Page 7 of Calamity Rayne Knocked Up

He kissed my clit and stretched out beside me, his fingers lacing with mine. “We needed that.”

No matter how much he projected nonchalance, this pregnancy thing was killing him. We both knew it would take some time, but we had no idea it would take this long or be this emotionally draining.

Hale didn’t like to fail. And I didn’t like disappointing him. It wasn’t his failure or mine, but sometimes those negative pregnancy tests felt way more personal than either of us wanted to admit.

What if it never happened for us? What if it was me? What if it was him? What if it was both of us?

There were too many what ifs.

While Hale and I had a daughter, neither of us had anything to do with Elara’s conception. Yes, Elara was a Davenport, but she was not Hale’s. He adopted her the day she was born, and I adopted her the day we got married. We loved her as ourown, and if she was the only child we ever had, she would certainly be enough, but we still wanted to try for more.

I promised no more crying, but sometimes my body just did what it wanted. Tomorrow my cycle would start all over again. Another month gone by, another reason to try not to cry.

Doctors & Their Bedside Manner

“It’s been over a year, Doc. Something’s wrong.”

My OBGYN stilled with only one foot in the door and my chart suspended in his hand. “Rayne. Hello.”

I planted my hands in the lap of my paper gown and gave him a moment to enter the room and get situated.

He scrolled through my records as he sat on the wheely stool. “Date of your last menstrual cycle?”

“The twentieth to the twenty-eighth.” I’d just recited all this information to the nurse and it annoyed me that I needed to go over this crap again. There had to be somemalfunction with my ovaries or uterus. I was sure something was wrong and that was what we should be discussing.

“Any lifestyle changes?”

“Well, there’s been a lot more tension in the bedroom.”

“It’s important that you stay relaxed during intercourse. Have you been taking the vitamins?”

“Yes.”

He set the digital chart aside and stood to wash his hands. “Let’s have a look.”

God, I hated this part.

“Feet up.”

I reclined on the paper-covered table, my ass hanging dangerously close to the edge of the table as he snapped on his gloves. Between the table, my gown, and the modesty blanket, there was so much damn paper I felt like a piece of origami. Every muscle twitch was amplified by the obnoxious crumpling.

“Scoot a little lower, please. A little more. Again.”

For the love of God!The gown crinkled as I scooched as close to the table's edge as humanly possible. Another inch, and I’d be on the floor. And there went the blaring light.

I stared at the ceilingso not to blind myself as he scoped out Main Street. “Did you rob a stadium for that thing?”

A courtesy chuckle. “A little pressure.”

He inserted the speculum, and I grunted. If men had to have their private parts pried open, I bet they wouldn’t call ita littlepressure. And they’d certainly design more ergonomically comfortable tools than the vagina jack is currently cranking open my cooch.

“Nice weather we’ve been having.”

Why did gynecologists get chatty the moment they were staring up your hoo-hah? “Yup.”

“Have you been timing your intercourse with your ovulation?”

“Yes, but that’s not helping matters in the bedroom.” Some nights, I got so neurotic I might as well have brought a stopwatch and worn a whistle around my neck. “The calendars are sort of a mood killer.”

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