Page 81 of Babies for the Boss
One more thing to look forward to when this is over. My balls ache at the thought.
“Baby, I’m close again,” she pants.
“Do you want to come again, pet?”
“Please.” That desperate whisper is almost enough to make me come.
I reach for her clit, and the moment I make contact, she holds her breath. She truly must be on the edge. She’s so wet that my fingers practically splash.
“You’re taking my cock so well tonight. You’ve been so good. I think you deserve another. What will you give me for it?” Teasing her makes my balls ache.
“Anything,” she hisses.
“You owe me your ass. Remember?”
“Take it!”
Fuck, that’s what I needed to hear. I won’t take her there, not now. But that willingness, the lurid desperation, that’s what I wanted. We don’t play our usual games—the pregnancy has dampened her spirit for rope. But we still have our fun.
As her body clasps around mine, that fluttering pulse ignites a fire within her, and her helpless mewling calls to my climax too. We come together, our sounds haunting the night.
29
MOLLY
People often saythat birth is intense, and since the pain is forgettable afterward, they describe it as the most beautiful experience of life. What they subtly imply, through careful words, is that birth is the most physically overwhelming event a human body can endure. The ability to forget the pain acts as a biological mercy, a trait evolved to ensure species survival. If women remembered the full pain clearly, there might be significantly fewer second children born.
Maybe that’s why I’m an only child. My mother never forgot anything.
I was asleep, but then I’m wide awake, and I’m not sure why.
Pavel sits up next to me, gun pointed at the door.
“Put that down—I’m fine.”
He sighs and tucks the gun back under his pillow. “You sure? You don’t usually?—”
“Oh.” My hand goes straight to my stomach when there’s a cramp.
“You are not okay.” He’s on his feet in a flash, grabbing our go bags.
“No, I think it’s just—oh shit.” Not a cramp. This is something else.
It’s two a.m.—a time that seems like one twins would choose for a coordinated entrance.
Pavel asks, quietly, “Now?”
“Now.”
Pavel becomes a different person between the bedroom and the car. He is functional. He is doing everything correctly—the bags, the call to the doctor, the driver, the sequence of things that need to happen in order and are happening in order—but underneath the function, there’s something I haven’t seen before.
He’s panicking.
I find this, in the middle of a contraction that makes me grip the car door handle with considerable force, genuinely comforting. He’s panicking for me, which is different from panicking at me, and much better.
“You’re breathing wrong,” he says, in the car.
“I’m breathing how I’m breathing,” I say through my teeth.
