Knocked Up

by Nikki Chase

  Is he joking? As if I can walk away from this. Even talking has become a struggle. We both know I’m not going anywhere.

  Even though Heath’s not restraining me with his hands, his mouth has imprisoned me. Now all I can focus on is his tongue going around my clit in tighter and tighter circles.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I put my hand on his head and feel his little movements under my palm.

  Heath Anders. The Wall Street genius who’s made a killing in the stock market with his bold moves. The billionaire who runs a big, successful hedge fund management company. That's the man kneeling between my legs right now, driving me insane.

  My moans get louder as Heath’s skillful tongue plays with my clit, rubbing me mercilessly. The time for teasing is over, and he means business now.

  Every little cell in my body thrums, waiting for Heath to deliver the final blow. My muscles tense.

  And then, it comes. It starts with an explosion in my core, that spreads throughout my body, to the top of my head and the tips of my toes. Shudders rip through me, and I can only let go, trusting that Heath won’t let me fall.

  As I come down from my climax, Heath props me up while I regulate my breathing and regain my balance.

  “That was a delicious breakfast, kitten,” Heath says as he gets up and wipes my wetness from his face. “I need to get back to the office now, but you’re welcome to stay here for the rest of the day. You can spend the night, too, if you want to.”

  “Oh… Umm… Thanks.” I can’t really think of anything better to say, which makes me feel dumb.

  But then again, it’s not like I could’ve prepared myself for this situation by Googling “what to say to my boss after he randomly eats me out in a hotel” for suggestions.

  I feel small and vulnerable after my violent orgasm. The fact that I’m naked only magnifies my feelings of self-consciousness.

  Heath is still wearing his suit, jacket and all. Except for a few more creases at the knees, he appears perfectly respectable.

  I, on the other hand… My forehead is dotted with sweat, my cheeks are flushed red, and my clothes are scattered all over the floor.

  Before I can collect myself, Heath cracks open the door. “See you tomorrow, kitten.”

  With that, he walks away, leaving me naked and dumbfounded in an unfamiliar, upscale hotel room.

  Any notion that this is going to stay strictly a baby-for-money arrangement has evaporated.

  I mean, what did that have to do with having a baby together? Unless I’ve been sorely misinformed, that’s not how it’s done.

  And yet… I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy that. I did, immensely. And I’m already looking forward to more of that.

  I don’t know how I’m going to feel after the baby’s born and things between Heath and me come to an end.

  Maybe I’ll be fine with it. I’ll admit it’s difficult when Heath insists on being his charming self, and it turns out he’s a generous lover, too. That’s a lethal combination. But maybe I’m not as fragile as I am afraid.

  Or maybe I’m just grasping for excuses to keep this crazy plan going, just because I haven’t had enough of him. Perhaps I’m ignoring a big warning sign. It could be a mistake to let my guard down and have a little fun with this arrangement.

  But as I draw a hot bath in the luxurious en-suite, I realize none of the rationalizations I come up with matter. I’m doing this for reasons I don’t understand anymore.

  It’s just like before, when Heath had me trapped in place even though he was only pressing his lips against my pussy. He’s cast a spell on me, and now I can’t muster up the will to walk away. I don’t even want to.

  I dip my hand into the soothing, hot water in the tub.

  Everything's going to be okay. After all, that was clearly about sex, right? And there's only one rule: don't fall in love.

  Heath

  Even though my marriage was a disaster, one thing I’m glad to have done was adjust my schedule so I had some kind of work-life balance.

  After the divorce, it would’ve been easy for me to fall back into old patterns and start overworking myself again. But I knew it wouldn't have been the healthiest thing for me to do, so I resisted the pull to stay at my desk past office hours.

  Work can be an all-consuming distraction if I let it.

  I can tune out the world when I’m analyzing financial statements and market movements, until all I see are the facts and figures, and non-logical things are forgotten.

  There’s always more work to do. It never ends when you’re the one running the business. You can always take on more projects, hire more people, and expand the operations.

  Unlike other addictions, workaholism is socially rewarded. People who work to the point of obsession tend to be good at what they do. And the more they do it, the more they get: money, women, gemstones, yachts, fast cars, and the list goes on indefinitely.

  If you’re good enough at what you do, you can buy whatever you want.

  But I’ve already bought all the toys I’ve ever wanted. The only thing I don’t have is a family of my own.

  Once, I thought I was finally going to have it all. A wife and a few kids would’ve made my life complete.

  Instead, Melanie had to shit all over my dreams.

  I still can’t believe I missed all the signs that she was just a common gold digger. Looking back, she didn't exactly hide the fact that she wasn't wife material.

  All those birthdays when she demanded diamond jewelry. All those dinners when she went for the most expensive items on the menu, every single time. All those times she took the private jet for shopping trips all over the world, leaving me stranded without any means to travel for my work—which, by the way, was the very thing funding her expensive lifestyle.

  But she didn’t care. What Melanie wanted, Melanie got. Even if I had to skip important meetings and miss out on multi-million deals because of her.

