by Kendall Ryan
The fact that she’s making me wait to take her just gets me even hotter. What will I do with her when I finally get my hands on her luscious body?
I tighten my grip on my cock and let my imagination run wild with pornographic images. How will she look, sound, smell, feel? Is she a screamer or will I have to pull the noises out of her, overwhelm her before I get to hear her cry out in pleasure? What are her favorite positions? Does she like being pinned, or will she take the reins and straddle me? Whatever she’s game for, I’m ready to play.
I pump fast and rough, twisting my fist around the precum-slicked head, rubbing my thumb against the sensitive slit. I picture Jenna everywhere. Writhing on her back underneath me, riding me hard like a rodeo bull, on all fours and pushing her ass back against my hips as I thrust from behind. And I try to imagine what it’ll be like to fuck her bare, to feel every bit of her hot, wet pussy clenching around my cock with no condom between us. What it’ll be like to empty myself inside her. To make a baby.
This will be a first for me—actively trying to impregnate a woman—and after decades of preventing that from happening, I should feel turned off. Instead, the thought has the opposite effect.
My thighs tremble with my oncoming orgasm. I buck faster and faster, thrusting up into my hand. There’s no one here to hear me, no need to restrain myself, so I tip my head back and let out a long, loud groan as thick cum spurts over my fingers.
I slow to a stop, breathing hard. Then I get up to throw my soiled shirt and chinos into the laundry and take a shower before bed. Despite the long day I’ve had, thoughts of Jenna run rampant through my mind and I’m already feeling the urge to jerk off again.
Next Tuesday, she said.
Jesus. It’s only six more days, but it already feels like forever.
Chapter Five
Jenna
It’s a typical Tuesday afternoon at the Lit Apothecary. The (deserted) sales floor has been swept, dusted, and polished, the (sparse) gaps on the shelves filled, the (dismal) account ledgers balanced. Britt works on inventorying the back stock while I sort through today’s batch of mail in my office. This chore is always an exercise in boredom with the occasional sprinkle of frustration, which is why I put it off until late in the day.
Junk, junk, more junk. Publisher’s advance list—I’ll set that aside for buying season, if we make it to the next one. And . . . a letter from the chain bookstore who wants to buy us out.
Fucking again? I treat that last one to a death glare and spike it into the trash can without even opening it. It’s almost certainly yet another buyout offer, and I have zero patience for any more of their lowball attempts.
My already strained mood threatens to crack when I see the return address on the next envelope. I slit it open and my fears are confirmed. It’s a snotty warning from the property management company who handles our storefront, demanding our rent. That’s the third bill due this week . . . and the third we’ll have to beg for an extension on.
Groaning to myself, I mutter, “Goddamn it!”
I tried to be quiet, but evidently Britt still heard me from the stockroom. She pokes her blond head around the doorjamb. “You okay, Jenna?”
“There’s no blood or broken bones, if that’s what you mean.” I sigh, holding up the offending piece of paper pinched between my thumb and finger, as if I’m showing her a dead rat.
Britt may be ten years younger than me and my only employee, but she’s been here since the very first day I opened the Lit Apothecary. Every struggle and accidentally shouted swear word, all my bad days, she’s been privy to them.
“Sorry. I’m just a little stressed out.”
Britt touches my shoulder. “It’s cool, I know. I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she says softly.
Will I, though? I bite my tongue to avoid infecting her with any more of my growing pessimism. I gave myself two years to make this business work, and it’s been twenty-three months. I promised myself I wouldn’t dip into my savings to keep it afloat—promised that I would make it succeed of its own accord. Only now, that doesn’t seem very likely.
The only option I can come up with is one I don’t want to think about. When I quit my old job as a book buyer, my boss told me I could come back anytime. But, dammit, the Lit Apothecary is my baby, my pet project, my dream. I’ve invested so much in this . . . I don’t want to fail at it. I don’t want to go back to corporate life with a manager riding my ass all the time. Yet here I am, on the verge of throwing in the towel, with no idea how to avoid that humbling last resort.
Finally, I just say, “I hope so, Britt. I hope so.”
The sober moment is interrupted by loud ringing. Emmett? The thought leaps into my mind of its own accord. But when I check my phone, I see it’s not a call, it’s the alarm I set to remind me of my doctor’s appointment in half an hour. Huh . . . I got so wrapped up in stressing out over our finances, I didn’t even notice the workday was over. I guess time flies when you’re having an aneurysm.
I shoot Britt an apologetic look. “Sorry, I have to run. Can you handle—”
“Of course. You already told me this morning you needed to leave early,” she says, smiling. “I still don’t get why you’re so into this whole baby thing when you could have any man at your beck and call, but hey, you do you. Go ahead and get going. I’ll close up shop in a bit.”
“Thanks,” I shout as I rush out the door.
I’m so keyed up, it takes an effort to stay at the speed limit as I drive to the doctor’s office. I’ve been looking forward to this visit for the past week. Even though my bookshop may be in the toilet, at least my plans for motherhood are right on track, and that cheers me up immensely.
