by Donna Alam
‘What have I done?’ My hands rise in the air along with my question, a pomegranate bouncing off my fingertips. ‘Ow, careful.’
‘Next one’s coming for your dick!’
Behind her, the kitchen cabinets are open, allowing Isobel to turn quickly and reload her ammunition. And she also seems to be wearing an awful lot of clothes.
‘I see you’ve got your clothing chastity belt on again.’
‘That’s like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted! She yells, turning and throwing a tin of beans this time. As promised, she aims them at my junk.
‘Your aim is shite, hen. And why are you wearing your coat?’ And half a dozen sweaters, by the looks of things.
‘It’s cold in here. I can’t find the thermostat, and I don’t know how to start a peat fire!’
‘Watch the family jewels, darlin’.’ I jump as she throws another tin, tomatoes this time.
‘It’s the lies about your family jewels that have brought me here!’
Family jewels? That makes no sense. I don’t know what it is that has her so riled, but I know I won’t get to the bottom of this until she’s calm. I make a dash for the kitchen, a calculated dash, as she turns to pull more tinned produce from the cabinet behind her. I wrap her in my arms, her back to my chest.
‘Let go of me. I’m not done being . . . angry . . . yet.’
‘Darlin’, please. Let’s talk about this sensibly.’ I tighten my arms around her, pressing my nose her hair. ‘God, I’ve missed you so much.’
‘There you go, lying again.’ In my arms, she thrashes. I’m forced to widen my stance as she tries to kick my shins.
‘I’m not lying. And I’m going to let go of you now, but you have to promise not to throw anything at me. Deal?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘No deal, then. So we’ll just stand here all night. Works for me ’cause you’re in my arms, and I’ve missed you so much.’
‘Right.’ The word is mostly a derisive snort. ‘If you missed me, you would’ve called.’
‘I didn’t call because I was frightened.’
She snorts again, her words, when they come, damned astute. ‘You mean you were being cowardly.’
‘Ouch.’ She hit the nail on the head, but ouch all the same. ‘You’re right. I was being cowardly. I didn’t call because I was trying to push you away and make you think I didn’t care. Because I was scared. Scared of being hurt, scared of disappointing you. I’m over that now.’
Isobel inhales deeply almost as though composing herself. ‘I’m calm now,’ she says, her voice even, her tone almost peaceful. ‘You can let go.’
I don’t lower my arms. Instead, I turn her in them.
‘Jim called earlier. He said there was someone in the house, and I hoped to God it would be you. And in the car on the way over, I rehearsed what I was going to say a thousand times and now that you’re in front of me, it’s all flown out of my head.’
‘I’m listening,’ she says, her gaze as narrow as her lips are currently thin. ‘You can ad lib.’
‘Can I just take a moment to say something first? You are so beautiful, and I missed you so much that every day it hurt not to see you. To talk to you.’
‘That’s not the worst start in the world, I suppose.’
‘How could I make it better? Darlin’, I’m all ears.’
‘You could be on your knees,’ she says a little haughtily. ‘And you can stop with the sultry eye thing. I meant prostrating yourself in front of me, not doing what you think.’
‘What do you think I’m thinking?’
‘Don’t play cute with me. It might’ve escaped your notice, but I’m not in the mood.’
‘How about I kiss you? The best apologies always come with kisses.’
Her gaze turns heated as it dips to my mouth. It would be easy for her to give in, but I think maybe she feels her pride is at stake.
Similarly, it would be easy for me to slant my mouth over hers, to kiss her hard, to kiss her to compliance, but I think that would only work in the short term.
I’m thinking of the long game from here on out.
‘You haven’t apologised yet. And even if you had, you’d still need to wait for me to accept it. And I might never let you kiss me again.’
‘Darlin’, you will. You know you will.’
‘Right, then. You’d better get on with it.’
