“Yeah,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “Me, too.”
When she’d first told him, his world had come crashing down. Pretty soon, though, he’d realized what his duty was, and he’d done it. Because he couldn’t stand to be the kind of man who didn’t.
When had he started wanting it? He couldn’t even say. All he knew was—he wanted it now. He was waiting and waiting, feeling Jennifer waiting, and nothing was happening.
Maybe you had to see something slipping away to realize how badly you needed it.
Come on, he prayed. Come on.
The doctor said, “Ah. Here we go.”
He was right there on the screen. A little Martian, his head too big for his body, his nose a flat blob of a thing, his chest sunken, his limbs skeletal. The dark triangle on his head that would be where the bone of his skull was still forming. The soft spot, that was called. He’d read about it.
The baby had his thumb in his mouth, and his skinny legs were kicking. Exactly like Harlan had pictured him the other night, and he had a moment of vertigo, like he couldn’t tell what was reality and what was his imagination.
That had been the moment. That had been when this whole thing had become real for him. He’d seen his boy, and he’d wanted him.
He wanted to be the kind of dad a boy needed. He wanted his son to know he could count on him. He wanted his boy to be able to look up to him, and he wanted to be the kind of man who deserved it.
He wanted to do it better. He wanted to do it right.
Jennifer’s hand was shaking. He held it tighter, and then realized that it wasn’t hers. It was his. He asked, “Is he … all right? Is that how he’s … supposed to look? His nose and everything? His hands? His eyes look … odd.” His voice wasn’t steady, either. He didn’t care.
The doctor said, “That’s a twenty-week fetus. He looks just fine to me. His eyes are finishing up their development now, and he won’t open them for another six to eight weeks. I’m going to take some measurements here, and some images. I’ll give you a thumb drive to take home, and you can look all you want.”
Harlan barely heard her. He was still staring at the screen. At toes and fingers. Arms and legs. Tiny feet. A penis. A person.
“He’s about seven inches long now,” Jennifer told him, and Harlan spread out his hand, the one that wasn’t holding hers, to imagine it. His hand was nine and a half inches long. Big. The better to grip a football with, he’d always thought. The baby was so much smaller than that, still. And so skinny.
He said, “I need to study menus more. Maybe get a cookbook.”
Jennifer groaned. “More kale?”
He had to smile. “Yep. Hey, you liked that crispy kind I did. Tell me what you want, though, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“You have minicamp next week,” she said.
He leaned over and kissed her. He didn’t care that the doctor was still doing her thing. He needed to say this. “I can have minicamp,” he promised, “and still take care of you. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
56
Further Questions
It had all been so emotional. Harlan’s hand had shaken, too. He’d been as nervous as she had, she’d swear it, and as affected by that picture on the screen. And then, when she was sitting up on the table again, he started asking completely different questions.
First, he told the doctor about her piercing. She wanted to hiss at him, “I was going to lead up to that!”
No leading up. He went straight there.
The doctor wasn’t fazed, at least. Judging by the leather pants, she might have some piercings herself. She said, “You’ll want to remove that for delivery, Jennifer, or if it gives you any discomfort. Otherwise, it’s fine.”
Jennifer had just breathed a sigh of relief at that being over when Harlan said, “Her orgasms with that thing are intense. I mean, really intense. And she has a lot of them in a row. Also, we sometimes do it more than once a day. Is that a problem? Could it start labor, or anything?”
Jennifer thought, Kill me now. Just kill me now. She couldn’t stand to look at the doctor, so she glared at Harlan instead.
The doctor said, “The intensity can be partially because of increased blood flow and engorgement during pregnancy. Are you experiencing those, Jennifer?” Which meant she had to look at her.
She said, “Yes.” She tried to think of something else to say, but she couldn’t manage it.
“Are you having any bleeding? Spotting?” the doctor asked.
“No.” Would this stop?
