by Emma Chase
another deep kiss. Then I lay her out on the bed.
I take my time opening the buttons on the front of her dress, one by one. Not to tease her—but to show her. “ ‘Don’t look at me,’ my ass! Looking at you is the best fucking part.”
Okay, it’s not the best part. But it’s a really good part.
She wiggles impatiently and I unhook her bra. She slides it off her arms. I take a moment to admire my handiwork, caressing every inch of her bare body with my eyes. Stunning.
Then I bury my face between her tits, laving and sucking, giving each bountiful mound its due.
Kate arches her back and pulls at my hair. Writhing. I rip my shirt over my head.
Her arms wrap around my back—kneading—pulling me closer. I moan and nibble a trail up her throat to plant another long kiss on her mouth. I don’t want her thinking about the baby right now, but I can’t pass by the hump without paying it homage. My lips press against it once, reverently.
Then I stand up. I tear at my belt and slide my pants and boxers to the floor. Kate is breathing fast. Her lips are parted and swollen. And her eyes are on fire—on me.
I grab her ankles and drag her to the edge of the bed, wrapping her legs around my hips.
I slide my cock up and down between her lips, coating the head with her wetness.
Then I stop and our eyes lock. I know she wants a bumpy ride, and I aim to please, but first: “If I hurt you—if you’re uncomfortable at all—you have to tell me.”
She nods quickly. And it’s the only reassurance I need before I slam into her. Fuck. We moan together, long and low. My head rolls back and I thrust again.
She’s tighter now. I don’t know if it’s the baby pressing everything together or just the fact that God is good, but her cunt grips me like a Venus fucking flytrap savoring its last meal. My hips pound against hers, crashing and rubbing, as rough as I dare.
It feels primitive. Raw. And so exquisitely intense, it could be illegal. Her massive breasts bounce with each push. She’s gasping and groaning, loving every second of it. Kate reaches for my hips, but they’re too far out of range. She grips the bed sheets instead and mangles them.
Keeping the pace swift and steady, I slide my hand between us and rub her clit, just the way she likes. Then I move higher, pinching those gorgeous dark nipples. Kate’s tits have always been a hot spot, but lately they’ve been extra sensitive.
Her mouth opens, but only small whimpers come out. And that’s just unacceptable.
“Come on, baby, you can do better than that.”
I give each pointy peak a good, long tug. And she screams, “Drew . . . Drew . . . yes . . .”
So much fucking better.
I move my hands to her knees and hold on for leverage. Pulling her toward me as I push forward. Skin slapping skin. “God . . . Kate . . .”
I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer. At this rate I really didn’t expect to. My chin drops to my chest and I reach down and grab her ass. Lifting her up—plunging deeper. Moving faster.
Kate’s legs tighten on me and I know she’s close too. And she’s moaning . . . chanting . . . it’s a beautiful thing. And then she goes rigid under me. Clenching around me. Taking me down with her. I grip her waist, holding her close as we come together.
Later, when our breaths finally return to normal, I collapse on the bed next to her. “Goddamn. That never gets old.”
She laughs. “Yeah. I needed that.”
Then she bites her bottom lip and looks at me sideways. Bashfully.
“Want to do it again?”
Like she really needs to ask.
A few hours later, I wake up from my sex-induced coma to the sound of Kate’s voice.
“Ugh . . . goddamn pizza. Damn whoever invented it.”
I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance out the window. It’s still dark outside, just a couple hours after midnight. Kate is pacing across the room, rubbing her belly. Breathing hard.
“Kate? What’s going on?”
She stops in her tracks and looks my way. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” She moans softly. “Just indigestion.”
Just indigestion?
Famous last words.
And the next thing you know, Uncle Morty’s lying on a slab in the morgue from the massive heart attack he never knew he was having. Not on my watch, buddy.
In a flash, I’m out of bed—sweatpants on. I stand next to Kate, my hand on her shoulder.
“Should we call the doctor?”
“What? No . . . no, I’m sure it’s just . . . ugh . . .” She bends over, holding her midsection. “Oh . . . ow . . .”
And a gush of water bursts from between her legs. Like ten gallons’ worth.
The two of us just stand there. Stupidly. Watching as droplets fall from the edge of her nightgown onto the rug. And then, like a snake slithering in the grass, reality winds its way through our brains.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Holy shit.”
Remember that water balloon I mentioned?
Yep—that sucker just popped.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
When I was sixteen, my school’s basketball team was in a dead heat for the State Championship. During the final game we were down by one, with three seconds left on the clock. Guess who they passed the ball to? Who sank the winning three-pointer?
Yep—that would be me. Because even back then, I was a rock. Steady on the draw. I don’t get stressed. Fear? Panic? They’re for losers.
And I’m no loser.
So why are my hands shaking like an unmedicated Parkinson’s patient?
