by Kim Karr
I throw my head back. “Go for it.”
“Whipped cream for me to eat off your hot pussy?” He nips at my ear.
Laughing, I shake my head. “No, but I like that idea.”
“Chocolate syrup for me to lick off your gorgeous tits?”
Pushing that lethal tongue of his away before I decide to jump on it, I pat my hair with the towel. “Stop. You’re making me hungry and horny at the same time. I’ll save you the trouble of guessing. It’s on the bed.”
Okay, so I think I purred that.
Strutting over to the bed, he picks up the book that I might have sticky-marked already with some suggestions.
Kicking his shoes off, he flops on the bed and with complete focus starts to look through it. Gracie barks, wanting attention, and Keen pats the bed for her to join him.
Once I’ve dried my hair, I consider pulling on a pair of elephant-sized leggings, but think twice of it. Instead, I leave my panties off and traipse over to sit beside Keen, and give Gracie a little pat.
I point to one of the drawings on the page he is studying. “How about that one?”
He strokes his chin. “You think? I’m not sure about the leg placement.”
Always so analytical.
Always going right to the bottom line.
As if he’s measuring the distance of the angles or something.
With a shake of my head, I giggle and toss the book aside, throwing myself back on the mattress and bringing him with me. “Let’s make something up.”
Gracie starts barking again. She doesn’t like it when she’s not getting any attention, and Keen has to usher her out of the room and close the door.
As soon as he returns, he resumes his place hovering on top of me, and his hands wander up my shirt to find my breasts. “You were saying?”
“That we should make something up on our own,” I breathe out.
“Sounds like a plan,” he growls.
It’s not an exaggeration that we have sex at least twice a day. Weekends sometimes more. Today is Saturday, so that’s good news. We already did it this morning, and it’s only early afternoon now; therefore this day will definitely be at least three times.
Together, we make fast work of stripping off his clothes and then my T-shirt, and soon we’re both naked.
His lips trail down my neck, over my breasts, and stop to kiss my belly button, then just below it. He kisses the baby like this all the time. It gives me those damn butterflies that I’ve come to adore.
When his fingers drift down to circle my clit, and right away he can feel how wet I am for him, he pulls me to the edge of the bed and then gets off the mattress and onto his knees.
I let out a long, heavy breath, knowing soon my body will be hovering on the brink of bliss, waiting for the crashing pleasure to strike.
The mattress creaks as he puts a hand on each of my thighs, and he looks up. “You should have told me when I walked in you were wet—I would have taken care of this right away.”
Taking his gorgeous face in my hands, I stare into his blue eyes. “Keen Masters, if I told you every time you made me wet, your face would be permanently attached to my pussy.”
He raises the sexiest brow. “Not a bad way to live.”
Leaning back, I open myself up for him. How the hell did I get so lucky to find a man like him?
As he’s nuzzling my thighs, then deeper, finding my clit with his lips and tongue, I close my eyes to give myself up to him. Under his control, I submit to the pleasure. Every suck, every lick, every nibble more delicious than the last. Soon he’s adding a finger, then another, and then an impossible third.
I open my eyes and watch him move. I can’t see his face in my pussy, but I can see his back, his ass, and his feet, all perched below me to please me.
Like I’m the queen and he’s here to please only me.
My heart zips around my rib cage and I inhale sharply as soft, velvety-smooth strokes lap around my clit and an even more intense tingling radiates from my core.
Oh God, that mouth.
That tongue.
Soon orgasm blinds me and I have to slam my eyes shut.
Pleasure bursts inside me, and all around I see stars. “Keen,” I call out, then, “Oh God, Keen,” even louder, as a second wave of climax rips me up and scatters me, like rose petals blowing in the wind.
With heavy-lidded eyes, Keen rises to his feet. Then, shifting us both, he lies beside me. He kisses me and he tastes of me, of my desire. When he pulls back, he gazes into my eyes. “I love you, Maggie Masters. You wreck my bed every day, and I will never get enough of it.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Oh yes, the hormonal part of pregnancy that I can’t control. “I love you too, Keen Masters, and I am so lucky to be your little bedwrecker.”
With laughter between us, Keen kisses down my body to my stomach and plants another kiss on the baby before looking up at me. “So we agree. We’ll name the baby Elvis?”
We found out the sex of our baby at my four-month prenatal visit, and ever since then Keen has been relentless about naming him Elvis. I peer down at him. “No, we did not agree. Remind me when we had the conversation where I said yes.”
“This morning,” he murmurs as his tongue licks a path up the curve of my belly.
Shivering a little, I raise myself up on my elbows. Still breathing heavily, I watch him as he makes his way up my body. “Do you mean when your mouth was”—I’m having trouble finding my breath, so I point to where his mouth had just been—“on me, and you were whispering things I couldn’t even try to understand in the frenzied state you had me in?”
Those blue eyes lift and his grin is devilish. “All that matters is the bottom line, baby, and you said yes.”
“I was screaming yes because you had your tongue on my clit, not because I agreed with whatever it was you were saying.”