“Then I’d say she’s fine,” the doctor said. “Sex during pregnancy is excellent for bonding, since men can feel a little bit left out of the process, and it’s not bad for relaxing mom, either. She may not want it as much in the third trimester, so enjoy it while you’re both feeling it. And, no, multiple orgasms aren’t a problem. In fact, I’d say they’re a perk, wouldn’t you?”
“So what do we watch out for?” Harlan asked. “What’s off-limits?”
“Sex flat on her back during the third trimester,” the doctor said. “And thrusting too forcefully, if you bruise the vagina or cervix, especially with a well-endowed partner. If there’s any pain or spotting, you’ll know for sure you’ve gone too far, but much better not to let it get to that point.”
“Whoops,” Harlan said. “OK. Making a note here.”
Finally. Still embarrassing, but at least they were almost done.
Which was when he asked, “How about anal sex?”
What? She was staring at him, and he shrugged and said, “Hey. Beats me calling up the office and asking, right?”
“Do you want to have anal sex?” the doctor asked her. Yes, she did.
“Uh …” Jennifer was sure she was bright red. She no longer had blood flow to her genital area, because all the blood in her body was in her face. “I, uh …”
“Because one thing isn’t all right during pregnancy,” the doctor said. “And that’s doing anything you’re not comfortable with. Including having sex at all, if you’d rather not. If you’d like to discuss that with me privately, I’m happy to do it.”
“Uh, no,” Jennifer said. “No, thank you.”
“We’re not doing anything she’s not comfortable with,” Harlan said. “I’m just checking.”
Checking. Right.
“Right, then,” the doctor said. “The usual rules apply. Wear a condom. Use extra lube. Wash before you go between orifices. You really don’t want a vaginal infection at this time. And above all—be gentle. This isn’t the time to push her limits, whatever your normal play style is.”
The doctor could tell. She could tell. “Kinky” was apparently branded on Jennifer’s forehead. It was definitely branded on Harlan’s, and he didn’t even care. Of course, he was a football player. Kinky was probably a requirement.
Oh, no. Was she going to have to talk about that with Dyma, too? Everything in her quailed at the thought. The eye-rolling. The sighing.
The titanic levels of embarrassment.
“Also,” the doctor had to go on, “hemorrhoids are common in pregnancy. Constipation, too. And those would rule out anal sex. Are you suffering from either of those?” she asked Jennifer.
By the time they left the office, Jennifer had pretty much melted into a puddle of mortification. She hissed at Harlan, the second they were outside, “I am not telling you whether I have hemorrhoids. No. No. No. I’m not supposed to do anything I’m not comfortable with? I’m not comfortable with that.”
He was laughing, pulling her close, giving her a kiss. “OK,” he promised. “All you have to say is ‘no.’ No explanation necessary.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why me? Why now? This is what they make the internet for! To look up embarrassing questions!”
“Dr. Mansfield went to medical school at Harvard,” he said, sounding annoyingly reasonable. “Number two medical school in the U.S. for obstetrics. She did her residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, which is number one. Sh
e has admitting privileges at the best hospitals. That’s why I picked her. Who wrote that article on the internet? Probably not somebody from Harvard. If you’ve got the best, you ask the best. Plus, you’re high risk. Is the internet going to know that answer?”
“I am not high risk. I just have old eggs, but this egg was fine. You just saw. Fine.”
“I heard the lady,” Harlan said. “You’re high risk.”
“So high risk that you want to have anal sex with me! Way to tell me! How about buying me dinner first?”
He grinned, and she did, too. How could you help it? Then she started to laugh, and he joined in. They stood there in the middle of the parking lot and laughed until she was staggering against him, clutching his shoulders for support. “Most …” she managed to get out. “Most embarrassing moment of my life. Including the time my period soaked through my shorts in P.E. No, wait, that’s still the worst. But second worst. Second best. Kind of like … like … Harvard. How come my doctor didn’t go to the number one school? Also, she wears leather pants.”
