Make Me a Mommy: A Mother's Day Secret Baby Romance

by Liz K. Lorde

The men in my family have always been powerful enough to win over the most beautiful women, and those beautiful women have passed down to me all of their beautiful woman tricks.

  Dieting and genetics—that’s all anyone has ever liked about my looks. As for being a good girl…

  My pussy clenches, and a shiver runs up my spine when I think of what I did with Jack last night. How he saved me—literally, in full mountain man fanfare, wrestling a bear to death with nothing but his hands and whisking me away with his steaming hot body from death’s icy cold clutches. And after…

  Obviously I’m not a very good girl anymore.

  Jack doesn’t seem like the kind of man to pay many compliments. Words don’t seem like his forte—no, he’s a man of action. When you come from an entire world of false words and empty compliments, it’s refreshing, honestly.

  So when he dips his mouth down to the plate that my bacon and eggs occupied mere moments ago to lick it clean…well, let’s just say that there’s not really a higher compliment he could have paid me.

  Jack likes my cooking.

  I don’t even like my cooking

  I beam down at him with pride.

  But like a dog who’s been caught with its paws on the dinner table, lapping at the Christmas goose, Jack freezes as he notices my eyes on him—mouth open, tongue extended mid-lick.

  “Boof!” woofs Buck, popping his paws up on the kitchen table himself. He gives Jack an offended look.

  “Sorry,” Jack grunts, straightening and pushing the plate away. “Forgot myself.”

  “I—I don’t mind,” I say, because in truth, the sight of his tongue is making me wet even as we speak. “You don’t need to put on any…airs or niceties or anything. I mean, it’s your house.”

  But Jack is already shaking his head and wiping his lips with the checker-print cloth napkin I laid out for him to eat with. He even wipes his mouth off in a manly way. I guess it’s probably because he wants to make sure there’s no food stuck in his beard.

  “Men ought to mind themselves around women,” Jack says with a rugged certainty. “I’m sure the men back home would do the same.”

  Back home. The idea makes me want to roll my eyes.

  “Men back home mind their manners above the dinner table,” I scoff, recalling the way Adam once pinched my thigh so hard it bruised when I used the wrong fork for the oysters. “It’s what they do beneath the table that’s not so nice.”

  Jack looks at me for a long, hard minute, and I feel my cheeks slowly rise to a blush. I know this feeling well—the feeling that I’ve just said something stupid to the French ambassador’s wife and now everyone thinks I’m an idiot for not knowing how to pronounce guillotine.

  But then he smiles and breathes a sharp, hard breath out of his nose. It’s the closest thing I think he has to a laugh.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he chuckles. “Come here. Let me get another look at that burn you gave yourself.”

  Jack leads me to the sink by my fingertips, turning on the cold tap. I’m tentative to subject my skin to the cold again—especially after my little romp through the blizzard last night—but Jack’s gentle touch and assertive gaze convince me to cowgirl up.

  I brace myself as the cold water splashes down on the burn. At first, I relive the pain of the burn all over again.

  It stings, maybe even twice as much as it did when it first happened. But then the water soothes the pain, washes it away and down the drainpipe.

  “Better?”

  I look up at Jack, biting my lower lip, and nod.

  “Good. Now, where the hell is that—”

  Jack rummages through the cabinets, banging around and softly swearing until he returns to me with a little jar of salve.

  “Cure-all Ouch Cream, my grandma used to call this.” Jack chuckles, unscrewing the top of the tiny Mason jar. “Old family recipe—but this should help the skin heal. Keep it from scarring. You survived that car crash okay—I’d hate for a little kitchen accident to mar that pretty skin of yours.”

  I wince as Jack applies the cream onto my wrist. It has the consistency of petroleum jelly, but it smells like coconut and olive oil, fragrant flowers that I don’t know the names of, and a hint of lavender.

  I close my eyes, enjoying his touch. It feels like Jack is rubbing the pain right away. Greedily, I think about how I could get him to do the rest of me with it as well.

