“You’re pregnant?” he asks.
I nod, biting my lip to keep from squealing out loud.
“I know, it took my stubborn uterus long enough,” I say. “I was beginning to think we jinxed it by saying we’d tell people we couldn’t have a baby.”
“Well, we have been trying awfully hard,” he says with a little smile, removing the test from the box.
“You might not want to touch that,” I say. “I did pee on it. In fact, now that I think about it, a symbolic gift would have been a lot more sanitary. You know, like a keepsake rattle or—”
King interrupts my rambling by leaning and kissing me hard on the mouth. I melt into him, not realizing how much I needed him to be excited about this until he shows it. He kisses me long and deep, his tongue roughly claiming mine, his big hands wrapping around my still-slender waist. He lays me back on the couch as if I’m as delicate as the baby will be.
“So, you’re happy?” I ask with a breathless little laugh.
“Want me to show you how happy?” he asks, taking my hand and pulling it to the front of his pants, so I can feel the hard ridge of his cock.
“Wow, I didn’t know the thought of me getting fat and swollen was such a turn on,” I say. “Or is it the thought of sealing the pact between our families that has you so hot and bothered?”
“It’s the thought of what I’m about to do to you in celebration,” he says, a wicked grin on his lips.
“Tell me more,” I say, wrapping my legs around him. It took way too fucking long to get here, and I’m enjoying every single moment of it now that I can have sex without freaking out the majority of the time. Things were a little rocky for a while, but I’ve been working through them in therapy and with King, and lately, even my ovaries must have relaxed and come around to the idea. At least, that’s the only explanation I can think of. Lord knows we’ve tried—over five hundred times, if anyone’s counting.
I am, but not for any creepy reasons. I feel a sense of triumph every time we cum together, as if I’ve earned a ribbon—#1 at Successfully Completing Intercourse. So, I started counting the victories, because my therapist said I should count small victories. I don’t know if she meant literally, or if orgasms qualify as small, but I figure it doesn’t hurt anyone and it makes me feel accomplished, so why the hell not?
After King and I add another tally to the number, we end up on the living room rug, staring at the ceiling.
“I guess it’s time to convert the guest room into a nursery,” I say.
“Maybe Bianca could help,” he says. “If you’re in an on-again stage of your relationship.”
I grin. “She’s going to be so jealous. I can’t wait to tell her. I bet your uncle’s too old to even get her pregnant.”
King just shakes his head. “I will never understand your relationship.”
“So, stop trying.”
“Trust me, I did that a long time ago.”
I smile and lay my head on his arm. “Unless sheactuallytries to get you killed, you can assume we will be best frenemies for life.”
“Fair enough,” he says, rolling toward me and gently stroking his fingertips down my bare belly. “We’ve got a lot to do to prepare. Nursery, babyproofing, all the stuff, names…”
“I was thinking about that,” I say. “If it’s a girl, how about we name her Crystal, after your sister?”
“I’d like that,” he says, his eyes going darker the way they always do when he talks about her. I know he’ll never get over that loss, that he’ll always feel the sadness, but maybe this will help just a little.
“And if it’s a boy,” he says. “Maybe Jonathan, after your brother?”
“I was thinking Anthony,” I say. “After all, both our dads share that name.”
“We can definitely put that on the list of options,” he says, cracking a small smile. He’s bossy as hell in the bedroom now that he knows I need and love his dominance as long as he’s not violent, but I try to nip it in the bud when he does it out here. I may be happy being his wife, but I still bristle at the thought of anyone controlling me. But a baby name is something big, something we should both be on board with.
“Okay,” I say, laughing. “We have nine whole months to decide. In fact, when I was on campus yesterday, I saw someone put up a flyer about a class on making your own baby food downtown. I thought I might go.”
“What have I gotten myself into?” he groans. “You want to name our daughter Crystal and make your own baby food? Next thing I know you’ll be changing your name to Star Child and making hemp necklaces.”
I laugh and give him a shove. “And you’d love me just as much.”
“Fine, you win,” he says. “I would love you just as much. But I’d rather you change your name to Pussy Galore and go make me dinner, woman.” He gives my ass a playful swat, and I throw a leg over his and give him my most inviting smile. I know he’s kidding. He’s the one who encouraged me to start taking a few classes and thinking about a nursing degree.
“You know what they say,” I remind him. “A woman can be good in only one room in the house. You get to pick which one.”
“Hold on, let me get a pizza,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Now spread your legs and finger yourself while I’m ordering. I want to watch my cum drip out of you.”
I grin and obey, loving the torment it causes him to have to talk to someone while he watches without touching. When he’s done, he growls and dives for me, taking over, taking control so I can let go. I’ve learned how much I need his dominance, how much it turns me on to see him step into the role he was born to play—that of my husband, who owns my body and soul just as I own his. We were made for each other, and we find our perfect rhythm together, the one we taught each other, the one that is pure magic, so perfect it created the greatest miracle inside me.
Love.