“Babies drink a lot of pee.”
I grimace. “Ummm… Okay.”
“Not once they’re born, but when they’re developing. Amniotic fluid is pretty much all pee. I found that interesting. I was actually wondering about that.”
“I’m glad to know the heir to the throne stays up at night wondering about baby’s pee while in utero.”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a pretty complicated guy.”
“You’ve got that right.” I run my hand through his hair and muss it up. “What else did you learn?”
“That your uterus can press more weight than some bodybuilders.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Apparently, the force of your contractions can equal up to 180 kilograms per square foot.”
“And in U.S. terms, what’s 180 kilograms?”
He scrunches his brows, doing the math in his head. “A little less than 400 pounds.”
“Wow. My vagina deserves a medal.”
His lips lift in a playful smirk. “Damn straight it does. Or maybe an award in the shape of my cock.”
When he thrusts against me, I swat him, trying to fight my smile. It’s impossible, though, especially when he turns into the flirt he is now.
“Okay then. What else did you learn?”
His eyes darken as he brushes a finger against my nipple, then squeezes. It instantly hardens, sparks shooting through me. “In the third trimester, nipple stimulation can bring on labor.” He pushes me onto my back, covering a nipple with his mouth as he continues to tease the other one. “So, when you’re on the cusp of popping from carrying our baby for forty weeks, I’m your guy.” He circles my pert bud. “Hell, I’m your guy now.”
I close my eyes, basking in the sensation. That’s all it takes for my libido to put out her cigarette and jump back into the fray, ready for round two. Or is it three?
When he slips a finger back inside me, his mouth still on my chest, I murmur, “I think I can get on board with that.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Anderson
The scent of baby powder and lavender surrounds me as I approach the gardens near the edge of my estate. I could be blind and still know Nora’s out here. Thankfully I’m not. I may eventually need help walking, but at least I have my eyesight.
At least I’ll always be able to appreciate Nora’s beauty.
And right now, as she sits in a lounge chair, the sun warming her milky skin, a pile of letters stacked on the table beside her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so beautiful. Because she’s also finally found her peace.
Found her place in this world.
Over the past few weeks, things have turned around quite a bit, especially for Nora. No longer is she kept out of the spotlight for fear she’ll do something wrong.
Since I informed the palace PR team that I planned to do things my way from now on, the country has finally gotten a chance to know their future queen. During our public appearances together, Nora absolutely shines.
Not only is she the picture of poise and grace, but she also takes time to talk to people. And not just about approved topics. Nora engages in meaningful conversations, a gift that continues to marvel me every day.
But what really endeared her to the people of this country, as well as across the world, was the day we visited a pediatric oncology wing. Despite having another engagement immediately after, she insisted on staying to play dress-up with a few of the younger patients. Suffice it to say, the media remained behind to cover that story instead of a photo op I had to attend with my father and a few foreign dignitaries. Now, the press is much more interested in the future crown princess’ public appearances than anyone else’s.
The royal household hates it.
I love it.
Once I stopped blindly following their advice simply because that was the way things had always been done, Nora began to soar, a caged bird no more.
The people adore her, as evidenced by the hundreds upon hundreds of letters she receives every day not only from people in Belmont, but around the world. Little girls who see a real-life fairytale coming true. School-aged children who wish her good luck on her upcoming wedding. Even some older women who have also suffered a pregnancy loss, thanking her for bringing light to miscarriage and stillbirth, something that continues to carry a stigma, as ridiculous as that sounds.
“I know you’re standing there watching me like a creeper,” she says, her eyes remaining focused on the palace stationary as she responds to another piece of fan mail, as I call it.
Although the royal household hates that term. Hates the idea that Nora was able to accumulate adoring fans, despite all their efforts to the contrary.
Initially, she had hoped to respond to each and every letter. However, that proved to be a challenge, particularly as the number of letters increased to the point where the staff now has to choose which ones they’ll give her.
“What can I say?” I retort, taking slow steps toward her. “I like looking at you. Especially when you’re in it.”
“In it?” She signs her name, another thing the royal household despises, since they view it as an autograph, which is against the rules. Then she glances over her shoulder. Brilliant blue eyes meet mine as joy radiates from her. Weeks ago, I didn’t think this level of happiness was possible. Instead, I was prepared for her to walk away from this world.
But she hasn’t.
Granted, it hasn’t all been unicorns and rainbows. There are still quite a few people who don’t like the idea of me marrying an American. But we’ve stopped caring what anyone else thinks, which was a huge feat for Nora, since she’s lived most of her life doing everything to live up to her mother’s impossible standards. Of always trying to be perfect in everyone’s eyes. She’s finally realized she’ll never make everyone happy, that there will always be someone critical of something she says, does, or wears.
“In it,” I repeat as I slide into the chair beside her. “Like when you’re so immersed in what you’re doing that you forget there’s a world outside of it all. You’re in it.” I shrug. “It’s something my mother used to say whenever she noticed I was deep in thought.”
She leans toward me and treats me to a kiss that leaves me wanting so much more. “I like it.” She lingers near my mouth for a beat, then pulls back, grabbing the next letter and unfolding it.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks as she reads a letter I can only assume to be from another young girl, based on the disjointed writing. “I thought you’d be stuck in meetings the rest of the day.”
I extend my legs in front of me and cross them at the ankles as I place my hands behind my head and lean back. “That’s the good thing about being in charge. I can reschedule if I want.”
She gives me a playful look of disapproval before grabbing a fresh piece of stationary to respond to another letter. Just seeing her pile of responses makes my hand ache.
“You’re not in charge yet. Your father isn’t officially going to abdicate until a few months after Little Pickle is born.” She pats her stomach.
While it’s still not obvious she’s pregnant, I’m the lucky bastard who gets to share my life with her. Every night when I fall asleep with Nora in my arms, my hand always seems to find its way to her stomach, a little bump becoming more noticeable, at least to me. I can’t help but marvel that a tiny life we created grows within. I don’t want to rush the process, still enjoying this time with Nora when it’s just us, but I can’t wait to meet “Little Pickle”, as Nora has nicknamed him or her, after her latest craving. One I try to satisfy as much as possible by having her favorite New York treat of pastrami on rye and pickles flown in from Katz.