

  “Shall we take this upstairs?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I want you.”

  And I think I can have you without it meaning anything.

  As soon as we stumble, sober, into the entryway of my unit, we’re on each other again. Mouths clashing, hands roaming. He hitches up the bottom of my dress and slides his hand beneath my underwear.