  When we finally got divorced, even with the big settlement she received, she still tried to drain our bank accounts and max out our joint credit cards, knowing I’d be on the hook for them too. Luckily, I had a great team of lawyers watching my back.

  It sounds obvious now that she was just using me, but at the time I couldn’t see it.

  There were times when she wasn’t completely self-centered, and I stupidly kept her in my life for those rare moments. And then, she left me as soon as our marriage made it to three years, which was when she’d get the big pay-out, according to our pre-nup.

  Yeah, I know, it was fucked up. I was a dumbass.

  But I’m more angry at myself than I am at Melanie. I was unbelievably stupid. I actually thought she loved me. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Want to know what the truth is?

  It took me a while to accept that I’m always going to be a target. With my wealth and my business profits publicized in the papers all the time, it’s almost like someone’s painted a target on my back.

  It’s not like I can complain, though. All that publicity is good for business—necessary for business, even.

  So despite my annoyance at how nosy people can be, I grin and bear it. It’s just a shitty part of my otherwise great job. Everybody has at least one of those, right?

  But as much as I like my job, I’ve already made the decision to work less and live more. I know that's the healthy thing to do, wife or no wife.

  It's not always easy to stick to it, though, especially right after the divorce.

  Even going to the gym meant that I was staring at a blank wall while I was running on the treadmill or lifting weights. Sometimes I had a screen to stare at, which was only a small consolation. It would invariably show shit like fashion shows, or celebrity gossip, or some stupid movie that I’d already seen in the cinema with Melanie.

  I tried to pick up reading, but the books I picked were invariably related to my job, and the whole point was to spend less time working. Besides, the authors of those books probably weren’t
making as much money as I was, so why should I care about what they were saying?

  No. I needed some human interaction in order to distract myself.

  So I started spending more time with my parents. And I continue to do that until now, two years after the divorce.

  I press the doorbell and stand on the porch while I wait for Mom to open the door.

  “I got you some wine.” I hold up the three bottles by their slender necks.

  Mom takes one of the bottles off my hands, obviously worried I’d drop them on the smooth, wooden planks of the porch floor.

  “I’ve never seen this brand before.” Mom rotates the bottle in her hands. She pulls down her reading glasses from their perch on top of her head, causing a few strands of her hair to fall over her forehead. Her mouth moves as she examines the writing. “It’s all in French.”

  “I bought it in France. Of course it’s in French.” I push the door open wider and slip inside.

  Mom closes the door behind her and follows me inside. “Another business trip?”

  “No.” I spot Dad sprawled out on the recliner in front of the TV. “Hey, Dad. You’re taking the doctor’s advice to rest up seriously, I see.” I take a seat on one of the couches and place the wine bottles on the coffee table.

  “Oh, don’t even get me started,” Mom says as she enters the spacious living room. “He tried to trim the grass yesterday. I had to threaten him, saying I’d sell the lawn mower if he’d as much as touch it. I don't think there's anyone else in the world who gets that excited thinking about getting to fix stuff around the house again after recovering from a serious illness.”

  Dad grins at me. “You know what it’s like. Staying still is making me antsy. I feel like a sick person.”

  “You are a sick person,” Mom admonishes him.

  “Yeah, but I don’t have to feel sick, do I?” Dad counters.

  “Try it and see how sick you feel after five minutes outside. You heard what the doctor said. You need a lot of rest.”

  “Don’t look at me,” I say when Dad glances at me for support. “I’m not going to go against the doctors and Mom, too. I love you, Dad, but as Meatloaf would say… I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”

  “Look at what Heath got us,” Mom says as she offers Dad the bottle.

  Like Mom did, Dad puts on his reading glasses and checks out the label. Except he recognizes the name of the vineyard.

  “I didn’t know they imported their stuff,” he says with a frown, his eyes fixated on the label as if he can’t quite believe he’s holding what he’s holding. “I’ve been looking for this wine everywhere.”

  “I know. Mom told me you were planning to visit the winery.” I stop myself from saying “after you retire,” because Dad hasn’t been working for a few days, and I know he’s bummed out about that. He doesn’t say it, but he’s probably worried he won’t ever get well enough to to go back to work.

  We all know Dad’s probably dying. Sure, there’s the drug trial, but it’s unlikely to work.

  Like a fourth person in the room, Death sits close by as we chat. He’s listening, waiting for the right time to strike. Strangely, it makes our gathering feel less private, knowing at any time we might need to invite a horde of paramedics into our living room.

  Still, we don’t talk about it—the very real probability of Dad dying.

  Maybe we’re afraid to tempt fate if we talk about it. Or maybe we know there’s nothing we can do about it and we’d rather try to enjoy what little time we have.

  “Where did you get this wine from?” Dad says, still inspecting the bottle like he’s a detective and there’s a clue on it that he needs to solve a murder. I can almost see the hunting cap on his head and the smoking pipe hanging between his lips.

  “From the South of France,” I say.

  My parents can’t go there themselves because of Dad’s illness, but at least they can enjoy the wine.

  “Another business trip?” he asks.

  “Yeah, Dad. I had business in that sleepy rural town. The biggest grocery store in town was considering an IPO,” I answer sarcastically with a big grin.