The prospect of making progress toward a baby turns my thoughts to Emmett, which only improves my mood more. I had a great time with him last week. Everything about him is a breath of fresh air. He’s smart but not arrogant about it, considerate but not a pushover, bold and direct but not rude or presumptuous. He knows what he wants and he pursues it. He doesn’t play games or feed a girl lines. I like that he’s older, and he doesn’t want kids himself. Not to mention he’s sexy as sin.
Most importantly, something about him just . . . inspires trust. At first, I assumed he’d flake out on me, but our dinner together proved me wrong about his reliability. I really got the sense that I can count on him to follow through on his promises. I was so convinced that he meant what he said and that I wouldn’t need a sperm bank, that I called to schedule my appointment first thing the very next morning. Luckily, they were able to squeeze me in that day, and I snagged the first step in my treatment—a prescription for a hormone pill that I’ll need to take daily, which Dr. Kaur said would get my cycle on a predictable schedule and release my eggs like clockwork.
I perch restlessly on a bench in the lobby, practically vibrating with eagerness until the nurse calls me back to an exam room. As she takes my temperature and blood pressure, she smiles at me, as if she can tell how close to exploding I feel.
Soon Dr. Kaur, a tiny, matronly Indian woman and my trusted ob-gyn, swishes in with a brisk flap of her white coat and plops down at her computer desk.
“Hello again, Miss Porter. Let me just pull up the nurse’s notes here . . .” She clicks around for a minute. “Yes, your bloodwork and ultrasound results have all been very promising. Hormone levels are on target. How are you doing with the hormone? Any hot flashes, fatigue, joint pain, headaches?”
I shake my head at each item in her rapid-fire litany of side effects. “Maybe I’ve been a little tired, but not enough to warrant any concern, I don’t think.”
“Excellent. Clearly, this drug is a good fit for you.” She types in a few comments, purses her lips, and nods. “I think we’re ready to go.”
I cheer silently. “Great. What are the next steps?”
She peers through her thick glasses at the medical chart on the screen. “Your insemination method . . . last time y
“Yes.” Hopefully she doesn’t ask too many questions about where exactly I’m getting the goods. All she needs to know is I’ve locked down my own personal supply of fresh sperm. The fact that it comes in such attractive packaging is just a nice bonus.
“All right, I only wanted to confirm.” Dr. Kaur scribbles on a notepad, tears off the top sheet, and swivels her chair around to hand it to me. “I’m giving you a prescription for an injectable, also known as a ‘trigger shot.’ This will induce ovulation. Fill it immediately and use it tonight. You’ll need to have intercourse at least once a day for the next two to three days—”
“Three days?” I blurt, accidentally interrupting her.
She suppresses a smile. “Yes, starting twenty-four hours after injection.”
Twenty-four hours, huh? I nod, already making plans. Looks like I know where I’ll be tomorrow night, and the next night, and the night after that. “Okay. And how soon will I know if it worked?”
“You’ll take a pregnancy test in two weeks.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a business card. “This website will link you to an instructional video for self-administering the injectable.”
“O-of course.” My heart flutters in combined nervousness and excitement. Imagining what it will feel like to stab myself in the stomach every four weeks makes me slightly queasy, but I still can’t wait to get started. After wanting this for so long, it’s finally happening.
Soon I’m going to have a baby of my own . . . my own little snuggly bundle of joy to love and spoil and watch grow. The thought makes me feel warm inside, and deepens my resolve about doing this. Even the not-so-fun parts.
Dr. Kaur gives me a small smile and I thank her again, then check out at the front desk and leave with my precious new prescription tucked snugly in my purse.
Walking back across the parking lot, I text Emmett. What are you doing tomorrow night?
In a matter of seconds, he replies, Fucking you, hopefully.
I freeze in my tracks for a moment. They’re only words, three little words on a screen, but I can hear his husky voice saying them in my mind, and a tingle of anticipation shoots straight to the pit of my stomach. Or maybe somewhere farther south, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
A flicker of doubt halts me with my hand on my car door. For a second, I wonder whether this decision is really a good idea, or if my libido has led me astray. The kind of butterflies Emmett gives me are way out of proportion to what we’re doing here. Our arrangement is supposed to be about sperm, eggs, and ovulation cycles, not lust and orgasms. I’m in this to get pregnant. That’s it.
On the other hand . . . fuck it. I deserve a little fun once in a while. I get into my car, shut the door, and text him back with jittery hands: Okay, your place or mine?
His response comes quickly. You get right to the point, don’t you? How about dinner first?
I hesitate again. Dinner last week was nice, but maybe it was also a mistake. We’re not dating. Emmett isn’t my boyfriend. I should put the brakes on this relationship before it becomes anything more than a business transaction.
No thanks, I don’t think we should, I finally reply.
Come on, we gotta eat sometime. Can I tempt you with Los Platitos?
I frown down at my phone. Well, shit. Now the jerk is just playing dirty. I’m even weaker for tapas than I am for Mexican food, and that restaurant is my all-time favorite. How the hell does he know that? Or maybe we just have that in common.
My resolve wavers, then crumbles. Fine, you win. I’ll meet you there at six.
