Practice Makes Pregnant

by Lois Faye Dyer

  Maybe I’m too reserved and he thinks I don’t want him. The thought of making a blatant sexual overture to Jorge was overwhelming; she painfully admitted that she was too unsure of herself to risk rejection. Just stripping down and taking a shower while knowing he was in the next room was intimidating.

  Still, how was she to become accustomed to living with her husband if they didn’t share a bed?

  Frustrated with her inability to understand the mixed signals she was getting from Jorge and from the arousal that still heated her blood, Allison slammed her eyes shut and ordered her wayward thoughts to cease. When she finally fell asleep, she tossed and turned, restless with dreams.

  Jorge paced the living room and swore silently. He’d promised himself that after rushing Allison into marriage and gently bullying her into agreeing to move in with him, he wouldn’t pressure her to make love. But every instinct he owned was urging him to claim her.

  He groaned aloud and stopped pacing to stare out the window at the dark woods outside. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder if he was making a mistake in not using their physical bond to strengthen the marriage against the other problems that lay between them. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together, and although Jorge was convinced beyond any doubt that Allison was the one woman in the world meant for him, he didn’t blame her for being wary and concerned about giving up her independence and moving in with a man she hardly knew.

  Am I rationalizing because I want her so badly? He stared out the window, his face grim. Unfortunately, the thought processes that he used with incisive clarity in the courtroom didn’t help him now. His ability to reason was too impacted by the lust and need that pounded through his veins. It would help if she didn’t want me as badly, he thought. Every time he touched her, they both went up in flames. He thrust his fingers through his hair and went back to pacing the floor.

  It took an hour of pacing, worrying, examining his motivation and considering what was ultimately best for their marriage before Jorge finally decided that their marriage needed all the help it could get and that the physical bond held the best prospect of strengthening their emotional bond. He’d woo her with care and consideration by day and take advantage of the heat between them at night. He still wasn’t sure that his decision wasn’t influenced by lust, but he was beyond caring.

  He slipped quietly into the darkened bedroom. The bedclothes were tumbled, one of the pillows tossed on the floor. Jorge picked up the pillow and returned it to the bed, then stripped down to his boxers and slid beneath the blankets with Allison. She muttered, the words incomprehensible, and twisted against the pillow, rolling on to her side with her back to him, her restless movements further tangling the blankets.

  Jorge slipped an arm around her waist and eased her against him, curving his body against the soft, warm shape of hers. She sighed, snuggled closer and relaxed, falling deeper into sleep.

  He nearly groaned aloud when she cuddled against him, the round curve of her bottom nestling against his groin. His palm lay over her stomach, and he thought he felt a small outward curve that might be the baby. Lust still throbbed and ached, but he felt immeasurably calmer and content with Allison in his arms, and despite his assumption that he would lie awake unsatisfied and frustrated, he soon fell asleep.

  Allison woke slowly. Warm and comfortable, she put off opening her eyes as she drifted upward from a happy, hazy dream that she only faintly remembered.

  She was cradled in warmth along her back. She stretched lazily, her toes brushing other feet, and she froze, eyes opening wide. Carefully she turned her head on the pillow to find Jorge watching her, his eyes lazy, heat kindling with each move of her body against his.

  “Good morning.” His voice was husky.

  “Good morning,” she managed to get out. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sleeping—and waiting for you to wake up. How about you?”

  “How about me…what?”

  “Were you waiting for me?” He pressed a kiss against the soft skin of her shoulder, and she shivered, goose bumps pebbling her skin in reaction to his touch.

  “To wake up?”

  He trailed his fingers over the curve of her stomach, then settled his warm palm there, his hand big enough to span her abdomen, his fingers and thumb touching her hip bones. “Yeah. Or…whatever.”

  “Whatever?” Her voice was throaty, her thoughts scattered, and she was unable to concentrate on a rational reply as he smoothed the black satin over her skin. His arm tightened and he pressed closer, his thighs rock hard behind hers, her bottom pressed tighter against his hips. He shifted against her, and she caught her breath. He was fully aroused.

  “Jorge,” she said weakly, her eyes drifting half closed as his mouth brushed against her nape and he nipped the soft skin there. Desire surged and she struggled to maintain her sanity. “Jorge, I think we should talk about this.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” He rolled her to her back and rose above her, brushed kisses against her eyebrows and the line of her cheekbones. His voice was shades deeper than normal, husky with emotion. “I want you. You want me. We’re married. This is perfectly legal and we’ve got a wedding certificate to prove it.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Shhh.” He slipped the narrow black satin strap off one shoulder and replaced it with his open mouth, his tongue stroking against her sensitive skin. The cool silk of his hair brushed against her throat. “We’re good together, Allison. I must have been insane to let you fall asleep alone last night.”

  Then his mouth covered hers, his tongue thrust, rough velvet against hers, and she forgot whatever it was that she’d meant to ask him.

  His mouth moved lower, nudging the black satin away from her breast until his lips found the tightly ruched nipple. When he drew it into his mouth and sucked, Allison’s hips came off the bed and she wrapped her arms around his neck, surging upward against the hard length of his body.