  “Smart-ass,” Dad says, chuckling. He coughs, and Mom rubs his back with a look of concern on her face. when he settles down, he says, “Thanks for the wine, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  A few years ago, Dad would’ve started lecturing me on the value of money whenever I spent in a way that he saw as “reckless.” These days, he’s mellowed out. I wonder if he simply knows I won’t listen anyway, or if he’s just getting old.

  “Ready for lunch?” I ask.

  It takes a while to get everyone seated in the car, even with the wheelchair I got for Dad. But soon we arrive at their favorite neighborhood restaurant, an Italian joint we’ve been frequenting for as long as I can remember. As usual, Mom orders the spaghetti carbonara, while Dad asks for the pepperoni pizza. I’m getting the best fucking chicken linguini in the whole world; I swear not even Rome has better pasta.

  The food is good, the wine is even better than my parents expected, and by all accounts, it's as pleasant as a lunch can be, when one of us is dying.

  And then the paparazzi appear.

  As we walk out of the restaurant, a swarm of reporters crowd us, shoving microphones in our faces.

  “Mom, take Dad to the car,” I say as I let go of the push handles. I lift my hand up to get the reporters’ attention and let them gather around me. “My dad is sick, so I’d appreciate it if you guys could leave my parents out of it. I don’t have much time because they’re waiting for me, but I can answer a couple of questions before I go. Quick ones.”

  “Have you heard about the price of the Petro stock shooting up?” asks one reporter.

  Shit. That’s bad news. I have a big short in that stock, and I’d lose a fortune if the price keeps going up.

  But that can wait until I get back to the office. There’s not much I can do from here anyway.

  “We are aware, of course, and we’re already coming up with strategies to face that.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m sure the people at the office have got it covered. I only hire the cream of the crop. That’s why my business is so successful.

  “Heath, we’ve noticed a woman walking into a downtown hotel with you. Who is she?” a female reporter asks. Judging by her question, she’s probably from a gossip tabloid.

  They always seem to have a photographer or two following me around, and even more when something happens with my investments because they know I’m going to appear in a lot of mainstream media and they want to capture some of that interest, too.

  A tabloid is not the kind of publication I usually pay attention to. Under normal circumstances, I’d ignore this woman. I don’t care what people think about me as a person. All that matters is they see me as a competent, successful investor whom they can trust with their wealth.

  But this is different.

  I was supposed to keep things with Kat under wraps. My plan was to tell my parents about the baby after Kat leaves, without giving them much information beyond the fact that the baby's mine.

  I don’t want them trying to find Kat and coaxing her to have a relationship with the kid. No, I know better than to get entangled with a woman now, especially when it comes to sharing something with one—like money, a private jet, or a baby.

  So I don’t want anything to be traced back to Kat at all. Letting her forge a relationship with the kid means creating a vulnerable spot that she can use as a weapon.

  She seems nice now, but who knows what time will do to her? In ten years, or twenty-five years, she could become desperate or plain greedy. And then what’s going to stop her from blackmailing me?

  Nothing. That’s what.

  So Kat absolutely has to disappear when the baby doesn’t need her anymore. When that happens, I won't have any need for her either. And ideally, neither the baby or I will ever hear from her again.

  The pang of reluctance in my chest surp
rises me. But I’m not straying from my original plan. I know what happens when I put my hopes in a woman, and I’m not going to repeat that mistake again.

  “She’s just someone who works for me,” I answer the reporter. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my parents are waiting for me. Thank you.”

  Kat

  “Are you at the subway station yet?” Even over the phone, Heath’s voice carries the same gravitas as it usually does. This is a man who knows what he wants and always gets it.

  “Yes.” I keep my voice small as I speak into the microphone built into my earphones. I’m worried the other commuters are going to hear me.

  Luckily, it’s past the morning rush hour. I’m joined by a bunch of tourists, college students, and old people on the platform. A three-man band is playing an upbeat song on their wind instruments.

  I usually like to watch people whenever there’s music playing in public places. I like to see everybody syncing up to the rhythm as they walk past. But right now, I can't focus on anything except the voice in my ears.

  “Good,” Heath says with wickedness dripping from this one innocuous word.

  I gasp as the little toy inside me starts to vibrate. It’s a low buzz, slow and quiet, but it sends a jolt through my entire body.

  I know Heath is holding the controller right now and listening to my every breath, and the thought drives me crazy with arousal. Wetness leaks out of me and pools in my panties.

  When I got to the office this morning, Heath told me to go back home because he has a ton of work today.

  I was just about to protest when he pulled me close, gave me a hot kiss, and slipped his hand into my panties. By the time I felt something cold and plastic being pushed into my pussy, I was already panting and grabbing onto his hard biceps.

  The toy is long and cylindrical, and it’s lodged inside me, kept in place by my panties. The part of the toy that sticks out of me lies flat against my lips and stimulates my clit.

  A strong wind blows through the tunnel, and I shudder as I realize the train’s coming. I’m not cold. I’m just worried I’m going to come, too.