A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  “I want you to fuck me, Mortar.”

  Sweeter words have never been spoken.

  I pick up her legs and position her pussy over my pulsing erection. She settles her weight on the balls of her feet as I grip myself and lower her slowly down, until her wetness reaches my hand. Then I let her slide the rest of the way down.

  Pulling her torso towards me, I flicker my tongue along her teeth. We begin to rock back and forth, sitting up and facing each other, too involved to care that we’re on the floor as we fuck. She slips up and drops down, endlessly, the twitching walls of her cunt working me like magic.

  I think of all the cum I’ve rocketed into Kendra already and wonder if she’s pregnant with my child yet. It’s impossible to know. The only thing to do is keep going until we’re sure.

  Kendra’s breasts dance with our motion. I bite her neck, her shoulder blades, her nipples. She takes my finger into her mouth and sucks hard as the heat builds in my balls. How could any man last long with a girl like this strumming your cock?

  I roll her over onto her back and start to thrust madly. My muscles are burning, my dick is yearning, my heart is on fire. She rakes nails down my back, tearing bloody streaks, but I don’t give a damn. You could shoot me right now and I wouldn’t feel a thing except the last vestiges of restraint I have in me to stop from coming.

  I think of Kendra thick with my son and that does it—there’s no more holding back. I erupt, collapsing on top of her as I cast strand after strand of semen into Kendra’s lusty channel.

  “Kendra,” I say, then I stop. She laughs. Fuck, I love that sound.

  I don’t need to say anything. She knows.

  Chapter 9

  Kendra

  I wouldn’t ever have imagined that it would be this normal to be, well, normal with a man like Mortar. It’s been a quiet couple of weeks living with him. At least as quiet as it’s possible to be when you’re moaning at the top of your lungs four or five times a day in every room in the house.

  The sex, of course, is anything but normal, and far from quiet. But everything else has a strange domestic vibe to it, as if we were a regular, run-of-the-mill couple, joking while we cook dinner and talk about things that don’t really matter, that are only important for the sake of hearing each other’s voices.

  I still get a thrill every time I’m starting dinner in the kitchen and I hear the key turn in the lock and it swings open to reveal Mortar, stomping in to swoop me up in his arms and let me rain kisses down his muscular neck. Half the time the food gets burnt while we tend to other business in the bedroom, but starting over and doing it again with him is half the fun. He laughs and pinches me or nibbles at my ear whenever he walks by, if for no other reason than to see the shy flush of my face as heat ramps up in my core.

  Walking on the beach with him as the sun sets is a pleasure I’d never thought I’d have. To be with someone you care about, who shows you the same caring in return…well, life throws twists, I guess.

  Like when I wake up one morning with a curdling nausea in the pit of my stomach and have to sprint to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m throwing up, again and again, until there’s nothing but bile coming out. I hardly feel relieved when I’m done, although the need to vomit passes.

  Mortar hears me and rushes in, still fully naked, to run a soothing hand down my back. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Something wrong?”

  I wipe my mouth off and spit into the toilet. “Woke up feeling sick. Had to puke.” My head is spinning from the strain on my throat.

  A thought strikes both of us at the same time. “Do you think…?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. My eyes are wide open.

  He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Shit,” he curses. “I have to go to work.” He turns back to me. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I don’t want him to worry about me, even though something akin to fear has taken hold of my entire body. I’m not sure what this means yet, and I’m trying to ignore the obvious explanation: that I’m pregnant.

  * * *

  I wait until Mortar leaves for his meeting before I decide what to do. As much as I’m excited for everything that having Mortar’s child implies, there’s still a sizable part of me that’s terrified, that wonders if this has all been an act designed to make me comfortable until he’s sure he gets what he wants out of our bizarre little arrangement.

  But I need to know.

  I wrap a scarf around my head and put on big, dark sunglasses before I dare to step outside. Mortar has stopped sending prospects by to check on me, ever since the fire at the studio. I guess he figures I took his warning to heart. Without them to escort me on whatever errands I need to run, I’m not supposed to leave unless Mortar with me. But I can’t wait around for him to come home. I have to know now. Right now.

  I slip the keys to Mortar’s truck off the kitchen counter and go outside to where it’s parked in the back driveway. The drive to the drugstore down the street is short. I park, hustle inside, and don’t make eye contact as I buy half a dozen pregnancy tests. I want to be one hundred percent sure before I break the news to him.

  I hurry back to the car and clamber in, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. Thankfully, the parking lot is clear.

  I speed down the street and jump out of the car as soon as I get back to Mortar’s. I’m ripping off the packaging of the first test as I hurry to the bathroom. Dropping my jeans, I pee on the stick and shake it off.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter at it. “Show me something.”

  At first, nothing changes. Just a blank white strip. Then—a smiley face. I check the back of the box.

  A smiley face indicates a positive result. Congratulations, you’re pregnant!