I pocket my phone and drive away, first to the pharmacy, then home. I can already tell I’ll have a hard time getting to sleep tonight . . . for a lot of reasons.
Chapter Six
Emmett
I click my phone off, smiling triumphantly at how I coaxed Jenna into dinner, and finish wrapping up the day’s work. My good mood is even better because my best friend and I finally settled on plans to grab a drink tonight. Between my insane hours and Jesse trying to juggle work with family, we haven’t met up in a couple of weeks, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be late.
I drive to Nealy’s Bar, park at the curb, and stroll into the underlit den of neon with its peeling varnish and lingering scent of tobacco. This place is a first-degree shithole, but it’s also one of our old college hangouts, so even though we both can afford much better now, we still visit from time to time for sentimental reasons.
I walk over to where Jesse is already sitting at the sticky bar and clap him on the shoulder. “Hey, glad I could drag you out.”
Jesse swivels around on his stool with a wide grin. “It’s been too long, man. I almost forgot what you look like.”
I pull out my wallet and reach past Jesse to slap my credit card on the counter, which gets the bartender’s attention. “I’m here now and you’re stuck with me, so let’s drink.”
We order and pay at the bar, grab our cheap domestic brews, and head to a corner table where we can hear ourselves think over the jukebox wailing country music.
Jesse takes a long drink and smiles as he sets the bottle down. “Damn, that’s good. I mean, I know it’s practically horse piss, but somehow it tastes so much better when you’re out of the house, right?”
“Well, it’s sure not the company,” I say, taking a slug of my own beer.
“Fuck you,” Jesse says with a smile. “So, how’s the high-powered bachelor lifestyle?”
I snort. “Like a tax attorney doesn’t know how it feels to have money.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Come on,” he says, “let a poor family man live vicariously through you. Who’s the flavor of the month this time?”
This ribbing is a game as old as Jesse’s marriage. He likes to joke about how my life must be so easy and fun, just one big party, but I’ve seen how he worships the ground his wife and kids walk on.
“We both know damn well you’d never trade places with me.”
He shrugs. “Who says I want to? All I’m asking for is a quick peek at the sweet life. And the only thing I like more than a good dirty story is annoying you.”
I play along by heaving an exaggerated sigh of annoyance. “Well, if you insist, but it’s just the usual debauchery. Fast cars, fast women, snorting coke off the copy machine, keg stands on the conference table.”
That gets a laugh out of him. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked. Falling asleep here.”
I chuckle, dropping the fake tone. “Really, it’s been the same old grind. I’m still up to my eyeballs in contract negotiations. That little bookstore downtown we’re trying to buy still won’t give us the time of day. You know, the regular shit I always bore you with.” I can’t resist adding, “Although I do have a date tomorrow night.”
Jesse bounces his eyebrows at me. “A date? I didn’t know you still bothered wining and dining women before screwing them. Picking up sorority girls in bars seems more your style.”
I chuckle into my beer. “For your information, asshole, I go on real dates all the time. They just don’t result in girlfriends.”
For a moment, I consider dropping the subject and not revealing anything else. But Jesse is my best friend. I don’t like lying to him. Plus, I have to have someone to talk to about this, and I know he won’t meddle.
As casually as possible, I say, “Actually . . . can you keep a secret?”
“I hope so. Confidentiality is kind of an important part of the whole attorney gig,” he replies. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s kind of a funny story. So this woman I’m going out with—Jenna’s her name—you know how I met her? Last week we got stuck in an elevator together in my building. And I found out she’s trying to start a family, so I offered to help her.”
Jesse’s beer stops halfway to his lips. “Help . . . how?” he says slowly.
“How do you think? You have two kids, dude, I know you know how they’re made. You know, the birds and the bees and baby makes three, although this baby is only going to make two.”
Staring at me like I just grew another head, Jesse carefully lowers his glass to the table. “This better be a bad joke.” His voice is absolutely flat.
I shake my head. “She wants to have a baby, I happen to own a well-endowed and functioning set of baby-production equipment, so she’s going to use me to get pregnant. Simple,” I say, then I almost rupture something trying not to laugh at the way Jesse’s eyes widen.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” he hisses at me in an undertone like we’re discussing state secrets. “What in the actual fuck were you thinking?”
I give him a weird look. “That I would . . . do a lady a favor and get laid at the same time?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure your big head wasn’t the one doing the thinking anyway. But before your little head goes within a mile of this Jenna woman, you need to have her sign a paternity affidavit, work out custody, get—”
I hold up my hand to shield myself from Jesse’s lawyer-mode frenzy. “What? No, dude, you know me. I don’t want anything to do with this kid, and she doesn’t want that either. It’s not going to be a big deal.”
“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” Jesse huffs. “You’re thirty-eight. You might change your mind about settling down.”
“And give up all this?” I gesture around us at the dive bar in all its dim, seedy glory.
It was a joke and he knows it, but he gives me a withering look anyway. “Oh yes, of course not. Because the novelty will definitely never, ever wear off of booty calls with twenty-year-olds. Alternating sleeping alone with wondering if you’ve contracted an STD is so much fun.”
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