  I want him to rub my whole body like he’s rubbing my wrist right now. Completely cover me in the stuff.

  The moment ends just as quickly as it began. But before I can pout about it, Jack points to the countertop.

  “Up you go then,” he grunts, and when I hesitate to ask him what he means, he just scoops me up and places me on the marble counter anyway. It’s a little cold beneath my bare ass, which is no longer covered by the flannel, but thankfully the rest of the kitchen is nice and warm.

  So are Jack’s hands.

  “Let’s get a look at you then,” he says, and I don’t miss the hooked little smile on his lips when his fingers reach for the top button of the flannel I’ve stolen from him.

  “Gosh, Jack. It’s almost like you’re looking for a reason to undress me,” I say, leaning into his touch.

  That makes him snort again. When our eyes meet, his dark irises are sparkling.

  “Maybe I am,” Jack says, popping the shirt open with one rough tug from his fingers.

  The flannel slumps away from my body and Jack takes it even further, pushing it away from my shoulders. What he uncovers is a world of purple-green bruises, scrapes, and shallow cuts—and beneath them, my body betraying my innermost desires with its pebbled nipples and sex-scented skin.

  “Mmpf,” Jack grunts wordlessly, nodding as he takes me in. His fingers run down my shoulder like he’s testing something, though I can’t imagine what that something might be.

  His resolve, maybe.

  His ability to control himself now that he knows he can have me. Fuck me. Make me his. Anytime, anywhere.

  “You’ll heal,” comes the verdict. And then, “Spread your legs, baby girl.”

  I don’t have an Inner Goddess. I don’t even know what she would sound like if I did have one. But I do have a pussy—a wet, aching pussy still cum-soaked and sore from last night’s coupling.

  And when Jack tells me to spread my legs, my pussy throbs so hard that my whole body rocks forward.

  When he calls me baby girl? That’s just icing on the cunt-cake.

  I don’t move quickly enough for Jack’s liking—it’s almost as if I never do—so when I hesitate, Jack spreads my legs for me. The healing balm on his fingertips smears across one knee as he parts it from the other, exposing my sex to him—my pussy, and the dripping wetness that his words have coaxed out of it.

  “Christ, Avery,” Jack breathes. He crouches down to put himself at eye-level with my cunt, resting his forearms on my knees.

  He closes his eyes to take a deep breath in. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a hunger in their darkness that only serves to make me wetter. “You fucking want it, don’t you?”

  “Y-yes,” I whimper, biting my lip. If it had been any other man, I might have denied it. But not with Jack. Jack sees right through me.

  When Jack looks at me with those dark, glinting eyes of his, he’s staring right past my skin and into my soul.

  Jack could see how bad I want him in the fucking dark.

  I breathe in, bracing myself for his kiss on my sensitive lower lips, but it doesn’t come.

  “Too fucking bad,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a trace of a cruel little smile coming out of that rugged, overgrown beard of his. “You’re sore, honey. I tore through you last night.” He runs his tongue across his lips, lowering his gaze with regret. “Should have been gentler. I’m sorry.”

  “You couldn’t have been,” I say with certainty. “You warned me. Once we started…”

  “Mmpf,” Jack grunts wordlessly in agreement. “I warned you. Not th
at it’s ever stopped you from doing exactly what you fucking wanted before.”

  For a second, I’m afraid he’s mad at me. Pissed that I listen about as well as I cook bacon—I do it, but I still end up burning myself. But then I see the softness, the amused little sparkle in his eyes, and relief washes over me.

  Whatever my pussy does to Jack, at least it’s soothed his big bad mountain man temper a little bit.

  Jack dips into his Secret Family Recipe salve and, to my delight, rubs it between my legs. I can feel the part of me that’s raw and sore from last night when his fingers pass over it, but the thick, oily wetness of the healing cream takes the pain away from that just like it did for my burn.

  “Avery,” Jack grunts suddenly, staring at my pussy with intense concentration.

  “Yes, Jack?”

  “Stop fucking grinding against me,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I look down, my mouth falling open into a soft little O as I watch my hips moving my cunt against his fingers wantonly.