“Yep,” he said. “Too stylish for Portland. Notice she wasn’t fazed by the ring, though. Did I mention I want to buy you new jewelry? Because oh, yeah, I want to do that.”
Somehow, his arms were around her waist, and he was kissing her. Yes, in the parking lot. Looking exactly like Harlan Kristiansen. Long, lean-muscled legs in jeans that fit just fine, broad shoulders in a T-shirt that showed off the depth of that Viking chest, blue eyes, famous face. The works. She said, “Uh … jewelry? You mean, for there?”
He laughed again, and he kissed her again, too. “You got that piercing, but you won’t say the name. I kind of love that. Yeah, baby. For there. What do you think about a little barbell, the curved kind? I was looking, and … yeah. Even more barbaric-looking than a ring. That little barbell could get me excited. If I put a diamond in it …”
She shouldn’t be getting aroused by this. She was in the parking lot. It was an elevated moment. They’d just seen their baby. She nuzzled his neck and said, hearing her voice go breathy and deciding that worked just fine, “It could be hard for me to change it out. Hard to see, especially with the belly. I could need … help.”
He went still. He also went hard. She happened to be close enough to feel it. “Yeah,” he said, and the word came out strangled. “Yeah. I could do that. Lay you back on the bed and change out that piercing, nice and slow. And, hey.” He didn’t stand back far. Just far enough to see her face. “Just because I asked her for all the information doesn’t mean we have to use all the information. Up to you. I just figured, given that you’re enjoying being adventurous, and this is the new you and all, we might want to keep our options open.”
“Uh-huh. So you haven’t been thinking about bending me over the kitchen table.”
“No,” he said, and she thought, No? “I’ve been thinking about bending you over a sex pillow. More comfortable. I’m holding your wrists, though, in this scenario, if that helps.”
That sent a jolt straight through her. Whether it was pregnancy, the piercing, or Harlan, she wasn’t sure, but here she went again. She shuddered, and she could tell he felt it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Might have to dress you up a little for that, though. The way you look in those black things of yours … Tell me. What are your feelings about stockings?”
Right. That was enough of that. Time to do the other stuff. The important stuff. Exactly because he wanted to stay in the Fun Zone—that was why he needed not to. He said, “So. That was fun. Want to go have a snack, though? Cup of tea? Something like that? I’d say go home, but … Dyma and Annabelle. Maybe we don’t want to share this right yet.”
“Oh.” She stilled against him, then stepped back and said, “Sure.”
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her in again. “What?”
“Oh, just …” She was turning pink again. He’d never realized what a turn-on it would be to see every bit of a woman’s sweet embarrassment, right there on her face. “That I thought …”
“Jennifer.” He made it a little stern, and she jumped.
Oh, yeah.
He said, “Are you telling me you want to go home and let me have kinky sex with you, instead of having a tender moment? Also, you didn’t tell me your birthday was in four days. Dyma’s graduation day, huh. Let me guess—putting her first. That’s pretty naughty, though, don’t you think, not to even give me a chance to buy you a present?”
She glowered at him. “Me? I didn’t do this! I wasn’t the one asking all those questions! Or … or saying all that!”
He laughed. He also kicked the tender moment to the curb. They’d have the tender moment later. Right now, he had a woman who needed kinky sex. Starting with getting herself undressed by a pair of hands that knew how.
Nice and slow.
He’d promised to take care of her, after all. And he was a man of his word.
57
Thirty-Five
So. A few things were happening. For one thing, she was officially thirty-five years old. “Also,” she’d told Harlan this morning, “four years older than you.”
“Good thing we don’t play by no rules,” he’d said, and slapped her butt. It was accessible, because she’d been lying half on top of him at the time. Still dressed in black lingerie, because let’s just say it was the kind you didn’t have to take off.
Wait. She wasn’t going to think about that now. That was distracting. That memory was dessert.
