by M. F. Wild
“Why can’t I ever get enough of you?” He breathed, staring back into my eyes.
I wrapped my hand around his black tie and pulled him toward me, brushing my lips against his as I spoke. “It’s the same for me. A lifetime of this would never be enough.”
He rotated his hips. “Then we better make every second count.”
* * *
Eight months later…
The referee blew his whistle, allowing Eric to take his final time-out of the game. It was the fourth quarter. Ten seconds remained on the clock. Fourth down, Ridgeville trailed three points behind Trinity High—a longtime rival—in the regional championship game. Only twenty yards separated us from declaring victory. When it came to football, it simply didn’t get any tenser than this.
Rubbing my hand over my massive stomach, I glanced over at my husband, who was huddled around by his team and pointing at the play chart in his hand. I didn’t handle pressure well. But Eric? Eric lived for moments like these.
A sharp pain shot across my lower back, stealing my breath. My best friend Megan, who was home to attend my baby shower, placed her hand on my arm.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, wincing as the front part of my swollen belly tightened. “Yeah, I think it’s just from sitting on these bleachers. I haven’t been able to get comfortable in months.”
I was only three days away from my due date. However, according to my doctor’s visit earlier that day, I still had not shown any signs of progression, which was fine with me since I still had a ton of things to do before the baby arrived.
From out of nowhere, another pain hit, this time stronger. I grabbed Megan’s hand, squeezing as I breathed through the contraction. When it had passed, my best friend eyed me with concern.
“Maybe I should get Eric.”
“No, I’m fine. He needs to focus on the game. Besides, I’ve had Braxton Hicks on and off for a week now. They’ll pass.” I shifted my weight, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling in my side.
The whistle blew, indicating the game was resuming. The players took their stance, and everyone in the stadium began stomping their feet. The ball was snapped and both teams sprang to action, running, shoving, colliding. The senior quarterback reached back, looking downfield at the wide receiver, and let it rip. I held my breath as the leather ball sailed through the air.
“Touchdown! Ridgeville!” The commentator’s voice boomed across the stadium, just as the buzzer announced the end of the game.
Overwhelmed with excitement, I jumped to my feet. As the crowd rushed the field to celebrate the win, there was a sudden gush of warm liquid falling at my feet, followed by a powerful pain in my side. I fell forward, grabbing the rail in front of me.
“Whoa, I got you,” Megan said, wrapping her hand around my shoulders. Just as my head lifted, Eric’s eyes locked to mine, his elated expression dropping once he saw me bent over in pain. He pushed his way through the sea of people, leaping over the stairwell to rush to me.
“Clare? Are you okay?”
The returning pain was so intense that my answer came out in a scream.
“We need the paramedics over here now!” He shouted over his shoulder, easing me back down onto the bleachers. Eric’s parents, who were sitting on the other side of the stadium with friends, hurriedly made their way over to us.
Eric knelt down in front of me, draping my arms over his shoulders, while his mom began rubbing my lower back.
“Breathe, baby. I’m right here.”
A few minutes later, the paramedics had surrounded us, helping me down the flight of stairs. Once I had reached the ground level, I was loaded into the back of an ambulance. Eric climbed in right beside me.
I gazed at him apologetically. “I’m sorry to ruin your night.”
He leaned into me, pressing his head against mine. “Are you kidding me? It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Dr. Leslie Marx, who had become a good friend, was on call at the hospital when we arrived. She met us at the emergency room door with a bright expression.
“This baby sure knows how to make an entrance, I’ll say that,” she teased, putting on her examination gloves to check me. I winced as she measured the opening of my cervix with her fingers. When I glanced back at her, she was grinning.
“You ready to push this kid out?”
“What?” I gasped. “But what about my epidural?”
“You’re already fully dilated. I’m afraid there’s not going to be enough time for that.”
A tall nurse approached her, holding out a blue surgical gown. Leslie reached her arms through the front and situated herself on a stool in between my legs. I couldn’t understand why everything was happening so fast. Wasn’t labor supposed to last longer than this?
“Okay, Clare. On your next contraction, I want you to bear down in your bottom and push as hard as you can, all right?”
She barely had gotten the words out when I felt another contraction hit. I tightened my hold on Eric’s hand.
“Oh, God!” I screamed as the intense pain ripped through me.
“Here we go. Take a deep breath, and push!”
Tucking my chin to my chest, I pushed against the pressure in my bottom until I was completely out of air. I dropped my head back against the pillow, struggling to refill my lungs. Eric wiped my sweaty locks away from my face, kissing me on the forehead. “You’re doing great, baby.”
Another pain.
“Push, push, push,” Leslie coached from in front of me.
There was an agonizing shift in my pelvis.
“Oh, my God. I can see him, Clare! He’s got a head full of dark hair!” Eric exclaimed.
“You’ve got this, girl. Just keep your breathing steady. One more good push, and we’ll have a baby.” Leslie smiled up at me.
The returning pressure was so intense that I thought I was going to rip apart. I was so desperate for relief. Bearing down hard, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, feeling the baby’s shoulders pass through. Then, instant euphoria overtook me as I heard my son’s beautiful cry fill the room.
Eric was beaming as he cut the umbilical cord, captivated by every sound and move our son made. Leslie finished up on me while they checked the baby’s vitals, which, judging by how well his lungs worked, were healthy. When Eric finally placed him in my arms, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I feathered kisses across his perfect chubby face, mesmerized by every beautiful feature. His nose, his chin, his mouth, everything was a carbon copy of his father.
“He’s so perfect,” I breathed, looking back up at Eric, who was staring at me with so much love in his eyes.
“Yes, he is… Just like his mother.”
* * *
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About M.F. Wild
M.F. Wild is the inappropriate, uninhibited, and slightly embarrassing alter-ego of #1 New York Times bestselling author, Meredith Wild. When she gets bored of writing emotionally charged love stories, she teams up with her favorite partners in crime to pen the steamiest tales their twisted imaginations can come up with. She
enjoys short walks on the beach (because Florida is hot), margaritas, and her husband.
Visit her at MeredithWild.com!
About Mia Michelle
Mia Michelle fell in love with the world of books the very first time she stepped inside of her small hometown library. Growing up, she loved to spend time losing herself in the world of make believe by creating her own imaginative stories. The gift of a leather journal for her eighth birthday inspired her dream of one day becoming a writer. Though Mia kept most of her writing private over the years, a childhood best friend read the first draft of Rose of Thorne and encouraged her to take the leap of faith to bring her dream to life.
Mia fully admits to having a hopeless infatuation with her Kindle and suffers from a one-click book addiction. (No intervention required.) When she isn’t shuttling her two kids between cheerleading and football practice, or folding a massive pile of laundry, she can be found curled up in her favorite cozy chair with a pen in one hand and an adult beverage in the other.
Mia currently resides in a quaint little southern town in Tennessee with her husband, two children, and fur baby.
Visit her at www.MiaMichelleAuthor.com