‘Isobel, I am truly sorry for being a feckless male of the species. If you’ll accept my apology for the pain I’ve caused, I promise you right here and right now that I’ll abide by your terms, whatever they may be. I want to be with you. And you’re right—we might only last a wee while before deciding we’re just not right for each other. But I don’t think so, and I don’t think you do, either.’
‘And what happens next time you get cold feet?’
‘I won’t.’
‘Or frightened?’
‘That won’t happen, either.’
A burst of air breaks free from her chest before she utters, ‘Oh, I bet it will.’
There’s something in her tone. Something I can’t quite place. There’s a resolve and an inner strength, but that’s not everything.
‘What is it? What do you want to say?’
‘Well, Greg, it’s like this. While I haven’t been to the doctors, so I can’t confirm it one hundred percent, I appear to be pregnant. See, that wince,’ she says, waggling a finger in front of my face, ‘that looks a little like terror.’
But I’m not frightened. Numb might be a better description. But then something that Diana said floats into my mind. She left me because she fell in love with him. Nothing else mattered so long as she had him.
‘And what does he have to say?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You would’ve told him—the father—before you told me.’
She opens her mouth and then closes it again. ‘Let’s say for the minute that I’m more interested in what you have to say.’
‘I say nothing else matters so long as I have you.’
‘Really? You’d still want to be with me, even if I was pregnant with another man’s child?’
‘I can’t help what happened before you sat on my bed and grabbed my junk. What’s done is done. I just want you. And if you have a baby, then that’s part of you, too.’
Even though she’s in my arms, this embrace has been one way. At least until she throws her arms around my neck, her feet coming up off the ground as she buries her face in my neck.
‘You maddening, thick-headed Scot. You’re the only man I’ve slept with in months.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ I say, setting her feet on the floor again. ‘I know it’s Christmas and all, but I’m a wee bit too old to believe in the whole miracle thing.’
She makes a tsk-ing sound, a frustrated clash of teeth and tongue. ‘Wait a minute,’ she mutters, unbuttoning her duffle coat.
‘Will Paddington Bear no’ want his coat back?’
She shushes me with a smile, and my heart unclenches just a little bit. Other parts of me might have a slightly different reaction as I watch her unwrapping the cream woollen scarf from beneath her coat. Then she unzips a pink fleecy jacket thing.
‘I think your striptease needs a bit of work.’ As she sends me a cautioning look, I add, ‘I mean to say, I think it’s the most erotic thing I’ve seen.’
‘I don’t know about erotic,’ she says, slipping her hand into the now reachable back pocket of her jeans. ‘But I do have these.’ She slaps a clear sandwich bag down on the counter, flattening out the contents. ‘I’ve heard some people are into pee. Maybe I could’ve made some money out of these.’ I look from the pregnancy tests to her. Of course, I know what they are. They happen to be a painful symbol of my past.
‘So you took three? Just to be sure?’ I ask carefully.
‘Trouble does come in threes, so I’ve heard. I hope that doesn’t mean triplets. Anyway,’ she says, rousing herself, ‘I took the tests today. I
was due my period last week, but I’ve been too busy wallowing to realise. In a nutshell, I appear to be a little over three weeks pregnant and seeing as you’re the only man I’ve had sex with in bloody months’—she grabs the bag from the counter, shoving it against my chest—‘I think we hardly need Maury Povich to announce that you, Greg Hamley, are the father of our very own surprise package.’
Epilogue
IZZY
Six Months Later
On the doorstep, his chest is pressed to my back as he rubs his hardness against my denim covered bottom. Not satisfied that I’ve already dropped my house keys twice, he slides his hands around my front, slipping both into the waistband of my jeans.
‘My God, I fucking love maternity bands,’ he growls in my ear.
‘Greg.’ Key poised at the lock, I turn my head over my shoulder. ‘You really are a pervert.’
‘What’s not to love about open zippers and easy access?’ He dips his head to place a hot, wet kiss behind my ear.
‘And speaking of access, you seem to forget we’re not in Scotland anymore. I know it’s dark, but I still have neighbours to consider and my curtain twitching senses are tingling.’
