Own the Eights Maybe Baby

by Krista Sandor

  Georgie glanced over her shoulder. “The captain says we’ve got rough seas ahead, and I need a strong deckhand to get me through the storm.”

  She’d gotten damn good at the role-play dirty talk. But two could play at that, and he was always up for sharpening his skill set.

  Naked as the day he was born, he maneuvered his large frame out of bed and sauntered over to his wife. These days, it made things easier to go to bed naked. And he was rewarded for the gesture when Georgie’s gaze dropped to his hard length, and a mischievous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

  This sexy sailor didn’t mind his lack of sleeping attire one bit.

  He came up behind her and met her gaze in the mirror that hung on the wall above the dresser.

  “Sounds like you’re in need of a seaman.”

  God’s honest truth? Seaman is a funny-ass word—except when your wife is dressed in a sequined sailor suit, bent over in front of a mirror and beckoning for a deckhand. Then, the word sounds as naughty as hell.

  “Do you think you’re up for the task? It could get dangerous, Seaman Marks,” she purred—and again, there was nothing silly about seamen.

  He pressed his rock-hard cock against her ass, then ran his hands up the sides of her body. His wife arched into him as he massaged her breasts, barely contained in the costume’s bodice. He kissed the delicate skin below her earlobe and watched in the mirror, like a predator assessing his prey, as she parted her lips and gasped.

  “I can handle dangerous,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.

  “And wet. It’s going to get very, very wet,” she rasped on a heated exhale.

  If she ever tired of blogging, she’d be an ace at scripting NC-17 flicks.

  He reached between her thighs and caressed her most sensitive place. “You weren’t kidding. You’re soaked,” he growled, then rocked his palm against her tight bundle of nerves as he teased her slick entrance with his fingertip.

  But his wife was greedy. A click and a clack cut through her lusty moans as she spread her legs, granting him complete access. He worked her in perfect rhythmic circles, rubbing her sweet bud and driving her toward wanton release.

  “Hold on to your hat, sailor girl. It’s about to get rough,” he said, reveling in the quickening of her sultry, audible breaths.

  “I don’t have to hold on to my hat. I have mad bobby pin skills. A tsunami couldn’t knock this sucker off,” she whispered, then gasped for breath.

  He slid his hand from her breasts to her neck, then angled her head back, capturing her mouth in a fiery kiss. With the passion of an angry, roiling sea, he thrust his hard length past her delicate folds. She tightened around him, taking each hard, thick inch of him. He released her mouth and inhaled a sharp breath. The sensation of plunging deep inside his wife never dulled. It never ceased to send an electric charge racing through his body. He glanced into the mirror and locked onto her gaze.

  “Jordan,” she whispered, her eyes hungry with need, her bottom lip trembling with desire.

  The costumes and the dirty talk made it fun, but this moment, in these precious seconds when he saw forever in her eyes, this was when he lost any inhibition and gave in to desire.

  Lost in her blue-green gaze, he set a deliciously frenzied pace, bringing her right to the edge before pulling back. But the measured thrust of their lovemaking quickly transformed into an impassioned raging storm—their sweat-slick bodies moving together in wave after furious wave.

  Georgie cried out, and carnal victory tore through him as she reached back and gripped his muscled forearm, riding the rough seas into orgasmic oblivion. Her heated center, slippery with desire, tightened around his hard length and sent him overboard into the churning sea of sweet release. They rode each crashing wave, winding down slowly, and soon, her lithe frame rested, warm and pliable, in his arms.

  He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and inhaled her sweet scent when a gentle pulse fluttered against his palm, pressed to her abdomen.

  “Is that the baby?” he asked, scared to move or even breathe.

  Still wearing the sailor hat, his wife nodded.

  “Is it kicking?” he whispered.

  He hated referring to their alien peanut blueberry turned mini pineapple turned little mango as an it. But they still didn’t know their child’s gender. While they’d had the ultrasound to determine the sex, the results had been sent to Lenny and Stu for the big Battle of the Births reveal, happening later today.

  Her expression softened. “Yes, that’s the baby.”

  He met Georgie’s gaze in the mirror and gasped when the flutter-pulse happened again.

  Gently, he rubbed the spot where his wife’s belly inhabitant had kicked. “What does it feel like for you?”

  “Strangely awesome. Does that make sense?” she answered.

  “Yeah, it does.” He waited for the subtle sensation to return, but the place once pulsing with life went still.

  “It looks like we’re all early risers,” she said.

  And then it hit him.

  They’d had sex—like, really good naughty sailor sex—and the baby was awake for it.

  He carefully pulled out, stepped back, then stumbled to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, plucking a tissue to do a little post-sex cleanup.

  He wasn’t an idiot. He understood anatomy. The baby didn’t know what they were doing or that his cock had been inserted into the baby escape route. Still, it was surreal.

  He blew out a breath. “I just realized we had sex.”

  “You just realized that?” she asked with a playful twist to her lips, then clickity-clacked it over to the bed and sat beside him.

  He chuckled and took her hand into his. “Believe me. I know we had sex. It’s…”

  “What?” she asked softly.