  When our eyes meet again, I look coyly embarrassed. Jack looks vindicated and smug.

  “Please?” I ask him. “Just…just a little one.”

  Jack snorts again, but I swear—somewhere beneath that scraggly beard of his, a smile forms.

  “Fine,” he relents. “Can’t fucking say no to you.”

  Jack rises, his fingers slipping upwards to my clit as he does. The combination of my wetness, his cum, the healing salve, and the throbbing of my clit makes it hard for him to pin it down. Instead, he traps it between two fingers, stroking it up and down like he’s petting me.

  In return, I close my eyes, and I fucking purr.

  “No,” Jack grunts, winding a fist in my hair and pulling me tight. He leans in close to me, his forehead resting against mine. “Fucking look. Look at me, Avery. You’re gonna fucking look at me when you come.”

  I gasp. My hips thrash. This man—this rugged, gorgeous, terrible fucking bastard of a man—can make me come at will now, apparently.

  My pussy clenches, throbs, and keeps clenching. My breaths each come rougher and more ragged than the last.

  But I look at him while I do it. I look into those deep black eyes the entire time, and reflected in them, I see my own.

  My voice rises to a shrill little shriek when the orgasm mounts to its highest point, and Jack traps the scream between our lips in a hard, tongue-locked kiss.

  He leaves me panting, breathless, and trembling when he’s finished with me. I sit there on the counter, staring at him in ragged disbelief, and he stands back, sucking his cunt-soaked fingers into his mouth and looking proud of himself.

  “Boof!” says Buck, trotting out of the kitchen and going in to sleep by the fire instead.

  Poor guy. Probably couldn’t figure out why no one was paying any attention to him. I’ll have to go give him some apology belly rubs soon.

  “Dishes?” he suggests, raising an eyebrow.

  As he does it, I watch one of his bulging pectorals twitch with it.

  “Yeah.” I laugh, winded and overwhelmed. “I think a little washing up might do me good.”

  Jack

  I watch her curled up on the couch, her fingers still curled in Buck’s shaggy black hair. She looks like an angel.

  Her blonde hair is half covering her face. Her chest heaves in and out a little in a steady rhythm, confirming she’s asleep.

  Part of me wants to just stay here and watch her, make sure nothing is going to happen to her and be here when she wakes up.

  But there’s a dead fucking bear out there, with fucking good fur to be carried back to the cabin and skinned. I didn’t feel good about killing that bear, even if I had to do it.

  Best make the most of its death, then.

  The longer I’ve thought about this, the more I’m warming to the idea. It will be a surprise for her. And the best part will be that I’m the one who fucking made it.

  What better time to go and get the dead beast than now. Avery’s asleep, and by the looks of her, won’t be waking for a while. I guess she’s still getting over the injuries from the car crash, not to mention some of our wild sex antics.

  Before I go though, I tiptoe over to her and lean down to give her a gentle kiss on those delicious lips.

  She purrs when our mouths meet, but stays asleep.

  Fuck. It takes all my inner strength and willpower to drag myself away. Now that I’m this fucking close to her, I just want to lie down next to her and watch her sleep.

  Then Buck snores, long and loud, and I’m reminded of what I’m wanting to do today.

  Come on Jack, the fucking rug won’t get made if you lounge around here all fucking day.

  At the door, I grab my coat and throw one last longing look at my diamond.

  Outside I grab my axe and some rope.

  The rope is to strap the bear to me and the axe in case I meet some other wild animal that’s gotten to my kill first. Chances of this happening are pretty fucking slim, but you never know what might go down when you go out into the woods alone.

  It’s not hard to retrace my steps to where I killed the bear. I know these woods better than the back of my own hand.

  He’s exactly where I’ve left him, face down.

  With this snowstorm, the last few days and the freezing temperature, he looks for all world as if he’s sleeping. I know fucking better.

  I take a moment to stare at this skinny bear. Where was his mate?

  It’s unusual for a bear to be out here on his own in the middle of winter. But from what I can tell, he was a loner.

