“Oh, no! I don't mean that. I just mean I'll change. After the babies. Shannon said it took a while for her sex drive to come back.”
He pauses.
“This is my version of dirty talk, Pregnancy Edition,” I joke as his palm broadens, moving up my body, curling over my navel. He smiles.
“Every word out of your mouth is a joy.”
“Even when I call you a jerk?”
“Especially when you call me a jerk.”
“Why especially?”
“Because it means I'm right.”
Before I can answer, he shuts me up with a kiss, the kind that sets nerves running off to hide and blood racing through me, chasing my worries away, bringing in the love and lust that connects me to my husband in ways profound and profane.
Suddenly, every anxious thought is gone, and all I am is this lush body, biologically primed to be no more, no less than what I am in this moment. The taste of Andrew lingers on my lips as he leaves a trail of kisses down my swollen breasts, tongue going to an exquisite spot between my legs for the flitter of a moment, just long enough to make me keenly need him.
I roll to my side and we spoon, his hard, muscled body behind me, my hand between my legs, guiding him in.
His groan of pleasure makes me nearly come, but as my lower belly tightens to hard muscle like his torso and pecs, I find the orgasm holding itself patiently at bay, wanting more.
In the wonderland of our marital bed, I can be the new version of myself that came into being when we found each other, releasing all of the frayed pieces of the old me that don't hold together well. I'm real without him, but every stroke of my back makes me find that part of who I am. Each thrust into me makes the whole of our time together, shared breaths and memories, more complete.
For now, I am my body only, his hands and mouth on me, his breath on my neck, his power giving me pleasure as our pace quickens. My pleasure expands as his does, and soon I'm moving against him, needing him deeper, drawing him in. Who we are when he kisses my neck, biting my earlobe as I climax, is nothing but instinct.
The space between us is gone, our joining complete.
His hand moves between my legs and a few simple strokes make me gasp, unable to speak, the orgasm a wave I ride and ride and ride as he quickens, finally coming hard against me, his hand on my hip, fingers digging into me with possession and fierceness.
Intense vulnerability is one of the greatest forms of love.
So is wild abandon.
We drift off wordlessly, my body loose and loved. I turn to spoon Andrew and Lefty follows his father's heat, the partial flip making me swallow hard.
“I love you,” Andrew whispers into the cool air, the words unnecessary.
So unnecessary, I just hug him harder.
And fall asleep.
15
Amanda
“Right there,” I tell him, on my side, one leg propped up on his shoulder, the scruff of a day's unshaven growth tickling my inner thigh. He's doing something that makes my belly tighten, the waves taking my breath away. It feels good, hands crawling up my body, but the band around my hips and back is piercing the pleasure.
“More,” I whisper, urging him on, but his tongue isn’t there. All I feel is the press of that band, tight like a belt, then loosening, over and over, until the next time, it hurts.
Hurts.
“Andrew, stop,” I murmur, but he’s gone, a cold wave of ache replacing the loving touch.
And then it hurts more.
And more.
“Andrew!” I gasp, sitting up, saying the words in the dream and in reality. My mind straddles the two, body firmly in this realm as I place my palm on the space above my hip and feel it grow taut.
“Wha–?” A sleepy head appears on the other side of my enormous body pillow. “Wh'd I do?”
“Help,” is all I can choke out as the belt-like feeling across my hips cuts off my words.
Andrew rubs his eyes, sniffing once, moving his fingers across his chin slowly, cricking his neck. The sound of snapping filters through the pain I'm feeling, but all I can do is ride it.
Ride it out.
Except nothing fades away like it should.
“Did you just say help?” he asks in a low voice. It's finally kicking in that something's wrong.
All I can do is nod, his eyes going to my belly as I suddenly let out a sound I associate with marine wildlife documentaries.
“Are you–are you in labor?”
“I–I–” A long, impossibly stretched out inhale twists my lungs into toy balloons as I try to answer him, but can't. My butthole tightens like it's a piece of pain taffy. Those inner thighs, deliciously tickled in my dream mere seconds ago, become painful wooden boards wedged under my skin.
“Amanda! What's wrong?” His hands are on my shoulders, his sleepiness replaced by deep concern.
“Contraction,” I finally hiss.
“Contraction? You're only at thirty weeks. It's not time yet.”
The pain washes out like the tide. Fear spikes through me. “I know. But I'm pretty sure that's a contraction.”
“We need to call the doctor.”
“Wait! Maybe I'm just dehydrated.” All of my muscles that were tight feel noodly, loose and stringy, and a deep exhaustion seeps in.
Andrew leaps off the bed, runs to the bathroom, and I hear the faucet running. He returns with a half-filled glass and hands it to me, a bit of water sloshing over the edge.
I drink. He fumbles for his phone.
“Don't!” I shout, but a bit of water goes down my windpipe, and suddenly I'm coughing, which turns the hard pull above my pubic bone into a wall of tight rubber.
He freezes, eyes wide, hair a complete mess. He's shirtless, underwear askew, chest rising and falling faster and faster.
Is this what Andrew looks like when he's panicking?
“Why not? We need to call the doctor.”
“Let me think.” Thrusting the glass back at him buys me time. “Fill this again. I need more.”
“I'm calling 911.” His voice fills me with terror, because when he sounds like that, he's in action mode and there's no stopping him.
I need time.
“NO!”
“Amanda.”
“Please. Water first, hospital next.” The words are out of my mouth. I said it. This is inevitable.
But my fear needs a few seconds to get used to the idea.
His finger is an inch away from his phone's screen, but he stops, gets me more water, brings it back, and starts getting dressed. Then he picks up the phone again.
“I said I need more time.”
“I'm telling Gina to clear my schedule.”
My terror turns up a notch. This must be bad if he's doing that.
“An entire day?” I squeak.
“Are you bleeding?” he asks calmly, and that's what breaks me. His calm. His concern.
And clearing his schedule.
My hand moves reluctantly between my legs, praying for dryness. Peeling back the covers is an act of will. What's there?
What isn't?
As I twist to look, one of the babies moves in a long, rolling line, and a bump of a tiny joint pokes out my skin. It’s an inch of heaven.
“He moved! One of the babies moved.”