  “That was the first time I felt the baby move, and we’d…”

  “Did the naughty while pretending to be sailors lost at sea?” she supplied.

  “It’s a big moment, and you’re dressed as a sexy sailor, and I’m buck naked.”

  “The doctor said sex is completely safe for us, and the baby’s fine.” She threaded their fingers and gave his hand a squeeze. “Now, I don’t think our predawn sexcapades is something we’ll want to add to the baby book.”

  He stared into the eyes of the woman who could quell his fears with one snarky comment. “Best to keep this aspect of the pregnancy between the two of us.”

  “Would you like to see something else that we should keep between the two of us?” she asked, going all sly sailor.

  That was a no brainer.

  “Hell yes!” he exclaimed.

  “Would you like to see my pageant act?”

  His eyes went wide.

  She giggled. “It’s nothing naughty, Seaman Marks. Just listen,” she instructed, then clicked her heels and started tapping out the tune to “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat.”

  He reared back, damn impressed and about to tell her so when a sharp ping cut through the merrily, merrily part.

  He glanced around the room. “What is that? Did you turn on the oven, or is that the kitchen timer?”

  She shook her head. “No, this morning, I stuck to organizing my historical romances by period. I don’t know what that noise is.”

  “Commence Hospital Practice Run. Commence Hospital Practice Run,” came the same creepy robotic voice he’d heard during their VR grocery store nightmare.

  They turned as the eerie robotic voice continued repeating the phrase, and he damn near fell off the bed when he figured out where it was coming from.

  “Faby?” he cried, staring at the fake baby, whose head glowed red—its baby eyes flashing like a beacon to hell.

  “The timer has started. Commence Hospital Practice Run,” the possessed Faby commanded.

  Of all the times for this challenge to happen—this had to be the worst!

  “Georgie, we have to get to the hospital!”

  L
enny and Stu had mentioned they’d need to complete a hospital practice run. But what they’d failed to disclose was that the command would be sent by their infant care simulation doll.

  They must have activated Faby while he and Georgie were getting crapped on by the VR baby.

  Georgie sprang to her feet and scooped up the glowing fake baby. “Have you always been able to talk, Faby? Can you hear me?”

  “We have to get moving. This is for the Battle of the Births,” he said, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  “I have to change,” she cried, looking around the room.

  “Fifteen minutes remaining,” Faby instructed.

  Fifteen minutes!

  “Babe, there’s no time. This is the drill. We have to make it to the hospital in—”

  “Fourteen minutes,” Faby answered.

  He broke out into a cold sweat, then forced himself to take a breath. Georgie’s bag was packed. The car was gassed up. They had a plan.

  “I’ll keep Faby with me and make sure Mr. Tuesday is safe in his crate,” Georgie offered.

  He nodded. “And I’ll get the bag and pull up the car.”

  “Thirteen minutes,” Faby announced.

  “Go, go, go!” he cried, the competitive part of him, pumped and ready to crush this challenge.

  The hospital was nine minutes away. They could do this.

  He grabbed Georgie’s suitcase and the baby carrier. He’d installed the infant car seat unit last week, per Lenny and Stu’s instructions. He’d thought it was a little early to worry about that, but their hospital dry run must have been the reason why.

  He slowed his breathing, going into focused trainer mode as his mind methodically fixated on the task at hand.

  Bag. Baby carrier. Car keys. Wallet.

  He was a man on a mission with—

  “Twelve minutes remaining,” came Faby’s super-creepy robot voice, counting down from somewhere in the house.

  He gathered the essential items and flew out the door. The adrenaline in his bloodstream centered him, driving him to move with the agility of a cheetah—the stealth of a jaguar, the concentration of a hawk.

  He clicked the car seat into place and set the hospital bag beside it. Before he could blink, he was in the driver’s seat and poised behind the wheel.

  A man on a mission.

  And Denver, we have ignition.

  The email regarding the Battle of the Births hospital practice run had conveyed that Stu and Lenny would be at the hospital, waiting to do a debrief, and assigning points to those couples who successfully made it to the hospital in the allotted time.

  However, there was nothing about a Faby creepy voice countdown. He’d figured the challenge would come via text. But he was ready. He gripped the steering wheel and narrowed his gaze. Grand Prix drivers had nothing on him as he sped down the street this fine, crisp morning until a faint sound caught his attention.

  “Hey, Emperor of Asshattery! Stop!”

  His heart jumped into his throat.

  Only one person called him by that name.

  With a piercing squeal, he slammed on the brakes as the BMW came to a screeching halt, and the scent of burning rubber infiltrated his nostrils. His gaze swept to the passenger seat—the empty passenger seat—and he knew he was toast.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror to find his pregnant wife, running down the middle of the road, carrying a demon-glowing doll, and wearing a cardigan over a sequined sailor costume.

  Christ! Of all the things to forget!

  He threw the car into park and busted out of the vehicle.

  “I’m sorry, Georgie!” he cried, sprinting toward her as the clickity-clack of her tap shoes grew louder.

  “What were you thinking?” she gasped, holding her belly as they met in the middle of the road.

  “I was focused on my tasks. You know, bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet.”

  “And wife!” she yelled as she headed for the car with him a step behind.

