by Cara McKenna
The kettle whistles, and I fill the French press, eyes on Noah to tell him I’m listening.
“Part of me feels really desperately like I want us to be friends,” he goes on, “so I’ll be allowed to walk up to you and say hello and squeeze your baby’s little hand without feeling like a creep. Or a…a nobody.”
“That might be possible,” I say. “Lots of people use their friends as surrogates and donors.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I should just do the test. So we don’t go constructing elaborate scenarios when I might not even be pregnant.”
“That might be a good idea.”
I nod my head passionately, putting down my foot for the both of us. “Definitely.” I leave Noah and do fearlessly what I haven’t been able to for the past few days. I march into the bathroom and pee on a stick.
“Done,” I say as I return to the kitchen. “Three minutes.”
“What should we do for three minutes?” he asks.
“Blur some more lines.”
I step over to where he’s sitting. Our eyes are level, my boring brown ones and his fascinating greenish gray ones. As much as I still genuinely crave genetic anonymity, I secretly hope my baby will come out with those eyes.
I lean in and kiss Noah, then let him take over. I knew he would, just as I knew it was him at my door, as I subconsciously knew he’d come over when my fingers dialed his number. His cool, smooth palms cup my face as his hot tongue slips between my lips. Before I know it we’re stumbling toward my room. I yank Noah’s sweater up his chest and over his head, and he pushes my duster off my shoulders. His big fingers fumble with the bow of my pajamas’ drawstring as my small ones struggle with his belt. After a minute’s frantic pawing, we get each other undressed in such a desperate rush you’d think a trophy were riding on it.
“God, Abby.” Noah pushes me onto my unmade bed, climbs on top of me. He’s ready—so hard it’s intimidating. He tries to push into me, but my body hasn’t caught up with his yet. I reach for my bedside table drawer and get the lube. I prep Noah while he does the same for me, two slick fingers sliding inside me, the stiff, thick cock in my fist promising me everything I want at this moment.
“I need you,” he mumbles, eyes unfocused as he guides his head to my pussy.
My hands scream their agreement, grasping his hips and tugging him close, driving that delicious, familiar length inside.
I hold him close for a moment, just savoring. “Fuck, you feel good.”
Noah starts to thrust, his body pumping fast and greedy, everything about it hot and needy and desperate—everything I want too. His moans are the deepest, most animalistic and wondrous sound I’ve ever heard, and my hands grip his ass, keeping the strokes rough and the sex dirty.
He groans, eyes shut tight, then flips us over so I’m on top. “Use me,” he begs. “Use my body.”
I do. I draw him in deep, stroke my burning clit along the base of his shaft with each thrust, lean back on my haunches, and stare down at him. He brings his knees up, cradling my butt and hips. I rock in his lap, the need so tight and hot between my legs I feel high.
“God, yeah. Fuck my cock, Abby. Come on.” His strong hands urge my hips, keep the rhythm fast as I lose coordination. His aggression is twice as hot as the thick heat spearing my pussy, the mean, horny look on his face sexier than every last perfect detail of what’s-his-name’s body put together.
“Fuck my cock. Fuck me.”
The pleasure hits its peak so suddenly I gasp. All the warmth and pressure and tension built up in my cunt shatters, floods my limbs and chest, and leaves me a panting, gasping mess, arms shoved under Noah’s back as I fight for breath. He’s moaning, hips thrusting softly between mine. He turns us over and starts pumping again, slower, steadier.
“Don’t be gentle,” I say. I don’t fear the tenderness as much as I simply crave the rougher stuff. This experiment is so intrinsically selfish, it’s a relief and a thrill when Noah makes it seem as if he’s the greedy one.
He locks his arms tight against my ribs, and I revel in his body, his raw, flexing muscles as he takes pleasure from me. I run my palms up and down his chest and stomach. “Good.”
“Oh fuck. I’m gonna come.”
“Good. Let me see it this time. Lemme see when you come, Noah.”
He hammers me for half a minute, grunting and moaning, skin slick under my palms, cock flashing between our bodies with every racing thrust.
“Oh fuck.” He pulls out, leans back, and jerks himself home, bathing my belly in that thing that’s become so intensely sacred to me. He strokes until there’s nothing left to give me; then he collapses at my side. He kisses me deep, and I feel his fingers rubbing the warm cum into my skin, possessive. I put my hand over his and join him. He laughs—a tiny, smug noise that warms my lips.
We lie together until our collective sweat cools, until neither of our minds is on the sex anymore.
Noah clears his throat. “Coffee’s probably ready.”
I don’t think for a second he’s any more concerned about the coffee than I am. We slowly get cleaned up and dress, and neither of us speaks until we’re back in the kitchen.
