Shipwrecked & Horny: A What Could Possibly Go Wrong Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys After Dark Book 10)

by Gabi Moore

  We had conceived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Like I said, I’m not a sappy guy. I think auras and ESP are bullshit, and I judge the hell out of people who believe in astrology.

  I didn’t really think it was possible to “feel” that moment when conception actually happened. Somehow, in the next few days, Tanya and I enjoyed this new, weird secret we had. She had felt the same thing, too. The evening was a blur after that. We both remembered a playful cheer from some people down below, and drinks on the house for the good show we had given (although we hardly needed them); I remembered my wife beaming from ear to ear. I remembered the purple light, the yellow dress.

  I was proud of her. I wanted to show her off to the whole world.

  They had seen everything – her lithe, naked body drenched in sweat and cum, how her legs had been shaking when she stepped down from the platform, as though descending from heaven to look people in the eye again and find her clothes. They had seen her flustered and tying up her bedraggled hair, had seen her laughing as a young couple helped her fish her dress from the pool.

  But even they hadn’t seen our secret, the way our bodies had agreed at just that moment to fuse, to make the living, flesh-and-blood proof of our love. Even at this outrageously exhibitionistic moment, there was still some deep, secret part inside her …a part that I and only I had access to.

  It was cheesy, I know, but we loved it.

  It was too soon to take a pregnancy test, but we both went on with life, excited, both tentative that what we had hoped – and felt – to be true actually might be.

  It had never seemed hot to me before, any of this. But she seemed different to me in those days afterwards. She was overflowing, brim full of some new mischief and some improbable bit of magic: a new life was growing inside her.

  A life I had put there.

  It was two weeks later when we snuck into a café bathroom and she peed on a stick, and we both waited for those two lines that would legitimize everything. Two little lines… one for each of us.

  They appeared.

  She shoved the test back into the plastic Boots bag I brought for her and we sat in the café and looked at each other for a long time.

  “Well now, you’ve only gone and knocked me up,” she said, teasing.

  “Who me?” I said, teasing back.

  We kissed.

  “I can’t believe it, Alan. We did it. Maybe I should ring Doctor Melville and tell him how…”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’d be very interested in hearing what a little slut you are.”

  “Who, me?” she said, laughing.

  I kissed her again.

  “You’re sexy,” I said.

  “You’re silly.”

  “No, really. Pregnancy becomes you.”

  “Oh…?”

  “Yeah. I wonder if I’m imagining it or if you actually look different now.”

  “You big idiot, it can’t be.”

  “No, I think you do look different. Sexier.”

  “Oh?”Her eyes sparkled. “You wanna…?”

  God she was so naughty.

  “What, here?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Here here?”

  “Mmm.”

  I finished my coffee and got up, then moved over to the bathrooms again, casual as can be. She followed a minute later, and we fucked in that tiny stall, while I held a hand over her screaming mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We went back to that club many times in the next few months. And others. Tanya was seemingly in her final form, fully transformed, unfolding like some naughty flower that only blooms under the gaze of others.

  We kept going, and eventually her soft belly domed outwards with the first signs of a pregnancy. The little secret we had gradually shared with the world around us became more and more obvious.

  Pregnancy suited her well. She became even more golden, even naughtier, her sexual persona completely taking over. At home she was my sweet little wife in sweet little sundresses, but when we went out, she was a sexual superstar, someone who fed on the admiring gaze of others, seeming to turn on every male within a one-mile radius.

  And sweet lord, if she wasn’t already pregnant I sure as hell would have done the job a thousand times over again. Just knowing how her body responded, how I had fertilized her, planted seed deep in her belly …it brought out something primal me. I wanted to drench her in cum; I relished the sight of her exhausted, dribbling body. We had found her sexual buttons, and finding all her new ones just happened to be my sexual button.

  We were back in Doctor Melville’s office, and I was noticing with some consternation that Ovaria, queen of the vaginas was nowhere to be found. I had to lighten the mood some other way. I nodded towards a gestational poster, you know the kind, one with a cross section of some woman and a curled up baby rolled inside her like a pork chop.

  “Oh my god, Tanya, so help me, you’d better not be growing us a baby that looks like that.”

  She stroked her belly like an evil villain. “Hehe, just you watch, this little guy’s going to be on my side, and we’ll kick your butt together.”

  The doctor walked in and we had our consultation, Tanya smiling throughout as thought she had personally proven him wrong and that she never needed a holiday after all, just a damn good seeing to. Personally, I kind of agreed.

  We did the sonars and ticked all the boxes. Everything was perfect.

  “Finding more time to relax these days?” he asked.

  Tanya flashed a smile at me and replied that yes, she was, although I knew that these days her idea of relaxing would exhaust a less adventurous woman.

  “So you’ll want to make some arrangements with the birth itself, like we spoke about. No rush, but bring your birth plan in next appointment and I’ll have you and the nurse go over it in detail.”

  Tanya had ramped up her list-making ways in the last few weeks, and was deeply engrossed in plans for the nursery, buying clothing and knick knacks …she packed a little D-day hospital bag that seemed to contain different things every time I checked in.