  Why aren’t there words for what I’m feeling right now? It’s this insane blend of confusion and excitement, terror and joy, all rushing through my veins at once. I’m not sure whether to cry, scream, laugh, or everything at the same time.

  Congratulations, you’re pregnant!

  I’m pregnant. With Mortar’s baby.

  It’s wild that the stupid little smiley face can cause such a reaction in me. I’ve known for a long time this was coming, ever since I first agreed to his deal. I laugh out loud, thinking back on Mortar telling me he was going to “fuck his baby into me.” Such a bastard. A dashing, beautiful bastard. The craziest part is that I’d let him. I’d gone along with it. At first it was because there were no other viable options. But the longer I’d stayed with him, the more I knew that there was something else to it. Everything between us fits too perfectly for this to be some accidental quirk of fate. He is my person. My protector. My man.

  And now, the father of my children.

  I take the other five tests, just to be sure. Each one has the same result: a cheery smile, a plus sign, two blue lines, telling me in their own way that I was carrying a baby. The initial panic subsides, and now I can’t wipe the smile off my face if I tried. I keep saying it out loud to myself as I walk around the house aimlessly, taking things out and putting them away just to have something to do with my hands.

  “Pregnant. A baby. Me, a mother.” I laugh like a maniac and run my hand through my hair a million times.

  What is Mortar going to say? Christ, would he please get home soon? I can almost swear that the minute hand on the clock is ticking backwards just to mess with me.

  I arrange the positive tests in a neat row on the kitchen table and then settle back on the couch, arms folded, one foot whirling wildly through the air.

  I hope he will be happy.

  * * *

  It’s not until five o’clock that he actually returns home. He looks weary, haggard, as he tosses his keys in the tray on the counter and clomps into the kitchen. I’m exhausted from the hours of waiting. My nerves feel frayed and useless, my whole body worn down by tension coursing through me without an outlet all day long.

>   He passes the table where I’ve laid out the pregnancy tests, notices them, and looks down, frowning.

  “What’s this?” he murmurs under his breath as he studies them. Then he looks up and sees me.

  “Babe? Are these yours?”

  Men can be such idiots. “Of course, who else would they belong to?” I say. My tone is halfway between joking and angry. I still don’t know what to make of everything. Lord, I hope pregnancy doesn’t all turn out to be this much of a hormonal clusterfuck.

  He looks back down, picking each one up in turn and studying it. His face is a maze of unreadable lines. He almost looks mad. I can’t imagine why he would be, but then again, he’s hard to understand, even after these last few weeks spent together.

  Mortar looks at me and breaks into a beaming smile.

  “You’re pregnant!” There’s no mistaking the unbridled joy in his voice. He crosses the distance between the table and the couch where I’m sitting in two huge leaps, then picks me up into his arms and spins me around. His lips brush over mine. I can feel him smiling as he kisses me.

  Slowing to a standstill, he sets me down, although his hands don’t let go of mine. I’ve never seen such a broad grin on him before. It lights up his whole face. I can’t help but smile just because I’m near him.

  “This is incredible!” he says.

  “You’re not upset?” I venture.

  “Upset?” He sounds incredulous. “Of course I’m not upset! How could I be upset? This is exactly what we wanted!”

  Of course he isn’t upset, I reprimand myself. Why on earth would he be upset? I’m mad at myself for letting such a stupid thought worm its way into my head and take root there all day long. This is what he wanted the whole time: his baby. His legacy. Forming in my womb even as we speak.

  He starts to babble about doctors’ visits and health routines, giddy in a way that I didn’t know was possible for a man with so much ink and leather on his person. I soak it all in, smiling, laughing, hardly believing what’s going on. The same chorus plays out in my head: me, pregnant, with Mortar’s child.

  Mortar makes some calls to set up a precautionary medical exam. I sit, holding his hand and shaking my head, with a smile to match his. I rest a hand on my stomach. It’ll be big soon, I realize, as the baby grows inside me. I picture the little one, its skin a swirl of my own chocolate tone and the sun-kissed shade of Mortar’s, stretching his limbs and yawning in my womb.

  Next to me, Mortar hangs up the phone. He kisses my forehead and squeezes my hand excitedly.

  This is it. There’s no turning back now.

  * * *

  We’re lying in bed that night, half-asleep already. There’s an owl hooting faintly outside the window. Mortar’s deep breaths rumble in and out of his chest as he starts to drift off. Something’s been troubling me.

  “Mortar,” I whisper, my head resting on his shoulder.

  “Mm?” he grumbles dreamily.

  “I’d like to get married.”

  He cracks one eye open. “Hm?”

  “Before the baby comes,” I say, sitting up a bit. “I’d like to be married by then.”

  Mortar rubs sleep from both eyes and sits up next to me. Even when he’s barely awake, he can still make me shiver with the intensity of his gaze. He soaks me in. “It’s important to you?”