Anyone ever tell you, you ask too many frigging questions?
My knuckles are white, wrapped in a death grip around the steering wheel.
Kate is in the passenger seat—with a towel under her ass—implementing every breathing technique those wacked-out hippie Lamaze instructors told us about.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Whoo.
Then, mid-whoo, she screams. “Oh, no!”
I almost slam the car into a goddamn telephone pole. “What! What’s wrong?”
“I forgot the sour apple lollipops!”
“The what?”
Her voice is heavy with disappointment. “The sour apple lollipops. Alexandra said they were the only thing that quenched her thirst when she was in labor with Mackenzie. I was going to pick some up this afternoon, but I forgot. Can we stop and get some?”
Okay. It seems that Kate’s common sense has gone bye-bye—so it’s up to me to be the voice of reason. Which is pretty frigging frightening, considering I’m hanging on by a thread over here.
“No, we can’t fucking stop and get some! Are you out of your mind?”
Kate’s big brown eyes immediately fill with tears. And I feel like the world’s biggest dick.
“Please, Drew? I just want everything to be perfect . . . and what if I want a lollipop during the delivery, and you go to get me one, and then I have the baby while you’re gone? You’ll miss it.” Tears course down her cheeks like two little tributaries. “I couldn’t bear it if you missed it.”
Please don’t let it be a girl. For God’s sake, please don’t let it be a girl. All this time, I’ve been praying for a healthy baby without specifying a sex.
Until now.
Because if I have a daughter, and her tears cut me off at the knees like Kate’s do? I’m totally fucking screwed.
“Okay, Kate. It’s all right, baby. Don’t cry—I’ll stop.”
She sniffles. And smiles. “Thank you.”
I jerk the wheel to the right, make an illegal U-turn, and pull onto the curb in front of a 7-Eleven. Then, faster than a pit stop at the Indy 500, I’m back on the road, with the coveted sour apple lollipops rolling around in the backseat.
And Kate is back to her breathing.
Hee hee.
; Whoo whoo.
Hee hee.
Until she’s not.
“Do you think the nurses will know we had sex?”
I look pointedly at her stomach. “Unless you plan on claiming an immaculate conception, I think they’ll have a pretty good idea.”
Then I lean on the horn. “The gas is the one on the right, grandma!” I swear to Christ, if your gray poufy hair is the only thing that can see over the dashboard? You’ve got no business driving.
Hee hee.
Whoo whoo.
“No—do you think they’ll know we had sex tonight?”
Kate is funny about things like this. Shy. Even with me sometimes. The other day, I happened to catch a passing glimpse of her sitting on the toilet and it was like the end of the world. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous. But I’m not about to argue the point with her now.
“It’s a maternity ward, Kate, not CSI. They’re not gonna to be down there with a black light looking for my swimmers.”
Hee Hee.
Hee Hee.
“Yeah, you’re right. They won’t be able to tell.” She seems calmed by the idea. Reassured.
Whooooo.
And I’m happy for her. Now if I can just keep myself from going into cardiac arrest, we’ll be in pretty good shape.
An hour later, Kate is settled into a private room at New York Presbyterian, hooked up to more beeping contraptions then a ninety-year-old on life support. I sit down in the chair next to the bed. “Can I get you anything? Back rub? Ice chips? Narcotics?”
I know I could go for a glass of whiskey at the moment. Or a whole bottle.
Kate takes my hand and holds it tight, like we’re on a plane that’s about to take off. “No. Just—talk to me.” Then her voice turns hushed. Small. “I’m scared, Drew.”
My chest tightens painfully. And I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.
But I do my damnedest to hide it. “Hey, this whole delivery thing is a piece of cake. I mean, women have babies all the time. I read this article once that said in the olden days, they’d pop a kid out right in the middle of the fields. Then they’d clean it off, put it in their backpack, and go right back to work. How hard can it be?”
She snorts. “Easy for you to say. Your part was fun. And over. Females got royally screwed in this deal.”
She’s not wrong. But women are stronger than men. No, really, I’m being serious. Sure, we can outdo them in upper-body strength, but in every other way—psychologically, emotionally, cardiovascularly, genetically—women come out on top.
“That’s because God is wise. He knew if we had to go through this shit, the human race would’ve died the fuck out with Adam.”
She chuckles.
Then a voice comes from the doorway. “How are we doing this evening?”
“Hi, Bobbie.”
“Hey, Roberta.”
Yes—I only use her full name. Post-traumatic stress? Possibly. All I know is that hearing the name Bob? Pretty much makes me want to slit my wrists open with a box cutter.
Roberta checks the chart at the end of the bed. “Everything looks good. You’re about three centimeters dilated, Kate, so we’ve still got a while to go. Do you have any questions for me?”
Kate looks hopeful. “Epidural?”
Here’s some advice—don’t be a masochist. Get the epidural.