“You want me to stay in here, or…how do you want to do it?”
“Why don’t you come stand in the doorway while I check.”
He follows me to the bathroom. “Is it the two lines or a plus sign, or how does it work?”
“This one’s digital. It’ll just say ‘pregnant’ if it’s positive.”
“Ah.”
I keep my eyes away from where the tester waits on the rim of my sink. Noah leans in the threshold, and I reach back and take hold of his hand.
“Okay,” I say through a desperate, huffing sigh. “If it’s negative, that means I still get to drink on New Year’s.”
Noah squeezes my fingers. “Go on, Abby.”
I grab the smooth plastic wand and shut my eyes, bring it close. I open them.
“Oh my God.” My arm starts shaking, followed by my entire body. I hold the tester over my shoulder to show Noah that one immensely loaded digital word.
“Pregnant,” he reads.
I shake harder, clench my fists around the wand and Noah’s hand, and start to cry. I let Noah turn me around, and he hugs me so hard it knocks my wind out. I wrap my arms around his middle, bury my face against his warm, sweet-smelling neck. God, I hope it’s his. I want it to be. I want this man’s blood in my child’s veins as surely as I want his warm, strong body against mine right now.
I speak against his throat. “I hope it’s yours.”
“It’s yours,” he whispers, melting me. He stands up a little straighter, pushes me away enough to establish unsteady eye contact. “Even if it’s me who gave it to you, it’s just yours. I’m just going to be the best friend I can to you, for as long as you want me here. I don’t know if it’ll be anything near as simple as that, but that’s what I’ll try to do.”
“Thank you, Noah.”
We hug again, softer than before. I feel my nerves subsiding, and behind the adrenaline cloud, there’s a wide, blue sky of pure joy.
“Merry Christmas, Abby.”
I laugh and wipe my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Do you want to be alone now?”
“No… You can go if you want, but I’d like you to stay. Let me pour you an insanely strong cup of lukewarm coffee. You can enjoy caffeine for the both of us. Holy shit—for the three of us.” I laugh, the sound caught somewhere between silly and maniacal.
“Sounds good.”
I fill a mug for Noah, and we sit at the breakfast bar, knees locked like zipper teeth, tester beside us on the counter.
“Thanks again,” I say, barely a whisper.
“You’re welcome.” Noah takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”
“We should get to know each other,” I say, my subconscious hijacking my mouth, voicing what my gut wants even as my mind struggles to
sabotage the impulse with its tiresome logic.
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you ask me over to Jamaica Plain some time? To your place. We can watch one of your favorite movies, and you can tell me nerdy film-buff things about it. Maybe go out for Thai or something. I can watch you drink.”
“Like a date?”
I turn that idea over in my head a few times. “I don’t know. Every ten minutes I seem to make a decision about you that complicates everything I thought I wanted to keep simple. I want to say, ‘let’s just be friends for a few months.’ But I honestly don’t trust my body to stay on that bandwagon.”
Noah looks thoughtful for a few breaths, stares at our hands when he speaks. “We’re both grown-ups…and this situation’s already woefully complex. We could try and just be friends, and if we fuck it up, we’ll just agree to not be psychos if things go totally Hindenburg.”
I nod my agreement, but I don’t really feel it. Feel it. If the past couple weeks—if the past half a year—taught me nothing else, it’s that my feelings make better decisions than my head. My feelings ended a comfortable relationship that was leading me nowhere, and they brought me the little white wand with its fabulous headline. “I already know we’ll fuck it up,” I tell Noah. “If we try to just be friends.”
His face falls. “Oh.”
“But that’s okay. I want to fuck that up. With you.”
He blinks, considers what I’m saying.
“I mean, we can pretend we’re just going to be friends…”
“But you think we’ll fail?” he asks.
I nod and smile. “Yeah. I want us to fail. I want to wake up in a few weeks with you and me as…as you and me. I don’t care if it messes everything up that was supposed to be simple.”
Noah’s lips purse. At first I think he’s hesitating; then I realize he’s suppressing a smile. “I’d like that too.”
I grin, reach out, and squeeze his thigh. He straightens up, looking instantly confident.
“So, would you like to come to J.P. this Friday after work?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Cool. Meet me near the garage at five fifteen. I’ll get us a copy of Rosemary’s Baby.”
I punch Noah gently on the sternum.
“Firestarter.”
I hit him again.
“Raging Bull?”
“Better.” I smile at him, feeling suddenly very shy. “Should I bring an overnight bag?”
Noah shakes his head with well-faked conviction. “No, we’ll be good. I’ll give you a ride home after.”