‘We’d best give ’em a show, then.’
He turns me, taking my face in his hands as he kisses me so thoroughly, I feel like my blood pressure is acting up again. Pregnancy may be one of Mother Nature’s miracles—this one even more so, given that someone with Greg’s history has a one to four percent chance of conceiving naturally—but it’s also a big pain in the rear. Literally and figuratively. That was another pregnancy-related complaint, if you’re interested.
His lips are hot and his touch teasing as I find myself leaning into him as he pulls away, his gaze as sinful as molten, boozy chocolate.
‘How’s your curtain sensor now?’
I slide my gaze over his left shoulder. ‘I think Mrs Horowitz in number seventy-four has just swooned.’
‘So I make old ladies swoon but my fiancée frown?’ My heart does a little pitter-patter as it always does when he throws that word around. ‘Just what a man likes to hear.’
‘I’m not your fiancée—’
‘Not for the want of asking you,’ he complains.
‘Look, if we don’t get this door open soon, I’m going to pee on your feet.’
‘And you call me a pervert,’ he says, taking the keys from my hand.
Pervert may not be the most pleasant of words, but I love the way he says it. Holy rolling r’s and extra syllables! And let me just confirm, the Scots accent definitely makes for an extremely dexterous tongue.
Inside, the place is much tidier than usual after Greg and I came to a compromise. I now open cupboards and shove things inside so at least there’s the illusion of order. We don’t actually live together just yet. I have my job here in London, and Greg has his business in Scotland, but we do try to be together as much as we can. It means we spend a lot of time in airports, trains, and cars, but we’re making it work.
We’re planning on giving birth here in London. And when I say we, I mean me, though I know Greg would take the pain for me in a heartbeat if he could. Not that he needs to because I’m having an epidural anyway. We’ll move up to Scotland following for my six month’s maternity leave. We’re going to live together, and the prospect is exciting and terrifying in equal measure.
Cautious has been my guiding word these last few months, which is odd, I know. Pre-pregnancy I was the one demanding we needed to give this relationship a go, but I suppose pregnancy has made me protective. We have another whole person to consider, and I want to do what’s best for him. Or her. We haven’t found out yet. We both want it to be a surprise, and we’re so bloody excited.
And terrified.
While I’m not exactly loving pregnancy, I am loving this time. And yes, I am loving Greg.
How can I not?
I struggle out of my coat as Greg comes up behind me, easing it from my shoulder before hanging it up. As always when he’s near me, he kisses me. Sometimes on the lips, sometimes on the cheek. Sometimes places . . . elsewhere. This time, he kisses me where my neck and shoulder meet as he whispers that I’m irresistible and I smell like summer.
‘I will be so pleased when I can dress myself again,’ I grumble as he pulls away. I don’t feel very irresistible. I feel like a whale.
‘What? I thought I made a braw lady’s maid.’
‘I’m sure a lady’s maid doesn’t touch quite so much,’ I retort, waddling along the hall to the bathroom.
‘Come on, there has to be some perks of the job!’
It’s late, so we make for the bedroom. I tire so easily these days. We’ve been out for dinner with Mo and his friend Will, or Lord Travers, if you want to get technical. I also got to meet Sadie, Will’s lovely wife. Dinner was good, but the discussion was even better. It seems Will is looking for someone to help him market the family castle that has just been turned into a place where corporate types go to live wild. All in the name of team building.
Tourism isn’t strictly my wheelhouse, but I think I might be able to help him out. Possibly even establish a business of my own in Scotland.
Come on, Izzy. You’re getting ahead of yourself here.
‘You look like you’re having a conversation with yourself.’ Greg stands in the doorway with one shoulder resting against the frame. His shirt open and his feet bare, he totally looks like a model in a cologne commercial.
‘I was just thinking about what Will said. The offer, I mean.’
‘Are you considering it, then?’
‘Well, I don’t love my job. And I don’t like it when you’re not with me.’
