“I suppose we can put it off a little longer,” Princess Alexandra said. “Where are you planning to honeymoon?”
“As far away from here as possible,” I said pointedly.
Epilogue
ERROL
After the medical examination, followed by a speedy engagement, subsequent marriage, and memorable honeymoon on the island of Majorca, life, as we knew it, came to a standstill.
Waiting became our new normal.
First it was the hormone shots. They hurt, made me nauseous, and gave me a mild case of acne. Bash swore it didn’t detract from my overall appearance, but it was hard to feel like a sex god when my backside was covered in tiny zits.
Then there were constant blood tests to check my estrogen levels. I felt like a pincushion most days, and the very sight of a nurse holding a needle made me want to run in the opposite direction. Even Snow got a bad case of the yips whenever she saw the lady in a white uniform crossing our threshold. As soon as I’d bellow not again, Snow would dive underneath the four-poster and whine until the bloodsucker left our suite, vial in hand.
After that, it was ultrasounds to view my newly awakened ovary close up. As it filled with eggs, it would double in size, and once that was accomplished, I’d be ready for the next phase. Harvesting.
God, the word alone made me ill. It had such a bad connotation. Vampires, zombies, and grave robbers in search of body parts always came to mind. I knew I was overly sensitive to the changes occurring within my body, but no one had warned me of hormone therapy side effects. No matter how hard I tried to stop the mood swings, they were out of my control. I could go from zero to maniacal within minutes, and puking had turned into my favorite pastime. I lived on soda crackers, green apples, and mineral water, which only added to my frustration. I was a carnivore, a steak and potato man from the word go, and having to subsist on rabbit food because my innards were rebelling turned me into an ornery bastard.
There was no reasoning with me once my temper flared or the nausea hit. My respect for the entire female population grew tremendously as I slowly submerged into the uncomfortable realm of hot flashes, cravings, and tender nipples. What a fucking nightmare. And it was only going to get worse.
Bash did his best to keep me on an even keel, employing every sexual trick in his vast arsenal, but no one warned us that my libido would tank. I felt unattractive and too focused on what was happening within my body to think about getting off.
“This is temporary,” the doctor assured me. “Your sex drive will return once this first phase of in vitro is over.”
I literally rolled my eyes. The thought of anyone touching me anywhere made me want to pick up a chair and hurl it through a closed window.
Poor Bash. He was frustrated on so many levels. After the wonderful time we’d spent basking in the sun and making love whenever the urge hit—at least four or five times a day— he’d become accustomed to a certain level of sensuality, and to go from overload to deprivation was a dirty trick neither of us had expected.
Nevertheless, he was determined to weather the storm and participate in this pregnancy as much as possible. Putting up with my mood swings was part of his job. He stayed out of my way for the most part and crawled back when the coast was clear. My wishes were usually granted no matter how outrageous. Pickles at midnight, handmade fudge from Ireland, and Scottish shortbread were only a few of the things on my list. The irony was once the craving was satisfied I ended up hurling.
Notwithstanding the long list of demands prior to our marriage, there was nothing Bash wouldn’t do now that I was his consort. He was everything I’d hoped for in a partner and invariably put my needs before his own.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked one evening when I’d had a particularly rough day.
“Survivor’s guilt,” he admitted. “Seeing you under the weather makes me feel like the world’s biggest slacker. I should be the one jumping through hoops to produce an heir.”
“Aye, but we both know that’s never going to happen. Don’t worry. You’ll pay for this when the kid’s born.”
“How?”
“You can take the night shift for feeding.”
“We’ll have several nannies, Errol.”
“I want you to bond with our child. Daytime isn’t ideal because of your royal duties, so you’ll have to suck it up, like all the new dads in the world, and get your arse out of bed when you hear your son’s angelic voice screaming for his next bottle at three in the morning.”
Bash grinned. “If he’s anything like you, they’ll hear him clear across the Pyrenees.”
“Don’t make him wait and you’ll be fine.”
“Let’s have the baby before we start to negotiate.”
Harvesting day finally arrived, and Bash accompanied me to the hospital, where I underwent the minor procedure. I was in and out of the operating room in less than an hour, and we were back at the palace by the end of the day. Once again, we played the waiting game. Now our future child was in the hands of the mad scientists as I’d started calling the team in charge of making this work.
Under a microscope, they watched as Bash’s sperm fertilized my egg, and once that was accomplished, the resulting zygote was left to grow for a few days before it would be implanted in my womb. Assuming it worked. If the egg and sperm failed to fertilize for whatever reason, the procedure would be repeated.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the case, so it was back to the operating room for me, and our baby was implanted in my uterus. Aaand…we were back to waiting.
The shocking news that our zygote had split in utero, and I was now carrying identical twins, made me quake with fear.
“How does that even work?” I asked, horrified by this turn of events.
“The same way any other pregnancy works,” the doctor said, “only now we have to worry about three people instead of two.”
“Sorry?”
“You, the heir, and the spare.”
I turned to Bash who’d let out a squeak of triumph. “How dare you look so happy when I’m going to swell up like a fucking toad?”
“I can’t help it,” Bash said, beaming. “We’ll surpass everyone’s expectations. I knew you were special.”
Okay. Hearing that made me feel a bit better, although the fear didn’t dissipate. This was going to be a challenge in more ways than I’d ever dreamed. Was I up to the task?
Frowning in concern, I turned to Bash. “I expect you to be at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day.”
“Sweetheart,” Bash said, getting down on his knees beside my chair. “You can milk this all you want. My family and I will be eternally grateful for your sacrifice.”
“Fuck eternity,” I grumbled. “I want something in this life.”
“Name your price,” Bash said. “What can I get you to make this worth your while?”
“I have nine months to think about it, aye?”
“You do, and I’ll be taking notes the entire time.”
“Why?”
“You’ll probably change your mind as things get more difficult.”
“Count on it,” I said irritably. “The worst part of this is losing my sex drive.”
Bash sighed. “Don’t remind me.”
The longing in his voice set me on fire, and my cock stirred for the first time in a while. I reached for Bash’s hand and let it rest on the growing bulge. The smile on his face was priceless.
“How’s that for timing?” I asked, grinning happily.
Eyes sparking with desire, Bash snaked a hand up my thigh. “May I?” he asked hopefully.
“Aye, and quickly, mind you. Timing is everything at this stage.”
He beamed with joy, and I basked in the glow of his approval. We would live happily ever after, just like he promised on our wedding night, babies, bottles, and diapers be damned.
About the Author
Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multifaceted woman who is a product of her upbringing in m
ultiple cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, the Middle East, and the USA. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. A little bit of this and a lot of that have brought a unique touch to her literary voice she could never learn from textbooks.
By the time Mickie discovered her talent for writing, real life got in the way, and the business of raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing—and the inevitable emptying nest—dreams of becoming a published writer were resurrected and she’s never looked back.
She stumbled into the world of men who love men in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called “gut-wrenching, daring, and thought-provoking.” She admits to being an angst queen and making her men work damn hard for their happy endings.
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.mickieashling.com
Blog: www.mickiebashling.blogspot.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mickie.ashling
Twitter: @MickieAshling
Other books by this author
Third Son
Through My Own Lens (Horizons, Book 5)
Also Available from NineStar Press
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Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One Page 46