“Okay.” I’m a big girl. I can live without Noah’s body for a night, maybe a few nights, if we decide to pay lip service to our half-assed attempt at staving off a relationship. And if we do manage it, the fact that I could be carrying his child is physical intimacy enough for the immediate future. Plus I’ll still have all the filthy-good sex memories to keep me going until we inevitably crack and wind up in bed together again. I give us about two weeks… But who am I kidding? I give us two hours.
I rub my thumbs over the backs of Noah’s hands and let them go. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.” He drains his coffee, sets the mug beside the plastic wand for a second, then slides it farther down the counter, as if that spot is reserved for more significant objects. “Well, I should head back to Arlington. My sister’s got more relatives due this afternoon. I’ve got my fingers crossed her in-laws might give my nephews Garage Band so I can totally commandeer it.”
“Cool.” I follow Noah to the living room and watch him get his coat and shoes back on. I follow him down the stairwell and out onto the front steps, savor a final study of his eyes in the silvery winter light. “What did you tell everyone when you disappeared to come over here?” I ask.
He grins. “I said a friend was having a tough time. That I’d be back when she was feeling better.”
I return his warm smile, wrap my arms around him for a quick hug. “She is, thank you. I’m going to start composing my speech for when my parents get back from their trip—the big announcement and all.”
“You should finish watching It’s a Wonderful Life,” he says. “I love that movie.”
“Oh yeah. One of Scorsese’s finest, I’m sure,” I joke.
He puts his hand on my arm, gives it a little squeeze. “Merry Christmas, Abby.”
“Merry Christmas. I’ll see you Friday. Oh—that’s New Year’s Eve.”
“I know. Is that okay?”
I think for a second about the symbolism of that evening, about new starts, the romantic adventure I suspect we’re about to embark on together. I grin. “Yeah, that’s just perfect.”
He gives me a big smile and makes an okay ring with his thumb and finger. “I’ll get you and the kid some sparkling cider.”
The kid. I like that. “Thanks,” I say. I scream it in my head, thank you thank you thank you.
He heads down the front walk and calls back, “We’re going to be just fine, Abby.”
“I know. Drive safe.”
“I will. Keep the kid warm.”
This time as I watch him drive away, it doesn’t hurt. I watch his brake lights flash red as he reaches the corner, and warmth bursts in my chest. I run my hand over my stomach, poke it with my finger.
Your father’s a very nice man, I tell my middle. He did a very nice thing for your crazy old mother, a nicer thing than anybody should be asked to.
I head upstairs out of the cold. I wash Noah’s mug and set it in the rack, head back to the couch, and turn the movie back on. I watch it and I cry and I laugh. I smile as George Bailey runs screaming through the middle of Bedford Falls. I think about clothes—about tiny baby clothes and about what I might wear on New Year’s Eve when I see Noah. I drum my fingers over my belly and look around my place, as content now as I was restless before. I decide I’ll learn how to knit. I’ll knit tiny socks and hats, maybe something homely but thoughtful for Noah, if that still seems advisable a month or more from now. Yes, I’ll learn to knit very soon. But for now I have thank-yous to finish. I know whose to write next, but no clue what to say.
In the end I just write Thanks in the center of the card, slide it into its red envelope. I don’t like the thought of it downstairs, waiting in the cold metal mailbox with the other notes, the ones saying thank you for earrings and gift cards and baked goods. No, I’ll give it to him myself when I see him on Friday. I’ll wave at him from across the park, and I won’t know exactly who it is I’m looking at yet, but I’ll suspect I’m looking at more than a friend, perhaps even more than the father of the child in my belly. Only time will tell, and that’s exciting. Everything is exciting. Everything good and unexpected and scary that will happen to me this next year, everything I succeed at, and everything I royally fuck up, will be exciting.
And I will be just fine.
Cara McKenna
Cara McKenna writes smart erotica—sexy stories with depth. A little dark, a little funny, always emotional. She also writes red-hot romance under the name Meg Maguire, and was a 2010 Golden Heart finalist. Her wonderful publishers are Ellora's Cave, Harlequin Blaze, Loose-Id, and Samhain. She loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes, and bring one another to their knees.
Before becoming a purveyor of red-hot romance and smart erotica, Cara was a record store bitch, a lousy barista, a decent designer, and an overly enthusiastic penguin handler.
Cara now writes full-time and lives north of Boston with her extremely good-natured and permissive husband. When she's not trapped in her own head she can usually be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop, or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond. She is a very proud member of the Romance Writers of America® and her local New England Chapter.
Find out more about Cara at http://www.caramckenna.com/.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
&n
bsp; Chapter Four
Cara McKenna