  If there’s anything she loved more than getting nailed in front of a crowd of strangers, it was making lists, and make them she did.

  This was just another adventure, and one we were going on together.

  “I tell this to all my patients, but think very carefully about who you want to be in the room with you,” he continued.

  “The last thing you want is to have people there who you’re not comfortable with. It can feel very exposing, of course.”

  “Exposing? Sounds horrible,” she said.

  We laughed about that, all the way on the drive home. But not before a quick detour, of course.

  - THE END -

  A note from the Author:

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  Thank you!

  - Gabi Moore

  Unholy - A Bad Boy Romance

  Chapter One

  My name is Melanie, and I’m a pretty good girl, if I do say so myself.

  I have just two secrets.

  Judging from what a crazy mess the world is, and how awful most people are, I would rate I’m not doing too badly if I’ve only racked up two so far. Just two.

  The first one is my hidden wedding Pinterest board where I collect millions of pictures of dream dresses, beautiful cakes, fun things to do with shells, wedding manicures and sexy yet classy bridal lingerie that has the name of your dream guy embroidered in tiny white stitches on a silky suspender belt…

  The other is that I seem to be addicted to watching hardcore porn.

  I always thought that the best colors for a wedding are obviously pastels, even though I know they’re a little predictable, right? Still, you can always go with a retro theme. There’s a whole section of my “Dresses” board that shows, like the stri
pes in a rock, the periods of my life where I was intensely interested in 50s wedding frocks with poofy skirts and the cutest little shoes.

  But then I decided I wanted a bright Frida Kahlo style Mexican theme with paper cut outs and piñatas that rained down wedding favors when the guests hit them with sticks that had ribbons plaited on them. But I soon decided that would probably end up cheap-looking and that what I really wanted was something all mute and elegant – lace, you know, and pearls, and little desserts that look like roses with tiny cakes tucked inside.

  My tastes in porn …well, that stayed pretty much constant. I always chose the same, nasty, horrible, no good stuff to look at, sadly.

  Now, I like fitted wedding dresses the most, honestly, and find they flatter my butt nicely, even if I do say so myself. Like I said, I’m a pretty good girl, but lord help me I do think I have a nice butt, and it’s not too vain if I say so. Good girls wait for the wedding night, and listen to their mammas, and do well in school so they can be dental technicians and live the dream. And that’s what I did. A Pinterest board may have been jumping the gun a little, sure, but so what if I fantasized once in a while about what my groom would wear even before he technically existed? Only a bad girl would let such a small detail get in the way of her planning a decent wedding.

  The porn though. Ugh. What could I say? God knows I tried my best to get over this filthy habit. I read “The Beauty of the Chaste Woman” by Reverend Peters. I took cold showers (does that only work for boys though?) and I wore my own makeshift pledge ring on my middle finger, where it was too small and so would hurt the most. I put special parental controls on my browser. Then I took them off again.

  Nothing worked, which just goes to show you that even good girls struggle sometimes. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m some poor repressed Christian soul. You’re thinking I’m a big old prude and that I’m like one of those girls on the TV who believes the idiot in her youth group when he tells her you can’t get pregnant on Easter or something.

  Well, I’m not. I’m no fool. I may be on the inexperienced side but I know a thing or two about you-know-what. My family’s a bit uptight about these things, sure, but besides my Aunt Carol, we all just like to do things properly. The right way. What’s so wrong about that?

  I’m young, I know (nineteen years old and ten months!) but it seems to me that living a good life is a bit like planning a wedding: you have to pay attention to the details, you have to plan ahead, or else you’ll have a big old flop on your hands, won’t you? Besides the nasty issue with the porn (don’t judge me, I’m working on it and no, I certainly won’t tell you what kind of porn it is) I was going to have that good life for myself. Right down to the last table arrangement and swan shaped bottle of bubbles. I thought nothing could possibly stand in my way.

  Boy, how wrong I was.

  Chapter Two

  “For Christ’s sake, Jenny, it’s not lube, it’s personal moisturizer” said my Aunt Carol, who had not only taken to using the lord’s name in vain, but had also joined a pyramid scheme, from what I could tell.

  “Personal moisturizer? Well, for such an open minded company, they sure have some funny ideas about calling a thing what it really is,” said my mom, turning a green bottle over in her hands a few times before plonking it on the table like it was poison. If my mom had been in charge of what to call the stuff, she’d probably have gone with “slut water” but I told you, my Aunt Carol was a bit of an outlier in the family.

  “Nonsense. ‘Personal moisturizer’ is just what everyone calls it these days.”

  “Oh do they? And what does it moisturize? Your person?”

  My Aunt Carol is the black sheep of the family, although with her fierce dyed-red hair and massive hippie earrings, she’s more like the red sheep. It didn’t used to be like that. A few years ago, my uncle died and left my Aunt Carol a ton of money, which she promptly used to fuel a long and obnoxious journey of sexual self discovery.

  While my mother and other aunts watched in horror, she went to Spain and probably, I don’t know, did things, and then she dyed her hair and started to wear chintzy stone jewelry to channel her inner goddess; these days she was peddling lingerie and “personal moisturizers” from a company called “Oh! So Good” that made my mother’s ulcer tingle.