  “Yes,” he whispered, pressing her back against the sheets, his hips settling against hers. When she instinctively shifted to make a place for him and wrapped her legs around his waist, he groaned, surging against her. He smoothed one hand down the fragile satin that separated her from him and lifted his head, his mouth taking hers as he joined them with one powerful thrust. Allison gasped, her body going taut as she struggled to adjust, her nails scoring half-moons on the powerful muscles of his biceps.

  He didn’t move. His much bigger body hung over her slender frame, supported by his forearms, trembling with the effort.

  “Are you okay?” The words were guttural, his voice thick.

  The sensation of being impaled eased and Allison nodded, her gaze fastened on his face, his features harsh, the bones sharp with desire. She lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck, and tugged his mouth down to meet hers. His harsh groan was the only sound in the quiet room as he drove them both to the edge and sent them crashing over.

  By the time the weekend was over, Allison was totally confused and had no clear idea as to the relationship between herself and her new husband. He was solicitous and kind during the day, always asking after her health and the baby, but he treated her as if he were a caring, affectionate brother. No more hot looks and slow kisses. At least, not during the day. But when the lights went out and they were in bed together, the passion that was never far from the surface exploded between them.

  But each morning when they rose, Jorge went back to being the kind, considerate, concerned man whose touch was impersonal, whose glances were affectionate but not passionate.

  Allison had no idea what was going on between them. He obviously enjoyed making love with her. Even her limited experience convinced her that he loved what they did together when they went to bed. But his distance during the day convinced her that the lovemaking that shook her to the core was only convenient sex for him. She teetered between hope and happiness, despair and worry. Horribly unsure of herself, and of Jorge, she retreated behind a wall of c
ool politeness, unable to tell him her fears and her growing wish that their marriage could be a real one.

  For his part Jorge wasn’t sure his plan was working. At night she was the passionate woman he’d wanted back in his bed. He couldn’t get enough of her, nor she of him, but during the day she seemed to retreat behind a wall. She never voluntarily touched him or sought him out, and his impatient nature urged him to back her up against a wall and demand that she tell him what she was thinking behind her cool amber eyes and polite smiles. He considered keeping her in bed both day and night, but the pregnancy manuals he’d read hadn’t addressed whether a newly pregnant woman could safely indulge in twenty-four-hour-a-day lovemaking. So he gritted his teeth, struggled to keep his hands off Allison during daylight hours and continued to try to court her with affection and kindness while he waited impatiently for the night to come.

  The drive back to New York was quiet. Jorge had a wide selection of music to choose from and they took turns picking CDs, amiably arguing over the merits of rock, blues and classical artists as they listened. It was just before lunchtime when they arrived at Jorge’s apartment building.

  He swung the Jag into the underground car park below the building, and they rode the elevator to the nineteenth floor. Her arms full of shopping bags, Allison waited silently while Jorge unlocked the door and stood back to let her enter the apartment.

  Despite knowing that Zoe had coordinated with the moving company who had emptied her apartment, transferred her belongings and unpacked for her, Allison was still taken aback to find her framed print of Monet’s water lilies hanging on the entryway wall.

  “I asked Zoe to supervise the movers, but I didn’t realize that she was going to move me in so completely. We can take the print down.”

  “No, let’s leave it.” He closed the door and paused, eyeing the print. “I like it. I’ve never bothered to do much with this apartment except stack books and files on the furniture. It’s nice to see something on the wall.” He gestured toward the living room, their traveling bags in both hands and one tucked under his arm. “Let’s see what else Zoe did.”

  Allison had arranged to have most of her furniture given away or sold and had only kept a few pieces. The silver-framed photos of her family were grouped on a shelf of the large entertainment center, along with a small collection of antique salt and pepper shakers. The huge Boston fern that had held center stage in her small living room now resided in one corner of Jorge’s much larger space, close enough to receive indirect sunlight from the big window, far enough away not to sunburn the delicate fronds. On the wall behind the fern hung her print of an 1898 Paris musical revue with cancan dancers, the deep reds and blues held in a simple gold frame. The dark-blue afghan she’d knitted in college was folded across the back of the leather sofa, and the wicker basket of knitting wool and needles that she hadn’t had time to touch in simply ages sat nearby.

  “Nice.” Jorge’s voice held satisfaction.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “No—I told you, it’s nice to see the apartment looking more like a home and less like a neglected office space.”

  He turned and led the way down the hall. Allison followed him, and when she entered the bedroom, he was dropping his bags at the end of the bed, then he swung hers atop the spread.

  “I emptied half the dresser drawers for you and half the closet space.” He crossed the room and slid back the mirrored doors.

  Zoe had clearly been busy here also, for Allison’s shoes were neatly lined up on the closet floor, and suits, blouses and dresses hung on the pole.

  “Looks like Zoe unpacked for you,” he commented, flicking a glance over the interior before turned to Allison. “Remind me to thank her. I’m guessing that the less time you spend unpacking the better for you and the baby, right?”