  “Yes, you’re right! Bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet, and wife,” he repeated, helping her into the vehicle when the whoop, whoop of a police car siren cut through the air and the flash of blue and red reflected off the car’s window.

  Perfect. Their early morning antics had attracted the Denver PD.

  The police car pulled up behind their BMW, and the officer exited the vehicle.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Nine minutes,” came the robotic voice of their demon fake baby.

  He mustered up what he’d hoped looked like the expression of a decent, law-abiding citizen because he was! Unfortunately, this early morning pregnant-lady-chasing-a-car ruckus probably appeared otherwise.

  “I’m sure this looks strange, but we’ve got everything under control, Officer.”

  The man frowned, unconvinced. “I was passing by and noticed a pregnant woman running down the street, chasing after your car.”

  Yup, exactly what he was worried about.

  “I can imagine you don’t see that every day,” he replied, doing his best to play it cool and keep it light.

  The officer gave him the once-over. “Yes, this is a new one for me. And you’re not wearing any shoes, sir.”

  Jordan stared down at his bare feet and shook his head. “Bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet, wife, shoes,” he mumbled. He needed to write this down.

  “What was that, sir?” the officer asked, his frown deepening.

  “Sorry, I was reciting a list.”

  “Sir, have you been drinking?”

  “It’s barely six in the morning,” he fired back.

  The officer crossed his arms. “That’s not an answer, sir.”

  The minutes—the precious minutes—were ticking away!

  How the hell would he explain this?

  Sorry, Officer. No, I haven’t been drinking. Our demon-talking doll told us that we needed to get into the car and drive like maniacs to do a hospital practice-run that will earn us badly needed points in the Battle of the Births. Except, I forgot my wife, so that’s why she’s yelling and chasing after the car.

  No! Even in his shoeless, addled state, he knew that would not help get them on their way. In fact, that monologue sounded like the perfect way to initiate a psych hold.

  Georgie exited their SUV and pulled the cardigan closed, but it was no use. The sun glinted off the sequins as if she were a pregnant disco ball.

  “Hello, there! Sorry for the commotion, Officer. Can we wrap this up? We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  Jordan ran his hands down his face. This wasn’t good. He should have gone with the demon-talking doll story.

  The officer stared at his wife and cocked his head to the side. “Are you headed to a costume party?”

  “No, the hospital,” she answered.

  He had to give it to her. For someone wearing a sparkly sailor suit and tap shoes, she carried herself with exquisite poise.

  “Are you in labor?” the officer asked.

  Georgie pursed her lips. “No, it’s a challenge event for the Battle of the Births.”

  The officer took a step back, his gaze swinging between them, then landed back on his wife.

  Twenty-four-hour psych hold, here they come!

  The officer whipped off his mirrored sunglasses. “Wait a second. Your Georgie Jensen, aren’t you?”

  Georgie’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”

  “You’re the Own the Eights lady!” the man replied, now grinning ear to ear—which was better than whipping out his handcuffs or calling in for backup.

  “Can I get a picture with you?” he continued, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

  Georgie met his gaze, and all he could do was shrug and give her husband eyes for just do it!

  “Okay,” she answered.

  “Thank you! My wife’s sister is a CityBeat blogger in Wisconsin, and she told my wife about your blog. She’s a huge fan. That’s how we got together! I’m her solid, reliable eight
.”

  Georgie pressed her hand to her chest. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Not to mention, my wife’s pregnant, too! She’ll get such a kick out of knowing you’re also expecting,” the cop exclaimed, then handed him his phone. “Would you mind taking the picture?”

  “Sure,” he answered, lining up the photo of an officer of the law standing next to his wife, who sported wild sex hair with a sailor cap securely pinned to the crown of her head while glinting in the early morning sun.

  You know, what they called Thursday morning.

  “Smile,” he said, hardly able to believe this was happening. Then again, it was better than getting arrested. He’d gunned the engine back there and was probably speeding.

  Still, he should ask Georgie to pinch him once this police encounter ended, just to make sure this wasn’t some expectant father pregnancy delusion. While they’d gotten themselves in plenty of bizarre situations over the course of their relationship, this one has to rank in the top five—no, probably three.

  He returned the phone to the officer, and he and Georgie waved as the man got back into his cruiser and started down the street.

  Georgie rested her head against his chest. “Jordan, what a mess! All I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep until our little pineapple surprise is done baking.”

  “No, Georgie! We can’t go home and sleep. We can salvage this. There’s got to be some time left to get to the hospital. Where’s Faby?”

  “In the car,” she answered wearily, then gasped and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Georgiana, what is it?” he asked, scanning the road for another cop car.

  “We left Faby unattended in the car! That’s got to be like one of the worst things you can do!” she said, then sprinted the few steps to the SUV and swung open the car door.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep!

  Faby glared at them. Maybe it was him, but the fake doll looked pissed off.

  “Do you think it’s about to explode?” he asked as the devil baby continued to beep.

  “I don’t—” Georgie began as his phone rang.

  He pulled his cell from his pocket. “It’s Lenny.”

  “Answer it! Put him on speaker,” Georgie directed.

  He accepted the call. “Hello.”