He braces himself over me. “Bottom line, baby, bottom line—that’s all that matters.”
Looking up, I narrow my eyes at him. “I love you, Keen Masters, but that ‘bottom line’ crap doesn’t work in the bedroom; leave it for the boardroom. And just so we’re clear, here’s my bottom line—we are not naming our child Elvis.”
He stares at me and pats my cheek. “Maybe once you see him you’ll change your mind.”
I shake my head. “Doubtful.”
His eyes gleam whenever he talks about the baby.
It’s so freaking cute.
His thumb strokes my face and he kisses me gently before he moves his mouth to that spot behind my ear that makes my body dance on its own. “We’ll see,” he whispers.
I don’t say anything. I just let him have the last word. For now.
Shifting a little, he hovers over me and rubs his hard cock all over me. When I arch my back and moan, he puts his long, thick cock between my breasts and I hold them together for him.
Soon he’s thrusting fast. “I don’t want to come this way,” he murmurs as he rolls us around. “You ride me.”
Grinning, I rise up on my knees—I love it when I’m the one on top.
One of his hands goes to my hip, the other to his cock, and he guides himself inside me.
Slow.
Slow.
Slow.
I lower myself down.
“Fuck, Maggie, you feel you so good.”
Rising up, I quickly lower myself down, and the way his fills me is unlike any other feeling in the world.
I close my eyes as my body soaks in the pleasure of our lovemaking. Soon, he’s moving faster than me, doing most of the work.
Leaning back and placing my palms on his thighs, I have to let him; with my belly as big as it is, I just can’t move that fast.
A loud moan escapes my throat and I lick my lips, but when he stops abruptly and jerks up onto his elbows, my eyes fly open.
“Maggie, there’s a lot of, um . . . water or something on the bed.”
I look down. Oh my God, now I can feel it.
Keen is sta
ring down—really, truly petrified.
His horror becomes mine.
Did I just lose control of my bladder?
Oh, my God. How can I ever live this down?
My mind spins and once I realize what just happened, I almost laugh at how scared he looks.
I consider keeping quiet for a bit longer, but I can’t. Honestly, he looks truly worried.
Calmly I say, “I think my water broke.”
He bolts off the bed and I go tumbling sideways. It takes me a moment to sit back up. By the time I do, he’s already pulling a pair of boxers from his drawer. “That means the baby is coming, but you’re not due for three weeks.”
I shrug. “The doctor did say anytime now.”
“The doctor. We have to call the doctor.”
Crossing my arms, I lean back against the bed. “Keen, go take a shower.”
“Fuck, no—what if you have the baby while I’m in there?”
I laugh. “It’s not a jack-in-the-box; it’s not going to pop out.”
Two minutes later he’s back and shoving his legs in a clean pair of boxers, staring at me. “Anything happen?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “No. Not yet. Now, come sit down. Let’s wait and see if I have any contractions before we make any calls.”
Keen just continues to stare at me.
I try to be calm, summoning all my willpower to not crumble and have him rush me to the hospital. But I don’t because I know what to do—I know what the classes taught me.
Keen looks at me as he lowers himself down onto the bed, his leg tapping up and down in time with his foot on the floor. “How long does that take?”
“I have no idea.” I laugh.
“What do you mean you have no idea? We went to all those classes.”
“You were there too.”
“Yeah, but I was watching you and your tits, not paying attention to the teacher.”
I have to laugh at that.
Come on, how can I not?
I slide my feet to the floor and rise from the bed to cross the room. As I slip into my oversized shirt, I feel a cramp and have to slump over.
Keen rushes over to me. “Let’s go to the hospital.”
“Let me call my mother and see what she says first.” I sit back on the bed, taking a deep breath.
Keen quickly hands me my phone from the night table. “Did you pack a bag yet?”
“No. I thought I still had time.”
He strides over to the closet. “I’ll do it.”
I call my mother.
“How far apart are your contractions?” she asks.
“I’ve only had one.”
“You have plenty of time. Winston and I will hop on the next plane. Just relax, okay?”
I don’t answer.
“Margaret Elizabeth, answer me.”
Margaret?
She only ever calls me by my full name when she’s really mad or truly nervous. Since she can’t be mad, I’m betting on nervous.
Great.
“Yes, Mom. I promise I will relax.”
“And call me if anything changes. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
As I hang up, I look up to see Keen standing in utter sexiness in the door frame. He is disheveled and so handsome—his jeans are unzipped, his shirt is unbuttoned, and his feet are bare.
He lifts his eyes to me. “Do you think we made a mistake?”
Pissed off beyond reason, my mouth drops and a fury prickles at my skin. “Why would you say that? It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”
He furrows his brow. “I mean that we didn’t call Makayla instead of your mother. What did you think I meant?”
Relief courses through me at the same time that another cramp bites from my lower gut. I wince and he flies to the bed.
“What can I do?”
I grab his hand. “Just stay with me. I’m scared.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why should we call Makayla?” I ask as I look down at the large diamond that adorns my finger and the ring below it that matches his.