  “Don’t decent people sell Tupperware anymore?” said my mom, drawstringing tired lips round her cigarette, looking for some strength there since God never seemed to give her any. My aunt’s hippie earrings were flapping now as she shoved all her goodies back into a branded tote bag.

  “Just forget about it. Jesus,” she said.

  It was a Saturday morning, one of those boring domestic scenes where you just drink coffee and wait for some activity to suggest yourself. Living at home was fine, I guess, except for these little moments of drama.

  Aunt Carol had been given a decent amount of leeway, as a widow you know, but my mom was steadily losing patience. My aunt’s gift of the bestseller, “Sexual Freedom at Fifty and Beyond” didn’t sit well next to “The Beauty of the Chaste Woman” and found its way into the trash. My aunt packed up her bag of tricks - all those things that the brains behind Oh! So Good thought would make the average housewife happy – and made for the door.

  “I should go anyway. Some of us have lives to live, you know?” she said, with a flick of her beet-red and newly liberated hair.

  “Ooh! Aunt Carol! Am I still housesitting for you this weekend?” I asked as she reached the door.

  “Yes! I nearly forgot. Get your mom to drop you off. Jared and I will be leaving at around 9 on Friday to catch our plane, so come then and see us off.”

  “Jared? Is this a new one?” my mom said, freshly judgmental, smoke blowing out her nose like a dragon.

  “He’s not a ‘one’, he’s a very nice man I met at gym, and he’s coming with me, and we’re both consenting adults” said my aunt, slowly.

  “Consenting adults? Oh, well, I hope you and your person have fun with him,” mom said.

  I giggled, and Aunt Carol left, not about to let family or advanced age prevent her from enjoying her youth.

  “What’s the bet she’s paid for his ticket and everything? He’s probably less than half her age and twice as evil,” mom said, who was really very good at virtue accounting.

  My mom had been mad at Aunt Carol’s indiscretions before, but this one had her particularly riled up. There was some extra energy in the way she spoke about this “one”.

  “Have you met him? This Jared?” I said.

  “Never. But Alice told me he can’t be a year or two older than you. It’s disgusting.”

  Of course it was. Utterly disgusting.

  So disgusting, in fact, that I had to find out more.

  Chapter Three

  Now, don’t ask me how, but I’m not a complete stranger to boys. Even still, meeting Jared in person was …surprising.

  I arrived at my aunt’s on Friday evening, ready to see her and her inappropriate lover off on their vacation. I brought a backpack with my laptop, some clothes, a book, a box of pop tarts. I would feed Buttons, maybe get stuck into an essay that was due on Tuesday.

  It was all planned out.

  The moment I stepped through my Aunt’s front door, though, something instantly let me know that all my plans were about to be disrupted somehow. It could have been the intense stinking cloud of cologne I walked into, or it could have been the loud, laughing voice that seemed to fill the whole house. Or it could have been something else entirely. Buttons was well-known, for instance, for being able to judge when earth-tremors or quakes were coming because he’d scamper under furniture and meow and meow till it hit. Maybe it was like that. Maybe some part of my brain sensed a disturbance in the force, you know, and I could tell a quake was coming.

  I slammed the door shut.

  “Mel is that you, sweetie? We’re in the kitchen!”

  I found my aunt there, even more animated than usual, fussing with som
e snack bars and a tiny cooler bag, hippie necklace flapping over her big shelf of a bosom. “I’m just trying to pack some nibbles in case we get hungry! Although how many should I bring? Will they give us a snack do you think, babe?”

  She turned to look at the guy standing beside her, a young guy who was eyeballing her closely. He was clearly the source of the cologne, the laughing I heard a second ago and all the disruptions that were about to hit my innocent, good girl life.

  He was smiling. A kind of mocking smile, one filled with cockiness and spunk, and he stood there with both hands on his hips as though he had been transported straight from a beer commercial into my aunt’s middle aged life.

  “Babe, babe, no snacks, ok? Come on what do you want snacks for?” he said in a voice that sounded unnervingly young.

  He was right.

  If there was anything more lame and middle aged than packing seed bars for a plane trip, I couldn’t think of it. I usually think my mom exaggerates with most things in life. For instance, I’m pretty sure that anal sex doesn’t mean your children will have cleft palates, and that soy isn’t a crop invented by the communists to make good people resist the teachings of Jesus. But still, staring at this young guy and my ridiculously red aunt, I had to say: this was quite something else.

  Was she paying him? It didn’t make sense. Why would a guy like this do a thing like that? And why would my sweet, goofy aunt do a thing like that, for that matter? He looked no older than me, it was true. And immediately feeling embarrassed, I wondered if I should have worn something a little nicer to judge him in.

  He threw the seed bars back in the cupboard and shrugged, laughing.

  “You’re right! You’re so right. Why am I packing them? God, I don’t even like them. This is what I love about you, Jared, you’re so carefree,” she said, smiling a big flushed smile at him. Jared beamed right back at her. Gross. My eyes scanned over my aunt’s matronly figure, over her freckled hands with her wedding ring still attached (“It’s water weight! I’ll take it off once the swelling goes down!”).