Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 11
It feels very good to be that object.
“You can go back to her. Honey, I'm sorry,” he says, voice dropping. “Is she in danger?”
“Danger?”
“From the Lyme?”
“Oh, no. The tests show she's had it for a long time. Probably years. Maybe even way back when the fibro was first diagnosed. It's not an emergency. Just... it's a lot to process. Mom was furious that none of her other doctors ever figured it out, and then she went into research mode. You know how she is.”
He smiles, but it's a muted amusement. “I'm sure she had PubMed pulled up within seconds and created a database of possible treatments before you could brew a cup of coffee.”
“Close,” I say, smiling right back. My stomach flips, not from the babies, but from knowing he understands my mother so well. This is what families do, right?
They accept one another. They watch each other. They see people and help them feel seen and heard.
“Are there treatments we can help with?”
“Help?”
“Research trials? Specialists Pam can't easily access? I'll pull whatever strings I need to,” he says firmly. “Dad will, too. I’m on the hospital board, after all.”
“You know Mom hates that.”
“Too bad.”
That's the other side to family: Sometimes, there's conflict.
“You can't alpha your way through my mother's medical issues.”
“Who says I can't? Watch me.”
Protectiveness radiates off Andrew like the sweaty musk from his workout. While I'm slightly outraged by his dominance, I have to admit, it's also a relief. And sweet. And hot.
Mmmmm, hot.
I reach for my top button and undo it, his eyes growing wider by the second, attentive to my fingers in that super-focused manner he has.
And then he acts.
Naked in seconds, Andrew reaches behind me and slides his hands under the thick elastic of my maternity pants, the fabric pooling at my feet. Sex has been hit-or-miss these last months as morning sickness has ravaged my whole self. When he kisses me, I taste the salt of sweat and the sweet flavor of something fruity, and then he dissolves into just Andrew.
“You sure?” he whispers as he deftly unclasps my bra, pregnancy-augmented breasts spilling out into the space between us, my nipples rubbing against his chest, the air around us filling with steam.
“Yes. Please, yes.”
“You do not have to ask. Trust me. I'm the one saying please.”
His kiss stops whatever response was forming in my mind, the day's worries stacked on top of each other in a pile I have to sort, organize, distribute, and dispense with, but as he moves us into the water's spray, the tumbled mess of everything is suddenly over there, off to the side, out of sight. He pulls me back into my body, and the worries fade.
I'm nothing but wet skin and full lips, Andrew's eager hands taking over, making me feel. Far too much time has passed without this, and it feels good to feel good. To feel great.
To feel with my body, and not only with my heart and mind.
His palm slides down my wet breasts, cupping the growing hard ball beneath my navel. Then he drops to his knees and kisses me there, twice.
Once for each baby.
But the next kiss he gives, going lower, lower, lower, is very much for me.
And only me.
6
Andrew
On Sunday, the doctor's office robo-called to remind us about our eight a.m. appointment today. Amanda had to drink a gallon of water and hold her bladder, so she's twitchy, excited, miserable, and fussy.
Which means she's not all that different than she's been since the first trimester.
But now she needs to go.
The chairs in the waiting room at the ob-gyn's office are simple, with thin wooden armrests and gray tweed upholstery. They’re wider than I'm used to, but then it hits me:
They're wide because pregnant women grow.
“I can't believe that with so many medical advances in modern society, obstetrics still hasn't managed to come up with a way to get images of a fetus that doesn't make me feel like my bladder is the Titanic,” Amanda hisses at me, earning an appreciative glance from a woman across from us, who literally looks like she swallowed a whole watermelon and it's trying to escape out of her belly button.
“Your bladder hit an iceberg and cracked in half?” I whisper back to my wife.
“Taking on so much water, it's sinking me. Andrew, I don't think pelvic muscles were designed to clench this hard.”
My body and my mind have two distinctly different reactions to that comment.
“Wait until the baby's this big,” the woman across the way says, pointing to her belly. “Your bladder will be flatter than roadkill.”
Amanda's face turns green.
The woman puts her hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh! I'm sorry! Are you still dealing with morning sickness?” Her eyes drift to Amanda's belly. “You look like you're well into the second trimester.”
“Twins,” I explain, the woman's male companion looking at me with an expression I can't quite name, but I swear there's pity in it.
And, of course, admiration.
That's right. My shooters scored, big time.
“Twins? Are they your first?” the guy asks, patting his wife on the knee. She removes his hand with a vacant expression.
The gesture makes me shiver.
Amanda nods. “We're first timers. You?”
“Fourth baby,” the woman says, eyes cutting to her husband. “And this time, you don't get to listen to the Red Sox game during pushing.”
“They were in the Series!” he snaps back, looking to me for validation.
I go full poker face.
I'm not stupid.
“Fourth!” Amanda exclaims. “Good for you. Any tips?”
“Get the epidural in the parking lot,” the guy mutters.
“They do that?” I ask.
Amanda elbows me. “Ha ha.”
“You going for a natural birth?” the woman asks us.
Amanda tenses up. I'm not sure why she does, but