“Because I don’t think I can pack your shit—I can’t even think straight.”
I laugh and hold my stomach. “This isn’t jail. We don’t only get one call.”
“Then I think I should call her.” His voice is full of concern, yet he does nothing but sit here and stare.
The man so full of control is totally flustered and clueless right now.
I muster all of my energy as another cramp hits. Once it passes, I crawl on top of him and straddle his lap as best I can, and then I take his face in my hands. “You need to calm down. I need you. Do you hear me? I need you to be strong and take control of this situation like you do every other situation in your life.”
He slides his lips to kiss my hand and takes it in his. “I love when you talk like you’re the one in control,” he laughs, and I know he’s back.
Keen Masters, the man in control, is back.
I shimmy off him and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
When he still doesn’t move, I question the whole “the man is back” thing and end up shoving him from behind. “Keen!”
Rather dazed, he looks at me. “We’re having a baby.”
Hands on my hips, I purse my lips and talk through clenched teeth. “Yes we are, and unless you want to be the one delivering this baby, you will call Makayla right now so we can leave.”
“Maybe we should call the doctor, instead?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“Because I already decided we are going to the hospital, and if you don’t make that call I won’t even have a pair of underwear to put on.”
With a smirk, he says, “And that’s a bad thing, why?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
With that he’s on the phone before I can give him a smart-ass response. Then something strikes so hard, the pain so severe, I have to let out a scream. Hanging up, he rushes over to me and takes my hand. “Let’s go. They’re coming too close. We need to get to the hospital fast.”
He’s really in a panic now.
When the contraction stops, I stare up at him.
“What?” he asks, confused.
“You have to zip your pants, button your shirt, and put some shoes on, and I’m practically naked.”
He laughs and hurries to ready himself.
Then, finally taking control, he helps me slide on the pair of panties I was going to put on earlier. Next, he grabs a pair of those elephant-sized leggings I own and somehow manages to get them up my thighs. Finally, he slips my swollen feet into my Converse, which he has to tie as well.
By the time I’m ready, he looks as exhausted as I feel.
Suddenly, a knifelike pain radiates from my hip bone to my pubic bone and I can’t move. I hold my belly and scream.
He grabs for my hand and squeezes it. “You got this, Maggie, you got this.”
I search for his eyes, which are already on me. “You’re right. I’m badass. I got this.”
“You are so badass.”
Laughing, I take a badass breath. “Okay, I’m ready. Are you?”
Keen finds my lips. “Never been more ready in my life.”
From the car I watch as he exudes control and calls Cam, his brother, and to my surprise, his mother too, asking them all to meet us at the hospital.
The joy only lasts so long because my insides feel as if they’re twisting inside out at this point. The lower belly pressure is insane. No one told me labor is the worst cramps you can imagine times a million.
At the hospital I’m quickly whisked to a room, given an IV, and asked if I want an epidural. Keen and I had already decided I would take the epidural.
Pain isn’t something I tolerate well.
And we all know that.
Emma is the first to arrive, with tears in her eyes as she squeezes my hand to help alleviate
the power of the contractions. Brooklyn arrives just as my epidural takes effect, thank God, because I really didn’t want to be screaming in front of him. I’d never live that down.
Shortly after that, Cam and Makayla show up with my suitcase that I am certain contains absolutely everything I will need and more.
When the nurse calls the doctor and time approaches, they all leave and go to the waiting room. And it’s just Keen and me, and our soon-to-be-born son.
The doctor comes in and I begin pushing. At first I think there is no way I can do this—the pressure I feel everywhere is way too intense. But once it subsides, I push again and again. My hand is gripping Keen’s tightly, and he grips mine with equal ferocity.
Keen makes a small noise, and I look up at him and see amazement and wonder on his face. My eyes drop to where his are locked and I see our baby’s head crowning.
Intense stinging radiates from my core as I push harder and scream louder. Then, just like that, our baby emerges into this world.
His cries are hoarse but steady as if he’s having little tantrums, just like his father, or yes, maybe just like his mother.
“Do you want to do this?” the doctor asks Keen. He nods and cuts the cord.
“Can I hold him?” I ask with tears of pure joy leaking from my eyes.
The nurse lays him on my chest for only a brief moment, but long enough for me to feel the beat of his heart. The feel of his skin. The sound of his breath.
This little person is ours.
Our baby.
We made him.
“He has dark hair,” Keen says, his voice strained with emotion as he tries to hold back his own tears.
The nurse takes him from me. “The doctor just has to examine him and we will have him right back to you.”
Keen squeezes my hand and presses a kiss to my forehead before he follows her. When he returns he’s grinning ear-to-ear, holding our baby bundled in a blue blanket.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, unable to wait another minute.
“He’s perfect,” Keen says as he crosses back over to me and carefully places our baby on my chest.
I study his little face—the shape of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips. Suddenly he opens his little eyes and lets out a loud cry. That’s when I see his perfect dimples and blue eyes so much like his father’s. With tears of joy, I look up at Keen and say, “Presley. Let’s name him Presley, after Elvis.”
