Page 12 of A Stag Family Christmas

“That’s amazing, Emma.” I pull her hand to my lips, kissing her palm gently. I’m so proud of my girl. I imagine how hot she’d look on a book jacket cover, her red hair pulled back in a smooth braid. Emma is so smart, always notices the most interesting details and writes them into her stories. “Can we celebrate?”

She nods, tugging my hand. “But let me tell you!” Gesturing wildly, Emma starts describing how the prize isn’t just about prestige. Her editor thinks she should take a sabbatical from reporting. Devote a whole year into expanding her work into a book. He even apparently smiled at her and used positive adjectives during their meeting.

I grin. “It’s kind of spooky timing, isn’t it,” I ask her. “You write about pregnancy in awful circumstances, while you’re pregnant…”

The light fades from her eyes almost immediately. “I haven’t even told my editor about…anything. Yet.”

I swallow and take her hands. “Emma,” I say. “Talk to me. What are you feeling right now? Because, Chezz, you have so much support. You have so many people rooting for you, wanting to help you stay healthy through all this. I will doanythingyou need.”

She bites the side of her lip and looks into the flame in my furnace. “I never thought about how me being pregnant related to a research project about pregnant inmates. Writing a book could be good,” she pauses. “If I’m having health problems. I mean it’d be a little more flexible than having to meet deadlines and stuff.”

I rub her hand, not bothering to pull away just because I notice my hands are dirty from my work. “Dr. Khalsa said he feels confident he could keep you feeling pretty healthy,” I say, remembering our conversation in his office. I went in to see him with Emma this past week after Juniper’s news broke. Dr. Khalsa pulled up studies on pregnancy and epilepsy. Many of the women in his case studies had less control of their symptoms than Emma.

“I hate having seizures, Thatcher,” she says. Her eyes swell with tears as she looks at me.

“I know you do, Chezz. I wish I could take that away from you.” And I’ve never meant anything more earnestly. I’d take on her suffering in a heartbeat, just to give her a day not to worry about that feeling washing over her. “I know you hate losing control like that.” She nods. I pull her onto my lap on the stool and cradle her into my arms. “How do you feel today?”

We talk a little longer about her nausea. I brave the question from Alice, about anything to avoid at Thanksgiving. When Emma tells me the smell of tomatoes has been making her sick, it feels like a nugget of treasure. A piece of information about her pregnancy that I want to cherish, because I’ve felt so in the dark these past few weeks. We talk until I hear her stomach growl, and I close up shop.

We slide into the sleek interior of my new car and drive to get sandwiches, and I try not to think too much about what it would be like to have a tiny baby Stag in the back seat for a fast food run. When Emma turns on the Christmas radio station, I don’t even roll my eyes. It just feels right to drive around with her humming the Carol of the Bells until we roll up to the sandwich shop. The guy at the drive through window even talks me into a tray of gingerbread for dessert. Something about the traditions of the season make our worries fade a bit. Emma’s eyes gleam at the sound of the gingerbread, so I order a double and laugh as she dives in to her portion while we’re driving home.

We settle in to eat at the kitchen table, and it feels so familiar, so right. We haven’t had this lightness and ease in our interactions in a few weeks. She looks longingly over at my sandwich—her favorite and mine. I introduced her to this sub shop when we started getting together. But Emma isn’t supposed to have deli meat while she’s pregnant—she’s been reading all the stuff the doctors sent home with her—and she frowns at my ham sandwich while she picks at her grilled chicken. It feels so good to tease her, and I make moaning sounds while she feigns anger. I let her have my portion of dessert.

“So,” I say after we eat, trying not to talk her way so she doesn’t have to smell my ham breath. “What do you want to do to celebrate your award? Maybe a nice meal at the country club?”

Emma smacks me in the arm and rolls her eyes. I lean back in my chair, nursing a beer while Emma clutches her teacup. She blushes. “I can think of something I’d like,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow, wanting to be right about what that facial expression from her usually means. “You’re going to have to be really direct, Chezz. It’s been a hell of a few weeks.”

