He pulled a face, undermining her confidence further. “You’ll oversee it.”
“My baby.” She couldn’t help the pun, she had two creative projects on the go. One progressing, the other stagnating. “Once the gallery is open, then it can be run by somebody—”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“—and until then I decide on everything. Hands on.” She had folded her arms across her heaving chest and watched the flames flicker around a burning log.
“Fine. It’s your career, darling. I’m not telling you how to do it. I’m saying there are other ways to achieve it.” Crossing the room, he joined her on the sofa and put his arm around her.
“I’m not giving up—”
“I never said you were. I know you can do this, babe. Concentrate on this first.” He stroked her swollen tummy. “And the grants.”
Seated at the dining table, she gave Maggie her attention. “I’m loathed to commit too early to the project. Baby coming, and I don’t know how much time I can give it. It’s on hold.”
Jason reached over and patted her arm.
“Sensible,” agreed Maggie. “You must be pretty excited about everything else.”
“Yes, I am.” She rubbed her belly. The baby kicked.
Climbing into bed with Jason that night, she felt chuffed with the evening. Hugh took her proposals seriously, liked her paintings, and no longer did her delayed gallery plans bother her. They celebrated, but it was the last time she managed to have intercourse. The next time they tried, Gemma cried in frustration at her inability to stretch about him. Instead, he held her close and cuddled her into a state of sleep, whispering his love in her ears.
***
The final weeks of pregnancy, Gemma spent shopping with her mum, best friend, Trudy, or on her own, though always with Gibson. Trudy, who was already a mother, proved invaluable in pointing out necessary purchases and which appealing items were a marketing gimmick. The procurement of baby monitor systems she left to Jason. He had his own ideas of how to incorporate them into the various rooms at both houses including his lair.
When she wasn’t shopping, she dozed, read, or watched streaming films of sentimental chick flicks, which often resulted in tears. Alone in the White House, she missed work, if only for the company. Jason was in the process of winding down his work commitments in preparation for taking a nominal amount of paternity leave. They would spend the first two weeks after the birth at Blythewood.
Gemma took pleasure in her weekly massages, the manicures, and, while Jason denied her coffee, he permitted her cakes with her Zumba friends. Other indulgences included Jason shaving her between her legs—a ritual she enjoyed— he accompanied the flicks of the razor with many kisses and teasing licks.
One Saturday evening in Blythewood, having retired to bed, Jason opted to masturbate over Gemma’s naked body. As she knelt at his feet, she clutched her swollen belly, noted her drooping breasts, and imagined her blotchy face then he covered her with his milky hot spurts. They dripped down her cleavage. Instead of thanking him with smiles, she burst into tears.
“Gem. What’s with the tears?” He tilted her chin up.
She spewed out her misery. “I’m fat, got ugly breasts. My skin has gone to pot. I hate being pregnant. I’m sick of it!”
“Do you really think you’re ugly? As if I would come over you if you weren’t gorgeous? You’re carrying our son inside your belly. You couldn’t be anything but appealing to me. Your problem is self-image, giving me bad posture and grumpy face.” He tapped a finger on his lower lip, puffed out his cheeks then snapped his fingers.
He instructed her to clean up her face and breasts then lie on the bed.
Jason fetched a camera. “Be seductive. Alluring.”
What? She was heavily pregnant, built like a hippo and he wanted attractive.
“Smile, Gemma!”
She produced a grimace, and he frowned in reply.
“Stay there.”
He left Gemma naked and idling on the bed covers. When he returned, he held numerous vines, which he must have cut from the garden. He proceeded to wrap the green foliage around her breasts and between her legs. It tickled, and she couldn’t contain her laughter. Before she knew it, they were doing an erotic photo shoot with her posing in ivy bondage.
It became so kinky, they moved into the lair. More photographs. Against the St. Andrews cross, lying perched on the fuck table, reclining on the divan, and then on the bed on all fours. The ivy and the additional use of the sepia setting on the camera made her look transported back in time to an earlier era when women reclined on crushed-velvet chaise lounges with unsmiling faces and distant expressions. Sometimes she smiled, other times she was lost in thought or stroking her belly.
By the end of their extended photo session, she felt sexy and cheerful. Going through the images on his computer, they picked out the best ones.
“I’ll print them out to add to our erotica collection.” Jason switched on the printer.