  Maybe his clan had turned him into an outcast.

  “So my friend, what crime did you commit?” I ask him as I get ready to lift him up and throw him over my shoulder. “I bet you weren’t responsible for losing an entire fucking squad in a war zone, huh?”

  Silence.

  Instead of dragging him over the ice, I manage to hoist him onto my back. He’s rather light despite his size. I don’t want to damage the fur so it’s better that I carry him.

  “You and I are alike, you know,” I continue my conversation with the silent beast. “We’re both outcasts. Only I’ve been lucky to meet someone, someone I really care for. Maybe if we hadn’t run into each other the other day you might have met someone too.”

  The thought saddens me. Suddenly there it is again, the feeling I’m nothing better than a savage brute. I led my team to a total failure of a mission and certain death and then I go right ahead and kill an innocent beast.

  Images of Avery being attacked by this very bear push other thoughts aside.

  “Of course, if you hadn’t attacked my mate, I wouldn’t have had to kill you.”

  I ponder my own words.

  Maybe I’m not as bad I think I am. I didn’t kill the bear for sport. There are plenty of people who would have, but not me.

  What a fucking joke. How can hunting be a sport?

  You hunt because you need to eat. You kill because if you don’t, it’ll kill you first.

  With all this navel gazing as I’m walking, I’m back at the cabin in no time at all.

  Before I go and take the creature into my shed, I stop to check on Avery. She’s still asleep on the couch.

  Carefully, I place the bear on my worktable.

  It takes a lot of skill and craftsmanship to skin an animal like this. Sure, if you don’t want the skin or only bits of it, any old fool can butcher him, but if you want the skin in one piece you need to fucking know what you’re doing. And I want the skin in one fucking piece.

  With the beast on his back, front paws stretched out, I go to the back wall of my shed.

  I’ve got plenty of tools. I don’t own any of those fucking power tools men with small dicks own. I don’t need to compensate in that department.

  No, I own real tools.

  I’ve got every sort of tool you could want or need to build a cabin, kill an animal, skin it and sew it back together if you need to.

  I’ve got
tools most men would look at and go dumb at the sight of. When you come into my domain, you’re in tool fucking heaven.

  Everything is hanging up and labeled. It’s in order, in my kind of order, and my eyes are now zeroing in on my four-inch flexi-blade knife. The smaller knife means I’ll have more control over what I’m doing, even if it means the whole job will take a little longer than if I were to use a bigger one.

  I want to make absolutely fucking sure I get the skin in one fucking piece.

  Like a surgeon, I prepare my patient.

  As I examine the creature on its back in front of me, I see Avery’s naked body in my mind. She’s so delicate I still can’t believe she lets me anywhere near her.

  Every time I touch her I fear I might break something. I’m much more comfortable touching this bear here on my table, knowing I can’t do him any more harm.

  There’s nothing fucking fragile about a bear. But Avery, her arms are thin and made of porcelain. So is her neck.

  Christ, her swan-like neck is the most delicate part of all. When my fingers stroke her, I’m afraid I might bruise her.

  Come on Jack, you need to concentrate on the fucking job ahead of you. If you daydream about skinning the animal, it’ll never happen.

  Chop-chop, don’t stop.

  I take a deep breath and go to my starting point.

  The first cut is made on each paw toward the neck. Next, I slice my knife from the neck right down the center to the tail. And now I work my way toward the outside.

  It’s slow work and it’s fucking hard work. Around the skull I have to exercise extra caution. The fur is thin in this area and cuts will show real easy.

  At the claws, I pause. I need to make a fucking decision. I’ve got the choice of working around the claws, pulling them out with pliers and stitching them back in, or I can forget ‘em completely.

  I stop and think. Does it matter?

  In the end, I opt for no claws. Nothing that fucking Avery can find some way to accidentally hurt herself on.

  The next tricky areas are the ears and the nose of the bear. I slow right down. By now, my back’s aching a little from bending over.

  I straighten up and examine my handy work so far. I can already picture Avery’s face when I present her with it.