She doesn’t say anything, but stands up and walks slowly toward me, her fingers trailing along the table. “I want you, Thatcher,” she says, licking her bottom lip and meeting my eye. She nestles herself in between my legs in front of the chair and my dick springs to life in my pants. The soft light in our kitchen brings out the golden tones in her hair and she looks like a glimmering goddess. I set my beer bottle on the table and put my hands on her hips, my thumbs gently stroking her thighs through her jeans.

“I want you, too, Emma. So fucking bad. Are you sure, baby?”

She nods and reaches for the hem of her shirt. She lifts it slowly over her head, giving me the first glimpse of the subtle ways her body has changed in just the past few weeks. Three months pregnant, Emma seems…fuller somehow. Her flat stomach strains a bit, with the hint of a swell right at the waistband of her jeans. Her chest rises and falls slowly as she breathes, and I keep my hands on her hips, afraid to touch her. I look at her breasts, mesmerized. They have grown noticeably and spill over the cups of her bra. She takes my breath away, but I swallow and manage to say, “Emma. You’re gorgeous.”

She grips my face in her hands and leans in, kissing me deeply, and I moan softly against her full lips. Christ, I’ve missed this. I let my tongue slip into her mouth, exploring the corners like they’re mine to dominate. I break the kiss. “I should never take you for granted, Chezz.”

She’s breathing heavy and her lips look swollen from the force of our kiss. She grabs my hands from her hips and places them on her chest. “Thatcher,” she says, a spark in her eye. “Shut up and just fuck me already.”

I stand up quickly, tipping the chair behind me. At my full height I tower over her, and I stoop to pick her up. I need space to ravage her properly, so I lift her up against me, grinding her center against my hard length. She wraps her arms around my neck and hooks her ankles behind my back as I carry her down the hall toward our room.

Stumbling in the dark, I don’t want to take time to turn on the lights. I grow desperate, the past few weeks of our emotional distance surging inside me until my body throbs with need. Stumbling onto the bed, I laugh as she falls beneath me. Emma twists away just enough to peel off the rest of her clothes and I hurry to join her. As I unhook my belt and unzip my jeans, I gasp. Emma thrusts out a hand and wraps it around my cock. I hiss at the feel of her cool skin against my shaft. I fit so perfectly in her hand. Bracing my weight on my forearms, I lean over her, and Emma guides my tip toward her core.

“I’m so wet, Thatcher,” she says. “Whenever I’m not puking, I’m horny as fuck.”

To illustrate her point, she rubs the tip of my dick against her seam and I feel just how wet she is. “You’re soaked, Chezz,” I say. “And I’ve been hard every fucking day looking at you.” I start to slide inside, slowly, giving her time to adjust to me. I meet her eye and, just like every day, I know I’m supposed to be here. Right here. I slide deeper now, until Emma grabs my hips and pulls me tight against her. I feel her nipples on my chest, taut and so hard.

She rocks her body against me and I almost lose my mind, she feels so damn good. But it’s not just that it feels good physically. Emma is my muse. She grounds me, calls me out on my bullshit when I’m being a cranky asshole. She works twice as hard as anybody else every single day, simply because she’s keeping her shit together so she doesn’t have a seizure. “Emma,” I’m panting now. “I love you so much, babe. I need you. Always.”

She’s moaning now, grinding against me so my body stimulates her right where she needs it. Emma starts groaning when I dip my hips, letting my groin rub against her needy clit. “I have to see you come, Chezz,” I whisper, leaning toward her ear. I bite it gently, letting my teeth sink into her lobe while I press into her harder.

“Fuck! Thatcher! God, yes!” Emma locks her eyes onto mine and I can see the moment she falls over the edge, even as I feel her pulsing, her muscles contracting all around me. Before I know what’s happening, I lose myself. The pleasure washes through me and I explode inside her while she twitches in the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“Gah!” I bellow out with a final gasp, thrusting once more before collapsing on top of Emma. And then I immediately get scared I’m going to hurt her and the baby, and I roll us over so she’s on her side on top of me.

“What’s with the gymnastics?” Emma brushes her wild red hair out of her face, sticky with sweat.

I shrug, afraid to spoil the moment and bring up the pregnancy. She still hasn’tsaidthat she’s going to go through with everything, even though I think the window has passed where she had to make that choice. I fall asleep with her in my arms, determined to keep her there, wondering what I need to do to help her feel safe.

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