Page 31 of Forbidden Pregnancy
“Right.”
I’m not surprised that’s his main concern. He never wanted an attachment to me in the first place. That’s why we fell apart. I had a foolish young woman’s dream about getting swept off my feet by Michael Corsini. Reality set in when I realized he would only ever end up with a rich Italian woman or at the very least, a woman who would “fit in” with his family’s plan for him.
At his core, Michael is deeply traditional in his values, and despite all the ways he acts like an alpha-hole, he envisions a future with an Italian family. It hurts to think that what separates us is something that I can’t ever change about myself, but it brings me peace of mind to know that at least it’s his problem, not mine.
I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I wouldnevercarry any shame about my racial background. If Michael wants to keep me at a distance because of my skin color, I can’t change him. I don’t think I would even want to try.
“Your life is the most important thing to me for the next thirty-nine weeks. I have a friend out here named Hunter Sinclair who’s going to help me get you medical care throughout your pregnancy. Once it’s all done… you’ll take the child away to Montreal and I will provide financial support and visit twice a year. Birthday. Christmas.”
He’s serious. Whenever I think Michael can’t stun me with how fucking crazy he is, this man pushes me over the edge. I’m not the naive young tutor I was twelve years ago. I might not have slept with every man who paid me a compliment, but I grew older and wiser all the same.
“There is no way in hell you’re getting me to agree to that.”
“I’m willing to go through hell to find a way,” Michael says.
It’s hard to stop the flutter in my chest when I look Michael directly in his single, icy eye. His hair is long and messy now, falling in fluffy tufts around his high cheek-bones and masculine face. I still think he’s handsome, even with the large scar cutting through his brow bone and across Michael’s face.
Why does he have this hold on me? I don’t get it. He represents the darkest parts of my life and my biggest fears – that opening myself up to a man will lead to consistent abandonment. Even this arrangement means submitting to my fears of Michael’s eventual abandonment.
He’s crazy for every last part of this.
“I keep asking you to take me back to Buffalo.”
I stopped asking when he responded with food deprivation for eighteen hours straight once.
“You learned not to ask,” Michael says rudely, like he didn’t subject me to torture that violents my human rights by depriving me of food, not to mention kidnapping me in the first place.
“I can’t,” he says. “Enough of this. I need you to pee on a stick.”
I guess there’s no better way he can phrase that either. I fold my arms to keep them away from Michael, but he’s done messing around. His meaty hand wraps around my wrist and Michael drags me out of the bedroom towards the private bathroom in his suite.
He gave himself the fanciest room in this two-bedroom ranch-style house, so he has an en-suite bathroom that I have to take showers in under his strict supervision. He wants me to pee on the stick with similar levels of surveillance. Michael unboxes the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter.
“Drop your pants,” he directs me while he uncaps the plastic white stick, shaped sort of like a thermometer.
“You don’t need to supervise me.”
“I know. Drop your pants.”
His tone grows firm and dangerous. I drop my pants to avoid this part of our encounter turning into a full-blown fight. I avoid giving Michael the satisfaction of humiliating me by acting all embarrassed, but I don’t appreciate having my lips out to the wind in front of him.
Michael guides me over to the toilet bowl and seats me down over it. I reach for the stick. How much more control over this situation does he need? He drops to his knees in front of me, confirming my worst fears about this man’s intentions.
“Spread your legs.”
“I’ll be too nervous to pee with you down there.”
“No,” he says, tapping my knee so I spread my legs open.
Heat flashes through me, spreading from my cheeks to my legs, to the spot right in the center of my spread legs. It’s downright embarrassing for him to have me in this position right now.
“Look at those lips,” he murmurs. “Nice and wet…”
Michael puts the stick between my legs. “Now piss.”
I glare down at him, but this time he avoids eye contact. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, trying to force a stream of urine out. Michael seems impatient. It takes me a full minute to work up a stream and the silence ispainful.After I coat the pregnancy test with my urine, Michael sits back and caps it before rising to his feet and walking over to the sink.
I finish emptying my bladder.