Where was she? Oh, yeah. It was Friday, it was her birthday, and she was on her way to Wild Horse, because her baby—her first baby—was graduating from high school. They were all on their way, because Harlan, of course, had chartered a jet. They hadn’t picked Owen up this time, though. Owen had flown up on his own and was meeting them at the school, and afterwards, they were going out to dinner. On the lake, the same place Harlan had taken her that night when he’d shown up and bossed her around about moving. And had kissed her hard up against her hotel door, and she’d nearly lost her resolve.
Ahem. So, yes. They were going to graduation, and then to dinner. She and her grandpa, and Harlan and Annabelle, and Dyma and Owen.
Which, yes, brought her to the third thing. She was coming back to Wild Horse, to a public event in Wild Horse, at the high school in Wild Horse, as an unmarried, pregnant woman. Again. But with a major difference.
The difference, of course, was Harlan. Should she not feel good about that? Was that unfeminist of her? Unevolved? Petty? Too bad. She was showing up with Harlan, and they were staying overnight at the resort. She was wearing the most beautiful dress, too, with a knot front and a soft watercolor print of purple and green flowers, made of the kind of knit fabric that made you sigh from pure comfort. She was wearing that dress with the prettiest pair of white sling-back pumps decorated with leather bows, and, yes, they were Louboutin.
“Because,” Harlan had said when she’d objected, “they’ve got those red soles. You know you want to flash every single person in that auditorium with those red soles. All those women are going to know what brand that is.”
“You know too much about me,” she’d said, and he’d grinned and said, “I know. Isn’t it great?” Which had made her laugh, and had also made her want them more. And when he’d come home with not just the shoes, but also with the most beautiful bag she’d ever seen, in snow-white calfskin with metallic embellishments … well, she hadn’t exactly saved the receipt. In fact, that bag was next to her seat right now.
“I asked them for a Louboutin one that women would recognize, from magazine ads or whatever,” Harlan had said. “This one’s called the Paloma Mini Tote. The saleslady thought I was shallow, I could tell. Nouveau riche, I think that’s the word. New money. Crass.”
“The saleslady did not,” she’d answered, laughing and pulling his face down for a kiss. “She gave you her card and told you to call her anytime.”
“Well, yeah,” he’d said. “But I figured that was just my good looks
.” And she’d laughed some more and thought, Oh, yeah. Suck on that, Wild Horse. About the rudest thing she’d ever expressed, even in her mind. She was embarrassed, honestly.
But she was still wearing the shoes. And carrying the bag. And walking into that auditorium holding Harlan’s hand.
The Viking. That was his media nickname. His first commercial for that company, for cologne or whatever it was, had been teased on one of the entertainment shows just the other day. The one with him coming out of the waves with his surfboard, his blond hair wet and his trunks riding low over the best-defined abs a woman could dream of touching.
And he was hers.
The day he’d shown up with the shoes and the bag had been the day after the sonogram. After the day when he’d brought her home, and they’d sneaked up to her apartment so the girls wouldn’t know, laughing and giddy, like they were in high school. A high school she’d never experienced.
Whatever he’d said, he hadn’t done anything crazy, not that day. He’d taken her dress off at the door, cupped her belly in his hands, and said, “You’re beautiful.” After that, he’d taken her into the bedroom, laid her across the bed, taken the rest of her clothes off so slowly that time seemed to stop, and set in to please her.
The summer sun had shone outside on the darkness of cedars, on the undulating swell of hills, on the dramatic cone of Mt. Hood. And on the bed, in this little world they’d made for themselves, Harlan’s hands and mouth were all over her. Taking it slow. Taking it easy. Bringing her to one long, rolling orgasm after another, and finally, pulling her on top of him and letting her take her own pleasure.
He hadn’t closed his eyes. He’d watched. His hands now on her breasts, now on her belly, then going back to cup her bottom while she found the best way, the way that ground the ring into her as she ground into him. The way that made her gasp. Pulling her down to kiss her, his tongue in her mouth as hard and insistent as he felt inside her, his fingers twined in her hair. And when she got tired, asking her, “Want me to take over now?”
Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3) Page 43