I’ll repeat that in case you missed it: GET THE EPIDURAL.
According to my sister, it’s a miracle drug. She’d gladly jerk off the guy who invented it—and Steven would probably let her. Would you get a tooth pulled without novocaine? Would you get your appendix removed without anesthesia? Of course not.
And don’t give me that bullshit about having the “full experience” of childbirth. Pain is pain—there’s nothing “wondrous” about it.
It just fucking hurts.
Roberta smiles soothingly. “I’ll get it set up right away.” She makes a few notes on the clipboard, then returns it to its hanging place. “I’ll come back in a little while to check on you. Have the nurses page me if you need anything.”
“Okay. Thanks, Roberta.”
Once she’s out the door, I stand up and grab my cell phone.
“I’m going to go call your mom—I can’t get any reception in here. Will you be all right till I get back?”
She waves her hand. “Sure. Not going anywhere. We’ll be right here.”
I bend over and kiss Kate’s forehead. Then I lean down and kiss the hump, telling it, “Don’t start without me.”
Then I’m out the door—jogging to catch up with Kate’s doctor down the hall. “Hey, Roberta!”
She stops and turns. “Hi, Drew. How are you?”
“I’m good—good. I wanted to ask you about the baby’s heart rate. Isn’t one-fifty a little high?”
Roberta’s voice is tolerant, understanding. She’s used to this by now.
“It’s well within the normal range. It’s common to see some minor fluctuations in the fetal heart rate during labor.”
I nod. And go on. “And Kate’s blood pressure? Any sign of preeclampsia?”
Knowledge is power. The more you know, the more control you have over a situation. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last eight months.
“No, like I told you on the phone yesterday—and the day before that—Kate’s blood pressure is perfect. It’s been steady the entire pregnancy.”
I rub my chin and nod. “Have you ever actually delivered a baby with shoulder dystocia? Because you realize you won’t know it’s happening until the baby’s head is already—”
“Drew. I thought we agreed you were going to stop watching ER reruns?”
ER should come with a warning label. It’s disturbing. If you’re a mild hypochondriac or a parent to be, expect to lose a shitload of sleep after just one episode.
“I know, but—”
Roberta puts her hand up. “Look, I know how you feel—”
“Do you?” I ask sharply. “Have you ever taken your whole life and put it in someone else’s hands and asked them to take care of it for you? To bring it back to you in one piece? ’Cause that’s what I’m doing here.” I push a hand through my hair and look away. And when I speak again, my voice is shaky. “Kate and this baby . . . if anything ever . . .”
I can’t even finish the thought, let alone the sentence.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Drew, you have to trust me. I know it’s difficult, but try and focus on the positives. Kate is young and healthy—we have every reason to believe that this delivery will progress without any complications at all.”
I nod my head. And the logical part of my brain knows she’s right.
“Go back to Kate. Try and enjoy the time you have left. After tonight, it’s not going to be just the two of you anymore—not for a long time.”
I force myself to nod again. “Okay. Thanks.”
I turn and walk back toward the room. I stop in the doorway.
Can you see her?
Surrounded by pillows—buried under the puffy down comforter she insisted on bringing from home. She looks so tiny. Almost like a little girl hiding in her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm.
And I need to say the words—to make sure she knows.
“I love you, Kate. Everything that’s good in my life, anything that really matters, is only there because of you. If we hadn’t met? I’d be fucking miserable—and probably too clueless to even realize it.”
She looks at me, totally straight faced. “I’m having a baby, Drew—I’m not dying.” Then her eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, I’m not dying, am I?”
And that’s all it takes to snap me out of my panic.
“No, Kate. You’re not dying.”
She nods. “Okay, then. And just for the record, I love you too. I love that you’re funding Mackenzie’s future because you won’t stop cursing. I love how you tease your sister unmercifully but would kill anyone who hurt her. But most of all . . . I love how you lov
e me. I feel it every moment . . . every day.”
I walk up to her and cup her cheek. Then I lean over and softly kiss her lips.
She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. And then her jaw tightens with determination.
“Now, let’s do this thing.”
Turns out all the worrying was for nothing. Because at 9:57 this morning, Kate gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. And I was right next to her the whole time. Sharing her pain.
Literally.
I’m pretty sure she broke my hand.
But who cares? A few broken bones don’t mean much—not when you’re holding a seven-pound, nine-ounce miracle.
And that’s just what I’m doing.
I know every parent thinks their child is adorable—but be honest—he’s one good-looking kid, don’t you think? A patch of black hair lays smoothly on top of his head. His hands, his nose, his lips—looking at them is like looking in a mirror. But his eyes, they’re all Kate.
He’s exquisite. Perfection made flesh.
Granted, he didn’t come out looking like this. A few hours ago, he bore a strong resemblance to a screaming featherless chicken.