  I nod my head nervously, biting my lip. “Yes. I can’t explain why, but it just is.”

  He takes in my words without blinking. “Okay,” he says. “I do.”

  “What?” I’m confused.

  “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “I’ll marry you. It was a shitty proposal, but you can’t be good at everything, I guess.” He winks.

  I laugh and tackle him as he chuckles with me. We roll around in the sheets, play-fighting, and before long, I’m moaning his name into the pillows, letting the owl outside the window know that I belong to Mortar. That I’m the mother of his children.

  When we finish, we fall asleep.

  * * *

  I decide that I don’t want a big wedding. It’s not the ceremony that’s important to me, or the flowers, the ring, the white dress. I had all that once, and I ran away from it on the first handsome man who offered me a chance. I giggle at the memory. It’s not like I would have ridden away with any man on a motorcycle. It just happened to be the right one.

  Instead of a big fuss over everything, then, we agree to go to the courthouse downtown for a private ceremony. It’ll be just the two of us, the judge, and Vince as a witness. As we drive there, Mortar and I nuzzle against each other in the backseat of the Inked Angels’ luxury club car with Vince driving, I still can’t put my thumb on why exactly I care so much about going through with it. Maybe it’s just that I want something real, something valid and official and accepted by the legitimate world, to seal the deal we’ve been living out for the last month. No matter how hard I try to squelch it, I can’t seem to get rid of the voice in the back of my head that questions whether Mortar cares enough to stay. Once the baby is born, he won’t need me to cement his legacy anymore. Perhaps the official marriage is my way of saying I’m not going anywhere.

  Vince drops us off at the front steps and drives the car down the block to park. My dress is a simple cream with a modest neckline. It hugs my hips, stopping just short of the knees. Mortar is wearing a stark navy suit and a pair of copper-colored shoes that catch the sunlight in their polished surface. I take his hand, pressing my palm against his, and smile at him. We head inside.

  The act itself is quick. We are ushered into the judge’s chambers. He’s a smiling, jovial old man with a thick mustache and a voice like spiced honey. I repeat everything he tells me to, but I barely notice what I’m saying. The words aren’t important. They never have been. Everything that Mortar and I want to say to each other is said through the subtle touch of flesh on flesh. Words would just be overkill.

  When it’s done, Mortar takes me into his arms and lays a fluttering kiss on my lips. I let myself mold against him, take on his shape, his smell, his confidence. I can feel the tiniest bump emerging in my abdomen. The observation makes my heart race.

  I could almost be floating as we leave the judge’s office with his blessing, bound in the eyes of the law. Mortar’s hand in mine is strong and reassuring. How could there be anything wrong when I have him to hold onto?

  Then we walk outside, and I remember.

  Grady Freeman stands at the bottom of the steps, swinging his baton back and forth. He looks like something hell rejected. The uniform he’s wearing is disgusting, smudged with dirt, sweat, and God knows what else. His tie is wildly askew, but the horror of his face is magnitudes worse. From the looks of him, he’s been on a month-long drinking binge. The veins in his face and nose are busted wide open from the alcohol. Grime is clotted under his nostrils and between his teeth. His eyes, though, are wide open and alert. It’s the manic vigilance of a junkyard dog or a rabid raccoon.

  He snorts and hocks a loogie onto the marble courthouse steps. Mortar and I are frozen at the top. He pushes me halfway behind him, one arm reaching around me protectively. Grady starts to clap sarcastically as he mounts the stairs towards us one by one.

  “What do you want, Freeman?” Mortar grits.

  “To congratulate the happy couple, of course!” he croaks. His voice is shot to hell, all raspy and clogged.

  “I’m telling you right now, walk away.”

  Grady laughs ridiculously hard, holding his belly and snorting hysterically like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He wipes snot dripping from his nose, hitches up his pants, and spits again.

  “That’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve heard in a while. A scumbag outlaw like you telling me where I can and can’t be? Telling a cop to walk away from the motherfucking courthouse?” His eyes narrow to slits. “You must have some kind of a death wish.”

  I’m trembling as I watch the scene unfold from behind Mortar. His arms are tightening around
me. Grady’s only a couple steps below us now. He’s swaying side to side unsteadily. I can see the fading bruises on the bridge of his nose where Mortar had hit him outside the studio. The stench rolling off of him is ungodly. It makes me gag immediately on contact.

  “I’m not gonna warn you again, Grady. Walk away.” I can feel Mortar tensing in front of me.

  Grady ignores him. He leans forward and squints like he’s trying to see something far away. “Where’s the pretty little bride? Where, oh where…ah, there she is!” He spots me and his eyes widen. “Ain’t that fetching!” he drawls. “All dressed in white for her big day!”

  In an instant his face changes from drunk and wandering to a laser-focused malice. He stops swaying immediately, and I notice his hands squeeze into white-knuckled fists. “The fucking whore,” he finishes.