In a couple of long strides, he’s in front of me, dropping to his knees. ‘I’ve told you, darlin’, I’ll move to London if that’s what you want. I hate when the weekends are over and we have to part. I can’t wait until this little one is born so we can be together always.’ He places his hands on my swollen belly, his lips following suit.
‘It’s only for my maternity leave,’ I whisper, though there’s a distinct lack of conviction in my tone.
‘Fuck maternity leave.’ With his lips on my belly, his wicked gaze climbs up my body, making my nipples tight and my insides fluttery. ‘I’m keepin’ you.’
‘Stop it. You’ll wake the baby. I don’t need the added internal aerobics that start when we get a little frisky.’
‘Frisky?’ Greg questions laughingly.
‘Gah! See, I’ve turned into a parent already.’
‘You’re the yummiest of mummies, and you can’t help being mad for me.’
‘Mad for being with you, maybe.’
He stands then, taking my hands and helping me up from the edge of the bed. Then he pulls my shirt over my head.
‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s bedtime, is it no’?’
His voice is suddenly roughened with need, and he bends, pressing his lips above the rise of my breasts. My breath hitches as he slides his tongue over the swell as he reaches down, sliding the band over my belly and hips, quickly followed by my jeans.
‘Why am I always the first one naked?’ I whisper.
‘Because you’re irresistible, and you’re slower than I am, and I can’t keep my hands off you.’
‘You sweet-talker, you.’
‘You think that’s sweet? How about I remind you a Scotsman likes two things naked. And only one of them is whisky.’
‘That’s not exactly nice, more like naughty,’ I whisper, sliding my hands around his neck.
‘No, darlin’. Naughty would be to tell you I want to eat you to sit on my face.’ With a deft kind of practise, he undoes my bra before hooking his thumbs into the elastic of my underwear. ‘I want you squirming all over me face, your hands pulling at my hair like you’re not sure if you want more or you want to push me away.’
‘Oh, God, yes.’
I widen my stance as Greg feeds his hand between my legs, cupping my heat as he grinds
his palm into me, just how I like it, making me mewl in desperation and need.
The ladder of his abdominal muscles flex as I slip the shirt from his shoulder before he drops to his knees and slips his tongue between my legs.
One flick of his tongue and I’m already falling apart. The upside of pregnancy? Greg only has to slide me a wicked smile, and I’m fit to burst.
Hard and fast and often.
‘Don’t come,’ he rasps, his voice sounding thick. ‘Not yet. Not until I say so.’
‘That’s like asking the sun not to rise. Or for you to pour cola over your single malt.’
He doesn’t answer, not as he stands, then unbuckles his belt. I watch avidly as he slides his pants down his strong thighs, taking himself in his hand. He slides my hand away when I move to touch him, taking my fingers in his instead.
Wordlessly, he lies on the bed, his strong back propped on the pillows as he helps me to climb over him until I’m straddling him just below his thighs. My mouth waters at the sight of his cock standing between us, hard and proud. But before I can process what’s happening, Greg slides his hand under the pillows, pulling out a length of cloth no bigger than a scarf.
‘Oh, kinky,’ I say with a giggle, even as my insides start to somersault. Sex with Greg these last few months has been an education, to say the least.
‘This is Hamley tartan,’ he says, his gaze not on the fabric but on me. On my body. ‘You’re so beautiful all of the time, but pregnancy has just made you stunning.’
‘Says the man staring at my boobs.’
‘How can I not?’ he replies, reaching and brushing a calloused thumb over my nipple. ‘They’re like ripe melons.’
I shiver, my next words husky and rasping. ‘Can we go back to the purpose of the tartan? I don’t think I like being compared to a yellow . . . ’ The rest of my sentence is lost as he splays his hand over my round stomach, his thumb dipping lower to slip between my folds. As he pets my clit, his gaze is avidly glued to where I’m shamelessly spread.
‘I think we’ll talk about your pussy instead.’
‘Greg, don’t tease,’ I mewl, rotating into his touch.