  “Yes.” Allison’s gaze moved over the room. Her antique wicker table served as a nightstand on the far side of the bed, her reading lamp, alarm clock, a biography of Thomas Jefferson and a novel by her favorite mystery author were arranged neatly on the glass top. She walked to the bathroom and peered in. The room had a huge walk-in shower and a large, jetted bathtub. Her collection of perfume bottles was neatly arranged in one corner of the marble-topped vanity. The evidence of the huge change in her life was suddenly overwhelming and panicked, she glanced over her shoulder to find Jorge watching her, his dark gaze unreadable.

  “It’s almost lunchtime, are you hungry?”

  His calm reference to ordinary life steadied her, and she nodded, suddenly realizing that her stomach felt hollow. “I am. As a matter of fact I’m starved.” She glanced down at her midsection, still flat beneath the yellow sweater she wore. “I can’t believe how hungry I am, all the time. Either this child is going to be born full-size, or we have a potential fullback on our hands.”

  Jorge laughed. “Good, he can grow up, play pro ball and keep his poor parents in style.” He strode across the room, slung an arm around Allison’s shoulders and urged her out the door. “Let’s see what we have in the refrigerator for lunch.”

  The following morning Allison paused outside the main doors to Manhattan Multiples and drew a deep breath, steeling herself before going inside.

  “Good morning, Josie.”

  The receptionist looked up when the door opened and smiled, her bright-blue eyes sparkling with warmth. “Good morning, Allison. How was your long weekend?”

  “Great.” Allison nodded. Should she tell Josie she’d gotten married? No, better to tell Eloise first, then everyone else. “And how was your weekend?”

  “Excellent.” Josie gathered a handful of messages from Allison’s slot and handed them to her. “I read a new poem at The Inside Out’s open-mike night on Saturday, and the audience loved it.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Allison smiled with genuine delight as she took the pink message slips. Josie’s poetry was her passion, and it was impossible not to feel the joy that vibrated from her when her work was appreciated.

  When the phone rang, Josie took the call, waggling her fingers in silent response to Allison’s goodbye.

  Allison entered her office, flipped on the light switch, dropped her briefcase, message slips and purse on top of the desk and shrugged out of her coat. She hung it on a hook of the coat tree in the corner and returned to her desk where she tucked her purse into a drawer, shifted her briefcase to the floor and quickly scanned the phone messages. Satisfied that nothing in the notes required her immediate attention, she eyed the overflowing in-box on the corner of her desk and, with a sigh, removed the first file and opened it.

  An hour later, having dealt with the urgent matters in the pile of work accumulated over the short time she’d been out of the office, Allison drew a deep breath and resolutely left her office to find Eloise.

  Fortunately for her nerves, Eloise was easily located in her office. Allison tapped on the open door, and her boss glanced up, a smile breaking over her face.

  “Allison. Come in. How was your holiday? I hope you’re going to tell me that you had an absolutely decadent, wonderful time so I can live vicariously through you, because I worked all weekend.”

  “You worked all weekend?” Allison stepped across the threshold and closed the door before walking across the thick carpet to the row of chairs in front of Eloise’s desk. She dropped into one and eyed her boss with concern. “Why did you have to work this weekend? Was it something I could have helped you with? I wouldn’t have gone out of town if I’d known you needed me.”

  “I was crunching numbers for the consultant who’s working on a plan to apply for federal grant funding. And although I’m sure you would have been an immense help, I would never have wanted you to cancel your weekend. You haven’t taken a day off in ages. Speaking of which,” Eloise picked up her coffee mug and sipped, her eyes twinkling with interest as she eyed Allison over the rim. “Tell me what you did this weekend? Did you have fun?”

  “Umm, yes,” Allison said, her words stilted. How was she
going to say this? She decided to simply say the words. “I was married on Thursday, and we left the city over the weekend for our honeymoon.”

  Eloise’s eyes rounded. She stared at Allison as if she’d just announced that she’d spent the weekend on the moon.

  Chapter Seven

  “You were married? You spent the weekend on your honeymoon?” Eloise repeated the words, her disbelief evident in the tone.

  “Yes.”

  Eloise blinked slowly, clearly stunned by Allison’s bombshell. “How did I miss this? I didn’t even know that you were dating someone, let alone considering marriage.”

  “It was a whirlwind courtship.” The lie fell easily from her lips, but Allison was flooded with guilt.

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Jorge Perez.”

  Eloise sat bolt upright, her coffee forgotten, her eyes wide. “Jorge Perez? Are we talking about Assistant District Attorney, Jorge Perez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good heavens, Allison. The man’s practically a celebrity. Wherever did you meet him?”

  “At a fund-raiser we both attended a couple of months ago. A save-the-whales group organized the function, wonderful food, and the ballroom was decorated in a deep-sea theme, quite beautiful, really. There were professors stationed at intervals around the room, lecturing and answering questions, very clever idea.” Allison realized she was chattering and abruptly stopped talking. Eloise was eyeing her strangely.

  “I see. And you met Jorge at this fund-raiser—through mutual friends, perhaps?”

  “No. We sort of, well…” Allison smiled as she remembered. “We discovered that we have a mutual interest in astronomy.”